transcribed from the elliot stock edition by david price, email ccx @pglaf.org [picture: mr. justice gaselee (original of mr. justice stareleigh), sketched by the editor from the family portrait in the possession of h. gaselee, esq.] bardell v. pickwick the trial for breach of promise of marriage held at the guildhall sittings, on april , , before mr. justice stareleigh and a special jury of the city of london. edited with notes and commentaries by percy fitzgerald, m.a., f.s.a. _barrister-at-law_; _and sometime crown prosecutor on the north-east circuit_ (_ireland_). with illustrations. london elliot stock paternoster row e.c. introduction. there are few things more familiar or more interesting to the public than this _cause celebre_. it is better known than many a real case: for every one knows the judge, his name and remarks--also the counsel--(notably sergeant buzfuz)--the witnessess, and what they said--and of course all about the plaintiff and the famous defendant. it was tried over seventy years ago at "the guildhall settens," and was described by boz some sixty-three years ago. yet every detail seems fresh--and as fresh as ever. it is astonishing that a purely technical sketch like this, whose humours might be relished only by such specialists as barristers and attorneys, who would understand the jokes levelled at the profession, should be so well understanded of the people. all see the point of the legal satire. it is a quite a prodigy. boz had the art, in an extraordinary degree, of thus vividly commending trade processes, professional allusions, and methods to outsiders, and making them humourous and intelligible. witness jackson, when he came to "serve" mr. pickwick and friends with the _subpoenas_. it is a dry, business-like process, but how racy boz made it. a joke sparkles in every line. this trial for breach has been debated over and over again among lawyers and barristers, some contending that "there was no evidence at all to go to the jury" as to a promise; others insisting on mis-direction, and that there was evidence that ought not to have been admitted. the law has since been changed, and by later acts both mrs. bardell and mr. pickwick would have been allowed to tell their stories and to have been cross-examined. mrs. bardell was almost justified in supposing that mr. pickwick was offering his hand when he was merely speaking of engaging a man-servant. but then the whole would have been spoiled. under the present systems, this would all have come out. mr. pickwick, when it came to his turn, would have explained what his proceedings meant. it is a most perfect and vivid satire on the hackneyed methods of the lawyers when dealing with the witnesses. nothing can be more natural or more graphic. it is maintained to something between the level of comedy and farce: nor is there the least exaggeration. it applies now as it did then, though not to the same topics. a hectoring, bullying counsel, threatening and cruel, would interfere with the pleasant tone of the play; but it is all the same conveyed. there is a likeness to bardell _v._ pickwick in another burlesque case, tried in our day, the well-known "trial by jury," the joint work of mr. gilbert and the late sir arthur sullivan. the general tone of both is the same and in the modern work there is a general pickwickian flavour. sir arthur's music, too, is highly "pickwickian," and the joint effort of the two humorists is infinitely diverting. the judge is something of a stareleigh. the truth is that boz, the engenderer of these facetiae, apart from his literary gift, was one of the most brilliant, capable young fellows of his generation. whatever he did, he did in the best way, and in the brightest way. but his power of observation and of seeing what might be termed the humorous _quiddity_ of anything, was extraordinary. to put absurdity in a proper view for satirical purposes, it has to be generalised from a number of instances, familiar to all. those legal oddities, the public had seen over and over again, but they had passed unnoticed till this clever observer set to work and noted them. as i say, it required a deep knowledge of the law to set these things in a grotesque light. boz had been a sort of general reporter on the _chronicle_: he "took" everything. he had reported at police courts as well as at the law courts. his quick and bright intelligence seized the humours here, as it did those of the street. he later reported in the gallery, and was dispatched across country in post-chaises to "take" eminent political speakers--always winning the hearty commendation of his employers for his zeal and energy. the cause of action. mr. pickwick was a well-to-do bachelor, who lived by himself near the city, where he had been in trade. his age was about fifty, as can be accurately calculated by his remark on the sliding at manor farm. "i used to do so on the gutters when i was a boy . . . but i hav'nt done such a thing these thirty years." this was said in . he resided in goswell street--now goswell road--with a widow lady, whose husband had been in the excise. he cannot have paid more than a pound a week, if so much, for two rooms on the first floor. there was no servant, and the hardworking landlady, mrs. martha bardell, performed all the duties of her household single-handed. as her counsel later described it,--and see all she did for him!--"she waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washer-woman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for his wear when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence." thus sergeant buzfuz, duly "instructed." not only was there mr. pickwick, but there was another lodger, and her little boy tommy. the worthy woman took care of and looked after all three. this might incline us to take a favorable view of her. she regarded her lodger with feelings of veneration and attachment, of which proof is found in her later talk with sam. to him she said that "he had always behaved himself like a perfect gentlemen," and then added this significant speech: "it's a terrible thing to be dragged in this way before the public, but _i now see_ that it's the only thing that i ought to do." that is, she seems to have held out as long as possible, believing that her amiable lodger would act as a perfect gentlemen and like himself. but when she found that even an action had no terrors for him, she saw that there was nothing else to do but to let the action go on. and what was mrs. bardell like? one would imagine her a plump, buxom widow, "fat, fair, and forty," with her dear little boy, "the only pledge of her deceased exciseman," or say something between thirty and forty years old. fortunately, two portraits have come down to us of the lady--one somewhat of this pattern, and depicting her, as she flung herself on mr. pickwick on that disastrous morning: the other--a swollen, dreadful thing, which must be a caricature of the literal presentment. here we see a woman of gross, enormous proportions seated on the front bench and apparently weighing some thirteen or fourteen stone, with a vast coarse face. this is surely an unfair presentment of the worthy landlady; besides, dodson and fogg were too astute practitioners to imperil their chances by exhibiting to his lordship and the jury so ill-favoured a plaintiff. indeed, we are told that they arranged a rather theatrical exhibition in this scene, with a view of creating an impression in their favour. many find pleasure in reading the bookseller's catalogues, and a vast number are showered on me in the course of the year. but on one of these i always gaze with a special interest, and even tenderness. for it comes from one herbert, who lives in goswell road. only think, _goswell_ road--erst goswell street, where just seventy years ago mrs. bardell was letting lodgings and mr. pickwick himself was lodging: and on the cover i read, furthur attraction, "goswell road, near the 'angel,'" whence the "stage" which took the party to the "spaniard" at hampstead started! sometimes i am drawn to the shop, crowded with books; but one's thoughts stray away from the books into speculations as to _which_ house it was. but the indications are most vague, though the eye settles on a decent range of shabby-looking faded tenements--two storeys high only--and which _look_ like lodging houses. some ingenious commentators have indeed ventured to identify the house itself, arguing from the very general description in the text. we should note, however, mr. pickwick's lack of caution. he came in the very next day, having apparently made no enquiries as to the landlady. had he done so, he would have learned of the drunken exciseman who met his death by being knocked on the head with a quart pot. he might have heard of the friends, cluppins, raddle, etc., who seemed to have been charwomen or something of the sort; also that there was a sort of working man as a fellow lodger. above all, that there was no servant in the house. all which boded ill, and made it likely that mr. pickwick would be the easy victim of some crafty scheme. all went well until the unluckly morning in july, , when mr. pickwick's friends, coming to pay a morning call, and entering unexpectedly, surprised mr. pickwick with his landlady fainting in his arms in an hysterical condition. this was a very awkward business. the delinquent, however, did not at once grasp the situation, and could not "make head or tail of it, or what the lady meant." his friends, however, had their doubts: 'what _is_ the matter?' said the three tongue-tied pickwickians. 'i don't know,' replied mr. pickwick, pettishly. 'now, help me, lead this woman down stairs.' 'oh, i am better now,' said mrs. bardell, faintly. 'let me lead you downstairs,' said the ever gallant mr. tupman. 'thank you, sir--thank you?' exclaimed mrs. bardell hysterically. and downstairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son. [picture: the cause of action] 'i cannot conceive--' said mr. pickwick, when his friend returned--'i cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. i had merely announced to her my intention of keeping a man servant, when she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. very extraordinary thing.' 'very,' said his three friends. 'placed me in such an extremely awkward situation,' continued mr. pickwick. 'very,' was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked dubiously at each other. this behaviour was not lost upon mr. pickwick. he remarked their incredulity. they evidently suspected him. it may be reasonably supposed that mr. pickwick had not been very discreet, or sufficiently cautious in his general behaviour to his landlady. as we know, he was rather too effusive in his relations with the fair sex. one of his weaknesses was _kissing_. he would kiss everybody who was young or good-looking. his maxim was "kiss early and kiss often." who can forget his _systematic_ method of greeting the engaging arabella? "he ( ) took off his spectacles, ( ) in great haste, and ( ) taking both the young lady's hands in his ( ) kissed her ( ) a great many times ( ) perhaps a greater number of times than was absolutely necessary." old rogue! i have little doubt that on his return home from his tours he encircled the buxom figure of mrs. bardell--all of course in his own paternal and privileged way. it should be borne in mind also that mr. pickwick was almost invariably drawn into his more serious scrapes and embarrassments by this devotion to the sex. the night in the boarding school garden--the affair with the spinster lady--his interview with arabella from the top of the wall--his devotion to mrs. pott and mrs. dowler--and much more that we do not hear of, show that he was a gallant elderly gentleman. oh, he was a "sly dog, he was." there is a curious burst of mr. pickwick's which seems to hint at a sort of tender appreciation on his side. when the notice of trial was sent to him, in his first vehemence, he broke out that mrs. bardell had nothing to do with the business, "_she hadn't the heart to do it_." mr. pickwick could not speak with this certainty, unless he knew the lady's feelings pretty well. _why_ hadn't she the heart to do it? because she was sincerely attached to him and his interests and was "a dear creature." this, however, was a fond delusion of the worthy gentleman's. persons of her class are not quite so disinterested as they appear to be, especially if they have to interpret the various paternal and comforting advances made to them by their well to do lodgers. there is another factor which can hardly be left out, when considering mr. pickwick's responsibility--that is, his too frequent indulgence in liquor, and the insufficiency of his head to stand its influence. now this was a very important day for him, the first time he was to set up a man servant. he had to break it to his landlady, who would naturally resent the change. he may have been _priming_ himself with some of those perpetual glasses of brandy and water to which he was addicted, and who knows but that, in his ardour to propitiate, he may have gone a _little_ too far? this fact too, of the introducing a man servant into her establishment, mrs. bardell may have indistinctly associated with a general change in his life. if she were to become mrs. pickwick her duties might be naturally expected to devolve on a male assistant. next morning he and his friends quitted london on their travels to eatanswill in pursuit of adventure. he airily dismissed the matter. we may wonder whether he made any remonstrance to his landlady before his departure. probably he did not, fancying that she had been merely in a slight fit of the "tantrums." at bury, however, after the boarding-school adventure, he was to be painfully awakened. he was sitting with his friends after dinner at the "angel," in his happiest mood. winkle had related his quarrel with pott _in re_ mrs. pott, in a humorous fashion when one of the most delightful of humorous scenes followed. mr. pickwick was proceeding with his scathing rebuke, when sam enters with a letter. 'i don't know this hand,' said mr. pickwick, opening the letter. 'mercy on us! what's this? it must be a jest; it--it--can't be true.' 'what's the matter?' was the general inquiry. 'nobody dead, is there?' said wardle, alarmed at the horror in mr. pickwick's countenance. mr. pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table, and desiring mr. tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold. mr. tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the following is a copy:-- '_freeman's court_, _cornhill_, _august_ _th_, . _bardell against pickwick_. _sir_, _having been instructed by mrs. martha bardell to commence an action against you for a breach of promise of marriage_, _for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds_, _we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued against you in this suit in the court of common pleas_; _and request to know_, _by return of post_, _the name of your attorney in london_, _who will accept service thereof_. _we are_, _sir_, _your obedient servants_, _dodson & fogg_. mr. samuel pickwick.' so mr. pickwick, the general mentor, the philosopher and friend--the man of high moral tone, "born to set the world aright"--the general lecturer of his "followers," was now in for an action at law of the most awkward and unpleasant kind. to be philandering with one's landlady! rather low form this. but what would they say down at manor farm? how isabella wardle and her sister--and all the girls--would laugh! and the spinster aunt--_she_ would enjoy it! but there was no help for it. it must be faced. naturally mr. pickwick felt uncomfortable, and his first idea was to arrange the matter. this was a sensible course, and he ought at once to have put the matter into the hands of his friend perker, with full powers to treat. but no. mr. pickwick's vanity and indiscretion made him meddle in the business behind his solicitor's back, as it where, and with damaging results to himself--a warning to all such amateurs. it must be said that dodson and fogg's behaviour at the extraordinary visit which he paid them was marked by a certain propriety. mr. pickwick insisted on knowing what were the grounds of action--that is, the details of the evidence against him--in short, their case. they, very correctly, refused to tell him. "the case may be false or it may be true--it may be credible it may be incredible." but all the same it was a strong case. this was as much as they could tell. mr. pickwick could only urge that if "it were so, he was a most unfortunate man," on which dodson promptly--"i hope you are, sir, i trust you may be, sir. if you are really innocent, you are more unfortunate than i had believed any man could possibly be." mr. pickwick then rather foolishly asked did he understand they meant to go on with the action--as if they could have been affected by his declaration. "understand?" was the reply, "that you certainly may"--a very natural speech. with some want of professional delicacy and etiquette, dodson seized the opportunity to "serve" mr. pickwick; but they were not a high-class firm and their methods were not high-class. then an extraordinarily incredible display followed. his passion broke forth. "_of all the disgraceful and rascally proceedings he ever_, _etc._!" dodson summoned his clerks to listen to this gross language, and said, "perhaps you would like to call us swindlers." "_you are_," said mr. pickwick. fogg even wished him to assault them--and perhaps he would have done so, but for sam, who at last got him away. this was certainly not correct, but how aggravating was mr. pickwick! one is rather astonished at the forbearance of this sharp firm. now, had mr. pickwick gone straight to his lodgings in goswell street and seen mrs. bardell, heard her views and claims, had he been told by her that she had been professionally urged to go to law as she had such a strong case--there might have been some excuse for this violence to dodson and fogg. but he knew nothing whatever of the matter--knew nothing of the attornies--and in his blind fury gratuitously assumed that they had "conspired" to harass him in this way. true, he had overheard how they had treated poor ramsey. this very _malapropos_ visit of mr. pickwick to the firm was, as i said, a mistake and damaged his case. it showed that he was nervous and anxious, and _insecure_. he took nothing by it. there was in truth much short-sighted cunning in his ways, which came of his overweening vanity. but this was only one of several attempts he made to worm out something to his own advantage. another of mr. pickwick's foolish manoeuvres was his sending his man to his old lodgings to his landlady--ostensibly to fetch away his "things," when this dialogue passed: 'tell mrs. bardell she may put a bill up, as soon as she likes.' 'wery good, sir,' replied mr. weller; 'anythin' more, sir.' 'nothing more, sam.' mr. weller stepped slowly to the door, as if he expected something more; slowly opened it, slowly stepped out, and had slowly closed it within a couple of inches, when mr. pickwick called out. 'sam.' 'sir,' said mr. weller, stepping quickly back, and closing the door behind him. 'i have no objection, sam, to your endeavouring to ascertain how mrs. bardell herself seems disposed towards me, and whether it is really probable that this vile and groundless action is to be carried to extremity. _i say_, _i do not object to your doing this_, _if you wish it_, _sam_,' said mr. pickwick. sam gave a short nod of intelligence and left the room. now this was very artful on the part of mr. pickwick, but it was a very shallow sort of artfulness, and it was later to recoil on himself. sam of course saw through it at once. it never dawned on this simple-minded man what use the plaintiff's solicitors would make of his _demarche_. when the subpoenas were served he rushed off to perker: 'they have subpoena'd my servant too,' said mr. pickwick. 'sam?' said perker. mr. pickwick replied in the affirmative. 'of course, my dear sir; of course. i knew they would. i could have told _you_ that a month ago. you know, my dear sir, if you _will_ take the management of your affairs into your own hands after intrusting them to your solicitor, you must also take the consequences.' here mr. perker drew himself up with conscious dignity, and brushed some stray grains of snuff from his shirt frill. 'and what do they want him to prove?' asked mr. pickwick, after two or three minutes' silence. 'that you sent him up to the plaintiff's to make some offer of a compromise, i suppose,' replied perker. 'it don't matter much, though; i don't think many counsel could get a great deal out of _him_.' 'i don't think they could,' said mr. pickwick. the minutiae of legal process are prosaic and uninteresting, and it might seem impossible to invest them with any dramatic interest; but how admirably has boz lightened up and coloured the simple incident of an attorney's clerk--a common, vulgar fellow of the lowest type, arriving to serve his subpoenas on the witnesses--all assumed to be hostile. the scene is full of touches of light comedy. 'how de do, sir?' said mr. jackson, nodding to mr. pickwick. that gentlemen bowed, and looked somewhat surprised for the physiognomy of mr. jackson dwelt not in his recollection. 'i have called from dodson and fogg's,' said mr. jackson, in an explanatory tone. mr. pickwick roused at the name. 'i refer you to my attorney, sir: mr. perker, of gray's inn,' said he. 'waiter, show this gentleman out.' 'beg your pardon, mr. pickwick,' said jackson, deliberately depositing his hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket the strip of parchment. 'but personal service, by clerk or agent, in these cases, you know, mr. pickwick--nothing like caution, sir, in all legal forms?' here mr. jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and, resting his hands on the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive, smile, said: 'now, come; don't let's have no words about such a little matter as this. which of you gentlemen's name's snodgrass?' at this inquiry mr. snodgrass gave such a very undisguised and palpable start, that no further reply was needed. 'ah! i thought so,' said mr. jackson, more affably than before. 'i've got a little something to trouble you with, sir.' 'me!' exclaimed mr. snodgrass. 'it's only a _subpoena_ in bardell and pickwick on behalf of the plaintiff,' replied jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and producing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. 'it'll come on, in the settens after term; fourteenth of febooary, we expect; we've marked it a special jury cause, and it's only ten down the paper. that's yours, mr. snodgrass.' as jackson said this he presented the parchment before the eyes of mr. snodgrass, and slipped the paper and the shilling into his hand. mr. tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when jackson, turning sharply upon him, said: 'i think i ain't mistaken when i say your name's tupman, am i?' mr. tupman looked at mr. pickwick; but, perceiving no encouragement in that gentleman's widely-opened eyes to deny his name, said: 'yes, my name _is_ tupman, sir.' 'and that other gentleman's mr. winkle, i think?' said jackson. mr. winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen were forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the dexterous mr. jackson. 'now,' said jackson, 'i'm affraid you'll think me rather troublesome, but i want somebody else, if it ain't inconvenient. i _have_ samuel weller's name here, mr. pickwick.' 'send my servant here, waiter,' said mr. pickwick. the waiter retired, considerably astonished, and mr. pickwick motioned jackson to a seat. there was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent defendant. 'i suppose, sir,' said mr. pickwick, his indignation rising while he spoke; 'i suppose, sir, that it is the intention of your employers to seek to criminate me upon the testimony of my own friends?' mr. jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side of his nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets of the prison-house, and playfully rejoined: 'not knowin', can't say.' 'for what other reason, sir,' pursued mr. pickwick, 'are these subpoenas served upon them, if not for this?' 'very good plant, mr. pickwick,' replied jackson, slowly shaking his head. 'but it won't do. no harm in trying, but there's little to be got out of me.' here mr. jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his left thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with his right hand: thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime (then much in vogue, but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was familiarly denominated 'taking a grinder.' (imagine a modern solicitor's clerk "taking a grinder!") 'no, no, mr. pickwick,' said jackson, in conclusion; 'perker's people must guess what we served these subpoenas for. if they can't, they must wait till the action comes on, and then they'll find out.' mr. pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome visitor, and would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the heads of messrs. dodson and fogg, had not sam's entrance at the instant interrupted him. 'samuel weller?' said mr. jackson, inquiringly. 'vun o' the truest things as you've said for many a long year,' replied sam, in a most composed manner. 'here's a subpoena for you, mr. weller,' said jackson. 'what's that in english?' inquired sam. 'here's the original,' said jackson, declining the required explanation. 'which?' said sam. 'this,' replied jackson, shaking the parchment. 'oh, that's the 'rig'nal, is it?' said sam. 'well, i'm wery glad i've seen the 'rig'nal, 'cos it's a gratifyin' sort o' thing, and eases vun's mind so much.' 'and here's the shilling,' said jackson. 'it's from dodson and fogg's.' 'and it's uncommon handsome o' dodson and fogg, as knows so little of me, to come down vith a present,' said sam. 'i feel it as a wery high compliment, sir; it's a wery hon'rable thing to them, as they knows how to reward merit werever they meets it. besides wich, it's affectin to one's feelin's.' as mr. weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right eye-lid, with the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved manner of actors when they are in domestic pathetics. mr. jackson seemed rather puzzled by sam's proceedings; but, as he had served the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of putting on the one glove which he usually carried in his hand, for the sake of appearances; and returned to the office to report progress. another of mr. pickwick's foolish and self-willed proceedings was the interview with serjeant snubbin, which he so positively insisted upon. we may wonder now-a-days would any k.c. of position have condescended to allow such a proceeding? i fancy it would be thought "irregular:" though perhaps _ex gratia_, and from the oddity of the proposal, it might be conceded. when mr. pickwick called upon him, it turned out that the serjeant knew nothing whatever of his case; probably cared nothing about it. it was not in his line. he perhaps wondered why the old-fashioned lawyer had "retained" him. we learn parker's reason: 'well, we've done everything that's necessary. i have engaged serjeant snubbin.' 'is he a good man?' inquired mr. pickwick. 'good man!' replied perker; 'bless your heart and soul, my dear sir, serjeant snubbin is at the very top of his profession. gets treble the business of any man in court--engaged in every case. you needn't mention it abroad; but we say--we of the profession--that serjeant snubbin leads the court by the nose.' how foolish was this reasoning can be seen on an instant's reflection. to "lead the court by the nose" is well enough in an argument before a judge: but here it was more important to lead _a jury_ by the nose, which buzfuz knew how to do. moreover when a counsel has this power, it usually operates on a special judge and his colleagues; but who could guarantee that snubbin's special judge would try the case. as it turned out, the chief justice fell sick before the day, and mr. justice stareleigh unexpectedly took the case. he as it proved was anything but "led by the nose." perker indeed, summed up the whole weakness of the case in a single sentence: 'they have subpoena'd my three friends,' said mr. pickwick. 'ah! of course they would,' replied perker. 'important witnesses; saw you in a delicate situation.' 'but she fainted of her own accord,' said mr. pickwick. 'she threw herself into my arms.' 'very likely, my dear sir,' replied perker; 'very likely and very natural. nothing more so, my dear sir, nothing. _but who's to prove it_?' a suggestion, we are told, that rather "staggered" mr. pickwick. within ten minutes after he had received the assurance that the thing was impossible, he was conducted by his solicitors into the outer office of the great serjeant snubbin himself. it was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large writing table drawn up near the fire, the baize top of which had long since lost all claim to its original hue of green, and had gradually grown grey with dust and age, except where all traces of its natural colour were obliterated by ink-stains. upon the table were numerous little bundles of papers tied with red tape; and behind it, sat an elderly clerk, whose sleek appearance and heavy gold watch-chain presented imposing indications of the extensive and lucrative practice of mr. serjeant snubbin. 'is the serjeant in his room, mr. mallard?' inquired perker, offering his box with all imaginable courtesy. 'yes, he is,' was the reply, 'but he's very busy. look here; not an opinion given yet, on any one of these cases; and an expedition fee paid with all of them.' the clerk smiled as he said this, and inhaled the pinch of snuff with a zest which seemed to be compounded of a fondness for snuff and a relish for fees. 'something like practice that,' said perker. 'yes,' said the barrister's clerk, producing his own box, and offering it with the greatest cordiality; 'and the best of it is, that as nobody alive except myself can read the serjeant's writing, they are obliged to wait for the opinions, when he has given them, till i have copied 'em, ha--ha--ha!' 'which makes good for we know who, besides the serjeant, and draws a little more out of his clients, eh?' said perker; 'ha, ha, ha!' at this the serjeant's clerk laughed again--not a noisy boisterous laugh, but a silent, internal chuckle, which mr. pickwick disliked to hear. when a man bleeds inwardly, it is a dangerous thing for himself; but when he laughs inwardly, it bodes no good to other people. 'you haven't made me out that little list of the fees that i'm in your debt, have you?' said perker. 'no, i have not,' replied the clerk. 'i wish you would,' said perker. 'let me have them, and i'll send you a cheque. but i suppose you're too busy pocketing the ready money, to think of the debtors, eh? ha, ha, ha!' this sally seemed to tickle the clerk, amazingly, and he once more enjoyed a little quiet laugh to himself. 'but, mr. mallard, my dear friend,' said perker, suddenly recovering his gravity, and drawing the great man's great man into a corner, by the lappel of his coat, 'you must persuade the serjeant to see me, and my client here.' 'come, come,' said the clerk, 'that's not bad either. see the serjeant! come, that's too absurd.' notwithstanding the absurdity of the proposal, however, the clerk allowed himself to be gently drawn beyond the hearing of mr. pickwick; and after a short conversation conducted in whispers, walked softly down a little dark passage and disappeared into the legal luminary's sanctum, from whence he shortly returned on tiptoe, and informed mr. perker and mr. pickwick that the serjeant had been prevailed upon, in violation of all his established rules and customs, to admit them at once. the serjeant was writing when his clients entered; he bowed abstractedly when mr. pickwick was introduced by his solicitor; and then, motioning them to a seat, put his pen carefully in the inkstand, nursed his left leg, and waited to be spoken to. 'mr. pickwick is the defendant in bardell and pickwick, serjeant snubbin,' said perker. 'i am retained in that, am i?' said the serjeant. 'you are, sir,' replied perker. the serjeant nodded his head, and waited for something else. 'mr. pickwick was anxious to call upon you, serjeant snubbin,' said perker, 'to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he denies there being any ground or pretence whatever for the action against him; and that unless he came into court with clean hands, and without the most conscientious conviction that he was right in resisting the plaintiff's demand, he would not be there at all. i believe i state your views correctly; do i not, my dear sir?' said the little man, turning to mr. pickwick. 'quite so,' replied that gentleman. mr. serjeant snubbin unfolded his glasses, raised them to his eyes; and, after looking at mr. pickwick for a few seconds with great curiosity, turned to mr. perker, and said, smiling slightly as he spoke-- 'has mr. pickwick a strong case?' the attorney shrugged his shoulders. 'do you purpose calling witnesses?' 'no.' the smile on the serjeant's countenance became more defined; he rocked his leg with increased violence, and, throwing himself back in his easy-chair, coughed dubiously. these tokens of the serjeant's presentiments on the subject, slight as they were, were not lost on mr. pickwick. he settled the spectacles, through which he had attentively regarded such demonstrations of the barrister's feeling as he had permitted himself to exhibit, more firmly on his nose; and said with great energy, and in utter disregard of all mr. perker's admonitory winkings and frownings-- 'my wishing to wait upon you for such a purpose as this, sir, appears, i have no doubt, to a gentleman who sees so much of these matters as you must necessarily do, a very extraordinary circumstance.' the serjeant tried to look gravely at the fire, but the smile came back again. [picture: mr. pickwick expounds his case to his counsel] 'gentlemen of your profession, sir,' continued mr. pickwick, 'see the worst side of human nature--all its disputes, all its ill-will and bad blood, rise up before you. you know from your experience of juries (i mean no disparagement to you or them) how much depends upon _effect_; and you are apt to attribute to others, a desire to use, for purposes of deception and self-interest, the very instruments which you, in pure honesty and honour of purpose, and with a laudable desire to do your utmost for your client, know the temper and worth of so well, from constantly employing them yourselves. i really believe that to this circumstance may be attributed the vulgar but very general notion of your being, as a body, suspicious, distrustful, and over-cautious. conscious as i am, sir, of the disadvantage of making such a declaration to you, under such circumstances, i have come here, because i wish you distinctly to understand, as my friend mr. perker has said, that i am innocent of the falsehood laid to my charge; and although i am very well aware of the inestimable value of your assistance, sir, i must beg to add, that unless you sincerely believe this, i would rather be deprived of the aid of your talents than have the advantage of them.' long before the close of this address, which we are bound to say was of a very prosy character for mr. pickwick, the serjeant had relapsed into a state of abstraction. now the serjeant might at once have replied to all this, that the innocence or guilt of a client had nothing to do with him, that his use was merely to secure a client such benefit and advantage as the law entitled him to: that a judge and jury would decide the point of innocence. boz himself evidently shared this popular delusion, and seems to be speaking by mr. pickwick's mouth. the sagacious serjeant, however, took no notice whatever of the appeal, but simply asked "who was with him" in the case. mr. phunky was sent for, and asked by his leader "to take mr. pickwick away" and "hear anything he may wish to communicate." the party was then bowed out. the truth was, mr. pickwick's attorney was too much of a social character and of the "old family solicitor" pattern for so critical a case. the counsel he "instructed" were unsuitable. serjeant snubbin was an overworked "chamber lawyer," whose whole time and experience was given to furnishing "opinions" on tangled cases; so pressed was he that he took "expedition fees" to give certain cases priority: an illegitimate practice that now the bar committee would scarcely tolerate. what could such a man know of nisi prius trials, of cross-examining or handling witnesses? it is enough to give his portrait, as supplied by the author: [picture: serjeant snubbin, k.c.] mr. serjeant snubbin was a lantern-faced, sallow-complexioned man, of about five-and-forty, or--as the novels say--he might be fifty. he had that _dull-looking boiled eye_ which is often to be seen in the heads of people who have applied themselves during many years to a weary and laborious course of study; and which would have been sufficient, without the additional eye-glass which dangled from a broad black riband round his neck, to warn a stranger that he was very near-sighted. his hair was thin and weak, which was partly attributable to his having never devoted much time to its arrangement, and partly to his having worn for five-and-twenty years the forsenic wig which hung on a block beside him. the marks of hair powder on his coat collar, and the ill-washed and worse tied white neckerchief round his throat, showed that he had not found leisure since he left the court to make any alteration in his dress: while the slovenly style of the remainder of his costume warranted the inference that his personal appearance would not have been very much improved if he had. books of practice, heaps of papers, and opened letters, were scattered over the table, without any attempt at order or arrangement; the furniture of the room was old and ricketty; the doors of the bookcase were rotting in their hinges; the dust flew out from the carpet in little clouds at every step; the blinds were yellow with age and dirt; the state of everything in the room showed, with a clearness not to be mistaken, that mr. serjeant snubbin was far too much occupied with his professional pursuits to take any great heed or regard of his personal comforts. it was a characteristic feature of the slowness of legal process in those days that though the notice of action was sent on august the th, , the case was not ripe for trial until february th of the next year--nearly six months having elapsed. it is difficult to speculate as to what this long delay was owing. there were only two witnesses whose evidence had to be briefed--mrs. cluppins and mrs. sanders--and they were at hand. it is odd, by the way, that they did not think of examining little tommy bardell, the only one who actually witnessed the proceeding. true, he was of tender years--about eight or ten--and the son of the plaintiff, but he must have "known the nature of an oath." the trial. at last the momentous morning came round. it was the fourteenth of february, valentine's day, --one not of good omen for the plaintiff. { } the defendant's party was rather gloomy at breakfast, when perker, by wave of encouraging his client, uttered some _dicta_ as to the chances of the jury having had a good breakfast "discontented or hungry jurymen, my dear sir, always find for the plaintiff." "bless my heart," said mr. pickwick, looking very blank, "what do they do that for!" the party then got into hackney coaches and was driven to the guildhall, where the case was to be tried at ten o'clock precisely. [picture: exterior of the guildhall court.--now city museum] [picture: interior of the guildhall, court, circa . (from an original drawing by t. allen.)] how dramatic boz has made the "calling of the jury," which might be thought an uninteresting and prosaic operation enough. it was a special jury, which entailed one guinea per head extra expense on mr. pickwick. he had, of course, asked for it: but dodson and fogg would have been well content with and perhaps even have preferred a common jury. now-a-days, special jurors, though summoned largely, have to be almost coerced into attending. a fine of ten pounds is imposed, but this is almost invariably remitted on affidavit. the common jurors, moreover, do not show the reluctance to "serve" of groffin, the chemist. a guinea is not to be despised. there are, as it were, professional common jurors who hang about the courts in the hope of being thus called as "understudies." on this occasion what was called a _tales_ was prayed for, and two common jurors were pressed into the service: and "a greengrocer and a chemist were caught directly." it is impossible to say too much of the completeness with which the legal scene is put forward. everything is dealt with. we have perfect sketches of the judge, the ushers, the jury, the counsel on the case, the witnesses, the barristers, the attorneys; we have the speeches, the methods of examination and cross-examination. there is nothing better or more life-like than the sketch of the court in the chill morning, and before the actors came on the scene--the inimitable description of the idle barristers hanging about "the bar of england," which is accurate to this hour. few could describe effectively the peculiar appearance of a crowd of barristers assembled in a court of law. they are a type apart, and their odd headgear accentuates all the peculiarities of their faces. no one has, however, succeeded so well as boz in touching off their peculiarities. this sort of histrionic guise and bearing is assumed with a view to impose on his friends and the public, to suggest an idea that they have much or at least something to do. 'and that,' said mr. pickwick, pointing to a couple of enclosed seats on his right, 'that's where the jurymen sit, is it not?' 'the identical place, my dear sir,' replied perker, tapping the lid of his snuff-box. mr. pickwick stood up in a state of great agitation and took a glance at the court. there were already a pretty large sprinkling of spectators in the gallery, and a numerous muster of gentlemen in wigs in the barristers' seats, who presented, as a body, all that pleasing and extensive variety of nose and whisker for which the bar of england is so justly celebrated. such of the gentlemen as had got a brief to carry, carried it in as conspicuous a manner as possible, and occasionally scratched their noses therewith, to impress the fact more strongly on the observation of the spectators. one of the happiest descriptions is surely that of the binding of law books. a law library is the most repulsive and uninteresting thing in the world. the colour of the leather is unhealthy and disagreeable, and the necessary shading is secured at the expense of grace. boz characterises it as 'that under-done pie crust.' other gentlemen, who had no briefs to show, carried under their arms goodly octavos, with a red label behind, and that under-done-pie-crust-coloured cover, which is technically known as "law calf." others, who had neither briefs nor books, thrust their hands into their pockets, and looked as wise as they conveniently could; while others, again, moved here and there with great restlessness and earnestness of manner, content to awaken thereby the admiration and astonishment of the uninitiated stranger. the whole, to the great wonderment of mr. pickwick, were divided into little groups, who were chatting and discussing the news of the day in the most unfeeling manner possible--just as if no trial at all were coming on. a bow from mr. phunky, as he entered, and took his seat behind the row appropriated to the king's counsel, attracted mr. pickwick's attention; and he had scarcely returned it, when mr. serjeant snubbin appeared, followed by mr. mallard, who half hid the serjeant behind a large crimson bag, which he placed on his table, and after shaking hands with perker, withdrew. then there entered two or three more serjeants, and among them, one with a fat body and a red face, who nodded in a friendly manner to mr. serjeant snubbin, and said it was a fine morning. 'who's that red-faced man, who said it was a fine morning and nodded to our counsel?' whispered mr. pickwick. 'mr. serjeant buzfuz,' replied perker. 'he's opposed to us; he leads on the other side. that gentleman behind him is mr. skimpin, his junior.' mr. pickwick was just on the point of inquiring, with great abhorrence of the man's cold-blooded villainy, how mr. serjeant buzfuz, who was counsel for the opposite party, dared to presume to tell mr. serjeant snubbin, who was counsel for him, that it was a fine morning,--when he was interrupted by a general rising of the barristers, and a loud cry of 'silence!' from the officers of the court. looking round, he found that this was caused by the entrance of the judge. on reaching the court, perker said, "put mr. pickwick's friends in the students' box. mr. pickwick had better sit by me." this useful provision for the instruction of legal probationers has fallen into desuetude--no place is reserved for the students now-a-days. lord campbell describes the custom and recalls an incident that occurred when he was sitting in the students' box, close to the bench. there were some matters of procedure which have since been changed--such as mr. skimpin "calling for" winkle, and the latter answering. this is now done by an officer of the court. skimpin also asks winkle his name, as a first question, though he had been sworn and had given it. and the _mal-entendu_ as to "daniel nathaniel" could not then have occurred, as the officer would have obtained the name correctly. another unusual thing was that buzfuz, after his long and rather exhausting speech, should have examined the first witness. now-a-days the junior would do this. we may note that at this time it was always "my lord," and "your lordship," with the full natural sound--we had not yet got to the clipped "m'lud,'" and "your ludship." perhaps this form _was_ actually used by the counsel but was not noticed by boz, or seemed to him the right thing. the king's counsel were behind and could stoop down to consult their solicitors. this minute observation and particularity of boz is further shown in his noting the very places where the attorneys sat, and which he describes. they had the seats next the table: "you are quite right," said buzfuz later on, answering the whisper of dodson and fogg, after sam's awkward revelation. how often have we seen these hasty communications, which are not without their dramatic effect. the judge. mr. pickwick, unfortunate in his counsel, his solicitor, his jury--one of prejudiced tradesmen--was also to be unlucky in the judge who tried his case. no doubt perker had comforted him: "no matter how it goes, however unfair buzfuz may be, we have a judge to hold the scales fair and keep the jury straight. the lord chief justice of the common pleas, the right hon. sir nicholas conyngham tindal is a man of immense reputation at the bar. we are most fortunate in having him." judge then of the disappointment when on coming to court it was found that sir stephen gaselee was to take the case "owing to the absence of the chief justice, occasioned by indisposition." (i protest that at times one does not know whether we are following out a course of real events, or tracing the incidents of a fiction, so wonderfully does boz make his fiction blend with reality.) this was a serious blow. tindal was an admirable judge. did not his chroniclers write of him: "his sagacity, impartiality and plain sense, his industry and clear sightedness made him an admiration of non-professional spectators: while among lawyers he was very highly esteemed _for his invariable kindness to all who appeared before him_. he retained to the last their respect and affection." with such a man presiding sergeant buzfuz's eccentric violence and abuse of the defendant would have been restrained ("having the outward appearance of a man and not of a monster.") mr. skimpin's gross insinuations, to wit, that winkle was "telegraphing" to his friend, would have been summarily put down, and all "bullying" checked; more, he would have calmly kept counsel's attention to the issue. this perfect impartiality would have made him show to the jury how little evidence there was to support the plaintiff's case. instead came this unlucky indisposition: and his place was taken by "my brother gaselee:" with what results mr. pickwick was to learn disastrously. it is curious, however, that the chief justice, in spite of his indisposition, should still be associated with the case; for he had tried the momentous case of norton _v._ melbourne, and had heard there letters read, which were parodied in the "chops and tomato sauce" correspondence, so boz had him well before him. the case had to be tried at the guildhall sessions; so a fair and rational judge would have spoilt all sport. further, as boz had seen the fairness and dignity of the chief justice he was naturally reluctant to exhibit him unfavorably. the only thing was to make the chief justice become suddenly "indisposed," and have his place taken by a grotesque judge. the judge who was to try the case, mr. justice stareleigh, as is well known, was drawn from sir stephen gaselee, of whose name stareleigh is a sort of synonym. serjeant gaselee was once well known in the prosecutions directed against radicals and so-called reformers, but _pickwick_ has given him a greater reputation. the baiting he received from patriotic advocates may have inflamed his temper and made him irritable. he is described by one author, in a most humorous, if personal fashion. he was "a most particularly short man, and so fat that he seemed all face and waistcoat. he rolled in upon two little turned legs, and having bobbed gravely to the bar who bobbed gravely to him, put his little legs under the table, when all you could see of him was two queer little eyes, one broad, pink face, and somewhere about half of a big and very comical-looking wig." all through he is shown as arrogant and incapable, and also as making some absurd mistakes. it will be a surprise to most people to learn that this picture is no more than an amusing caricature, and that the judge was really a person of high character. he is described as "a very painstaking, upright judge, and, in his private capacity, a worthy and benevolent man." thus, mr. croker, who, however, supplies a sound reason for his being the subject of such satire. "with many admirable qualities both of head and heart, he had made himself a legitimate object of ridicule by his explosions on the bench." under such conditions, the bar, the suitors and the public had neither the wish nor the opportunity to search for extenuating excuses in his private life. they suffered enough from the "explosions" and that was all that concerned them. he had been fourteen years on the bench, and, like stareleigh, belonged to the common pleas. he was suffering too from infirmities, particularly from deafness, and appears to have misapprehended statements in the same grotesque fashion that he mistook winkle's name. boz's fashion of burlesque, by the way, is happily shown in his treatment of this topic. another would have been content with "daniel," the simple misapprehension. "nathaniel, sir," says winkle. "daniel--any other name?" "nathaniel, sir--my lord, i mean." "_nathaniel daniel_--_or daniel nathaniel_?" "no, my lord, only nathaniel, not daniel at all." "what did you tell me it was daniel for, then, sir?" "i didn't, my lord." "you did, sir. _how could i have got nathaniel in my notes_, _unless you told me so_, _sir_?" how admirable is this. the sly satire goes deeper, as judges, under less gross conditions, have often made this illogical appeal to "my notes." though not gifted with oratorical powers which were likely to gain him employment as a leader, gaselee's reputation for legal knowledge soon recommended him to a judge's place. he was accordingly selected on july st, , to fill a vacancy in the court of common pleas. in that court he sat for nearly fourteen years "with the character of a painstaking judge, and in his private capacity as a worthy and benevolent man." thus mr. foss, f.s.a. the reader will have noted the judge's severity to poor groffin, the chemist, who had pleaded the danger of his boy mistaking oxalic acid for epsom salts. could it be that the judge's experience as the son of a provincial doctor, had shown what class of man was before him? later, unexpectedly, we learn that the judge was a steady member for fourteen years of the royal humane society, of which institution he was also a vice-president. but we now come to a most extraordinary thing--the result of the young author's telling and most sarcastic portrait of the irascible little judge. it is curious that forster, while enumerating various instances of boz's severe treatment of living persons, as a sort of chastisement for their defects of manner or character, seems not to have thought of this treatment of the judge--and passes it by. nor did he notice the prompt result that followed on the sketch. the report of the trial appeared in the march number, --and we are told, the luckless judge retired from the bench, shortly after the end of hilary term, that is in april or the beginning of may. we may assume that the poor gentleman could not endure the jests of his _confreres_ or the scarcely concealed tittering of the barristers, all of whom had of course devoured and enjoyed the number. we may say that the learned sergeant buzfuz was not likely to be affected in any way by _his_ picture; it may indeed have added to his reputation. i confess to some sympathy for the poor old judge who was thus driven from the bench. sam foote was much given to this sort of personal attack, and made the lives of some of his victims wretched. boz, however, seems to have felt himself called upon to act thus as public executioner on two occasions only. after the fall of the judge in june, , he wanted a model for a tyrannical magistrate in _oliver twist_--and mr. laing, the hatton garden magistrate--a harsh, ferocious personage, at once occurred to him. he wrote accordingly to one of his friends that he wished to be _smuggled_ into his office some morning to study him. this "smuggling" of course meant the placing him where he would not be observed--as a magistrate knowing his "sketches" might recognise him. "i know the man perfectly well" he added. so he did, for he forgot that he had introduced him already in _pickwick_ as nupkins--whose talk is exactly alike, in places almost word for word to that of "mr. fang." these palliations, boz, a young fellow of three and twenty or so, did not pause to weigh. he only saw a testy, red-faced old fellow with goggle eyes, and seventy-four years old, and past his work. his infirmities already made him incapable of carrying through the business of the court as the mistake, "is it daniel nathaniel or nathaniel daniel?" shows. it is curious, however, that this weakness of misapprehending names is described of another judge, arabin--a strange grotesque. theodore hook gives an amusing specimen in his gilbert gurney. from the general description in the text, it is evident stareleigh was the prey of gouty affections--which swelled him into grotesque shape, and he found himself unequal to the office. he died two years after his retirement at no. , montagu place, russell square; so that the judge in bardell _v._ pickwick was living close to perker the attorney in the same case. here we seem to mix up the fictional and the living characters, but this is the law of _pickwick_--the confines between the two worlds being quite confused or broken down. the late commander of our forces in china, sir a. gaselee, is of this family. it should be remembered, however, when we think of this judge's frowardness, that judges in those times were dictatorial and carried matters with a high hand. there were often angry conflicts between them, and members of the bar, and stareleigh was really not so very tyrannical. he did what so many judges do--took a side from the first, and had decided in his own mind that mr. pickwick could not possibly have a case. that curious form of address from the bench is now no longer heard--"who is with you, _brother buzfuz_?" judges and sergeants were then common members of the guild--both wore the "coif." the court. when the swearing of the jury is going on, how good, and how natural is the scene with the unfortunate chemist. 'answer to your names, gentlemen that you may be sworn,' said the gentleman in black. 'richard upwitch.' 'here,' said the greengrocer. 'thomas groffin.' 'here,' said the chemist. 'take the book, gentlemen. you shall well and truly try--' 'i beg this court's pardon,' said the chemist, who was a tall, thin, yellow-visaged man, 'but i hope this court will excuse my attendance.' 'on what grounds, sir?' replied mr. justice stareleigh. 'i have no assistant, my lord,' said the chemist. 'i can't help that, sir,' replied mr. justice stareleigh. 'you should hire one.' 'i can't afford it, my lord,' rejoined the chemist. 'then you ought to be able to afford it, sir,' said the judge, reddening; for mr. justice stareleigh's temper bordered on the irritable, and brooked not contradiction. 'i know i _ought_ to do, if i got on as well as i deserved, but i don't, my lord,' answered the chemist. 'swear the gentleman,' said the judge, peremptorily. the officer had got no farther than the 'you shall well and truly try,' when he was again interrupted by the chemist. 'i am to be sworn, my lord, am i?' said the chemist. 'certainly, sir,' replied the testy little judge. 'very well, my lord,' replied the chemist in a resigned manner. 'there'll be murder before this trial's over; that's all. swear me, if you please, sir;' and sworn the chemist was, before the judge could find words to utter. 'i merely wanted to observe, my lord,' said the chemist, taking his seat with great deliberation, 'that i've left nobody but an errand boy in my shop. he is a very nice boy, my lord, but he is not acquainted with drugs; and i know that the prevailing impression on his mind is, that epsom salts means oxalic acid; and syrup of senna, laudanum. that's all, my lord.' with this, the tall chemist composed himself into a comfortable attitude, and, assuming a pleasant expression of countenance, appeared to have prepared himself for the worst. one who was born in the same year as boz, but who was to live for thirty years after him, henry russell--composer and singer of "the ivy green"--was, when a youth, apprenticed to a chemist, and when about ten years old, that is five years before bardell _v._ pickwick, was left in charge of the shop. he discovered just in time that he had served a customer who had asked for epsom salts with poison sufficient to kill fifty people. on this he gave up the profession. i have little doubt that he told this story to his friend a dozen years later, and that it was on boz's mind when he wrote. epsom salts was the drug mentioned in both instances. it must be said that even in our day a defendant for breach, with mr. pickwick's story and surroundings, would have had small chance with a city jury. they saw before them a benevolent-looking lothario, of a quaker-like air, while all the witnesses against him were his three most intimate friends and his own man. we have, of course, testy judges now, who may be "short" in manner, but i think it can be affirmed that no judge of our day could behave to counsel or witnesses as mr. justice stareleigh did. it is, in fact, now the tone for a judge to affect a sort of polished courtesy, and to impart a sort of light gaiety to the business he is transacting. all asperity and tyrannous rudeness is held to be out of place. hectoring and bullying of witnesses will not be tolerated. the last exhibition was perhaps that of the late dr. kenealy in the tichborne case. all the swearing of jurymen before the court, with the intervention of the judge, has been got rid of. the master of the court, or chief clerk, has a number of interviews--at his public desk--with important individuals, bringing him signed papers. these are excuses of some sort--medical certificates, etc.--with a view to be "let off" serving. some--most, perhaps--are accepted, some refused. a man of wealth and importance can have little difficulty. of course this would be denied by the jurists: but, somehow, the great guns contrive not to attend. at ten o'clock this officer proceeds to swear the jury, which is happily accomplished by the time the judge enters. serjeant buzfuz. mr. pickwick, considering the critical nature of his case, was certainly unfortunate in his solicitor, as well as in the counsel selected by his solicitors. the other side were particularly favoured in this matter. they had a pushful bustling "wide-awake" firm of solicitors, who let not a point escape. sergeant buzfuz was exactly the sort of advocate for the case--masterful, unscrupulous, eloquent, and with a singularly ingenious faculty for putting everything on his client's side in the best light, and his adversary's in the worst. he could "tear a witness to pieces," and turn him inside out. his junior, skimpin, was glib, ready-armed at all points, and singularly adroit in "making a hare" of any witness who fell into his hands, _teste_ winkle. he had all the professional devices for dealing with a witness's answers, and twisting them to his purpose, at his fingers' ends. he was the wontner or ballantyne of his day. mr. pickwick's "bar" was quite outmatched. they were rather a feeble lot, too respectable altogether, and really not familiar with this line of business. even the judge was against them from the very start, so mr. pickwick had very poor chances indeed. all this was due to that old-fashioned and rather incapable "family solicitor" perker. [picture: serjeant buzfuz, k.c.] serjeant buzfuz is known the world all over, at least wherever english is known. i myself was once startled in a fashionable west end church to hear a preacher, when emphasizing the value and necessity of prayer, and the certainty with which it is responded to, use this illustration: "as serjeant buzfuz said to sam weller, '_there is little to do and plenty to get_.'" needless to say, an amused smile, if not a titter, passed round the congregation. but it is the barrister who most appreciates the learned serjeant. for the topics he argued and his fashion of arguing them, bating a not excessive exaggeration, comes home to them all. nay, they must have a secret admiration, and fondly think how excellently well such and such topics are put, and how they must have told with a jury. buzfuz, it is now well known, was drawn from a leading serjeant of his day, serjeant bompas, k.c. not so long since i was sitting by bompas's son, the present judge bompas, at dinner, and a most agreeable causeur he was. not only did boz sketch the style and fashion of the serjeant, but it is clear that phiz drew the figure and features. "i am the youngest son of serjeant bompas," judge bompas writes to me, "and have never heard it doubted that the name buzfuz was taken from my father who was at that time considered a most successful advocate. i think he may have been chosen for the successful advocate because he was so successful: but i have never been able to ascertain that there was any other special resemblance. i do not remember my father myself: he died when i was eight years old. but i am told i am like him in face. he was tall (five feet ten inches) and a large man, very popular, and very excitable in his cases, so that i am told that counsel against him used to urge him, out of friendship, not to get so agitated. a connection of mine who knew him well, went over to hear charles dickens read the trial scene, to see if he at all imitated him in voice or manner, but told me that he did not do so at all. i think, therefore, that having chosen his name, as a writer might now that of sir charles russell, he then drew a general type of barrister, as he thought it might be satirised. my father, like myself, was on the western circuit and leader of it at the time of his death." "i had a curious episode happen to me once. a client wrote to apply to the court to excuse a juror on the ground that he was a chemist and had no assistant who understood the drugs. it was not till i made the application and the court began to laugh that i remembered the pickwick trial. i believe the application was quite bona fide, and not at all an imitation of it." an interesting communication from one who might be styled "buzfuz's son;" and, as judge bompas alludes to his own likeness to his sire, i may add that the likeness to the portrait in the court scene, is very striking indeed. there is the same fullness of face, the large features. buzfuz was certainly a counsel of power and ability, and i think lawyers will admit he managed mrs. bardell's case with much adroitness. his speech, besides being a sort of satirical abstract of the unamiable thundering boisterousness addressed to juries in such cases, is one of much ability. he makes the most of every topic that he thought likely to "tell" on a city jury. we laugh heartily at his would-be solemn and pathetic passages, but these are little exaggerated. buzfuz's statement is meant to show how counsel, quite legitimately, can bring quite innocent acts to the support of their case by marshalling them in suspicious order, and suggesting that they had a connection with the charge made. many a client thus becomes as bewildered as mr. pickwick was, on seeing his own harmless proceedings assuming quite a guilty complexion. serjeant buzfuz-bompas died at the age of fifty-three, at his house in park road, regents park, on february th, . he was then, comparatively, a young man, and must have had ability to have attained his position so early. he was called to the bar in , and began as serjeant in , in trinity term, only a year or so before the famous case was tried. so dramatic is the whole "trial" in its action and characters, that it is almost fit for the stage as it stands. there have been a great number of versions, one by the author's son, charles "the younger," one by mr. hollingshead, and so on. it is a favorite piece for charitable benefits, and a number of well-known performers often volunteer to figure as "gentlemen of the jury." buzfuz has been often played by mr. toole, but his too farcical methods scarcely enhanced the part. the easiness of comedy is essential. that sound player mr. james fernander is the best buzfuz that i have seen. there is a french translation of _pickwick_, in which the general spirit of the "trial" is happily conveyed. thus mr. phunky's name is given as "m. finge," which the little judge mistakes for "m. singe." buzfuz's speech too is excellent, especially his denouncing the defendant's coming with his chops "_et son ignoble bassinoire_" i.e., warming pan. the opening speech. buzfuz's great speech is one of the happiest parodies in the language. never was the forensic jargon and treatment so humorously set forth--and this because of the perfect _sincerity_ and earnestness with which it was done. there is none of the far-fetched, impossible exaggeration--the form of burlesque which theodore hook or albert smith might have attempted. it is, in fact, a real speech, which might have been delivered to a dull-headed audience without much impairing credibility. apart from this it is a most effective harangue and most plausible statement of the plaintiff's case. a little professional touch, which is highly significant as part of the pantomine, and which boz made very effective at the reading, was the serjeant's dramatic preparation for his speech. "having whispered to dodson and conferred briefly with fogg, _he pulled his gown over his shoulders_, _settled his wig_, and addressed the jury." who has not seen this bit of business? again, juries may have noted that the junior as he rises to speak, mumbles something that is quite inaudible, and which nobody attends to. this is known as "opening the pleadings." the ushers again called silence, and mr. skimpin proceeded to 'open the case;' and the case appeared to have very little inside it when he had opened it, for he kept such particulars as he knew, completely to himself, and sat down, after a lapse of three minutes, leaving the jury in precisely the same advanced stage of wisdom as they were in before. serjeant buzfuz then rose with all the majesty and dignity which the grave nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to dodson, and conferred briefly with fogg, pulled his gown over his shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the jury. a most delightful legal platitude, as one might call it, is to be found in the opening of the learned sergeant's speech. it is a familiar, transparent thing, often used to impose on the jury. as boz says of another topic, "counsel often begins in this way because it makes the jury think what sharp fellows they must be." "you have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen," continued the serjeant, well knowing that from the learned friend alluded to they had heard just nothing at all, "you have heard from my learned friend, that this is an action for breach of promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at , pounds. but you have _not heard from my learned friend_, _inasmuch as it did not lie within my learned friend's province to tell you_, what are the facts and circumstances of the case." this rich bit of circumlocution is simple nonsense, in rotund phrase, and meant to suggest the imposing majesty of legal process. the jury knew perfectly beforehand what they were going to try: but were to be impressed by the magnifying agency of legal processes, and would be awe stricken accordingly. the passage, "inasmuch as it did not lie within my learned friend's province to tell you," is a delightful bit of cant. in short, the jury was thus admitted to the secret legal arena, and into community with the learned friends themselves, and were persuaded that they were very sharp fellows indeed. what pleasant satire is here, on the mellifluous "openings" of counsel, the putting a romantic gloss on the most prosaic incidents. a sucking barrister might well study this speech of buzfuz as a guide to the conducting of a case, and above all of rather a "shaky" one. not less excellent is his smooth and plausible account of mrs. bardell's setting up in lodging letting. he really makes it "interesting." one thinks of some fluttering, helpless young widow, setting out in the battle of life. he describes the poor innocent lady putting a bill in her window, "and let me entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document--'apartments furnished for a single gentleman!' mrs. bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. she had no fear--she had no distrust--she had no suspicion--all was confidence and reliance. 'mr. bardell,' said the widow: 'mr. bardell was a man of honour--mr. bardell was a man of his word--mr. bardell was no deceiver--mr. bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen i look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation--in single gentlemen i shall perpetually see something to remind me of what mr. bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.' actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlour window. did it remain there long? no. the serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. before the bill had been in the parlour window three days--three days, gentlemen--a being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of mrs. bardell's house. he enquired within." those who attended the reading will recall the admirable briskness, and more admirable spirit with which boz delivered the passage "by the evidence of the unimpeachable female whom i shall place in that"--here he brought down his palm with a mighty slap on the desk, and added, after a moment's pause, "_box_ before you." it was that _preceding_ of the stroke that told. so real was it, one fancied oneself listening to some obstreperous counsel. in all true acting--notably on the french boards--the gesture should a little precede the utterance. so the serjeant knew something of art. when mr. pickwick gave an indignant start on hearing himself described as a heartless villain how cleverly does the capable buzfuz turn the incident to profit. [picture: mr. pickwick as a monster] 'i say systematic villany, gentlemen,' said serjeant buzfuz, looking through mr. pickwick, and talking _at_ him; 'and when i say systematic villiany, let me tell the defendant, pickwick, if he be in court, as i am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment and in better taste, if he had stopped away. let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down with you; that you will know how to value, and to appreciate them; and let me tell him further, as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimidated nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first or the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name pickwick, or noakes, or stoakes, or stiles, or brown, or thompson.' this little divergence from the subject in hand, had of course the intended effect of turning all eyes to mr. pickwick. we relish, too, another "common form." when the serjeant found that his jest as to "greasing the wheels of mr. pickwick's slow-coach" had somewhat missed fire--a thing that often unaccountably happens, in the case of the "twelve intelligent men," the serjeant knew how to adroitly recover himself. he paused in this place to see whether the jury smiled at his joke; but as nobody took it but the greengrocer, whose sensitiveness on the subject was very probably occasioned by his having subjected a chaise-cart to the process in question on that identical morning, the learned serjeant considered it advisable to undergo a slight relapse into the dismals before he concluded. 'but enough of this, gentlemen,' said mr. serjeant buzfuz, 'it is difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened. my client's hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. the bill is down--but there is no tenant. eligible single gentlemen pass and repass--but there is no invitation for them to enquire within or without. all is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps; his "alley tors" and his "commoneys" are alike neglected; he forgets the long familiar cry of "knuckle down," and at tip-cheese, or odd and even, his hand is out. but pickwick, gentlemen, pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of goswell street--pickwick, who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward--pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato sauce and warming-pans--pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. damages, gentlemen--heavy damages is the only punishment with which you can visit him.' the incriminating letters. "i shall prove to you, gentlemen, that _about a year ago pickwick suddenly began to absent himself from home_, during long intervals, ('on pickwick tours,') _as if with the intention of breaking off from my client_: but i shall show you also that his resolutions were not at that time sufficiently strong, or that his better feelings conquered, _if better feelings he has_: or that the charms and accomplishments of my client prevailed against his unmanly intentions." we may note the reserve which suggested a struggle going on in mr. pickwick. and how persuasive is buzfuz's _exegesis_! then, on the letters: "these letters bespeak the character of the man. they are not open, fervid, eloquent epistles breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. they are _covert_, _sly_, under-hand communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language. _letters that must be viewed with a cautious and supicious eye_: _letters that were evidently intended at the time_, _by pickwick_, _to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall_." the gravity and persuasiveness of all this is really _impayable_. "let me read the first: 'garraway's, twelve o'clock. dear mrs. b., chops and tomato sauce. yours, pickwick.' gentlemen, what does this mean? chops and tomato sauce. yours, pickwick. chops! gracious heavens!--and tomato sauce! gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female _to be trifled_ away by such artifices as these? _the next has no date_ _whatever which is in itself suspicious_: 'dear mrs. b., i shall not be at home until to-morrow. slow coach.' and then follows the very remarkable expression, 'don't trouble yourself about the warming pan.'" there is a little bit of serious history connected with these letters which i was the first i think to discover. they were intended to satirise the trivial scraps brought forward in mrs. norton's matrimonial case--norton _v._ lord melbourne. my late friend, "charles dickens the younger," as he used to call himself, in his notes on _pickwick_, puts aside this theory altogether as a mere unfounded fancy; but it will be seen there cannot be a doubt in the matter. sir w. follett laid just as much stress on these scraps as serjeant buzfuz did on his: he even used the phrase, "it seems there may be latent love like latent heat, in these productions." we have also, "yours melbourne," like "yours pickwick," the latter signing as though he were a peer. "there is another of these notes," went on sir william, "how are you?" "again there is no beginning you see." "the next has no date, which is in itself suspicious," buzfuz would have added. another ran--"i will call about half past four, yours." "_these_ are the only notes that have been found," added the counsel, with due gravity, "_they seem to import much more than mere words convey_." after this can there be a doubt? this case was tried in june, , and, it must be borne in mind, caused a prodigious sensation all over the kingdom. the pickwick part, containing the description, appeared about december, six months afterwards. only old people may recall norton _v._ melbourne, the fair caroline's wrongs have long been forgotten; but it is curious that the memory of it should have been kept alive in some sort by this farcical parody. equally curious is it that the public should always have insisted that she was the heroine of yet another story, george meredith's _diana_, though the author has disclaimed it over and over again. the serjeant's dealing with the warming pan topic is a truly admirable satiric touch, and not one bit far-fetched or exaggerated. any one familiar with suspicious actions has again and again heard comments as plausible and as forced. "don't trouble yourself about the warming pan! the warming pan! why, gentlemen, who _does_ trouble himself about a warming pen?" a delicious _non sequitur_, sheer nonsense, and yet with an air of conviction that is irresistable. "when was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or disturbed by a warming pan which is in itself a harmless, a useful _and i will add_, _gentlemen_, a comforting article of domestic furniture?" he then goes on ingeniously to suggest that it may be "a cover for hidden fire, a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, _agreeably to a preconcerted system_ of correspondence, artfully contrived by pickwick _with a view_ to his contemplated desertion and which i am not in a position to explain?" admirable indeed! one could imagine a city jury in their wisdom thinking that there must be _something_ in this warming pan! not less amusing and plausible is his dealing with the famous topic of the "chops and tomato sauce," not "tomata" as boz has it. i suppose there is no popular allusion better understood than this. the very man in the street knows all about it and what it means. absurd as it may seem, it is hardly an exaggeration. counsel every day give weight to points just as trivial and expound them elaborately to the jury. the serjeant's burst of horror is admirable, "gentlemen, _what does this mean_? 'chops and tomata sauce! yours pickwick!' chops! gracious heavens! what does this mean? is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away _by such shallow artifices as these_?'" i recall that admirable judge and pleasant man, the late lord fitzgerald, who was fond of talking of this trial, saying to me that buzfuz lost a good point here, as he might have dwelt on the mystic meaning of tomato which is the "love apple," that here was the "secret correspondence," the real "cover for hidden fire." he concluded by demanding exemplary damages as "the recompense you can award my client. and for these damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen!" the plaintiff's case. it was really of a very flimsy kind but "bolstered-up" and carried through by the bluster of the serjeant and the smartness of his junior. it rested first on a dialogue between mr. pickwick and his landlady which was overheard, in fact by several persons; second, on a striking situation witnessed by his three friends who entered unexpectedly and surprised him with mrs. bardell in his arms; third, on some documentary evidence, and lastly, on a damaging incident disclosed by winkle. the first witness "put in the box," was mrs. martha cluppins--an intimate friend of the plaintiffs. we know that she was sister to mrs. raddle, who lived far away in southwark, and was the landlady of mr. sawyer. she might have been cross-examined with effect as to her story that she had been "out buying kidney pertaties," etc. why buy these articles in goswell street and come all the way from southwark? what was she doing there at all? this question could have been answered only in one way--which was that the genial author fancied at the moment she was living near mrs. bardell. besides this, there was another point which snubbin, in cross-examination, ought to have driven home. mrs. cluppins was of an inferior type, of the common washerwoman or "charing" sort; her language was of mrs. gamp's kind; "which her name was" so and so. yet, this creature, in another room, or on the stairs, the door being "on the jar," can repeat with her limited appreciation, those dubious and imperfect utterances of mr. pickwick! how could she remember all? or could she understand them? impossible! she, however, may have caught up something. winkle, too, said he heard something as he came up the stairs--"compose yourself my dear creature, for consider if any one were to come," etc. but what could be the value of evidence heard in this way? would a jury believe it? "not only," as sam said, "is 'wision limited,'" but hearing also. in short, the delicate subtleties of the conversation between mr. pickwick and mrs. bardell would be wholly lost in her hands. persons of her class know nothing of suggestion or double meanings or reserved intention, everything for them must be in black and white. how unlikely, therefore, that through the panels of a door or through the half opened door, ("she said on the jar,") could she catch the phrases and their meanings, and, above all, retain them in her memory? no doubt, as the counsel put it bluntly, she listened, and with all her ears. however this may be, here is what mrs. cluppins deposed to: 'mrs. cluppins,' said serjeant buzfuz, 'pray compose yoursel, ma'am;' and, of course, directly mrs. cluppins was desired to compose herself she sobbed with increased violence, and gave divers alarming manifestations of an approaching fainting fit, or, as she afterwards said, of her feelings being too many for her. 'do you recollect, mrs. cluppins?' said serjeant buzfuz, after a few unimportant questions--'do you recollect being in mrs. bardell's back one pair of stairs, on one particular morning in july last, when she was dusting mr. pickwick's apartment?' 'yes, my lord and jury, i do,' replied mrs. cluppins. 'mr. pickwick's sitting-room was the first floor front, i believe?' 'yes it were, sir,' replied mrs. cluppins. 'what were you doing in the back room, ma'am?' inquired the little judge. 'my lord and jury,' said mrs. cluppins, with interesting agitation, 'i will not deceive you.' 'you had better not, ma'am,' said the little judge. 'i was there,' resumed mrs. cluppins, 'unbeknown to mrs. bardell; i had been out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pounds of red kidney pertaties, which was three pound, tuppense ha'penny, when i see mrs. bardell's street door on the jar.' 'on the what?' exclaimed the little judge. 'partly open, my lord,' said serjeant snubbin. 'she _said_ on the jar,' said the little judge with a cunning look. 'it's all the same, my lord,' said serjeant snubbin. the little judge looked doubtful, and said he'd make a note of it. mrs. cluppins then resumed-- 'i walked in, gentlemen, just to say good mornin', and went in a permiscuous manner up-stairs, and into the back room. gentlemen, there was the sound of voices in the front room, and--' 'and you listened, i believe, mrs. cluppins,' said serjeant buzfuz. 'beggin' your pardon, sir,' replied mrs. cluppins, in a majestic manner, 'i would scorn the haction. the voices was very loud, sir, and forced themselves upon my ear.' 'well, mrs. cluppins, you were not listening, but you heard the voices. was one of those voices mr. pickwick's?' 'yes, it were, sir.' and mrs. cluppins, after distinctly stating that mr. pickwick addressed himself to mrs. bardell, repeated by slow degrees, and by dint of many questions the conversation with which our readers are already acquainted. now we have to turn back to one of the earlier passages in the story for the conversation between the pair, "with which the reader is already acquainted." thus we shall know what mrs. cluppin's might have heard. mr. pickwick paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience, very unusual with him. it was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation, but what that something was not even mrs. bardell herself had been enabled to discover. 'mrs. bardell,' said mr. pickwick at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. 'sir,' said mrs. bardell. 'your little boy is a very long time gone.' 'why, it's a good long way to the borough, sir,' remonstrated mrs. bardell. 'ah,' said pickwick, 'very true; so it is.' mr. pickwick relapsed into silence, and mrs. bardell resumed her dusting. 'mrs. bardell,' said mr. pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. 'sir,' said mrs. bardell again. 'do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one?' 'la, mr. pickwick,' said mrs. bardell, colouring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger, 'la, mr. pickwick, what a question!' 'well, but _do_ you?' inquired mr. pickwick. 'that depends--' said mrs. bardell, approaching the duster very near to mr. pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table; 'that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, mr. pickwick; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir.' 'that's very true,' said mr. pickwick, 'but the person i have in my eye (here he looked very hard at mrs. bardell) i think possesses these qualities; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, mrs. bardell; which may be of material use to me.' 'la, mr. pickwick,' said mrs. bardell; the crimson rising to her cap-border again. 'i do,' said mr. pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which interested him, 'i do, indeed; and to tell you the truth, mrs. bardell, i have made up my mind.' 'dear me, sir,' exclaimed mrs. bardell. 'you'll think it very strange, now,' said the amiable mr. pickwick, with a good humoured glance at his companion, 'that i never consulted you about this matter, and never even mentioned it, till i sent your little boy out this morning, eh?' mrs. bardell could only reply by a look. she had long worshipped mr. pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes and never dared to aspire. mr. pickwick was going to propose--a deliberate plan, too--sent her little boy to the borough, to get him out of the way--how thoughtful--how considerate!' 'well,' said mr. pickwick, 'what do you think?' 'oh, mr. pickwick,' said mrs. bardell, trembling with agitation, 'you're very kind, sir.' 'it'll save you a good deal of trouble, won't it?' said mr. pickwick. 'oh, i never thought anything of the trouble, sir,' replied mrs. bardell; 'and, of course, i should take more trouble to please you then, than ever; but it is so kind of you, mr. pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness.' 'ah, to be sure,' said mr. pickwick; 'i never thought of that. when i am in town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you. to be sure, so you will.' 'i'm sure i ought to be a very happy woman,' said mrs. bardell. 'and your little boy--' said mr. pickwick. 'bless his heart,' interposed mrs. bardell, with a maternal sob. 'he, too, will have a companion,' resumed mr. pickwick, 'a lively one, who'll teach him, i'll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn in a year.' and mr. pickwick smiled placidly. 'oh, you dear--' said mrs. bardell. mr. pickwick started. 'oh, you kind, good, playful dear,' said mrs. bardell; and without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round mr. pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears, and a chorus of sobs. 'bless my soul,' cried the astonished mr. pickwick;--'mrs. bardell, my good woman--dear me, what a situation--pray--consider, mrs. bardell, if anybody should come.' 'o, let them come,' exclaimed mrs. bardell, frantically. 'i'll never leave you, dear, kind, good soul.' and with these words mrs. bardell clung the tighter. every utterance of the little judge is in character, from his first directions "go on." his suspicious question, "what were you doing in the back room, ma'am?"--and on serjeant buzfuz's sudden pause for breath, when "the _silence_ awoke mr. justice stareleigh, who immediately wrote down something, with a pen without any ink in it, and looked unusually profound, to impress his jury with the belief that he always thought most deeply with his eyes shut." also when at the "on the jar" incident--he "looked doubtful, but said he'd make a note of it." so when sam made one of his free and easy speeches, the judge looked sternly at sam for fully two minutes, but sam's features were so perfectly calm that he said nothing. when sam, too, made his witty _reposte_ to buzfuz as to his "wision being limited," we are told that there was a great laugh--that even "the little judge smiled:" a good touch, for he enjoyed, like other judges, seeing his learned brother get a fall--'tis human nature. it must be said the impression of a listener, who had heard all this could have been anything but favourable to mr. pickwick. no doubt there was his paternally benevolent character to correct it: but even this might go against him as it would suggest a sort of hypocrisy. even the firmest friends, in their surprise, do not pause to debate or reason; they are astonished and wonder exceedingly. winkle's evidence. skimpin may have been intended for wilkin, a later serjeant and well-known in the 'fifties, and whose style and manner is reproduced. we could not ask a better junior in a "touch and go" case. he was as ready to take advantage of any opening as was the late lord bowen, when he was junior in the tichborne case. [picture: mr. skimpin] on entering the box, mr. winkle "bowed to the judge," with considerable deference, a politeness quite thrown away. "don't look at me sir," said the judge sharply, "look at the jury." this was ungracious, but judges generally don't relish any advances from witnesses or others. when poor winkle was accused by the judge of giving his name as daniel, he was told that "he had better be careful:" on which the ready skimpin: "now, mr. winkle attend to me if you please: and let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his lordship's injunction to be careful." thus by the agency of judge and counsel witness was discredited at starting and of course flurried. 'i believe you are a particular friend of pickwick, the defendant, are you not? winkle, eager to retrieve himself by being "careful" began-- 'i have known mr. pickwick now as well as i recollect at this moment, nearly--' 'pray, mr. winkle, don't evade the question. are you, or are you not a particular friend of the defendant?' 'i was just about to say that--' 'will you, or will you not answer my question, sir?' 'if you don't you'll be committed, sir,' interposed the little judge. 'come, sir,' said mr. skimpin, '_yes or no_, _if you please_.' 'yes, i am,' replied mr. winkle. '_yes_, _you are_. _and why couldn't you say that at once_, _sir_?' i think there is no more happy touch of legal satire in the books than that about "what the soldier said." it is perfect, so complete, that it is always understood by unprofessional readers. the lawyer feels at once that it is as true as it is happy. 'little to do and plenty to get,' said serjeant buzfuz to sam. 'o, quite enough to get, sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him three hundred and fifty lashes.' '_you must not tell us what the soldier or any other man said_, _sir_; _it's not evidence_,' interposed the judge. who will forget the roar that always greeted this sally when boz read it, or the low and slow solemnity which he imparted to the judge's dictum. as an illustration it is simply admirable. boz himself would have been pleased to find himself quoted in two impressive legal tomes of some pages. the great and laborious john pitt taylor could not have been wholly a legal dry-as-dust: for the man who could have gravely entered bardell _v._ pickwick in his notes and have quoted a passage must have had a share of humour. most people know that it is a strict principle that "hearsay evidence" of an utterance will not be accepted in lieu of that of the person to whom the remark was made. neither can we think it out of probability that such an objection may have been made by some over punctilious judge wishing to restrain sam's exuberance. a scotch judge once quoted in court a passage from _the antiquary_ in which he said the true view of an intricate point was given; but then scott was a lawyer. it is requisite, says mr. john pitt taylor (p. ) speaking of "hearsay evidence" that whatever facts a witness speaks, he should be confined to those lying within his own knowledge. for every witness should give his testimony on oath, and should be subject to cross examination. but testimony from the relation of third persons cannot be subject to these tests. this rule of exclusion has been recognised as a fundamental principle of the law of evidence ever since the time of charles ii. to this he adds a note, with all due gravity: "the rule excluding heresay evidence, or rather the mode in which that rule is frequently misunderstood in courts of justice, is amusingly caricatured by mr. dickens _in his report_ of the case of bardell _v._ pickwick, p. ." bardell _v._ pickwick! he thus puts it with the many thousand or tens of thousand cases quoted, and he has even found a place for it in his index of places. he then goes on to quote the passage, just as he would quote from barnwall and adolphus. how sagacious--full of legal point--is boz's comment on winkle's incoherent evidence. phunky asked him whether he had any reason to suppose that pickwick was about to be married. "'oh no; certainly not,' replied mr. winkle with so much eagerness, that mr. phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible dispatch. lawyers hold out that there are two kinds of particularly bad witnesses: a reluctant witness, and a too willing witness;" and most true it is. both commit themselves in each case, but in different ways. the matter of the former, and the manner of the latter do the mischief. the ideal witness affects indifference, and is as impartial as the record of a phonograph. it is wonderful where boz learned all this. no doubt from his friend talfourd, k.c., who carefully revised "the trial." skimpin's interpretation of mr. pickwick's consolatory phrase, which he evidently devised on the spur of the moment, shows him to be a very ready, smart fellow. 'now, mr. winkle, i have only one more question to ask you, and i beg you to bear in mind his lordship's caution. will you undertake to swear that pickwick, the defendant, did not say on the occasion in question--"my dear mrs. bardell, you're a good creature; compose yourself to this situation, for to this situation you must come," or words to that effect?' 'i--i didn't understand him so, certainly,' said mr. winkle, astounded at this ingenious dove-tailing of the few words he had heard. 'i was on the staircase, and couldn't hear distinctly; the impression on my mind is--' 'the gentlemen of the jury want none of the impressions on your mind, mr. winkle, which i fear would be of little service to honest, straightforward men,' interposed mr. skimpin. 'you were on the staircase, and didn't distinctly hear; but you will swear that pickwick _did not make use_ of the expressions i have quoted? do i understand that?' 'no, i will not,' replied mr. winkle; and down sat mr. skimpin, with a triumphant countenance. this "will you swear he did _not_," etc., is a device familiar to cross examiners, and is used when the witness cannot be got to accept the words or admit that they were used. it of course means little or nothing: but its effect on the jury is that they come to fancy that the words _may_ have been used, and that the witness is not very clear as to his recollection. how well described, too, and satirised, is yet another "common form" of the cross examiner, to wit the "how often, sir?" question. winkle, when asked as to his knowledge of mrs. bardell, replied that "he did not know her, but that he had seen her." (i recall making this very answer to boz when we were both driving through sackville street, dublin. he had asked "did i know so-and-so?" when i promptly replied, "i don't know him, but i have seen him." this rather arrided him, as elia would say.) skimpin went on: 'oh, you don't know her, but you have seen her.' 'now have the goodness to tell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by _that_, mr. winkle.' 'i mean that i am not intimate with her, but that i have seen her when i went to call on mr. pickwick, in goswell street.' 'how often have you seen her, sir?' 'how often?' '_yes_, _mr. winkle_, _how often_? i'll repeat the question for you a dozen times, if you require it, sir.' and the learned gentlemen, with a firm and steady frown, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously to the jury. _on this question there arose the edifying brow-beating_, _customary on such points_. first of all, mr. winkle said it was quite impossible for him to say how many times he had seen mrs. bardell. then he was asked if he had seen her twenty times, to which he replied, 'certainly,--more than that.' and then he was asked whether he hadn't seen her a hundred times--whether he couldn't swear that he had seen her more than fifty times--whether he didn't know that he had seen her at least seventy-five times, and so forth; the satisfactory conclusion which was arrived at, at last, being--that he had better take care of himself, and mind what he was about. the witness having been, by these means, reduced to the requisite ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was concluded. how excellent is this. who has not heard the process repeated over and over again from the young fledgeling counsel to the old "hardbitten" and experienced k.c.? a young legal tyro might find profit as well as entertainment in carefully studying others of mr. skimpin's adroit methods in cross examination. they are in a manner typical of those in favour with the more experienced members of the profession, allowing, of course, for a little humorous exaggeration. he will note also that boz shows clearly how effective was the result of the processes. here are a few useful recipes. _how to make a witness appear as though he wished to withhold the truth_._ how to highly discredit a witness by an opening question_._ how to insinuate inaccuracy_._ how to suggest that the witness is evading_._ how to deal with a statement of a particular number of instances_._ how to take advantage of a witness' glances_._ how to suggest another imputed meaning to a witness' statement and confuse him into accepting it_. another happy and familiar form is skimpin's interrogation of winkle as to his "friends"-- 'are they here?' 'yes they are,' said mr. winkle, _looking very earnestly towards the spot where his friends were stationed_. as every one attending courts knows, this is an almost intuitive movement in a witness; he thinks it corroborates him somehow. but how good skimpin and how ready-- "'pray attend to me, mr. winkle, and _never mind your friends_,' with another expressive look at the jury; '_they must tell their stories without any previous consultation with you_, if none has yet taken place,' another expressive look. 'now sir, tell what you saw,' etc. '_come_, _out with it_, _sir_, _we must_ have it sooner or later.'" the assumption here that the witness would keep back what he knew is adroit and very convincing. a revelation. but now we come to a very critical passage in mr. pickwick's case: one that really destroyed any chance that he had. it really settled the matter with the jury; and the worst was, the point was brought out through the inefficiency of his own counsel. but let us hear the episode, and see how the foolish phunky muddled it. mr. phunky rose for the purpose of getting something important out of mr. winkle in cross-examination. whether he did get anything important out of him, will immediately appear. [picture: mr. phunky] 'i believe, mr. winkle,' said mr. phunky, 'that mr. pickwick is not a young man?' 'oh no,' replied mr. winkle, 'old enough to be my father.' 'you have told my learned friend that you have known mr. pickwick a long time. had you ever any reason to suppose or believe that he was about to be married?' 'oh no; certainly not;' replied mr. winkle with so much eagerness, that mr. phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible dispatch. lawyers hold out that there are two kinds of particularly bad witnesses, a reluctant witness, and a too willing witness; it was mr. winkle's fate to figure in both characters. 'i will even go further than this, mr. winkle,' continued mr. phunky, in a most smooth and complacent manner. 'did you ever see any thing in mr. pickwick's manner and conduct towards the opposite sex to induce you to believe that he ever contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case?' 'oh no; certainly not,' replied mr. winkle. 'has his behaviour, when females have been in the case, always been that of a man, who having attained a pretty advanced period of life, content with his own occupations and amusements, treats them only as a father might his daughters?' 'not the least doubt of it,' replied mr. winkle, in the fulness of his heart. 'that is--yes--oh yes--certainly.' 'you have never known anything in his behaviour towards mrs. bardell, or any other female, in the least degree suspicious?' said mr. phunky, preparing to sit down, for serjeant snubbin was winking at him. 'n--n--no,' replied mr. winkle, 'except on one trifling occasion, which, i have no doubt, might be easily explained.' now, if the unfortunate mr. phunky had sat down when serjeant snubbin winked at him, or if serjeant buzfuz had stopped this irregular cross-examination at the outset (which he knew better than to do, for observing mr. winkle's anxiety, and well knowing it would in all probability, lead to something serviceable to him), this unfortunate admission would not have been elicited. the moment the words fell from mr. winkle's lips, mr. phunky sat down, and serjeant snubbin rather hastily told him he might leave the box, which mr. winkle prepared to do with great readiness, when serjeant buzfuz stopped him. 'stay, mr. winkle--stay,' said serjeant buzfuz, 'will your lordship have the goodness to ask him, what this one instance of suspicious behaviour towards females on the part of this gentlemen, who is old enough to be his father, was?' 'you hear what the learned counsel says, sir,' observed the judge, turning to the miserable and agonized mr. winkle. 'describe the occasion to which you refer.' 'my lord,' said mr. winkle, trembling with anxiety, 'i--i'd rather not.' and winkle had to relate the whole ipswich adventure of the doublebedded room and the spinster lady. it is surprising that dodson and fogg did not ferret out all about mr. pickwick's adventure at the great white horse. peter magnus lived in town and must have heard of the coming case; these things _do_ somehow leak out, and he would have gladly volunteered the story, were it only to spite the man. but further, dodson and fogg must have made all sorts of enquiries into mr. pickwick's doings. mrs. bardell herself might have heard something. the story was certainly in the ipswich papers, for there was the riot in the street, the appearance before the mayor, the exposure of "captain fitzmarshall"--a notable business altogether. what a revelation in open court! conceive miss witherfield called to depose to mr. pickwick's midnight invasion. mr. pickwick himself might have been called and put on the rack, this incident not concerning his breach of promise. and supposing that the ubiquitous jingle had heard of this business and had gone to the solicitor's office to volunteer evidence, and most useful evidence it would have been--to wit that mr. pickwick had been caught in the garden of a young ladies' school and had alarmed the house by his attempts to gain admission in the small hours! jingle of course, could not be permitted to testify to this, but he could put the firm on the track. mr. pickwick's reputation could hardly have survived these two revelations, and sweeping damages to the full amount would have been the certain result. this extraordinary adventure of mr. pickwick's at the great white horse inn, ipswich, verifies dodson's casual remark to him, that "he was either a very designing or a most unfortunate man," circumstances being so strong against him. as the story was brought out, in open court, owing to the joint indiscretion of phunky and winkle, it will be best, in justice to mr. pickwick, to give practically his account of the affair. 'nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,' said mr. pickwick. 'oh no, sir.' 'very good. tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight in the morning, and that i shall not want him any more to-night.' 'yes, sir.' and bidding mr. pickwick good-night, the chambermaid retired, and left him alone. mr. pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a train of rambling meditations. first he thought of his friends, and wondered when they would join him; _then his mind reverted to mrs. martha bardell_; and from that lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the dingy counting-house of dodson and fogg. from dodson and fogg's it flew off at tangent, to the very centre of the history of the queer client; and then it came back to the great white horse at ipswich, with sufficient clearness to convince mr. pickwick that he was falling asleep: so he aroused himself, and began to undress, when he recollected he had left his watch on the table down stairs. so as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, walked quietly down stairs. the more stairs mr. pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to be to descend, and again and again, when mr. pickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. at last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. passage after passage did he explore; room after room did he peep into; at length, just as he was on the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the door of the identical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on the table. mr. pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace his steps to his bed-chamber. if his progress downwards had been attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back, was infinitely more perplexing. rows of doors, garnished with boots of every shape, make, and size, branched off in every possible direction. a dozen times did he softly turn the handle of some bedroom door, which resembled his own, when a gruff cry from within of "who the devil's that?" or "what do want here?" caused him to steal away on tiptoe, with a perfectly marvellous celerity. he was reduced to the verge of despair, when an open door attracted his attention. he peeped in--right at last. there were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still burning. his candle, not a long one when he first received it, had flickered away in the drafts of air through which he had passed, and sunk into the socket, just as he had closed the door after him. 'no matter,' said mr. pickwick, 'i can undress myself just as well by the light of the fire.' the bedsteads stood, one each side of the door; and on the inner side of each, was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottomed chair, just wide enough to admit of a person's getting into, or out of bed, on that side if he or she thought proper. having carefully drawn the curtains of his bed on the outside, mr. pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed chair, and leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters. he then took off and folded up, his coat, waistcoat, and neck-cloth, and slowly drawing on his tasseled night-cap, secured it firmly on his head, by tying beneath his chin, the strings which he always had attached to that article of dress. it was at this moment that the absurdity of his recent bewilderment struck upon his mind; and throwing himself back in the rush-bottomed chair, mr. pickwick laughed to himself so heartily, that it would have been quite delightful to any man of well-constituted mind to have watched the smiles which expanded his amiable features, as they shone forth, from beneath the night-cap. 'it is the best idea,' said mr. pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost cracked the night-cap strings--'it is the best idea, my losing myself in this place, and wandering about those staircases, that i ever heard of. droll, droll, very droll.' here mr. pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of undressing, in the best possible humour, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption; to wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to the dressing table, and set down the light upon it. the smile that played upon mr. pickwick's features, was instantaneously lost in a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. the person, whoever it was, had come so suddenly and with so little noise, that mr. pickwick had had no time to call out, or oppose their entrance. who could it be? a robber? some evil-minded person who had seen him come upstairs with a handsome watch in his hand, perhaps. what was he to do! the only way in which mr. pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious visitor with the least danger of being seen himself, was by creeping on to the bed, and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. keeping the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and nightcap, and putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage, and looked out. mr. pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. standing before the dressing glass, was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their "back hair." however the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glimmering away, like a gigantic lighthouse, in a particularly small piece of water. 'bless my soul,' thought mr. pickwick, 'what a dreadful thing!' 'hem!' said the lady; and in went mr. pickwick's head with automaton-like rapidity. 'i never met with anything so awful as this,'--thought poor mr. pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his nightcap. 'never. this is fearful.' it was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going forward. so out went mr. pickwick's head again. the prospect was worse than before. the middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair; had carefully enveloped it, in a muslin nightcap with a small plaited border, and was gazing pensively on the fire. 'this matter is growing alarming'--reasoned mr. pickwick with himself. 'i can't allow things to go on in this way. by the self-possession of that lady, it's clear to me that i must have come into the wrong room. if i call out, she'll alarm the house, but if i remain here, the consequences will be still more frightful.' [picture: the double bedded room, great white horse, ipswich] mr. pickwick, it is quite unnecessary to say, was one of the most modest and delicate-minded of mortals. the very idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady, overpowered him, but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and do what he would, he couldn't get it off. the disclosure must be made. there was only one other way of doing it. he shrunk behind the curtains, and called out very loudly-- 'ha--hum.' that the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her falling up against the rushlight shade; that she persuaded herself it must have been the effect of imagination was equally clear, for when mr. pickwick, under the impression that she had fainted away, stone-dead from fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before. 'most extraordinary female this,' thought mr. pickwick, popping in again. 'ha--hum.' these last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the ferocious giant blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible, to be again mistaken for the workings of fancy. 'gracious heaven!' said the middle-aged lady, 'what's that!' 'it's--it's--only a gentleman, ma'am,' said mr. pickwick from behind the curtains. 'a gentleman!' said the lady with a terrific scream. 'it's all over,' thought mr. pickwick. 'a strange man,' shrieked the lady. another instant and the house would be alarmed. her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door. 'ma'am,'--said mr. pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of desperation, 'ma'am.' now although mr. pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. the lady, as we have alreaded stated, was near the door. she must pass it, to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have done so by this time, had not the sudden apparition of mr. pickwick's nightcap driven her back, into the remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood, staring wildly at mr. pickwick, while mr. pickwick, in his turn, stared wildly at her. 'wretch,'--said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, 'what do you want here.' 'nothing, ma'am--nothing whatever, ma'am,' said mr. pickwick, earnestly. 'nothing!' said the lady, looking up. 'nothing, ma'am, upon my honour,' said mr. pickwick, nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. 'i am almost ready to sink, ma'am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my nightcap (here the lady hastily snatched off her's), but i can't get it off, ma'am (here mr. pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof of the statment). it is evident to me, ma'am, now, that i have mistaken this bedroom for my own. i had not been here five minutes, ma'am, when you suddenly entered it.' 'if this improbable story be really true, sir,'--said the lady, sobbing violently, 'you will leave it instantly.' 'i will, ma'am, with the greatest pleasure,' replied mr. pickwick. 'instantly, sir,' said the lady. 'certainly, ma'am,' interposed mr. pickwick very quickly. 'certainly, ma'am. i--i--am very sorry, ma'am,' said mr. pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, 'to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry ma'am.' the lady pointed to the door. one excellent quality of mr. pickwick's character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most trying circumstances. although he had hastily put on his hat over his night cap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm, nothing could subdue his native politeness. 'i am exceedingly sorry, ma'am,' said mr. pickwick, bowing very low. 'if you are, sir, you will at once leave the room,' said the lady. 'immediately, ma'am; this instant, ma'am,' said mr. pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in so doing. 'i trust ma'am,' resumed mr. pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning round to bow again, 'i trust, ma'am, that my unblemished character, and the devoted respect i entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for this'--but before mr. pickwick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him. whatever grounds of self-congratulation mr. pickwick might have, for having escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present position was by no means enviable. he was alone, in an open passage, in a strange house, in the middle of the night, half dressed; it was not to be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room which he had been wholly unable to discover with a light, and if he made the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood every chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful traveller. he had no resource but to remain where he was, until daylight appeared. so after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, mr. pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning, as philosophically as he might. he was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience: for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the end of the passage. his horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognized the form of his faithful attendant. it was indeed mr. samuel weller, who after sitting up thus late, in conversation with the boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest. imagine this story told by miss witherfield in open court, with all its details, the lady's narrative being coloured by the recollection that she had lost a suitable husband owing to her adventure. mr. peter magnus would have deposed to mr. pickwick's extraordinary interest in the matter of the proposal, and have added his suspicions on recalling mr. pickwick's ambiguous declaration that he had come down to expose a certain person--even one of his own sympathetic friends, who had witnessed the scene with mrs. bardell, and recalled the boarding house incident, might murmur, "how odd that he is ever thus in pursuit of the fair under suspicious circumstances? _could_ it be that after all?--what if he had some previous knowledge of the lady, and secretly admired her, and stung to fury at the notion of mr. peter magnus marrying, had taken this strange mode of declaring his passion?" even the sagacious sam, devoted as he was to his master, was taken aback on meeting him in his midnight wanderings. 'sam,' said mr. pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, 'where's my bedroom?' mr. weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it was not until the question had been repeated three several times, that he turned round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment. 'sam,' said mr. pickwick, as he got into bed, 'i have made one of the most extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of.' 'werry likely, sir,' replied mr. weller, drily. 'but of this i am determined, sam,' said mr. pickwick, 'that if i were to stop in this house for six months, i would never trust myself about it alone, again.' 'that's the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, sir,' replied mr. weller. 'you rayther want somebody to look arter you, sir, ven your judgment goes out a wisitin'.' 'what do you mean by that, sam?' said mr. pickwick. he raised himself in bed, and extended his hand, as if he were about to say something more; but suddenly checking himself, turned round, and bade his valet 'good night.' 'good night, sir,' replied mr. weller. he paused when he got outside the door--shook his head--walked on--stopped--snuffed the candle--shook his head again--and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently buried in the profoundest meditation. it will be seen that sam went near to being disrespectful in his sceptical view of his master's story. when mrs. sanders was examined, "the court" put a few questions to her, as to the customs of love-making among persons of her position. she had "received love letters, like other ladies. in the course of their correspondence mr. sanders had often called her a 'duck' but never 'chops' or 'tomato sauce.' he was particularly fond of ducks. perhaps if he had been as fond of chops and tomato sauce, he might have called her that, as a term of affection." mrs. sanders was clearly one of the same class as mrs. cluppins, and chiefly deposed to the general impression in the neighbourhood that mr. pickwick had "offered" for mrs. bardell. tupman, snodgrass and sam were also examined. being friends of the defendant, they were from the outset assumed to be "hostile" and treated accordingly. it may be doubted, however, whether it is permissible to treat "your own witnesses" in this rough fashion, until at least they have shown some overt signs of their hostility, either by reserve, or an obvious determination to let as little as possible be extracted from them. in such case, it is usual to apply to the court for its sanction to deal with them by the severity of cross examination. when sam entered the witness box, the serjeant addressed him: "i believe you are in the service of mr. pickwick, the defendant in this case. _speak up_, _if you please_, _mr. weller_." sam had not had time to say anything, so the admonition might seem superfluous. but this is a well-known device. sam had been "briefed" to the serjeant as a rather dangerous witness--somewhat too wide awake. it was necessary therefore to be short and summary with him. he thus conveyed to the jury that this sam was one whom he could address in this curt way, and who by his low, uncertain accents might try to hide the truth. sam, however, disconcerted the plan by his prompt, ready answer, "i _mean_ to speak up, sir." sam, as we know, clearly brought out the dodson and fogg's damaging assurance to mrs. bardell, that no costs should be charged to her personally. when the plaintiff's case was closed, things did not look particularly bright for mr. pickwick. it had been shown on the evidence of his own friends that he had been surprised with his landlady in his arms; ( ) that he had been corresponding with her on most familiar terms--at least serjeant buzfuz had made it appear so; ( ) language that _almost_ amounted to a proposal had been overheard; ( ) and finally, it had been revealed that the defendant had been "caught" in a lady's bedroom, at an inn, at midnight! to answer which a "strong" case was absolutely essential. this, we grieve to say, was not forthcoming. the defendant's case. when we listen to the defence set up for mr. pickwick we have to lament that that worthy gentleman was not better served by his legal advisers. on the other side the shrewd dodson and fogg had done admirably for their client. they were sharp clever attornies, having a thundering, overpowering leader, and a smart, exceedingly smart junior, one of those "wide-awake" brisk fellows who really conduct the case, and will "take silk" in a few years. this gentleman could cross-examine in capital style and address the jury in a language of his own, by glances, shrugs, and remarks addressed to a witness, but intended for the jury, as they knew perfectly well. his style, bearing, and speeches form an admirable epitome of the arts and devices of a smart counsel. there are "common" forms and skimpin had them at his fingers' ends. as we listen, we feel how admirably directed they were to work on the jury. perker's plan of campaign as announced to mr. pickwick, was a poor one enough, and showed how desperate he thought the case was. "we have only one (course) to adopt, my dear sir," he said, "cross-examine the witnesses: trust to snubbin's eloquence, throw dust in the eyes of the judge, and ourselves on the jury." brave words, but nothing of the programme was carried out. the cross-examination of the witnesses was but tamely attempted. snubbin's eloquence was not displayed beyond mildly praising his client's good character. as for "throwing dust in the eyes of judge," we have seen mr. justice stareleigh was much too wide awake for that; while the throwing themselves on the jury was disastrous. there were several other lines of defence which a more up-to-date solicitor would not have overlooked. a less scrupulous man would have made searching enquiries into mrs. bardell's history and character; but his client, perhaps, would not have sanctioned this course. perker is even absurd enough to talk of a _casa_, as though it were some italian word. a _ca sa_ was short for a writ of _capias ad satisfaciendum_, which gave a warrant to the officers to seize the goods. there were various kinds of this machinery, but what affected mr. pickwick was a _capias ad satisfaciendum_, to enforce attendance at the court. the _ca sa_ also came after judgment, giving authority to imprison the defendant till the claim was satisfied. the appearance of such great guns as the two serjeants is accounted for by a curious rule that serjeants only were permitted to lead in cases read in the court of common pleas. { } this strange monopoly recalls that other one, in the court of arches, where the advocates and judges used to exchange places and decide on cases in which perhaps they had been advocates. these illiberal and unaccountable restrictions have been swept away, with the courts themselves. very unusual indeed at this time was the appearance of a lawyer of serjeant snubbin's class in court, and there is a well-known story how, when charles butler made his appearance on a special occasion, all the bar crowded in to hear him, and he had, i think, to get a gown for the occasion. one is sorry to think that there are no serjeants now, though at the irish bar there is one solitary survivor--serjeant hemphill. gone too, are their "coifs" and other paraphernalia. with the abolition of the separate courts they were found superfluous. we like to hear of serjeant parry, serjeant ballantine, serjeants warren and talford, all four literary men. { } having made this initial blunder, perker did not even instruct a good, smart and ready junior, but chose instead the incapable phunky who really brought out that fatal piece of evidence from winkle, which "did for" his case altogether. he had no business, as boz tells us. this junior, we are told, had been just called, that is to say, he had been only eight years at the bar. snubbin had never heard of him. the little judge, in court, also said "that he never had the pleasure of hearing the gentleman's name before," a sneer he would not have ventured on to a counsel in good practice. snubbin's remark is amusing and sarcastic; but now-a-days any barrister who had been at the bar eight years would not be considered as just called, for if he has been passed over for that time, he is likely never to make a figure. the rude and unbecoming sneers, both of snubbin and the little judge, seem amazing in our present code of legal manners. everything at that time, however, was much more "in the rough" and coarser. this was his first case; and the poor creature is thus described: although an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man. he had a very nervous manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did not appear to be a natural defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity, arising from the consciousness of being "kept down" by want of means, or interest, or connection, or impudence, as the case might be. he was overawed by the serjeant, and profoundly courteous to the attorney. 'i have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, mr. phunky,' said serjeant snubbin, with haughty condescension. mr. phunky bowed. he _had_ had the pleasure of seeing the serjeant, and of envying him too, with all a poor man's envy, for eight years and a quarter. 'you are with me in this case, i understand?' said the serjeant. if mr. phunky had been a rich man, he would have instantly sent for his clerk to remind him; if he had been a wise one, he would have applied his fore-finger to his forehead, and endeavoured to recollect, whether, in the multiplicity of his engagements he had undertaken this one, or not; but as he was neither rich nor wise (in this sense at all events) he turned red, and bowed. 'have you read the papers, mr. phunky?' inquired the serjeant. here again, mr. phunky should have professed to have forgotten all about the merits of the case; but as he had read such papers as had been laid before him in the course of the action, and had thought of nothing else, waking or sleeping, throughout the two months during which he had been retained as mr. serjeant snubbin's junior, he turned a deeper red, and bowed again. 'this is mr. pickwick,' said the serjeant, waving his pen in the direction in which that gentleman was standing. mr. phunky bowed to mr. pickwick with a reverence which a first client must ever awaken; and again inclined his head towards his leader. 'perhaps you will take mr. pickwick away,' said the serjeant, 'and--and--and--hear anything mr. pickwick may wish to communicate. we shall have a consultation, of course.' with this hint that he had been interrupted quite long enough, mr. serjeant snubbin, who had been gradually growing more and more abstracted, applied his glass to his eyes for an instant, bowed slightly round, and was once more deeply immersed in the case before him: which arose out of an interminable law suit, originating in the act of an individual, deceased a century or so ago, who had stopped up a pathway leading from some place which nobody ever came from, to some other place which nobody ever went to. with such a pair the case was literally given away. perker should have secured a man like the present mr. gill or mr. charles matthews--they might have "broken down" the witnesses, or laughed the case out of court. we may speculate--why did perker make this foolish selection? as to snubbin there was some excuse, as it was the custom that serjeants only should lead in the court of common pleas. but for the choice of phunky, perker's stupidity alone was responsible. under these conditions serjeant snubbin's conduct of the case and his "handling" of the witnesses was truly inefficient. he lost every opportunity for helping his client. he "led" in a quiet, gentlemanly and almost indifferent way. his first opportunity came in examining mrs. cluppins. as we have seen, she had deposed to hearing, when the door was "on the jar," mr. pickwick make those speeches which mrs. bardell had taken to be a proposal. now here was the moment to show the ambiguity and that mr. pickwick was speaking of his servant. it might have been brought out that sam was actually engaged that day, and that she had met him on the stairs, etc. but snubbin declined to ask her a single question, saying that mr. pickwick admitted the accuracy of her statement. but this was beside the matter, and the serjeant need not have impeached her accuracy. when phunky came to winkle, the inexperience of the tyro was shown at once. again, here was the moment to have extracted from the witness a full explanation of mr. pickwick's ambiguous speeches to mrs. bardell. he could have "brought out" as "clear as the light of day" that mr. pickwick was speaking of his engagement of a valet and have shown that the valet was to be engaged that very morning. it would have been impossible to resist such an explanation. but the thing was not thought of. from him also could have been drawn a vast deal favourable to mr. pickwick such as his disgust and annoyance at mrs. bardell's behaviour, his wish to be rid of her, his complaints of her conduct. but no, there was only the foolish question as to mr. pickwick's being an elderly man and of fatherly ways, a topic that would by no means negative the presumption of matrimony. but nothing could excuse the rashness of putting a general question as to "mr. pickwick's behaviour towards females." no adroit counsel would run the risk of encountering a too conscientious witness, such as winkle proved to be and who would "let the cat out of the bag." as we have seen, this awkward question settled mr. pickwick's business. snubbin had held him out as an elderly but benevolent being, treating every female he met as a daughter, never dreaming of matrimony: when lo! the whole fabric is overthrown in an instant by the luckless winkle's admission! amid the profound silence of the whole court mr. winkle faltered out that the trifling circumstance of suspicion was mr. pickwick's being found in a lady's sleeping apartment at midnight, which had terminated, _he believed_, in breaking off the projected marriage of the lady, and had led, _he knew_, to the whole party being forcibly carried before a magistrate. thus was the defendant suddenly revealed as a pecksniffian lothario, and his pretence of philanthrophy after was shewn in its true colours. it was impossible not to associate this with the scene with mrs. bardell. but there was an important legal "point" which one might have expected would have occurred to so eminent a chamber counsel as serjeant snubbin. to prove a breach of the promise, it must always be shown that the defendant had been given an opportunity of officially refusing to fulfil it. it should have been put to him "in black and white," "will you marry me?" and he must have answered "no, i will not," or something to that effect. in default of this the defendant might plead "true i gave the promise and it stands unbroken, for you never required me to act upon it." now in mr. pickwick's case this actually occurred. as we have seen he left town the morning after the imputed proposal and while he was away, within a month, the notice of action was sent to him. up to that time he had not heard a word of dodson and fogg, or of legal proceedings. but it may be urged that mrs. bardell herself may have written, formulating her demands. that this was not the case is evident from mr. pickwick's behaviour; he did not dream of such a thing, or he would have been disturbed by it, or have consulted his friends about it. had it been so, his high opinion of mrs. bardell would have been shattered. for did he not say on seeing dodson and fogg's letter, "she couldn't do it, she hasn't the heart to do it." the only thing that makes against this theory is his reply to peter magnus who asked him "had he ever proposed?" when he answered vehemently "never," possibly recalling mrs. bardell. she may however have written to him a pleading letter reminding him of what he had said to her, declaring her deep-seated affection for him and inviting him to carry out what he had offered. mr. pickwick would have replied in one of his amiable letters, couched in rather general terms, perhaps calling her "my dear creature," but putting aside the whole business: and there the matter probably dropped for a time. i have little doubt the good woman up to the last really believed that her elderly lodger intended to make her an offer of his hand, and that on his return from his travels he would resume the business. much elated by this prospect, and most naturally too, she had told all her friends and neighbours of her approaching advancement. this mrs. sanders specially deposed to: "had always said and believed that pickwick would marry mrs. bardell; knew that mrs. bardell being engaged to pickwick was the current topic of conversation in the neighbourhood, after the fainting in july; had been told it herself by mrs. mudberry which kept a mangle, and mrs. bunkin which clear-starched, but did not see either mrs. mudberry or mrs. bunkin in court." notwithstanding these speculations, it still does not appear that pickwick made such a legal and official refusal to execute his promise as would be sufficient to support the statement of what is now called "the summons and plaint," to wit, that the plaintiff being able and willing "to marry the defendant the defendant refused, etc." there is another matter on which hands of skilful counsel might have affected mrs. bardell and which my friend mr. burnand ("f. c. b.") was the first to push home. at the trial, mrs. saunders cross-examined by serjeant snubbin, had to admit that her friend had an admirer--a certain baker in the neighbourhood--who was supposed to have matrimonial designs. pressed on this matter she thus deposed: "had heard pickwick ask the little boy how he should like to have another father. did not know that mrs. bardell was at that time keeping company with the baker, but did know that the baker was then a single man, and is now married. couldn't swear that mrs. bardell was not very fond of the baker, but should think that the baker was not very fond of mrs. bardell, or he wouldn't have married somebody else. thought mrs. bardell fainted away on the morning in july, because pickwick asked her to name the day; knew that she (witness) fainted away stone dead when mr. saunders asked _her_ to name the day, and believed that everybody as called herself a lady would do the same, under similar circumstances. heard pickwick ask the boy the question about the marbles, but upon her oath did not know the difference between an alley tor and a commoney. by the court.--during the period of her keeping company with mr. sanders, had received love letters, like other ladies. in course of their correspondence mr. sanders had often called her a 'duck,' but never 'chops,' nor yet 'tomata sauce.' he was particularly fond of ducks. perhaps if he had been as fond of chops and tomata sauce, he might have called her that, as a term of affection. what a point, too, serjeant snubbin missed here! could he not have quoted the old verses. how he would have convulsed the court as he poured out the apropos "for tommy and me!" pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man, bake me a cake as quick as you can; knead it and bake it as fast as can be, and put in the oven for tommy and me. now we do not find that the serjeant made any use of this topic in his speech. he might have surely urged that this "wily and experienced widow" was eager for a husband, that having been "thrown over" by her baker and stung by the mortification, she resolved, as it were, to rehabilitate herself and prepare this "plant" for her unsuspecting lodger. as sir henry irving says in the play, "i don't like widows; _they know too much_." f. c. b., as i have said, has treated this baker theme and developed it regularly in his amusing operetta "pickwick." the little epitome given of snubbin's speech shows how weak were his topics, and that he, in fact, considered that there was no defence. serjeant snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant; and a very long and a very emphatic address he delivered, in which he bestowed the highest possible eulogiums on the conduct and character of mr. pickwick. he attempted to show that the letters which had been exhibited, merely related to mr. pickwick's dinner, or to the preparations for receiving him in his apartments on his return from some country excursion. it is sufficient to add in general terms, that he did the best he could for mr. pickwick; and the best, as everybody knows on the infallible authority of the old adage, could do no more. this was no more than speaking "in mitigation of damages." mr. phunky made no speech, which was just as well, as he might have but damaged the case, as no witnesses had been called on his side. for the same reason, the court had not the pleasure of hearing skimpin, who would no doubt have "torn the defendant's case to tatters." charge and verdict. the regular formula is this. the judge begins to read his notes, and makes "running comments" as he goes along. "we have first, gentlemen, the statement of mrs. cluppins, she tells you, &c. of course she comes as the friend of the plaintiff, and naturally takes a favourable view of her case. if you are satisfied with her statement, it is for you, gentlemen, to consider what value you will attach to it. then we come to the question of damages. this is entirely a matter for you. you must take into account the position in life of the defendant, and what the plaintiff has lost by his default. on the other hand they must be reasonable in amount. if you believe the promise has been clearly established, you should give substantial though not excessive damages, on a scale sufficient to repay the plaintiff for the wrong. on the other hand--should it seem to you doubtful whether the promise had been made--you will give the defendant the benefit of the doubt. these are questions entirely for you--not for me. on the whole case, you will ask yourselves, whether a promise such as would satisfy reasonable men, has been supported by sufficient evidence. if so, plaintiff is entitled to damages--on the other hand, if this is not proved to your satisfaction, you will find for the defendant." mr. justice stareleigh, however, as we are told, then "summed up in his old established and most approved form. he read as much of his notes as he could decypher on so short a notice, and made running comments on the evidence as he went along. if mrs. bardell were right, it was perfectly clear that mr. pickwick was wrong, and if they thought the evidence of mrs. cluppins worthy of credence, they would believe it, and if they didn't, why they would'nt. if they were satisfied that a breach of promise had been committed, they would find for the plaintiff, with such damages as they thought proper; and if, on the other hand, it appeared to them that no promise of marriage had ever been given, they would find for the defendant, with no damages at all." such was this lucid direction--which is really, not in the least, an exaggeration. but i could fancy some acute judge of our time--such as mr. justice day or mr. justice bigham--after trying this case, turning round in his seat to "charge" the jury. "here, gentlemen," he would tell them, "we have it claimed on one side that a promise of marriage was made--and broken; on the other hand the defendant denies having ever given such a promise. the question you will have to deal with is: what was this promise, and when was it given? in other words, _when_ did the defendant propose to the lady. on the part of the plaintiff, this was said to have been done at the interview in goswell street, and two friends of the plaintiff--mrs. cluppins, i think"--turning over his notes--"yes, cluppins, and sanders both declare positively that they overheard the language of the proposal. further, mr. pickwick's friends are called, to prove that the lady was in his arms, fainting. it is extraordinary that not one of these three gentlemen should have deposed to any statements or have offered explanations of the situation. one witness indeed says that he heard the defendant remonstrate with the plaintiff, on her hysterical behaviour, and ask her to consider that if any one should come in, what would be said. now, this is not the language of an ardent suitor, who would rather wish than otherwise, that such endearing familiarities should continue: though i don't think you need seriously accept the reading the learned counsel, mr. skimpin, put on the phrase used; on the other hand, the words 'my dear creature,' were distinctly heard. "there is one little incident," the judge might go on, "which i must not pass by, and which is not without its significance. a witness deposed that the defendant was noted for his kindness to the plaintiff's little boy--that he was constantly giving him presents, and once was heard to say to him, patting him on the head, '_how would you like to have another father_?' now, this addressed to a child of tender years does seem an odd sort of speech. of course, it will be contended that the reference was to the probability of his mother marrying some one other than the defendant: if that be the case, it seems to me rather an indelicate and reckless speech. and then it must be said, it seems inconsistent with the amiable and benevolent character given to the defendant to-day. on the other hand, if he were referring to _himself_ it will appear natural and proper enough. and there is this to be added, that when the child had reported the remark to his mother, which of course he did, she would most reasonably begin to found hopes upon it. and then what follows, gentlemen?--the defendant is found holding this lady in his arms, and becomes so demonstrative in his attentions that this very child comes to her rescue. i am inexperienced in these things--they may be innocent and done with the purest intentions, or may not; but you, gentlemen of the jury, are men of the world: and it is for you to put the proper construction on them." "you will have noted, gentlemen, this curious feature of the case. none of the witnesses were in the room when the imputed proposal was made, yet all, cluppins, weller, and the defendant's three friends, _heard_ what the defendant said. this suggests that he must have been very pressing, if not agitated. one of the witnesses, winkle, i think, yes, winkle, actually deposes to hearing the words, 'my dear creature! compose yourself' and the like. he added he was afraid someone might come in; a very reasonable fear, gentlemen, and well grounded: for several persons _did_ come in and it would seem with awkward results for the defendant. but, gentlemen, i confess that what most of all weighs with me in this case is the remarkable avowal wrung from a reluctant witness, of the defendant's being surprised at midnight in a lady's bed-chamber, and being taken, after a serious riot, before the magistrates. this came on me, as i saw it did on you all, as a surprise. true, it does not bear on the question of a promise or of the breach. but still it seems a matter which you cannot wholly shut out from your consideration. it startled me as it did you, to find a sort of travelling philanthropist, as the defendant pickwick holds himself out to be, on whose mildly benevolent features nature seems to have stamped rectitude and high principle, living a life of hypocrisy, taking part in midnight invasions and daylight riots. it is one of his own friends who tells us this sad story: and it is for you to consider whether the plaintiff was here also in pursuit of yet another disreputable game, holding out marriage as the bait: i seem to speak strongly, but i feel it would be impossible to withdraw this from your consideration. "you may reasonably ask yourselves of what pickwick was afraid--or why did he dread the presence of witnesses? was he simply beguiling the lady, as he attempted to beguile that lady at ipswich, without 'meaning business,' as the phrase runs. i must say the plaintiff had rather reasonable grounds for assuming that the defendant _did_ mean business. but all this is for you, gentlemen, not for me. "then we have the man weller's statement--a sort of humorous stage servant, not unamusing--and of course entirely devoted to his master's interest. i don't think you need attach any importance to what he said of the solicitors for the plaintiff. when i was at the bar, gentlemen, attornies did much worse things than this." the jury consulted for only a few minutes. perhaps, however, they were only discussing the amount of damages. they were certainly moderate--laid at pounds--though had dodson and fogg's advice prevailed, it should have been double. this only, by the way, is further proof of the amiable mrs. bardell's moderation and secret _tendre_ for her genial lodger. considering that mr. pickwick was 'a gentleman,' and further a gentleman of means, and that mrs. bardell was but an humble lodging-house keeper, the sum seems hardly commensurate. dodson and fogg no doubt expected , pounds. an anxious quarter of an hour elapsed; the jury came back; the judge was fetched in. mr. pickwick put on his spectacles, and gazed at the foreman with an agitated countenance and a quickly beating heart. 'gentlemen,' said the individual in black, 'are you all agreed upon your verdict?' 'we are,' replied the foreman. 'do you find for the plaintiff, gentlemen, or for the defendant?' 'for the plaintiff.' 'with what damages, gentlemen?' 'seven hundred and fifty pounds.' mr. pickwick took off his spectacles, carefully wiped the glasses, folded them into their case, and put them in his pocket; then having drawn on his gloves with great nicety, and stared at the foreman all the while, he mechanically followed mr. perker and the blue bag out of court. they stopped in a side room while perker paid the court fees; and here, mr. pickwick was joined by his friends. here, too, he encountered messrs. dodson and fogg, rubbing their hands with every token of outward satisfaction. 'well, gentlemen,' said mr. pickwick. 'well, sir,' said dodson: for self and partner. 'you imagine you'll get your costs, don't you, gentlemen?' said mr. pickwick. fogg said they thought it rather probable. dodson smiled, and said they'd try. 'you may try, and try, and try again, messrs. dodson and fogg,' said mr. pickwick vehemently, 'but not one farthing of costs or damages do you ever get from me, if i spend the rest of my existence in a debtor's prison.' 'ha, ha!' laughed dodson. 'you will think better of that, before next term, mr. pickwick.' 'he, he, he! we'll soon see about that mr. pickwick,' grinned mr. fogg. speechless with indignation, mr. pickwick allowed himself to be led by his solicitor and friends to the door, and there assisted into a hackney-coach, which had been fetched for the purpose, by the ever watchful sam weller. sam had put up the steps; and was preparing to jump upon the box, when he felt himself gently touched on the shoulder; and looking round, his father stood before him. the old gentleman's countenance wore a mournful expression, as he shook his head gravely, and said, in warning accents: 'i know'd what 'ud come 'o this here mode 'o doin' bisness. oh sammy, sammy, vy worn't there a alleybi!' we may wonder that the laborious chamber counsel serjeant snubbin did not advise "moving for a new trial." the verdict was clearly a wrong one--no sufficient evidence had been furnished either of a promise, or a breach. the full court would no doubt have granted the motion, and this would have led to mr. pickwick's release, for the astute dodson and fogg must have recognised their poor chances, and perhaps have required "security for costs," which their client could not have given. however, the idea did not occur to anybody. since the law was changed both plaintiff and defendant may be examined in such cases as these. what a different complexion this would have put on the suit. the whole case would have tumbled to pieces like a pack of cards. for mr. pickwick "put into the box" would have clearly shown that all that had been thus misconstrued, was his proposal for engaging a valet, which was to have been that very morning. he would have related the words of the dialogue, and the jury would have seen at once how the mistake arose. on the other hand, he would have been exposed to a severe rating cross examination by the learned serjeant--fortified by winkle's most damaging slip about the white horse incident--who would have forced out of him all the incidents. we can almost hear the serjeant subject the defendant to the torture. "this fellow of yours, sir, was he recommended to you by a friend?" "no--not at all." "by a registry office?" "certainly not--nothing of the kind." "nothing of the kind? i suppose too low a class of place for you, eh? come sir!" "i never said such a thing." "nor thought it, i suppose? come, sir, no beating about the bush. in plain terms, did you get him from a low public house in the boro'?" mr. pickwick started up. "never!" "do you deny it?" "i never knew that the white hart was a low public-house," said the witness indignantly. "never mind what you know, sir. did you or did you not get him from there?" thundered the serjeant. "of course i did." "of course you did. then what's the use of all this juggling. it does you no good with my lord and the jury. i tell you plainly, mr. pickwick, we mean to have all out of you. now sir, was this man of yours an experienced valet?" "certainly not." "he had, of course, some training in his profession in other families?" "not that i know of." "not that you know of. do you dare to persist in that, sir?" "why not?" "don't ask _me_ questions, sir, i'm asking _you_. do you deny, sir, that the man was neither more nor less than a common boots in the yard of a public house, wearing an old tattered hat and jacket--very different from the suit in which you have rigged him up here to-day?" mr. pickwick was astonished and silent. he was suffering. he had never dreamed of this view. "why," he said, "i suppose--" "we want none of your supposes, sir, answer yes or no." "well he certainly was such as you describe." a flutter ran round the court. "and this creature of yours, you would impose on the jury as a trained man servant. you may go down sir." plea for "dodson and fogg." this famous firm of city attornies has become a bye-word in legal history--being considered the most notorious of practitioners for sharp, underhand, scheming practices. boz was always vehement against the abuses of the law, but his generous ardour sometimes led him to exaggerated and wholesale statements that were scarcely well founded. this is found in some degree even in the sweeping attacks in _bleak house_. but he was so vivid, so persuasive, in his pictures, that there was no appeal. the unreasoning fury of mr. pickwick is specially shown in the case of jingle, whom he pursued with an animosity that was almost frantic. one would think it was some public enemy he was hunting down for the public good. poor jingle had really done nothing so monstrous, after all. he had "chaffed" dr. slammer, "run off" with the spinster aunt--nothing so uncommon in those days--had been consigned to the fleet for non-payment of his debts, and there showed penitence and other signs of a good heart. his one serious offence was passing himself off as a naval officer, and under an assumed name. but he had _crossed_ mr. pickwick--had ridiculed him--had contemptuously sent a message to "tuppy." when he dared to play a practical joke on his persecutor, his infamy passed beyond bounds. here was the key to mr. pickwick's nature--any lack of homage or respect was an offence against morality. so with dodson and fogg. he had settled in his mind that a condescending visit to these gentlemen, with a little explanation and remonstrance would completely disarm them. his fury on his advances being rejected was extraordinary. here boz shows, as he ever does, his profound and most logical treatment of human character. he never goes astray, being guided by a happy and true instinct. mr. pickwick had grown to be the most inflated of men. flattered and followed--submitted to with the greatest deference--ordering people about--doing what he pleased--he could not stand the slightest opposition. no one was to contradict--no one to question even his stockings--speckled or others. even when he was clearly wrong, it was an affront to hint at it. he had much in common with that great man, mr. gladstone, who was the political pickwick of his time. he was overbearing and arrogant and unrestrained, and i am afraid vindictive. dodson and fogg were associated with the great mortification of his life. he could not forgive them--the very sight of them roused his hatred, and the having to pay them ransom stung him to fury. all which is most natural and yet unexpected. the popular and genial sir frank lockwood was almost the first to put forward a plea in abatement of prejudice for the firm. he showed that they were not much below the usual type of middle-class solicitors. what they did was in the ordinary course. with mr. pickwick they were most forbearing, and even indulgent. there was one rather doubtful passage, but even here he offers extenuation. this was their treatment of poor ramsey, which, at first sight, seems very bad indeed. 'there was such a game with fogg here, this mornin',' said the man in the brown coat, 'while jack was upstairs sorting the papers, and you two were gone to the stamp-office. fogg was down here opening the letters, when that chap we issued the writ against at camberwell, you know, came in--what's his name again?' 'ramsey,' said the clerk who had spoken to mr. pickwick. 'ah, ramsey--a precious seedy-looking customer. 'well, sir,' says old fogg, looking at him very fierce--you know his way--'well, sir, have you come to settle?' 'yes, i have, sir,' said ramsey, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out the money, 'the debt two-pound ten, and the costs three pound five, and here it is, sir;' and he sighed like bricks, as he lugged out the money, done up in a bit of blotting paper. old fogg looked first at the money, and then at him, and then he coughed in his rum way, so that i knew something was coming. 'you don't know there's a declaration filed, which increases the costs materially, i suppose?' said fogg. 'you don't say that sir,' said ramsey, starting back; 'the time was only out last night, sir.' 'i do say it, though,' said fogg, 'my clerk's just gone to file it. hasn't mr. jackson gone to file that declaration in bullman and ramsey, mr. wicks?' of course i said yes, and then fogg coughed again, and looked at ramsey. 'my god!' said ramsey; 'and here have i nearly driven myself mad, scraping this money together, and all to no purpose.' 'none at all,' said fogg, coolly; 'so you had better go back and scrape some more together, and bring it here in time.' 'i can't get it, by god,' said ramsey, striking the desk with his fist. 'don't bully me, sir,' said fogg, getting into a passion on purpose. 'i am not bullying you, sir,' said ramsey. 'you are,' said fogg; 'get out, sir, get out of this office, sir, and come back, sir, when you know how to behave yourself.' well, ramsey tried to speak, but fogg wouldn't let him, so he put the money in his pocket, and sneaked out. the door was scarcely shut, when old fogg turned round to me, with a sweet smile on his face, and drew the declaration out of his coat pocket. 'here, wicks,' says fogg, 'take a cab, and go down to the temple as quick as you can, and file that. the costs are quite safe, for he's a steady man with a large family, at a salary of five-and-twenty shillings a week, and if he gives us a warrant of attorney, as he must in the end, i know his employers will see it paid; so we may as well get all we can out of him, mr. wicks; it's a christian act to do it, mr. wicks, for with his large family and small income, he'll be all the better for a good lesson against getting into debt,--won't he, mr. wicks, won't he?'--and he smiled so goodnaturedly as he went away, that it was delightful to see him. 'he is a capital man of business,' said wicks, in a tone of the deepest admiration, 'capital, isn't he?' the other three cordially subscribed to this opinion, and the anecdote afforded the most unlimited satisfaction. 'nice men these here, sir,' whispered mr. weller to his master; 'wery nice notion of fun they has, sir.' sir f. lockwood, by the way, offers one of the most amusing proofs conceivable, of the convincing power of "pickwick," which is constantly taking us out of the world of fiction, into that of the daily living life. he speaks of the cruel trick played upon the unfortunate ramsey, who came to pay his bill of costs, and was told that these were out of date, had been swelled by subsequent proceedings. an affidavit had been sworn--which, after he left the house, wicks, the clerk, was sent off to swear--then, sir frank, adds: "after all, this is merely given _as the statement of wicks_--_on whose testimony not much reliance can be placed_." as though wicks were some living witness, "erect upon two legs," whom he had been examining in court! it must, however, be recollected that this was an _exparte_ story. wicks, as sir f. lockwood hints, may have coloured it up, to amuse his brethren. the truth is these poor helpless debtors, who fall into the hands of legal "sharks" and money-lenders, have _their_ tricks also. they will often "do" those they employ if they can. and further, let this be considered. before ramsey paid his visit the affidavit _had_ been prepared, and was actually in fogg's pocket. such affidavit would not be allowed for in the costs unless necessary to the case, so that fogg's statement that it had been filed was very near the truth. perker himself was playing the same game of hide and seek with another unfortunate--one watty--who was trying to see him, and learn something about his case, but was always put off with the excuse or falsehood, that perker was out, though he was within. but then, "perker was an honourable man." boz lets us know, through sam, how the case reached dodson and fogg. he speaks of "the kind generous people o' the perfession 'as sets their clerks to work to find out little disputes among their neighbours and acquaintances as wants settlin' by means of law suits." this system, however, cannot be checked, and "the speculative attorney" even in our time still flourishes. it was really not a question whether mr. pickwick would "indict them for a conspiracy," because they acted as solicitors against him, but whether they would bring an action against _him_ on their own account. all through, mr. pickwick's behaviour to them had been outrageous. he chose to assume, quite gratuitously that it was they--not mrs. bardell--who got up the case; that they had worked on her for their own nefarious ends. nothing could be more absurd. the landlady was eager enough to protect her own interests--her female friends worked on her, and the loss of so valuable a lodger, which the incident must have entailed, inflamed her more. we can see from sam's interview with her that she was at last, though at first reluctant, determined to have her rights. but mr. pickwick acting on this assumption addressed the firm, from the first to the last in the most scurrilous language. he called them "robbers, swindlers,--a brace of pettifogging scoundrels!" shocking and ungentlemanly terms, and what is worse, actionable. yet the pair received this abuse with infinite good temper and restraint, merely securing a witness who should listen, and threatening the speaker with legal penalties. and why did they not take this course? well, they had to suspend proceedings until mrs. bardell's action was settled, when on receiving their costs they were desirous to part in good humour. but mr. pickwick was so furious at being invited to shake hands with them, that he again broke out with coarse abuse, "robbers!" "robbers!" calling it after them down the stairs. why did they not take action on this? perhaps they were afraid; as mr. pickwick had shewn himself such a doughty and unyielding fighter--going to prison rather than pay. perhaps they thought he might get the better of them again. we have very little evidence as to what was the scale of fees in use in these days. they were of course far lower than they are now, after allowances even for the lower cost of living. to-day, the fees to counsel alone would have absorbed considerably more than dodson and fogg's whole bill of costs. a nice point is, could mr. pickwick's irregular interview with serjeant snubbin be considered something in the way of a consultation? here were counsel, solicitor and client: the serjeant gave up a portion of his valuable time and, further, the junior counsel was summoned specially from his chambers to supply his "advice and opinion." mr. pickwick ought surely to have to pay for his whim. and the bill of costs that these "sharks" of attornies sent in! it was astonishingly moderate. for writ, service of subpoenas, hunting up evidence, consultation, fees to counsel, fees for the day, retainers, etc.,--the sum of pounds was all that was asked. imagine messrs. lewis and lewis sending in such a demand at the end of a trial which it had taken them nearly a year to get ready. in our time it could hardly be done under , pounds. perker, by the way, told his client that on payment of the costs both of plaintiff and defendent, into the hands of "these sharks" he would get his release. with much indulgence--the attornies--allowed him to leave the prison on his bare undertaking to pay. and it is not clear why he should pay his own costs to them, and not to perker. and they were _not_ paid for sometime. mr. pickwick's own costs must have been small. he had no witnesses. perker would not have made a hand of him, and i fancy he would have got off for ninety pounds, or a hundred pounds. there was, however, the fees of the special jury, so he would have to pay, say, pounds. the cognovit. perker, it has been shown, was not a very brilliant solicitor, and his views on the trial were somewhat cloudy. when he was urging his client to leave the fleet he threw out some equally shadowy and ill-informed notions as to what might be done in the way of punishing the nefarious solicitors, dodson and fogg, "those freeman's court sharks." his great charge was that they had got a _cognovit_, or undertaking to pay their costs out of mrs. bardell--their own client! mr. pickwick refused to pay them--why should not she? the poor woman had "blabbed" to sam, a careless and natural assurance of theirs, that they would be content to get them from mr. pickwick--a thing many a firm would do. but perker here sees a regular conspiracy. "i cannot undertake to say whether the wording of the cognovit, the nature of the ostensible consideration and the proof we can get together about the whole conduct of the suit, _will be sufficient to justify an indictment for conspiracy_." it is impossible to understand this bit of legal jargon. "the wording of the cognovit"--one could speculate on _that_ without seeing it. ( ) "the nature of the ostensible consideration" was not far to seek--it being work and labour done for the plaintiff. and again, supposing they had promised her to get them solely from mr. pickwick--sam's revelation of this, in open court, and its reception with laughter, showed what was thought of it. so which of the two courses were they to adopt? ( ) and "the proof we may get together about the whole conduct of the suit." this "whole conduct" was perfectly regular. so the judge thought--so did the jury. the case was proved by pickwick's own friends. as we know, however, the firm took no steps to obtain satisfaction, but there cannot be the slightest doubt that they would have "recovered damages." we doubt if mr. pickwick would have gone to the fleet for the second time rather than pay. perker's suspicions as to the _cognovit_ obtained by dodson and fogg were shrewd, and certain enough, though he could not have seen the document. the suspicions were well warranted by the state of the law, which became an instrument in the hands of grasping attorneys. by it the client was made to sign an acknowledgment, and offering no defence to a supposed action,--say for costs--brought against him, judgment was then marked. this offered a great temptation to the unscrupulous. mrs. bardell, no doubt, signed with light heart, not knowing what she was doing, and being told that it was merely a matter of form. various enactments attempted to protect the client--one being passed some four or five years before the trial bardell v. pickwick, requiring the _cognovit_ to be regularly filed within twenty-one days; more than ten years later it was required, that the client's signing such a thing should have no force in law, unless he was represented by another solicitor. the matter, as we know, was compromised with dodson and fogg, so there was no need to scrutinize the _cognovit_. no doubt perker was enabled to put pressure on the firm by hinting at such proceedings. the damages, pounds, were certainly moderate, and would not have been reduced by the court on an application to set them aside as "excessive." the good woman was quite at her ease, being no doubt certain that mr. pickwick, at last, must give in. she could even enjoy the society of her friends and make the celebrated junketting to the "spaniards." the firm took another view and grew tired of waiting; or they were sagacious enough to see that the arrest of their client was about the best method of putting pressure on mr. pickwick. in this connection, it may be noted that jackson's over zeal in the transaction might have led to an action against his employers; for he arrested not only mrs. bardell, but her friends, mrs. sanders and mrs. cluppins. the prison gates were actually shut on them. "safe and sound," said the bailiff. "here we are at last," said jackson, "all right and tight." true, mrs. bardell put under her hand in her appealing letter to mr. pickwick, that "this business was from the very first fomented and encouraged and brought about by these men," but this is not much; for the view only occurs to her when her operations had completely failed and recoiled on her own head with such disastrous result. the firm's business was to persuade her that she had a good case, and the jury's verdict proved that she had. had mr. pickwick given in and paid, she would have had no scruples. one cannot, at the same time, but admire the ingenuity of the author, in bringing such a nemesis on her. dodson and fogg, we are told, "continue in business from which they realise a large income, and in which they are universally considered among the sharpest of the sharp." at the last interview, at perker's, when the costs were paid, one might have expected mr. pickwick to behave with a certain disdainful dignity. he was beaten and had paid over the stakes, and could afford to treat his enemy with contempt. not so. the partners held out the olive branch by alluding to the way they had passed by his unmannerly attacks on them. "i beg to assure you, sir, i bear you no ill will or vindictive feeling for sentiments you thought proper to express of us in our office," and the other partner said, "i hope you don't think quite so ill of us, etc." this was rather gentlemanly and becoming. one offered his hand. but mr. pickwick broke out in a perfect fury. they had assumed a tone of forgiveness which was "an excess of impudence." he had been "the victim of their plots and conspiracies." they had imprisoned and robbed him. it was "insolent familiarity." at last he said, "_you are a well-matched pair of mean_, _rascally_, _pettifogging robbers_." this sentence he repeated three times, and the words "robbers" he shouted after them many times over the stairs. sharping attornies! why, a real sharping firm would have forced from their client advances of fee, "cash out of pocket," have made her give a bill of sale on her lease and goods, and have fairly stripped her of everything before the case began. of the damages--had they got them--she would have seen but little. the _cognovit_ that was extracted from mrs. bardell was an acknowledgement, as we have seen, which entitled them to enter up judgment just as if a trial had taken place. in the oxford great dictionary, it reads quaintly to find mrs. bardell's cognovit quoted as an illustration of the legal meaning. the turnkey, on her arrest, had told sam that she had been brought to the fleet, "on a cognovit for costs," sam imparted this news to job trotter, and sent him off, hot foot, to perker in montague place. this outcast, was able to tell him, "it seems they got a _cognovit_ out of her for the amount of the costs, directly after the trial!" boz, on this occasion, gives us a happy glimpse of solicitor life. mr. perker had a dinner party that day, which was certified by the lights in the drawing-room windows, the sound of an improved grand piano, and an improveable cabinet voice issuing therefrom; and a rather overpowering smell of meat which prevaded the steps and entry. in fact, a couple of very good country agencies happening to come up to town at the same time, an agreeable little party had been got together to meet them, comprising mr. snicks the life office secretary, mr. prosee the eminent counsel, three solicitors, one commissioner of bankrupts, a special pleader from the temple, a small-eyed peremptory young gentleman, his pupil, who had written a lively book about the law of demises, with a vast quantity of marginal notes and references; and several other eminent and distinguished personages. from this society little mr. perker detached himself on his clerk being announced in a whisper; and repairing to the dining-room, there found mr. lowten and job trotter looking very dim and shadowy by the light of a kitchen candle, which the gentleman who condescended to appear in plush shorts and cottons for a quarterly stipend, had, with a becoming contempt for the clerk and all things appertaining to 'the office,' placed upon the table. 'now lowten,' said little mr. perker, shutting the door, 'what's the matter? no important letter come in a parcel, is there?' do we not seem to be present? we can never pass by russell square without calling up the scene. note, too, the components of that legal dinner. poor sir f. lockwood used to declare that he relished "mr. prosee, the eminent counsel," more than any one of boz's legal circle. yet these five words are all we know of him. but sir frank had imagination, and like some of us could read between the lines, or rather, between the words. here was a prominent member of the bar--was he k.c.? a triton among the minnows--therefore heading the table, listened to with reverence as he told of the judges, possibly of "old stareleigh's" last exhibition of petulance--"with it's high time for him to go, etc." but if he had not silk, why did not perker retain him instead of the incapable phunky, whom he did _not_ ask on this occasion. "i gave the chap a good chance, but he destroyed my whole case!" "catch me letting him put his legs under my mahogany." among the guests was that "small-eyed, peremptory young gentleman"--the special pleader's pupil. what a capital sketch has boz given of him. "he had written a _lively_ book about the law of demises, with a vast quantity of marginal notes and references." he had come with his teacher, who was no doubt highly deferental to mr. prosee, but enough, the peremptory young gentleman may have partly "tackled" the great man on some point of practice. the good country agencies must have gone home delighted with their evening. but mr. prosee may be brought into somewhat closer communication with the case. at perker's dinner the gentlemen had gone up to the drawing room, when perker was called down to hear the news of mrs. bardell's arrest. mr. prosee was left expatiating to the circle on some beautiful "point," and when perker returned how likely that he should tell of his extraordinary client who had preferred to go to prison rather than pay the costs of a suit, "and here," he would go on, "is the drollest sequel you ever heard, &c." "an odd unusual thing," mr. prosee would say. "plaintiff and defendant, both in jail together! i never heard the like." there would be much laughter at the novel situation. thus the _cognovit_ would come up and mr. prosee gravely say, "nothing will be done till an act of parliament is passed. the client should be protected by a fresh solicitor." on which the young author of the treatise on demises would have something to say in his best fashion; for the _cognovit_ might be taken to be a sort of demise. "i doubt mr. prosee, if your suggestion would work. as i take it, sir, etc." release from the fleet. but the circumstances connected with mr. pickwick's release from the fleet, show the adroitness and ability of dodson in a high degree. it will be recollected that when job rushed with the news to perker, that gentleman and his clerk broke out into raptuous admiration. 'now, lowten,' said little mr. perker, shutting the door, 'what's the matter? no important letter come in a parcel, is there?' 'no, sir,' replied lowten. 'this is a messenger from mr. pickwick, sir.' 'from pickwick, eh?' said the little man, turning quickly to job. 'well; what is it?' 'dodson and fogg have taken mrs. bardell in execution for her costs, sir,' said job. 'no!' exclaimed perker, putting his hands in his pockets, and reclining against the sideboard. 'yes,' said job. 'it seems they got a cognovit out of her for the amount of 'em, directly after the trial.' 'by jove!' said perker, taking both hands out of his pockets and striking the knuckles of his right against the palm of his left, emphatically, 'those are the cleverest scamps i ever had anything to do with!' 'the sharpest practitioners _i_ ever knew, sir,' observed lowten. 'sharp!' echoed perker. 'there's no knowing where to have them.' 'very true, sir, there is not,' replied lowten; and then both master and man pondered for a few seconds, with animated countenances, as if they were reflecting upon one of the most beautiful and ingenious discoveries that the intellect of man had ever made. when they had in some measure recovered from their trance of admiration, job trotter discharged himself of the rest of his commission. perker nodded his head thoughtfully, and pulled out his watch. now to the superficial this seemed to be evaded by the art of the firm in "getting the cognovit out of her." but this was an ordinary, vulgar stroke--which anyone could have done. their policy went far deeper, and this perker was acute enough to recognize. there was no object in putting mrs. bardell into the fleet. they could no more get their costs out of her, than they could get them out of mr. pickwick. she had nothing but her few "sticks" of furniture, worth say pounds. but the astute fellows saw what pressure could be put on the benevolent nature of mr. pickwick, who could not endure that a respectable woman should be exposed to the contamination of a debtor's prison. and their sagacity was to be justified, and on the very next day, too. it is curious, however, that no mention is made of mrs. bardell's release. it, of course, took place before mr. pickwick's. here again dodson and fogg behaved very fairly, for they allowed both her and mr. pickwick to be released, without receiving payment, but simply on "an understanding" by perker. as it turned out, indeed, they were not paid for some weeks. the processes by which mr. pickwick was got into the fleet were complicated enough, _habeas corpus_, appearing before functionaries, etc. but it is odd that in cases of persons of lower degree these seemed not to be necessary. we do not hear of them in sam's instance. while mrs. bardell, was taken straight from "the spaniards," to the prison door, she was not even formally arrested by the bailiff, though he was in attendance. he sat afar off at hampstead, taking his drink--and on the box during the drive. she might be said to have been arbitrarily taken to the prison by jackson--without a legal warrant. had not the business been compromised, some other astute firm of attorneys might have found subject for an action against dodson and fogg. another of the humorous incidents connected with the case is old weller's firm persuasion that mr. pickwick was to "stand his trial," as though he were indicted for some criminal offence. we find him always astray as to when he was to be "tried," etc. this is a most natural impression among the lower classes, who are not very clear as to the distinction between civil and criminal process, being most familiar with the latter. in the same spirit is his humorous suggestion of securing an _alibi_, as the best method of getting mr. pickwick off. "o sammy, sammy, vy worn't there a alleybi!" * * * * * such is "the trial in pickwick." is there any writer, now living, i may be asked, who could furnish such a picture as this, one so full of reality and true humour, of one of our modern courts of justice? the answer must be that it would be idle to look for such a person. there are thousands who could supply minute drawings in which not a single detail would be omitted. but the piercing to the essence, the happy generalization, the knowledge of the true points of character, these would be sought in vain. footnotes: { } so confused is the chronology of _pickwick_, that it is difficult to fix the exact date of the trial. boz, writing some ten years after the event, seems to have got a little confused and uncertain as to the exact year of the trial. he first fixed the opening of the story in : but on coming to the compromising incident in goswell street, which occurred only a few weeks later, he changed the year to . then jingle's anachronism of the french revolution of july suggested that the new date would not do. so was next adopted. but this did not end the matter, for in the "errata" we are directed to change this date back again to . and so it now stands. the trial therefore really took place on april , . { } seven years after the trial this monopoly was taken away from the serjeants--namely in : then capriciously given back to them, and finally abolished in . { } i have heard from the daughter of mr. chapman, the original publisher of _pickwick_, that talfourd revised and directed the "trial." on one occasion boz was dining with him when the proof was brought in, with some legal mistakes noted by talfourd. boz left the table and put it right. none the queen against owen by allen upward author of 'the prince of balkistan' _a new edition_ london chatto & windus, piccadilly _opinions of the press_ on the queen against owen. 'an unmistakable success. regarded simply as a story, we have not for a long while read anything more intensely dramatic. it would compel notice for the mere manner of its telling. not often has an author who has boldly departed from the traditional lines of the writer of fiction so completely vindicated his method. there is high quality in this book, with its vivid glimpses of life, and its clever characterization.... altogether, a notable book; and if its popularity be at all commensurate with its merits, it will have a great vogue.'--_sun._ 'the narrative never flags.... a realistic representation of a criminal trial.'--_athenæum._ 'lovers of exciting fiction, powerful, original, and dramatic, should read "the queen against owen." narrative after narrative, somewhat in the wilkie collins manner, draws you on until the mystery that surrounds the crime--which remains a mystery almost to the very end--disappears, and then you draw a breath of relief, but not before.'--_sporting life._ to clement harley downs esquire this slight acknowledgment of his kind services is tendered by the author note to the second edition. i take the opportunity of a second edition of this little sketch to point out a rather curious fact in connection with the numerous comments which were made in the press on the evidence presented against the heroine. my object in writing the story was, naturally, to so balance the evidence as to leave it open to my jury to return either verdict, and thus keep the reader in a state of mild suspense during the progress of the trial. how far i succeeded may be gathered from the following extracts: _'a jury that required to deliberate at all in such a case ought to have been hanged.'_--brief. _'the way in which the feeblest of cases is worked up to a verdict of guilty is a trifle ridiculous, and a slander on judge, bar, and even jury.'_--leeds mercury. _'it is absurd to suppose that upon such evidence any judge and jury could have convicted her of murder.'_--vanity fair. _'a tangle of circumstantial evidence which is supposed to be conclusive, but on which we feel confident that no english jury would convict.'_--new zealand mail. _'the prisoner is found guilty on what seems to us most insufficient evidence.'_--daily chronicle. _'it is difficult to believe that the jury on the evidence could have brought in a verdict of guilty.'_--daily news. _'the evidence being purely circumstantial, as well as flimsy.'_--academy. [n.b.--several of the above reviewers were friendly to the book on other points.] _'in scotland the verdict would certainly have been "not proven."'_--glasgow herald. _'though the evidence is purely circumstantial, it seems at first sight so strong that no magistrate could fail to commit.'_--saturday review. _'the evidence of guilt is very strong.'_--monmouthshire beacon. _'certainly the evidence, purely circumstantial, is very strong.'_--publisher's circular. _'a case of circumstantial evidence which all seemed to point one way, and to fix a horrible crime upon a young girl.'_--weekly sun. _'the evidence against her is damning, though purely circumstantial.'_--literary world. these extracts, taken together, seem to me to throw a most interesting light upon the subject of trial by jury--the object of a sneer in one of the above quotations. when it is possible for a number of educated minds, engaged in highly intellectual pursuits, to take such opposite views of the same set of facts, it may surely be urged that, if miscarriages of justice occasionally take place, they are due, not so much to any defects in our judicial system, as to those native diversities of the human mind which no legislation can remove. a change is fast coming over our legal procedure in the direction of dispensing with juries, and leaving everything to the decision of a single trained lawyer. whether this change is certain to ensure greater correctness of decision is, perhaps, more open to argument than is generally supposed. in conclusion, i have only to express my thanks for the many cordial notices--some of them, i fear, hardly deserved--which this rather slight work received on its first appearance. the kindness of his reviewers has at all events encouraged the author to strive that his future work may be a little better worth their attention. a. u. _may_, . contents chapter page i. the indictment ii. the brief for the prosecution iii. counsel for the defence iv. the assizes v. the case for the crown vi. the witnesses vii. half an hour viii. the defence ix. the judge x. the verdict xi. the prisoner's statement xii. the c.c.r. xiii. under the great seal the queen against owen chapter i. the indictment. 'mynyddshire to wit.--the jurors for our lady the queen upon their oath present that eleanor margaret owen, upon the first day of june in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and eighty-nine, feloniously, wilfully, and of her malice aforethought did kill and murder one ann elizabeth lewis against the peace of our lady the queen, her crown and dignity.' chapter ii. the brief for the prosecution. 'a brief for you, sir, for the assizes at abertaff. the great murder case.' mr. prescott looked up as his clerk entered, and heard these words. then he silently put out his hand and took the brief, while the clerk retired into the outer room of the chambers to make a note of the fee. everyone had heard of the great porthstone murder. mr. prescott had followed the papers pretty closely in their accounts of it--the discovery, the proceedings at the inquest, before the magistrates, and so on. the brief did not take him altogether by surprise. he had been entrusted with several important prosecutions before this, and the solicitor representing the crown in the present case was a personal friend of his own. he had, therefore, all along had expectations of appearing in the case, and his only doubt had been whether, on account of its unusual importance, a queen's counsel would be engaged along with him, or whether he would have the charge of the case himself. it need hardly be added that mr. prescott was still a member of the 'junior bar,' that is to say, he had not arrived at the dignity of a queen's counsel. but he had been some ten years in the practice of his profession, and occupied a foremost position among the members of the southern circuit. tall, thin, and auburn-haired, with a ruddy complexion, his appearance was rather remarkable among the brethren of the long robe. but he had a pattern lawyer's face, with the firm decided chin, the pronounced nose and strongly-marked eyebrows characteristic of the race. before opening the document in his hand, he took a hasty glance at the outside. it bore the usual endorsement. at the head were the words 'mynyddshire summer assizes, _holden at_ abertaff, th july, .' then followed the name of the case: 'regina, _on the prosecution of sergeant evans_, against eleanor margaret owen,' and the description of the offence: _'for wilful murder.'_ next came the word 'brief' in very large letters. _'for the prosecution_: mr. chas. prescott, guineas.' and a little below, on one side, 'with you, mr. f. j. pollard.' this was a younger man, who was to act as junior to prescott. last of all came the solicitors' name at the foot, 'pollard and pollard, abertaff.' they were, as may be surmised, relations of the young gentleman who had been favoured with the junior brief. mr. prescott smiled pleasantly at the number of guineas, and sardonically at the name of the counsel whose assistance he was to receive. then, pulling off the tape, he unfolded the document, and settled down to a study of its contents. it was headed inside by the same words as appeared in the endorsement, down to 'wilful murder.' after that it went on to give a copy of the indictment. then came the narrative itself: 'case for the prosecution. 'in this case the prisoner, eleanor margaret owen, is charged with the wilful murder of ann elizabeth lewis. 'the facts of the case are as follows: 'the deceased, miss ann lewis, was a maiden lady, living at porthstone, in mynyddshire, a quiet little seaside place about twenty miles from the county town, abertaff. 'her only surviving relative was a nephew, john lewis, who had been for a considerable time in australia, but, having made some money, returned to england, and arrived at porthstone on the evening of the first of june. 'the accused, eleanor margaret owen, is an orphan, her father, the late rector of porthstone having died two years ago.' ('poor old owen! i remember him well,' murmured the barrister. 'it's well for the poor old chap that he is gone.') 'immediately on her father's death she went to reside with miss lewis, with whom her father and herself had been on friendly terms, in the capacity of a paid companion. 'she was paid £ a year, and had no other means of support; but rebecca, a servant in the house, will say that she has heard miss lewis promise to remember the accused in her will. 'deceased was rather eccentric in money matters, and invested a large portion of her savings in valuable jewels. no one ever saw the collection; but william williams, a jeweller, of abertaff, will swear that he supplied deceased with something like a thousand pounds' worth of jewels annually for several years past. 'it will be seen below that these jewels have entirely disappeared since the night of the murder. 'counsel will observe that a motive is here suggested for the crime. 'on the night of the first of june last mr. lewis, deceased's nephew, left the house about o'clock and did not return that night. 'shortly after he was gone deceased was heard to retire by the servants. these are four in number, and consist of a butler or general man, cook, housemaid, and parlourmaid. 'the three women servants went to rest at a quarter past ten, and the butler at half-past. 'all this time prisoner was downstairs in the drawing-room, where she had spent the evening with deceased and mr. lewis. 'about eleven the butler thinks he heard her come upstairs to her bedroom, which adjoined deceased's, with a door of communication between. this door was never locked or bolted. 'an hour afterwards rebecca, the parlourmaid, woke from sleep, and heard a stifled groan somewhere below. apparently it proceeded from miss lewis's room. she did not waken the housemaid, who sleeps in the same room. she attributed the sound at the time to troubled sleep. 'shortly afterwards she heard a subdued sound, as if of footsteps going downstairs. she was not alarmed, as she thought she recognised miss owen's tread. she therefore roused no one, but, inspired by curiosity, got up herself, put on some things, and crept downstairs. 'all the doors were closed as she passed. she listened outside miss owen's room, but heard nothing. just then she thought she heard the front-door pulled gently to. she went cautiously down, and discovered that all the bolts had been undone, and the door was fastened simply by the latch. 'three persons carried a latchkey--miss lewis, the butler, and miss owen. one of the three had, therefore, gone out. having ascertained this, she retired to her room.' ('now we're coming to something like evidence,' remarked mr. prescott, as he made copious interlineations with a blue pencil. 'that's the worst of pollard; he always will write in this florid style. his brother's speeches are just the same.') 'she did not go to sleep, however. she lay awake listening for some time, and then she heard footsteps ascending and going into one of the bedrooms below. her room was immediately above that of deceased. 'in about ten minutes more, to employ the witness's own expression, the footsteps came out again and descended to the hall for the second time. the parlourmaid now awaked the housemaid, lucy, who slept in the room with her, and they both sat up and listened. 'the footsteps sounded heavier this time; the witnesses describe them as "thumpy." counsel will see that this would be the natural result of someone carrying a heavy load. 'this time neither of the servants made any attempt to follow or observe what was taking place. they say they heard the hall door softly pulled to, but nothing more. 'shortly afterwards they both fell asleep. 'the same night, about o'clock, a fisherman of the place, named evan thomas, was coming up from the beach. he had been doing some night fishing. 'as he got on to the esplanade he observed the figure of a woman walking swiftly away from him in the direction of newton bay. he knows prisoner well, and believes it was she he saw. 'there is no further evidence as to what occurred that night. 'in the morning the housemaid lucy was the first down, as was usually the case. _she found the hall door locked and bolted, as the butler left it at half-past ten the night before._ 'one of the household, therefore, must have been out, and returned after the witness rebecca had gone back to her room. 'putting these facts together, it is clear that the only possible authors of the crime subsequently discovered must have been the butler, who had a latchkey, and prisoner. 'at eight o'clock the witness rebecca came down and took two jugs of hot water to the ladies' doors. she knocked at each. she heard a faint reply from prisoner, but none from deceased's room. 'at half-past eight prisoner usually came down, and deceased was generally seen a few minutes after. 'on this morning, the second of june, neither of them had appeared by nine o'clock. 'the witness rebecca then remembered that miss lewis had not answered when called, and feared that she had failed to waken her. she therefore went upstairs and knocked again. 'there was no answer. becoming alarmed, because her mistress was old and had once suffered from some seizure, she went to miss owen's door and knocked impatiently. 'prisoner at once came and opened it. she was completely dressed, and apparently ready to come down. 'the following conversation, or something near it, then took place: 'the witness rebecca began by saying that she had knocked at miss lewis's door, but could get no answer. "do you know if any thing's the matter?" she said. 'prisoner heard her without any appearance of surprise, and merely answered: '"no; we had better call to her, and if she doesn't answer, i'll go in." 'they then went together to the door on the landing, and prisoner called out loudly: "miss lewis! may i come in?" 'there was again no answer. prisoner then put her hand to the door and turned the handle. the door, however, would not open. it was locked, and the key was inside. 'the only possible access, therefore, was through prisoner's own room. 'it is unnecessary to draw counsel's attention to the gravity of this circumstance.' ('quite unnecessary,' said prescott sarcastically to himself. 'bless my soul, how he piles on the agony!') 'by this time the other servants in the house had taken the alarm. the butler, john simons, came on the scene, followed by the cook and housemaid. it was he who now addressed prisoner: '"we must get in through your room, miss," he said. 'it may be well to state here that simons had lived with the deceased for fifteen years, and was greatly trusted. 'he now went straight into prisoner's bedroom. prisoner now seemed thoroughly alarmed, and ran in after him, the three women coming next. 'as he was about to take hold of the handle of the door opening into miss lewis's room, he suddenly beheld a sight that made him reel back. this was a smear of blood on the china handle. the witness rebecca caught sight of it at the same time, and uttered a loud scream. 'no one noticed the demeanour of the prisoner at the moment of this discovery. but when they had recovered sufficiently to take notice, she was leaning against a chest of drawers, deathly pale.' ('confound the man!' exclaimed the reader, as he came to this sentence. 'how he does go on against her! it's enough to make me think her innocent. poor little eleanor! it's five years since i saw her. she was a pretty little thing of fifteen then. i wonder what sort of woman she has turned out. well, well, i must stick to business.') 'simons quickly recovered his presence of mind. taking hold of the handle so as to avoid touching the smear, he burst open the door, and rushed in towards the bed. 'the bed was empty. 'it seemed to have been slept in the night before, and the clothes were not much disarranged; but on the lower sheet, close to the bolster, was a large stain of blood. 'the stain was about the size of a cheese-plate, dark in the centre, and fainter round the edge. there was no other trace of violence. 'the room was then searched. all present took part in the search except prisoner, who sat in a chair looking on. 'deceased's clothes, worn by her the day before, were found in their proper places, thus negativing the idea that she could have gone away herself. her nightdress, on the other hand, was missing. this would point to the prisoner's having killed her in her sleep and disposed of the body as it was. 'no further trace of violence was discovered in the room. the butler then got them all out, and locked both doors on the outside. he then went for the police. 'this was about half-past nine. on his way to the police-station he met mr. lewis, deceased's nephew. he stopped him and related the circumstances. 'mr. lewis was greatly upset. as soon as he was able to speak he pointed out that the only possible author of the crime was miss owen. he turned and accompanied simons to the police-station. 'at the police-station they found sergeant james evans. to him simons detailed the incidents already described. mr. lewis then stepped forward and said: '"i charge eleanor owen with the murder of my aunt, ann elizabeth lewis. i have made some money, and, please god, i'll spend every penny of it rather than my poor aunt shall remain unavenged."' ('all this is not evidence,' muttered the barrister, impatiently scoring out the paragraph with his pencil. 'why does pollard put in things like this? perhaps it supplies a clue, though, to his enthusiasm,' added mr. prescott thoughtfully. 'i dare say he's got this lewis behind him, and is bleeding him pretty freely. that accounts for the figures on my brief, so i oughtn't to complain. but i wish to goodness it were anybody but old owen's daughter. why, i can remember kissing her when she was only six years old.') 'sergeant evans, who will be called as a witness, now proceeded to the house and made a thorough search. two important facts were now discovered. 'the butler had left the house by the back door, but on returning with mr. lewis the party entered by the front. simons stepped forward with his latchkey to open the door, but found the latch already lifted, and stuck fast in its raised position. 'this was a thing which always occurred if the latch was lifted too high. the keyhole is shaped like an inverted t, and the members of the household who carried keys were generally careful not to push them too far upward, lest this result should occur. 'counsel will probably be inclined to see a sufficient explanation of the incident in the agitation and haste by which a criminal would naturally be overcome just after the commission of such a crime.' ('yes; i suppose so.' the barrister paused for some time, knitted his brows, and tried to think the matter out. 'yes, it would be a natural result,' he admitted at length, and resumed his reading.) 'the next discovery was equally important. 'miss lewis's bedroom window looked over the front garden. immediately below it, under the dining-room window, was a grating over a window, which gave light to an underground scullery. this grating was surrounded by a bed of shrubs, which concealed it from the eye of visitors. 'sergeant evans's first move was to proceed to this spot. he was rewarded by finding blood-stains on the grating. the nearest shrubs had been roughly handled, and some of their leaves lay scattered about. 'the inference which counsel is asked to draw is that the body--or a portion of it--was lowered down through the window, and thence carried away. 'this would evidently be much easier for a young woman like the prisoner to do than to carry it downstairs. 'her second journey down, when she appears to have been bearing a load of some kind, may be accounted for by supposing that she returned for the jewels. these, as already stated, have disappeared. 'during deceased's lifetime she maintained great secrecy about these jewels. no one, not even the servants who had been with her longest, seems to have known anything as to their whereabouts. 'it is suggested, therefore, that they were kept by deceased in a secret hiding-place. this secret must have been disclosed to prisoner, or found out by her. 'probably, had deceased's nephew been home longer, he would have learnt something about the matter. 'counsel will doubtless have noticed the coincidence of the crime being committed on the very night of mr. lewis's return. probably this was to anticipate any communications between aunt and nephew which might have resulted in his obtaining access to the treasure hoard.' ('coincidence, indeed! some people might think it a d---- suspicious circumstance,' said the reader. then, shrugging his shoulders, he added: 'of course, she's guilty, and it's my duty to get a conviction; but, upon my word, i never had a job to do that i liked less. it's all pollard's fault for writing up the brief so desperately. he and his lewis!') 'sergeant evans now proceeded to arrest the prisoner. when he charged her with the crime she turned pale, and cried out that it was impossible. but she shed no tears, and showed but little emotion after the first surprise.' ('pooh! what difference does that make? this sort of thing simply depends on the person's character, not on whether he is guilty or not.' and the blue pencil did some more scoring out.) 'the only remaining circumstance of the case is the disposal of the body. 'in the afternoon of the same day, the second of june, a visitor staying in porthstone, named wilfrid meredith, was walking out to newton bay. just as he rounded the corner and came into the bay he discovered on the edge of the waves a human hand. 'although somewhat bruised and discoloured, this hand has been identified as the deceased's by her nephew and the servants. 'on the fingers were several valuable rings, which deceased constantly wore. about the identity, therefore, there can be no reasonable doubt. 'no other portion of the body has yet been found. for this reason the treasury have declined to take up the case, which is in the nature of a private prosecution on the part of mr. lewis. _'call john lewis.'_ at this point mr. prescott laid down his brief and leant back in his chair. the remainder of the document consisted of the proofs or statements of the evidence which each witness was prepared to give. much of it would, of course, be merely a repetition of the narrative contained in the first part. it could therefore be looked at some other time. he laid down his brief and began to think over its contents. it was a case of circumstantial evidence, evidence which all seemed to point one way, and to fix a horrible crime upon a young girl whom he remembered as a pretty child. though not a native of mynyddshire, charles prescott was familiar with the district. he had, in fact, been educated at a grammar school in the next county, and it was while he was there that he had made the acquaintance of the owens. his favourite schoolfellow, a boy a few years younger than himself, came from the little watering-place, and a summer seldom passed without prescott spending some part of his holiday at his friend's home. there it was that he had seen old owen, the parish rector, and had caught a few passing glimpses of the little eleanor. hence his interest in the present case, and the unusual feeling of reluctance with which he approached his task. he had not been to porthstone for five years now. the schoolfellows were still friendly--in fact, they saw a good deal of each other still, having taken up the same profession and joined the same circuit. but prescott had got on much better than his friend. he had had five years' start to begin with, and his was that firm, persevering temperament which ensures success to the lawyer. he had therefore risen steadily, and was already making an income of twelve or fifteen hundred a year, while his younger and erratic friend had but gained a precarious foothold in the profession by dint of a few brilliant speeches, which covered a very superficial acquaintance with the law. 'i wonder who will have the defence!' meditated prescott. 'it will surely run to something more than a docker!' a docker, it should be explained, is the name for a retainer which is handed direct from a prisoner in the dock to a counsel, without the intervention of a solicitor. it is the resource of the poorer class of offenders, who can scrape together that single guinea, but no more. 'i have it. i'll go and see tressamer about this. he goes there still, and ought to know all about it.' tressamer was the name of his old friend. his chambers were in an adjoining court of the temple. prescott put on his hat, told his clerk where he was to be found, and strolled forth. chapter iii. counsel for the defence. 'mr. tressamer is inside, sir. will you walk in?' thus said the clerk at mr. tressamer's chambers as soon as he saw mr. prescott. then, stepping to the door, he rapped and opened it, saying the visitor's name. 'well, tressamer, where have you been this age?' the speaker stopped, startled at the sight that presented itself, for there, lying on his face on the hearthrug, with his hands clutching at his thick black curls, lay george tressamer, the very picture of one in mortal despair. he sprang to his feet as his friend entered, and made an awkward attempt to behave as if he had not been seen. 'why, prescott, where do you come from, pray? more excursions to the county court, with the solicitors on opposite sides racing to you to see which can get his brief into your hands first?' prescott thought it best to take the hint, and not remark on his friend's trouble. he quietly answered: 'no; i've not been anywhere. been in town, preparing for the assizes. by-the-bye----' he paused to look for a chair, and was surprised to find every one in the room littered with books. he proceeded to clear the nearest to him, lifting the books on to the floor. 'i've just had a brief to prosecute--hullo! "hawkins' pleas of the crown"! i had no idea you were such a student--in that porthstone case--the murder----' again he stopped short. a look of anguish had come into his friend's face. 'what is it, old man? i can see something's gone wrong.' 'charlie,' was the reply, spoken in a tone hardly above a whisper, 'are you prosecuting eleanor owen?' prescott nodded. 'and have you read your brief?' 'i've just come from it.' 'then you can understand how i feel. i am defending her--and i love her!' he threw all the energy of his passionate nature into the last sentence, and then sank down upon the window seat and hid his face with his hands. for several minutes neither spoke. prescott hardly knew what course to take. to offer to resign his brief might be to let it pass into the hands of one who would share mr. pollard's prejudice against the accused. on the other hand, to retain it, unless he were prepared to bring the case fully home to the prisoner, would be alike a breach of professional honour and an act of dishonesty. he resolved at last to leave the choice to his friend. 'george,' he said. the other slowly lifted his head. looking upon that face, his friend could see the marks of the terrible experience he was passing through. tressamer had always been a youth of wild and stormy emotions; no man less calm and steadfast than prescott could have maintained a friendship so long with such a nature. but now he was struggling with passions compared with which the emotions of schoolboys were as nothing. 'george, what shall i do? i want you to decide. you know me too well to think i care about the little benefit to myself when it's a case of life and death with a friend like you. shall i chuck up the case?' tressamer gazed at him gratefully at first, and then with a hesitating, pondering look. finally he said: 'you have read your brief, and, of course, you know the worst. tell me, what do you think, honestly?' 'honestly, george, i see no defence. there is no doubt the old woman has been murdered. i don't see how it could have been done by anyone outside the house; and then there is the blood on the door-handle. i may tell you that, even before i knew how you stood, in reading the brief i felt a sort of hesitation--that is, i couldn't get that feeling of confidence that one generally has in one's case when the evidence is clear. i felt as if i shouldn't put much heart into the prosecution. but, still, i don't see what defence there is.' tressamer listened in silence, and let a moment or two go by before he gave his decision. 'i would rather you kept your brief. i would rather you did it. after all, you have merely a mechanical part to perform; it is only routine. suppose i were to have a limb amputated, i should like it to be done by a man i knew. and this is something of the same sort. the evidence is there, and you will not make it any worse--or better.' the other was shocked at the gloomy, resigned way in which he spoke. 'good heavens! you don't mean that you too believe----' 'no, charles. i believe she is innocent. but i do not expect her innocence will ever be proved in this world.' 'oh, come, you mustn't give up now! all sorts of things may happen. the trial may go differently to what you expect. half the time these witnesses don't swear up to their proofs.' 'they have given their evidence twice already--at the inquest and before the magistrates.' 'yes; but then they weren't cross-examined. it is very different when they have a man like you to turn them inside out. you're not nervous about it, are you?' 'nervous!' he smiled grimly. 'no; it was at my own request i received this brief. a breach of etiquette, you see'--with another heavy smile. 'if she can be saved, i shall save her. shall i tell you my defence?' 'no, don't; i would rather be taken by surprise. i don't want to shine in this case, heaven knows! take every advantage i can fairly give you. i know you don't expect more.' 'thank you,' was the answer. there was a little pause, during which neither spoke. at last, returning to the only topic in either mind, tressamer observed: 'i have been deep in this ever since it occurred. i have been running up and down to porthstone. i was at the inquest and in the police-court, but i thought it best to do nothing, and let the public think she was undefended. it may soften their feeling towards her. all these little things have to be thought of.' 'yes; don't you remember that famous shepherdsbury case? the man who acted for the prisoner--the solicitor, i think it was--made such a brilliant fight in the police-court that the magistrates hesitated to commit; but the result was that the crown knew all about the defence, and when the real trial came, the man hadn't a chance. always reserve your defence.' 'yes; but you forget, the solicitor has got a splendid practice through it,' was the bitter answer. 'few men in the west of england are doing better in that class of business. did you know--but of course you didn't--that i was down at porthstone only two days before the thing happened?' 'no; were you?' 'yes; and i was staying in abertaff that very night. i intended coming up to town the first thing in the morning, but something detained me, and in a few hours the news arrived. so i went down at once, saw eleanor at the police-station, and advised her what to do before any of those meddling pollards got at her.' 'pollards? why, they are briefing me for the prosecution!' 'yes, i know. pollard conducted it in the police-court. at the inquest he represented that man lewis, the nephew, and very bitter he was, too. but i made eleanor choke him off before that. wouldn't have him at any price. i have got a quiet old chap in abertaff now who won't interfere--old morgan.' 'do you know, i thought he was trying to press the case rather in my brief. this accounts for it. but what sort of a man is this lewis?' 'oh, a big, coarse-looking fellow. came back from australia just before it happened. a brute! he's egging on the crown. she left him all her money--about twenty thousand--but the jewels are supposed to be worth nearly as much more, and he's lost them, and so he's savage.' 'i say, george, i don't know that i ought to say it, but has it occurred to you as at all curious that he should have returned the very night it was done?' a gleam of furtive joy crossed the other's face, and instantly vanished again. _'has that struck you_?' he said, and seemed about to add something more. but he restrained himself, and merely added: 'the less you and i talk about it the better, perhaps. coming out?' and they left the chambers together. but though tressamer ceased to discuss the subject with his friend, he could not dismiss it from his mind. the sparkling wit, the wild, extravagant humour, for which he had been famous, seemed to have withered up in the furnace of his terrible grief. he lunched with prescott in almost dead silence, and as soon as it was over got up hurriedly and disappeared. he had truthfully described himself as having been deep in the case from its commencement. when the news of what had happened at porthstone reached the town of abertaff he was walking in the high street alone. he saw the unusual excitement, and meeting an acquaintance, learned from him that miss lewis had been murdered. 'and they say it was done by her companion, a girl named owen,' added the man. tressamer turned white, gasped for breath, and cried out loudly: 'it's a lie! i swear she is innocent!' in another moment he had darted off to a cab-stand, and was on his way to the station. there he had one of those sickening waits for a train which are inevitable on such occasions. twice he was on the point of ordering a special, but each time he restrained himself by the thought that by the time it was ready the ordinary train would be nearly due. he shunned the gloomy waiting-room, and strode up and down the narrow platform with swift, excited strides. the porters and newspaper-boys stared as he rushed to and fro, hardly heeding the piles of luggage with which railway servants seek to break the dull monotony of a platform promenade. there was french blood in tressamer: short, dark, thick-necked, yet far from stout in figure, he possessed the strain of sombre passion which runs through the blood of the celtic races. he could no more control himself in deference to the officials of abertaff station than a madman when his frenzy is on him can conceal it from his keepers. at last the train drew up. he sprang into a carriage, and impatiently endured the journey down to the seaside. arrived there, he proceeded instantly to the police-station and demanded an interview with miss owen. at first there was some difficulty, but tressamer was not to be checked. 'i am her legal adviser,' he announced. 'i am a member of the bar, and i consider it of vital importance that i should see the prisoner at once. if you refuse, i shall wire straight to the home office.' this threat produced its natural effect. the police, in doubt as to their powers, gave way, and he was taken into the cell where eleanor had been secured. if eleanor had not wept when she was accused of the terrible crime, neither was she weeping now. she was sitting in a dull, stony apathy, from which she was hardly aroused by the sound of the barrister's familiar name. she looked up, it is true, and gazed at him with lack-lustre eyes. but she uttered no word. he, on his part, waited till the constable had withdrawn. then he advanced a step from the door, and said: 'eleanor, you are innocent. will you let me save you?' then at last the light came into her eyes. then at last the unnatural stiffness faded out of her frame. then at last the awful coldness loosed its hold of her heart, and answering, 'george, i do not deserve your help,' she gave way to a tempest of tears. he waited till the storm had spent its first fury. every shade of anguish passed across his face meanwhile. but he strove to master his feelings, and to put a commonplace expression into his voice, as he said at length: 'i have been in abertaff the last two days--since i left you.' his voice trembled an instant, but he went on: 'i heard the news this morning, and came down at once. i want to defend you. i want you to accept my services as a token that you still look on me as a friend, in spite of all that has happened.' 'i don't know how to answer you,' she murmured. 'the more generous you are, the more ashamed i feel. i ought not to take your help. and yet you are the only creature in the world who has not forsaken me.' 'don't say that, eleanor. no one else knows you as i do. no one else feels to you---- but i won't say anything about that. one stipulation i must make. you are not to thank me--not one word.' and with a stern gesture he waved her off, as she made a movement as if to throw herself at his feet. 'but you must forgive me,' she said. 'whether i am as wicked as you told me i was when we parted or not, you must tell me that you take me for what i am, that you expect no change in me.' she paused a moment, and then cried out with sudden vehemence: 'oh, i have done you injustice! i didn't know how noble you could be! but it is too late; i cannot alter now.' an angry throb convulsed the man during her first words. at the end he ground his teeth and clenched his hands together. 'silence, eleanor! if you speak to me like that again, i shall go. there are to be no thanks, no praises. never refer to the past. i know you and understand. if i cannot tear all hope out of my heart, what is that to you? i ask nothing, and will take nothing unless it is freely given.' he ceased, and she looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and fear. then he referred to her dreadful situation. 'i needn't tell you, eleanor, that as your counsel you must confide in me fully. i have heard the story so far as it is public, and up to now i may tell you that, as a matter of law, you are in no real danger.' eleanor stared at him. 'in no danger? what do you mean? is the murderer discovered?' 'no, and never may be. but neither is the body.' 'why, what difference does that make?' 'don't you know?' answered the barrister. 'i thought most people knew that till the body was discovered no one could be convicted of murder.' a ray of hope shone out in the prisoner's face. 'then do you mean that miss lewis may be alive still?' she asked quickly. 'no, no. nobody doubts that she is dead, nor that someone has killed her. but the point is this, that you cannot be legally tried and convicted. the body has disappeared.' the heavy shade of despair settled down once more. 'what good is that?' she answered reproachfully. 'if they believe me guilty it makes it worse for me, because i can never be acquitted. i shall be suspected till i die. oh, i would rather suffer death, i think.' 'hush, hush!' he exclaimed, shocked and agitated. 'listen to me, and try to bear it as best you can. the evidence against you is simply overwhelming. probably i am the only man in the world who believes in your innocence.' 'except the murderer,' she interrupted. 'except the murderer, of course. but what i want to say is this--as things stand now no jury that ever breathed would acquit you. only a miracle can reveal the truth. but what i can do, and mean to do, for you is to save you on the ground i have told you of. you must expect nothing more.' 'george, it will kill me! alone, hated, abhorred, what use would my life be to me when the whole world believed me guilty? no, i will pray for a miracle; but if not----' she stopped and panted in anguish of soul. her suffering was reflected on the man's face. 'don't--don't talk like that!' he cried. 'remember, there will be always one who trusts you, one who reveres you, loves you! i don't mean to ask anything. i would not speak to you like this if i could help it; but remember, if the worst comes to the worst, you have always one friend to turn to, one man who asks no higher joy than to pass his life with you, whether here or in some far-off country, and devote himself to soothing your distress.' while he was unfolding these views a sudden misgiving entered eleanor's mind. rising up, she crossed the cell to where he sat, and, laying her hands on his shoulders, she gazed full into his eyes. 'george,' she uttered in solemn tones, 'i adjure you to tell me the truth. do you really believe me innocent?' 'before god, i do!' burst out his answer, as he looked her in the face. she was satisfied, and returned to her seat. 'and now,' said tressamer, assuming a more lawyer-like tone, 'tell me all that occurred that night.' a long conversation followed, of which the barrister took copious notes in his pocket-book. it was late in the afternoon when he came out of the cell and went to secure accommodation in porthstone for the night. his step was slow, his head drooping, as he came along the esplanade. suddenly he saw in front of him a concourse of people following a policeman, who held something in his hand, and a gentleman dressed in the unmistakable garb which proclaims the seaside visitor. as the crowd came on, tressamer noticed that this gentleman appeared much agitated. even the constable's face betrayed an excitement unusual among his kind. but it never occurred to the barrister that this excitement could be connected in any way with the case in which he was so deeply concerned. he took a closer glance at what the policeman was carrying, and then, to his horror, perceived that it was a human hand, the fingers still gay with precious rings. the next moment they all came up to where he was, and he heard someone in the crowd saying: 'that's the hand of the woman that was murdered. a gentleman has just found it in newton bay.' the fearful truth burst on him like a thunder-clap. the blood forsook his veins; he staggered helplessly to the nearest seat and sank down upon it, moaning to himself: 'lost! she is lost!' the firm ground on which he had been standing had crumbled all at once. the law point on which he had relied to save eleanor's life, in spite of the crushing weight of evidence against her, was robbed by this accidental discovery of more than half its strength. who could any longer pretend to doubt whether a murder had been committed? hence tressamer's despair. coupled with what eleanor had said to him in their interview, however, it drove him to seek more earnestly than he would otherwise have done for some theory of defence upon the facts, some means whereby, if possible, to force a doubt into the minds of the jury, and wring from them a verdict of acquittal. to this task he now devoted himself. he assumed the part of a detective rather than a barrister. in the case of an ordinary client conduct such as this would not have been tolerated for a moment by the rigid etiquette of the bar; but where a case is of such a nature that the barrister is personally concerned, and where he acts as a private individual pursuing his own interests, etiquette has nothing to say. in joining the bar a man does not cease to be a citizen and to enjoy the rights and privileges of ordinary mortals. it is only in his professional character that his acts come under that rigid supervision which is at once the dread and envy of inferior professions. but, in any event, george tressamer's present mood would not have let him give much weight to considerations of such a character. too much was at stake. he had to keep in constant communication with eleanor, to encourage her in face of the ordeals of the coroner and the magistrates, and to protect her from the zeal of the various graduates of the incorporated law society who were thirsting to win glory in her defence. as a blind to the public, he caused the rumour to be spread that she was without professional advice. this idea was confirmed when it got to be known that she had refused the services of messrs. pollard and other gentlemen of the neighbourhood. meanwhile tressamer was enabled to go about with less publicity and to pursue his inquiries. eleanor was disposed to wonder at him for not employing a detective. but he soon explained that. 'i know detectives,' he said to her. 'i have seen them in the witness-box and out of it. they are admirable men in their own groove. give them an ordinary crime--a robbery or a forgery--and they can grapple with it. they will track the defaulting cashier to america for you, or run down the absconding broker in the depths of the australian bush. but there their usefulness ends. they are no good in the face of a real mystery like this. this is not a question of clever detection; it is a case of reading the human heart and penetrating its motives. a genius could help us, but i know of no genius in scotland yard. no, i will do what i can; and if i come to anything in the way of ordinary detective work i will send for sergeant wright.' so he continued to work alone. he had by this time seen and talked with every witness whose name appeared in the brief for the crown. he had been present, with the air of a casual spectator, at the inquest, and afterwards at the inquiry before the magistrates, which ended in the committal of eleanor to the assizes to take her trial for wilful murder. he did not tell eleanor much as to the results of his inquiries. he would simply mention that he had been talking to simons, or that he had had a game of billiards with john lewis, and she had to form her own idea of what had passed between them. finally, he went up to london and plunged into that minute study of hale and hawkins which had awakened the surprise of his friend prescott. he was thus kept occupied till both he and his friend were summoned down from town by the approach of the assizes. chapter iv. the assizes. on a certain day in the month of july our lady the queen, probably clad in ermine, and wearing on her head that gorgeous specimen of the jeweller's art which, when not in use, may be viewed at the tower of london for the absurdly moderate sum of sixpence--our lady the queen, i say, was reminded by her faithful chancellor that various prisoners were awaiting trial in different parts of england and wales, and among other places in mynyddshire. whereupon her majesty, with that constant attention to the welfare of her people which befits a sovereign, at once sat down and wrote, or possibly only signed, a stately document requiring and empowering sir daniel buller, knight, one of the judges of her high court; sir john wiseman, knight, another of the aforesaid judges; walter reynold davies, esquire, one of her counsel learned in the law; joseph robert pollington, esquire, another of her counsel learned in the law; and henry jones, esquire, yet a further specimen of her counsel learned in the law, to proceed to mynyddshire, and there and then open the gaols and try such prisoners as were inside them. in a similar and not less elaborate document she thoughtfully went on to provide for their hearing and deciding, at the same time, any disputes over civil matters which might possibly have arisen among the population of that remote locality since it was last honoured by the presence of such bright visitants. this considerate act on her majesty's part was, of course, intended to save her emissaries a second journey. even a monarch, in the administration of justice, need not be above killing two birds with one stone. in proceeding to mynyddshire, however, a very invidious distinction was drawn between the gentlemen named in the royal commission. the two first named, simply because they were knights and judges, went down in state, were met at the station by the high-sheriff of the county, and escorted by twenty javelin-men in gay attire to the comfortable lodgings prepared for them. the other three, for no other earthly reason than because their position was less exalted, had to get down as best they might, scramble into cabs with their portmanteaus, and put up at a common hotel. how true is the venerable saying, 'to him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath'! having thus got an unfair start, the two judges preserved it to the end. they tried all the cases themselves, and their unfortunate colleagues had to be content with what crumbs they could pick up by appearing in court as common advocates. the southern circuit has long been popular with judges. there is a great difference in circuits. the two northern ones, with their vast populations and immense amount of work, are the bugbear of the puisne judge. the scenery of some of the other circuits is flat, and there is not much amusement going on in the assize towns. but the southern combines several advantages. it is far from heavy as regards work, the country in many parts is beautiful, and the train-service between the county towns is fairly good. for these reasons the old stagers on the bench are in the habit of trying to get the southern circuit. on the present occasion they had been successful. sir daniel buller and sir john wiseman may not have been extremely popular with the bar, but they were very popular with each other. they came down to abertaff feeling in good form, sir john to preside over the civil court, and sir daniel to mete out justice to the inmates of the county gaol. not for many years had there been such excitement at assize time in the city. this excitement was due to two causes--the javelin-men and the society murder. javelin-men are dying out. in former times, when the office of sheriff was a mark of high social dignity, and before the new-fangled post of lord-lieutenant had usurped so much of its splendour, the shrievalty was an epoch in a county gentleman's career. it was considered almost worth being ruined for. a heavy mortgage was not grudged as a consequence of the lavish splendour with which the office was surrounded. in those days javelin-men were a reality. clad in semi-military uniforms modelled on the master's family livery, and armed with weapons of an extinct fashion, they simulated the state of vice-royalty. many a german princelet has enjoyed a less imposing body-guard than an english sheriff of the olden time. but the railways have killed all that. everyone now seeks distinction in the metropolis. county society has become a byword for the old-fashioned and the humdrum, for bad living, bad manners, and bad taste. no one would now dream of embarrassing his estate to secure a merely local renown. hence the decay of the shrievalty. the modern high-sheriff looks upon his obligatory office as a duty rather than an honour. he contents himself with the cheap services of the county police force for his retinue, and foregoes the expensive luxury of the javelin-men. there are a few brilliant exceptions, however. the present sheriff of mynyddshire was one. in the first place, he was master of what in the country is regarded as a colossal fortune. in the second place, he was the founder of his family. money, therefore, was not an object to mr. simon reynolds. glory was. his office gave him just the chance he wanted, and he revived its mediæval honours with a willing hand. two-and-twenty men, counting the buglers, in gorgeous clothing of pink and yellow hue, accordingly gladdened the eyes of the abertaffians as they paraded the streets and hung about the court-house. each man of the rank and file carried a weapon the like of which had not often been looked upon. it resembled an axe with an exaggerated handle, only the back of the blade was prolonged into a formidable spike, while the handle extended beyond into a species of spear-point. armed with these truly terrific weapons, mr. reynolds's faithful henchmen might well strike awe into the heart of the boldest boy in abertaff. it was felt that they were the principal feature of the assize. the judges, by common consent, took a secondary place. their robes were fine, no doubt, but their rather ill-fitting wigs formed a poor substitute for the gleaming steel of their rivals. the sober charms of justice cannot successfully compete with the dazzling splendour of arms. as for the high-sheriff himself, in his black velvet coat and frilled shirt-front, he was a very inferior attraction, while his chaplain was simply nowhere. he had his innings for one brief hour in the cathedral, where the judges were compelled to sit as meekly as so many jurymen under a lengthy summing-up; but after that one bright flash he sank into insignificance, and dragged out the remainder of the assize like the stick of a burnt-out rocket, unpitied by all. yet even the javelin-men were cast into the shade by the other great feature of the assize week. the crime of murder remains, after all is said and done, the one thing which most fascinates the public mind. and when to murder is added mystery, and when that mystery centres round the figure of a woman, and when that woman is young and beautiful, and in a social position which does away with the presence of squalid details or coarse motives, the public may be pardoned if they take the very fullest interest in her fate. indeed, the case of 'the queen against owen,' to give it its legal designation, was of more than local interest. the whole kingdom was excited about the position of the unhappy girl who lay in one of the cells of abertaff gaol. every eye was watching eagerly for the unfolding of the tragic drama in which she was about to play the leading part. all the great london dailies had their representatives down at the assize town to gather every detail of the forthcoming trial. already the names of the counsel on both sides were being wired from one end of the country to the other, while in mynyddshire and in the county town itself the excitement was so great that not the smallest attention was bestowed on any other case that was to come before the courts. even the judges themselves were infected with the excitement all around them. mr. justice buller had read the depositions taken before the magistrates prior to leaving town. he had discussed little else with his brother wiseman in the train. in all their experience, they agreed, they had never met with a case so clear upon the evidence, and yet so unsatisfactory to the mind. in the presence of the sheriff, of course, the subject was dropped. nor could it be resumed after dinner. later on the judge of the criminal court sat down to make notes for his charge to the grand jury on the morrow. in this he dealt with several other serious cases that appeared in the calendar. but his gravest attention was devoted to the one that dwarfed all the others. this disposed of, he soon retired to rest. the formal business of opening the assizes had been gone through on the afternoon the judges arrived. sir daniel buller had been trumpeted off to the court-house, and had sat with as much patience as he could command--and that was not a great deal--while a rather short-sighted and very fidgety clerk of arraigns, afflicted, moreover, with a severe cough, stumbled his way through the important documents already described. this proceeding was necessary in order to inform the loyal inhabitants of mynyddshire, chiefly represented by errand-boys and loafers from the neighbouring taps, who their red-robed visitors really were, and what they had come to do. on the following morning, therefore, the judges were free to proceed to work. they drove down to the court at half-past ten, accompanied by the swelling reynolds and the visibly crestfallen chaplain, and escorted by the inevitable javelin-men, who swarmed about the place all day under the pretext of keeping order. sir john wiseman went quietly off to his own court, and began at once at the unexciting work of trying whether the drippings from a wholesale piano warehouseman's spout had or had not damaged the hats in a neighbouring hat store, and, if so, whether the wholesale piano warehouseman was to blame, and if to blame, how much he ought to pay to the aggrieved hatter. two of the gentlemen so unfairly deprived of seats upon the bench were engaged in this important case, and it occupied more than half the day. but it had a rather poor audience. the crowd had rushed into the other court, where the gentlemen of the grand jury were answering to their names as often as the infirmities of the clerk of arraigns would allow them to discover whom he was calling. as soon as the necessary twenty-three were sworn, mr. justice buller began his charge. after a few civil remarks on the state of the county as regarded crime generally, and brief references to some of the other cases, he came to the all-absorbing topic. and now the reporters, who had sat listlessly under the infliction of the previous remarks, woke to sudden life, and every word of his lordship was caught and taken down as eagerly as if it had dropped from the lips of shakespeare. and this is what he said: 'and now i come to what is by far the gravest case in the calendar--one of the gravest cases that has ever come before me in my judicial experience. the prisoner, eleanor owen, is accused of the most serious crime, short of treason, known to our law. gentlemen, it is not for you to try whether she is guilty. you have to hear the witnesses who will be sent in before you on behalf of the crown, and if you are satisfied that they are speaking the truth, and the effect of their evidence on your minds is such as, if uncontradicted, to raise a fair presumption of the prisoner's guilt, then it is your duty to find a true bill against her. from the depositions taken by the magistrates, which have been put before me, i do not anticipate that you will have much hesitation in coming to your decision. the case is entirely one of what is called circumstantial evidence, as such cases most generally are, and must be from the nature of things. doubtless there are difficulties in the case--many and grave difficulties--with which it will be the duty of this tribunal to deal when the prisoner comes, if she does come, before us. the fact that the prisoner is charged with the deliberate murder of her friend--i may almost say her benefactress--with whom she had been living on terms of intimacy for a considerable time, and for no motive that has yet been suggested except a low and mercenary one, is calculated to arouse a natural repulsion in the mind, and to indispose it to believe that the charge is well-founded. but, gentlemen, these things, as they come before you, are matters of evidence. if the witnesses you are about to hear satisfy you that there is a _primâ facie_ case made out against eleanor owen, that there are grounds for suspicion which she ought fairly to be called upon to answer and explain away if she can, then it is your duty not to hesitate, but to bring in a true bill for murder. and i must tell you, gentlemen, that so far as my reading of the depositions has guided me, this is not a case in which the crime admits of being reduced to any lesser charge. there are none of the elements present which may, and often do, justify a jury in reducing the charge of murder to that of manslaughter. there is no question, so far as i have been able to discover, of sudden provocation, of accident, or anything of that sort. whoever committed this crime must, if you believe the evidence, have done so knowingly, designedly, and with premeditation, and therefore your finding, if you find against the prisoner must be one of wilful murder. gentlemen, i leave you to your deliberations.' with these words his lordship dismissed the grand jury; and the barristers, in their wigs and gowns, some of them with briefs and a good many with none, came streaming into the well of the court, filling up the seats specially reserved for them, and overflowing into those occupied by their colleagues of the 'lower branch.' it seems rather hard on the bar that some mysterious rule of etiquette, which they themselves probably do not understand, should forbid them to enter the assize court till this particular stage in the proceedings. or can it be that this rule had its origin in the wisdom of their remote predecessors, devising artful means to escape the infliction of a tedious charge without appearing disrespectful to the bench? a lull followed. the judge, accustomed to have the eyes of men upon him, calmly betook himself to letter-writing. the high-sheriff, not so accustomed, fidgeted in his seat, looked round and counted the javelin-men in court, wondered how long the grand jury would be, and remembered, let us hope with remorse, the time when he was a grand juryman himself and wasted the time of the county by unnecessary questions to the witnesses. the fact is that the grand jury is played out. everything for which they originally existed is now done by somebody else. every case that comes before them now has already been investigated once by the committing magistrates. their duty is simply to accuse the prisoner, nothing more; and it would be quite sufficient if they would just read the depositions and sign the indictment. but man, brief man, placed on a grand jury, and shut into a room without the interference of a legal authority, delights to show himself off by vain and superfluous inquiry. and hence it was that more than half an hour elapsed before the foreman was seen returning into the court with a trumpery indictment for larceny. the interval had been usefully employed by the clerk of arraigns in compiling a petty jury, something in this fashion: the clerk of arraigns (_taking up a ticket, rather larger than a visiting-card, from a heap before him_): 'john henry mullerall!' (_to his clerk, a humble person in plebeian attire, who is popularly believed to know a great deal more about the procedure than the judge and the whole court put together_): 'did he answer?' (_the clerk hasn't heard him._) 'john--henry' (_very loudly_) 'mull---- oh! i see it's muggle'--(_at the top of his voice_) 'mugglewrath!' (_testily_) 'are you there?' john henry mugglewrath (_from a seat close by_): 'here!' the clerk of arraigns: 'oh! there you are. why _don't_ you gentlemen answer when you hear your names? go into the box, please.' after about ten minutes of this sort of thing, twelve respectable inhabitants of mynyddshire were collected in the jury-box. then they all had to stand up while their names were read over a second time. then the clerk of arraigns counted his tickets to make sure he had used up twelve, while his clerk counted the jurymen to see that they came to the same number. then all was ready to begin. meanwhile, those gentlemen at the counsel's table who rejoiced in the possession of briefs made a great show of reading them, and making copious notes and interlineations with pencils of different colours--red, blue, and black. the public were greatly impressed as they watched these young giants of intellect at their work. there they were, mastering the most knotty points with ease, and constructing ingenious arguments, doubtless, as they went along. one gentleman excited the greatest interest, and quite threw his brethren into the shade, by pushing aside his brief and drawing towards him one of the loose sheets of foolscap which the kind forethought of the authorities had provided, and beginning to write on it in an abstracted manner. the onlookers deemed him to be wrestling with an opinion on some weighty question bristling with legal difficulties. they little guessed that he was addressing congratulations to a maiden aunt on the occasion of her approaching birthday. but what really occupied the minds of the spectators, and kept their lips moving in subdued conversation, was the ending of the judge's charge. 'he has made up his mind that she is guilty,' whispered mr. jenkins, the stationer from queen street, who had come to the court in the capacity of a common juryman, but had not been among the names first selected. 'and i don't wonder at it,' replied his neighbour, a farmer from near porthstone, who had been summoned in the same way. 'a bad lot, i'll be bound. wouldn't say nothing when her was before the magistrates. that looks bad, don't it?' 'silence!' bawled a javelin-man just behind them, a rebuke which the worthy farmer at first thought was meant for himself. but the word was repeated instantly by other javelin-men, and then he perceived that the grand jury had at last achieved a stroke of work, and that the satellites of justice were merely drawing attention to that fact in their usual impressive manner. the clerk of arraigns now received the document, and proceeded to expound its contents in this manner: 'gentlemen of the grand jury, you find a'--here he stopped and turned it over to read what was on the back, a task which occupied several seconds; but he completed the sentence as if no break had occurred--'true bill against'--another pause, he was looking for the name concealed amid the mazes of technical phraseology. this time the foreman rashly attempted to help him out by murmuring, 'joseph hall.' the clerk of arraigns turned round and glared at him, then resumed his investigation, and finally brought out the name in a tone of triumph, as of one who gloried in overcoming obstacles, and was not to be baffled by any indictment in the power of man to draw--'joseph hall, for stealing a coat of the value of thirty shillings; also for receiving the same, knowing it to be stolen.' he then turned again, and bestowed an impatient nod on the waiting foreman, who withdrew, a crushed and miserable man. 'put up joseph hall,' was the next command. the governor of the gaol leant forward and repeated the order to a warder, who had already heard it perfectly and dived below, apparently through the solid floor of the court. the next moment mr. hall appeared, with easy nonchalance, and leant forward in a graceful attitude on the bar of the dock, while the clerk of arraigns proceeded to acquaint him with the crime of which he was accused. exhibiting no surprise at this piece of information, which, considering he had been lying under the accusation for two months, was perhaps hardly to be wondered at, mr. hall in emphatic tones pronounced himself innocent. 'what?' said the clerk of arraigns, stretching anxiously forward. mr. hall repeated his sentiments. 'what does he say?' exclaimed the clerk of arraigns, appealing to the court generally for assistance. the response was a loud but confused roar of voices from the junior bar, out of which the only clear sound that penetrated to the unfortunate man's brain was the word 'guilty.' 'he says he's guilty!' he remarked to his clerk, in what he intended for an aside, but which was perfectly audible over the whole building. at this point the judge, becoming impatient, leant over and tapped the clerk of arraigns on the shoulder. he turned round. 'he pleads guilty, my lord,' he said, thinking that the judge wished for information. 'no, he doesn't, mr. hughes. he said "not guilty,"' answered the judge. mr. hughes was nearly beside himself by this time. leaning forward in the direction of the prisoner, he shouted fiercely: 'what _do_ you say? are you guilty or not?' 'no,' came in tones loud enough for him to hear at last. 'then _why_ can't you speak distinctly? the names you are about to hear called are those of the jurors who are to try you if you have any objection to them or any of them you shall make it as they come to the book to be sworn and before they are sworn and you shall be heard. john henry mugglewrath, stand up.' and, leaving this overwhelming communication to gradually make itself clear to the prisoner's mind, the clerk of arraigns went on swearing in the jury as hard as he could go, with the assistance of the judge's clerk (who recited the oath) and his own clerk (who handed the testament, as it is called, though really containing only the works of the four evangelists). it need scarcely be observed that the jurors never came to the book at all. the book came to them. a rather flighty young counsel, who seemed to consider the whole thing somewhat in the light of a joke, or a species of amateur theatricals on a large scale, having presented the case for the prosecution, mr. hall was called upon for his defence. it then came out that the poor man, than whom no more honest creature ever walked the earth, had been made the victim of a truly diabolical hoax. he was sitting reading the newspaper in a public-house, the three hens--he had not even been drinking, mind, simply reading the newspaper--when a perfect stranger, whom he had never seen before nor since, but whom he should know anywhere, came in, with an overcoat (the one produced in court) over his arm. the stranger, with a craft for which an innocent being like mr. hall was no match, began by offering refreshments. these consumed, he asked mr. hall to do him the favour of pawning his overcoat for him. mr. hall naturally put the question, why didn't he pawn it himself? the stranger replied that he was unfamiliar with pawnshops, that he doubted his ability to make a good bargain, and that he was willing to pay his new acquaintance a commission on the proceeds. this last offer mr. hall had magnanimously refused, but out of mere good-nature he went forth to do the stranger's bidding. the pawnbroker, however, with a distrust in human nature which stamped him as having an evil mind, called in a passing policeman, and gave this victim of his own kindly disposition into custody. the sequel was inevitable. the constable was led by the unsuspicious hall to the bar of the three hens, but the mysterious stranger had gone and left no trace. poor, humble, with nothing but his good character to rely on, mr. hall now cast himself with confidence on the discernment of the gentlemen before him. the gentlemen had made up their minds already. but they could not give their verdict till the judge had had his turn. mr. justice buller set to and occupied exactly fourteen minutes in telling the jury that there was not much evidence of stealing, but there was strong evidence of the receiving. the jury then occupied exactly fourteen seconds in deciding that the prisoner was guilty of stealing. it then transpired that this was not the first time mr. hall had been the victim of appearances. his trusting nature had led him on six previous occasions to incur the censure of the law. he was, therefore, now bidden to take up his abode where no such temptations could assail him for the next five years. by this time several other bills had come in from the grand jury, and it had become apparent that the all-absorbing murder would not be tried that day. the audience gradually drifted off, and the remainder of the day's performance took place before a half-empty house. chapter v. the case for the crown. 'may it please your lordship, 'gentlemen of the jury, i am merely repeating a commonplace when i say that i rise to address you under a very heavy sense of responsibility. as you have heard, the prisoner at the bar is charged with the crime of wilful murder. it is now my duty, acting on behalf of the crown, to tell you how that crime was committed, according to the view which i have to ask you to take; and to bring before you the witnesses whose evidence, if you believe it, goes to establish the guilt of the accused.' thus mr. prescott. it was the third day of the assizes. on the tuesday afternoon, after a true bill had been found, mr. justice buller had announced that he should set apart this day for the trial of the great case. the court had opened at ten o'clock. it was crammed to suffocation. the intensest excitement, whetted by the interval of delay, reigned supreme. all eyes were strained towards the dock as the words were uttered: 'put up eleanor margaret owen.' another moment and she stood before them. clothed in black from head to foot, pale as a lily, and trembling in every limb, she sank upon the chair behind her, and covered her face with her hands. a great throb of sympathy shook the court. sobs were heard. the most prejudiced of those who had bandied her name about for the past few weeks felt a dim sense of shame. only a few out of all those present were unmoved: the judge, schooled to conceal all trace of emotion, nay, schooled to stifle it as it rose; the jury, too overcome by the duty thrust upon them to be just then alive to what was happening; the counsel on both sides, who, for different reasons, forbore as long as they could from looking at the dock. she was beautiful. all the suffering she had gone through had not been able to affect that, unless to render her beauty more spiritual and delicate. her hair of that light glistening brown which is best known as golden; her drooping eyes of deepest blue; her wide, square forehead, unshaded by that device of ugliness, the artificial fringe of hair; the full, open lips; the rounded chin--every mark of a certain order of loveliness was there. and she wore no veil. some of the women present condemned her for that. the matron of the prison had besought her to use one. her answer was decisive. she had never put a veil on since childhood, and she would not wear one now. she would not shrink beneath a false charge. she would show her face to them all. she spoke bravely; but she had not realized all that was before her. and when she came up the dark winding stairs from the underground cells, and found herself in that--great god! was it some crowded theatre, or a solemn court of justice?--her physical strength gave way, and she scarce knew what happened for some moments. then her will asserted itself again. she stood up. she faced the judge, the jury, the crowded bar, the fashionable dames in the gallery, and showed no more signs of fear. her name was called, the hideous accusation was made. she answered it out loud. her counsel, dreading another scene like that already recorded, had bent across the table and warned the clerk of arraigns beforehand of what the plea would be. the jury were sworn, including in their number the two onlookers whose remarks on the previous day had been so suddenly cut short. the last formula had been recited by the clerk. 'gentlemen of the jury, the prisoner at the bar stands indicted for that she did wilfully murder one ann elizabeth lewis. to that she has pleaded that she is not guilty. now, you are to try the issue, and to say whether she is guilty or not.' and now the counsel for the prosecution had begun his speech. 'two years ago the prisoner was left an orphan by the death of her father, the rector of porthstone. she went to live in the house of a lady who had known her from a child, and who lived in the same place. with that lady she remained down to the first of last june, and it is that lady with whose murder she now stands charged. 'miss lewis, the deceased, may be described as eccentric. she was in the habit for some years before her death of making very large purchases of jewels----' 'i beg your pardon.' it was the counsel for the prisoner who rose to his feet and interrupted. 'my lord, i am sorry to interrupt my learned friend at this early stage, but may i ask him if he has any evidence that the prisoner knew of the existence of these jewels. if not, my lord, i submit he is not entitled to refer to them at all.' the judge: 'what do you say, mr. prescott?' 'my lord, i am entirely in your lordship's hands. this is the first time it has been suggested to me that the fact of the deceased's having this jewellery was not a matter of common knowledge in the household. i therefore can't say at this stage whether i shall be able to distinctly fix the prisoner with such knowledge.' the judge: 'of course you mean to bring this in as motive?' mr. prescott: 'yes, my lord.' the judge: 'it is a very important matter. if the jury were satisfied that the prisoner did not know of these purchases, and if there were no other motive suggested, it might have a very great effect on their minds.' [at this point the jury tried to look as if something were having a great effect on their minds, and did not altogether succeed.] 'perhaps you had better not say anything about the jewels now. you will have another opportunity after you see what your evidence is.' mr. prescott: 'if your lordship pleases. well, then, gentlemen, i will come at once to the night when this crime was committed.' here mr. pollard was observed to write something on a slip of paper and hand it to his leader. mr. prescott stopped to glance at it, and then went on: 'i may, however, mention one thing before leaving the question of motive, and it is this. i shall be able to prove to you that the deceased on one occasion, in the presence of a witness, made some promise or offer to the prisoner as to remembering her in her will. it is, of course, for you to say what weight you will attach to that circumstance.' here the jury tried to look as if they knew what weight to attach to it, and again utterly failed. 'on the first of june a nephew of miss lewis's, and her only surviving relative, as i am instructed, and who will be called before you, arrived at porthstone. he had just returned from australia, and went to see his relative. he dined there, and spent the evening. at o'clock he came away to his hotel and at once retired to bed. 'the deceased lady had also retired to her room, and from the evidence there can be no doubt that she undressed and got into bed. she was last seen alive a few minutes after ten. the murder was discovered the next morning at nine. between those hours the crime must have been committed. 'the female servants followed their mistress. at half-past ten the butler fastened the front-door. he will describe the fastenings to you, and he will also tell you of a peculiarity in the latch, about which i shall have something to say presently.' the counsel then went on to detail the events narrated in his brief, only throwing in an observation now and then as he went along. when he had described the evidence of the removal of the body by the window, he said: 'and now we come to one of the difficulties in the case. if the prisoner lowered the body out of the window in the first instance, why did she afterwards return to the house, and take a second journey, carrying a burden of some kind? i am hardly at liberty, after what has fallen from his lordship, to suggest to you that this second exit was in order to remove something which the murderer wanted to steal, something with the object of stealing which she committed the graver crime. but, gentlemen, there is another explanation, a terrible way of accounting for that second journey, so terrible and horrible that i wish it were not my bounden duty to put it before you. and it is this: 'only a portion of the victim's body has been recovered. that portion is a hand. now, in the absence of anything to make us think that the cutting off of the hand was a solitary mutilation, we are forced to the probable conclusion that whoever killed this poor woman mutilated her in a very dreadful manner. it is possible, therefore, that after lowering one portion of her victim's remains through the bedroom window, she returned upstairs to bring down some other part or parts of the body.' as the counsel with evident reluctance brought out these horrid points, a shudder ran through the court. the prisoner had borne it all with tolerable firmness up to now, but she was completely overcome by this part of the speech, and cowered down into her chair, again concealing her emotions by putting her hands before her face. if mr. prescott had any idea of making the jury revolt at the thought of associating such shocking brutalities with the prisoner, his speech produced the very opposite effect to what he intended. the jury saw in it nothing but the natural reluctance of a man at making such a charge, overborne by the counsel's conviction of the prisoner's guilt. their faces assumed an aspect of stony horror as they turned their eyes upon the shrinking girl. a slight frown crossed tressamer's countenance, followed by a look of contempt. 'the second difficulty in the case,' resumed prescott, 'is as to the latchkey. as i have explained, there were only three keys in existence so far as the prosecution have been able to discover. these will all be produced before you. one was found in the pocket of the deceased's dress, the other was never out of the possession of the witness simons, the third was on the prisoner's person when she was arrested. one of these keys, therefore, must have been used in the latch that night, and must have been used with such carelessness or ignorance--it is for you to say which'--[again the jury tried to look as if they were prepared to say which, and again they broke down]--'that the latch was raised too high, and stuck. now, here i must draw your attention to a very important circumstance. the person who entered the house last, whether the prisoner or anyone else, and who fastened up the front-door as it was found by the witness lucy jones the following morning, that person must, for some reason or other, have failed to notice the condition of the latch. she, if we assume it was the prisoner, must be supposed to have been so agitated from some cause that she failed to notice what she was doing when she raised the latch with her key, and failed again to notice how the latch was caught when she proceeded to fasten the door inside. 'gentlemen, it is for you to ask yourselves whether a reasonable explanation, an explanation that will justify you in coming to an adverse verdict in this case, is furnished by the suggestion that the prisoner's mind was excited by the crime she had just committed to such an extent as to deprive her of the power of observing these things.' at this point mr. f. j. pollard began to be aware that his leader was not pressing the case very vigorously. he looked round at his brother in the solicitors' seat behind. that gentleman looked extremely angry. he had noticed something curious in his counsel's manner from the first. he now leant over and whispered to his brother: 'what's the matter with prescott? i can't make him out. he talks as if he were the judge summing up, instead of the counsel for the prosecution.' mr. pollard, the barrister, shrugged his shoulders and bit his lip. he could do nothing. it was not for him to offer advice to his leader. a man of mr. prescott's standing was not likely to tolerate any interference from a young fellow just called. but the offender proceeded to cap his misdeeds by a new suggestion, which had never occurred to either of the pollards. it had been noted down long ago by tressamer, though. 'the third difficulty in this case, gentlemen, is one which has doubtless been present to your minds all the time i have been speaking.' this time the jury made a desperate effort to conceal their astonishment, and to look as if they perfectly well knew what was coming. but no one was deceived. 'i refer to the disposal of the body. on this point we have exactly two pieces of evidence. a young woman like the prisoner was seen walking in the direction of newton bay, about midnight, by the witness evan thomas. on the following afternoon the severed hand was discovered on the beach of newton bay by a visitor. 'how did it get there? it is for you to say. on behalf of the crown, it is my duty to suggest to you that the prisoner in the dock may have carried the result of her crime to that distant spot, in several journeys, one of which happened to be seen. i must put it to you that piece by piece she accomplished her revolting task, and that she sought to hide the traces of her guilt in the sea. if you think that a rational and likely course of circumstances, no doubt you will say so. 'gentlemen, i have done. i trust i have not detained you at undue length over this case, which must strike you as one of the most grave and difficult that could well come before a court of justice. i shall now, with the assistance of my learned friend, put the evidence before you. if you are left in any doubt after hearing it, and, after hearing the prisoner's defence, if you feel that there are mysteries in the case which have not been properly explained, and difficulties which have not been fully met, then you will, i feel sure, be only too glad to acquit the prisoner of this dreadful charge. but if, on the other hand, you are fully and entirely satisfied, if you feel no doubt whatever--of course, i mean no reasonable doubt--you will, i am equally sure, do your painful duty by returning a verdict of guilty.' the barrister sat down, and his junior, who had listened impatiently to the close of the speech, at once started up, and called out: 'john lewis!' and now, for the first time, charles prescott ventured to look towards the dock. after the first involuntary glance at eleanor's entrance, he had steadily kept his eyes averted. during the whole of his address, which took up nearly an hour, he never once looked round. he was afraid to trust himself. that one brief glance had revived the memories of old with an added force which almost overwhelmed him. yet he was not what would be called an emotional man. his was one of those natures which maintain a seeming coldness under all circumstances, but which often conceal in their depths a strength of passion and devotion compared to which the fiery outbreaks of others are mere 'sound and fury, signifying nothing.' and now this hidden force was stirred. it held him in its grasp, and his whole being shook and quivered to its centre. not love at first sight, for he had seen her before. yet love, awakening suddenly as he looked upon her in the full bloom of opening womanhood, surrounded by a halo of suffering, and peril, and mystery, the fated victim of an accusation which he would not believe and could not disprove. this it was that overpowered him; this it was that led to that feeble, halting advocacy which surprised all who heard it. they could not recognise the keen, trenchant prescott who had made such a name for himself on the circuit. the pollards were the only ones there who resented it, but they were by no means the only ones to be puzzled at the change. but prescott did not easily give way to his feelings. the sense of duty was sufficiently strong in him to keep him from absolute abandonment of his cause. he had gone faithfully through the case, and he was now preparing to take his part in examining the witnesses. pride and professional training asserted themselves, and he stood firm. at this moment, however, and when he was suffering most acutely, one of those happy accidents which men call good fortune or providence, according to their dispositions, came to his aid. a solicitor's clerk hurriedly came into the court and made his way to the barrister's side. an unforeseen event had occurred. a case in the other court which had been expected to last all day had suddenly come to a settlement by agreement between the parties. the next case on the list was one in which mr. prescott was engaged, and engaged by himself, and his immediate presence was called for. breathing an ejaculation of thankfulness, he got up, and quickly withdrew, leaving young pollard to manage the witnesses as best he could. the judge looked annoyed, and the solicitor pollard somewhat dismayed, at this sudden disappearance of the leader for the crown. but young pollard himself was only too pleased. at last he was to have his chance. he was left captain of the ship. if all went well he might hope to get through the evidence, and have the concluding speech in prescott's absence. and his satisfaction was shared by tressamer. tressamer knew his man. for the first time that morning a look of satisfaction crossed his face, and he settled his wig firmly on his head as he prepared to encounter the moving spirit of the prosecution. and eleanor? she did not altogether understand what had happened. but she saw that the man who had put the case against her so mildly had now gone out of it altogether, and her heart gave a great beat of joy for the first time since she had parted with george tressamer two days before the memorable first of june. chapter vi. the witnesses. 'john lewis!' a dark, big man stepped into the box, frowning heavily around him. the oath was administered, and then mr. pollard commenced in the approved style. 'your name is john lewis, and you are now living at the shrubbery, porthstone?' 'yes.' 'that's where the murder was committed?' interrupted the judge. 'yes, my lord. the witness inherited it under miss lewis's will.' the judge: 'have you lived there ever since?' witness: 'yes, my lord.' the judge (after a pause, during which mr. pollard waits impatiently): 'go on, mr. pollard. what are you keeping us for?' mr. pollard: 'i beg your lordship's pardon.' to witness: 'you are the nephew of the deceased, and have just returned from australia?' 'yes; i came back to my aunt.' 'after making some money out there, i believe?' _'i object!'_ this interruption, it need not be said, came from tressamer. he had risen to his feet, and put on that scowl of scornful indignation with which an experienced counsel knows how to daunt a young beginner and make him feel he has committed himself. 'my lord, my friend cannot prove that, and if he could it cannot possibly be evidence against the prisoner. it is a most improper question.' the judge looked a little puzzled. 'it is irrelevant,' he said, 'and i won't allow it if you object. in a case like this we can't be too strict, of course.' mr. pollard began to realize that greatness has its snares as well as its triumphs. he tried to get back on to the track. 'you went to see the deceased on the first of june?' 'i did.' 'and you came away----' here the barrister's brother leant over and handed him a slip of paper. he took it and read it, turned red, and, trying to appear as if he had not been prompted, put the question contained in the slip of paper: 'was anything said about the jewels?' the judge stared. tressamer started to his feet in a transport of fury. 'my lord, my friend is deliberately leading the witness. in a case of murder it is disgraceful!' 'i agree with you, mr. tressamer. don't answer that question, sir.' thus the judge. poor young pollard turned as red as the judge's robe, and stammered out some apology. his brother mentally swore at him, and every solicitor in court resolved never to give him another brief. 'go on, mr. pollard; you mustn't keep us waiting.' the wretched young man gave a last look at his brief, and closed the examination. 'and you left about ten o'clock?' ('leading again!' ejaculated his opponent.) 'yes. my lord, may i say----' 'no!' snapped the judge. 'say nothing unless you're asked.' the witness looked angry, and frowned savagely at his counsel. but the latter had now sat down, and the cross-examination was about to begin. tressamer had been studying the witness, with a view of ascertaining his weak point. this was evidently his temper. accordingly he avoided irritating him till he had obtained as much as he could from him. he began: 'had you any other relatives living besides miss lewis?' the witness was thoroughly thrown out. he could not see what was coming. in a sullen voice he responded: 'yes, i've a sister in the north.' 'did you go to see her before your aunt?' 'no.--my lord, may i explain?' the judge: 'you had better confine yourself to the questions now. you will have an opportunity of explaining afterwards.' 'you went straight to your aunt. was she pleased to see you?' 'yes, she seemed very pleased.' 'and yet she let you stay at a hotel?' 'that was only the first night. it was arranged that i was to occupy a bedroom in her house afterwards.' 'oh!' type cannot do justice to the peculiar intonation with which the barrister uttered this exclamation. the whole court was aroused to suspect something beneath the surface. then he turned round to the jury with a mysterious expression, and slowly repeated the answer: 'it was arranged that you were to occupy a room in her house after that night?' the jury roused themselves for a grand effort, and succeeded in imparting a distinct air of suspicion to their countenances. at last mr. lewis's temper came into play. he cried out: 'yes; and if i had been there the first night, i might have prevented this murder.' 'silence, sir!' said the judge. and now tressamer brought out the question for which he had been preparing the way all along: 'when this arrangement was made about your living in the house, did your aunt (remember you are on your oath, sir!)--_did she happen--to--furnish--you--with--a--latchkey?'_ the effect was electrical. he had brought out the last words of the question slowly one by one, and then he suddenly hurled the final word at the witness like a weapon. john lewis instantly realized the situation. the question was tantamount to an accusation. the whole court took it in that sense, and gazed at him in deadly earnestness. he turned livid. for a moment he could hardly bring his lips to frame a syllable. at length he recovered his self-command, and thundered out: 'no, sir. may god strike me dead if she did!' the fierce earnestness of his denial produced a revulsion of feeling in the court. the jury felt that the counsel had been guilty of unfairness in making such a charge so suddenly, and, as it seemed, with such absence of grounds. the judge was annoyed, too. sir daniel buller hated sensationalism. in fact, he did not like anything which threw his own dignity into the shade. he liked to feel that he was in the star part, and that everybody else in court was merely playing up to his grand effects. he therefore refrained from rebuking the witness, and from this stage he showed himself less favourable to the counsel for the defence. but tressamer had anticipated something of this sort, and he had a card in reserve. he went on with his cross-examination as if nothing had happened. 'you gave the prisoner into custody, i think?' 'i did.' 'you made up your mind that she was guilty, i suppose, without much thinking?' 'i thought there was absolute proof of it.' 'that's what i mean. you were anxious that she should be convicted, were you not?' 'i was anxious that she should be tried. i thought it my duty to see that this crime was punished.' 'by the conviction of the prisoner?' 'if she was guilty.' 'but you felt sure she was guilty? you were the one to accuse her, you know.' mr. lewis was getting irritated again. he made no answer to this suggestion, and the barrister forbore to press it, contenting himself with a meaning glance at the jury. 'you were represented at the inquest, were you not, by messrs. pollard?' 'yes.' 'the gentlemen who are now conducting this prosecution--nominally on behalf of the crown?' and with this parting shot he resumed his seat. young pollard instantly rose. 'my lord, the witness was anxious to explain one of his answers to my learned friend. would your lordship allow him to do so now?' 'yes, yes,' was his lordship's answer. the witness instantly took advantage of the permission. 'i wished to say, my lord, that the reason why i went first to see my aunt, instead of going to my sister's, was because she had befriended me when i was young. she furnished the money to start me with in australia, and i felt it only right, in common gratitude, to come straight and thank her on my return.' another revulsion of feeling swept over the court. the effect of tressamer's last suggestion was obliterated. lewis was once more in favour. pollard had scored. his brother twitched him by the gown from behind as a hint to sit down. but the unfortunate young man must needs try and improve on his lucky shot. he summoned up a very tragic demeanour, and put the fatal question: 'and is there the smallest ground for suggesting that you were near the house or out of your hotel after ten that night?' the witness showed confusion. instead of answering in the prompt, decided style he had hitherto shown, he hesitated for some seconds, and then said with visible embarrassment: 'no, there is none.' pollard hastily sat down. the rules which govern the production of evidence did not permit tressamer to put a further question to the witness, but he was skilful enough to do what accomplished the same result. he called across the barristers' table, in a perfectly audible voice: 'is anyone from the hotel here, mr. pollard?' 'not that i know of,' was the sullen answer. and now it was the judge's turn, and he proceeded to put to the witness that question which was in the mind of every person in court, but which neither of the counsel had dared to put, each fearing the answer might be unfavourable to himself. 'tell me, mr. lewis, had you any special reasons--don't tell me what your reasons were--but had you any reason apart from what you were told by others for accusing the prisoner of this murder?' 'i had, my lord.' 'did that reason arise in your mind as a consequence of anything which you saw the prisoner do, or which took place in her presence?' 'not exactly, my lord. my aunt said to me----' the judge swiftly raised his hand with a forbidding gesture, and pursed up his lips. 'that will do. you can go.' mr. lewis retired, and the jury were left to wonder what the mysterious reason could be, the result on most of their minds being far more unfavourable to the prisoner than if the rules of evidence had allowed the witness to speak freely. the next witness was the butler, john simons, who deposed to having fastened up the door at half-past ten on the night in question, and to having found the latch stuck on the following day. he further described the finding of the blood-stains on the bedroom door-handle. his cross-examination was listened to with interest. 'has it ever occurred to you yourself to accidentally raise the latch too far in the same way?' 'oh yes, i've often done it, sir.' 'were you out on the evening of the first of june?' the butler, a good-natured-looking man, with a pleasant smile, but whose mind was evidently rather unhinged by the position he found himself in, looked bewildered at this, and rather frightened. the barrister hastened to reassure him. 'what i mean is this. if you had been out some time during the evening, before half-past ten, would it not have been possible for you to have accidentally left the latch in this position?' the witness looked relieved, and hastened to answer. 'yes, of course, i might have.' tressamer turned round to the jury to see if they appreciated his point. then he resumed. 'you have known miss owen some time, i think. tell me, have you ever noticed that she was liable to nervous headaches?' 'i have heard her say she had a headache.' 'what was the last time you heard her say so?' the witness looked puzzled, and seemed to be trying to remember. 'perhaps i can help you,' said the barrister. 'about this very time, now; just before this happened?' 'ah, yes, sir, now you remind me, i remember. when she didn't come down that morning, i said to rebecca, "very likely she's had another bad night."' '_another_ bad night? then she was liable to insomnia?' the witness stared. 'i beg your pardon. i mean, she sometimes did suffer from want of sleep?' 'she sometimes had bad nights, sir.' 'exactly. and you remembered she had been having them just before this?' 'well, no, sir; i can't say as i do remember that.' the barrister frowned impatiently. 'well, tell me this,' he said: 'do you know what she was in the habit of doing on these occasions, when she couldn't get to sleep?' 'no, sir.' 'did you ever hear of her going out for a walk at night?' the whole court was eagerly following this cross-examination, as the defence now began to be visible. but the answer of the witness fell like lead: 'no.' tressamer looked deeply disappointed. he had been baffled just where he had evidently built upon success. he only put one more question. 'you had a good many opportunities of seeing your mistress and miss owen together. did they always seem to you to be on friendly, affectionate terms?' 'yes, sir, always.' 'thank you.' this finished the butler's evidence, as mr. pollard wisely abstained from any re-examination. he next proceeded to call the parlourmaid, rebecca rees. a pretty, vain, pert-looking girl stepped into the box, and took hold of the testament. 'take off your glove,' said the clerk. she did so with some difficulty, as the thing had about half a dozen buttons to unfasten. then she was sworn and proceeded to tell her story. in a shrill voice, which visibly irritated the judge, she went on, and described how she had gone to bed, how she awoke at midnight and heard a sound proceeding from below. 'what was the nature of the sound?' asked the counsel who was examining her. 'it was a groan,' was the reply, 'like as if somebody was being hurt.' the prisoner's counsel here hurriedly turned over the pages of his brief till he came to a certain place, where he made a note in the margin. 'what did you hear next?' 'i heard the prisoner going downstairs.' the judge: 'what do you mean? could you see her?' witness: 'no, sir. i heard her.' mr. pollard: 'she means she recognised the footsteps, my lord.' the judge: 'don't interrupt me, please.' (_to witness_) 'young woman, be careful. that is not the way to give evidence, as you know perfectly well. you mustn't tell us that you heard the prisoner. you heard footsteps; that's all.' (_a pause._) 'now, mr. pollard, you can go on.' mr. pollard: 'did you recognise the footsteps?' his lordship frowned and shrugged his shoulders. witness: 'i thought it was miss owen.' mr. pollard: 'well, now tell us what you did.' the girl proceeded to describe how she had got up and gone down to the front-door. 'how was it fastened?' was the next question. 'it was on the latch. the bolts were drawn back, and it wasn't locked nor yet chained.' 'did you see whether the latch was up or down?' 'i object!' mr. tressamer had risen in a fresh burst of indignation. 'my lord, my friend has distinctly suggested the answer to the witness. i object to her being allowed to say anything about the latch after such a question as that.' 'i didn't intend to lead her, my lord,' said pollard. the judge hesitated for awhile between his natural desire to hear the answer and his fear that the witness was not wholly impartial. perhaps a slight prejudice against tressamer's hectoring manner had something to do with his decision. 'you should have asked her whether she noticed anything about the latch,' he said at length. 'did you?' he added, turning to the witness. 'it was _down_, sir,' she returned, answering pollard's question rather than the judge's. the importance of the answer was chiefly in its disposing of tressamer's suggestion that the butler might have forced the latch up. he turned round to the jury, and assumed the air of one who is being unfairly treated. but of course he could not help their seeing that the prosecution had scored a point. rebecca's evidence was continued till she came to where she heard footsteps ascending the stairs. 'how long was this afterwards?' asked pollard. 'about ten minutes,' 'did you recognise those footsteps?' 'no, i didn't notice them; but i think they must have been miss owen's, or else i should have noticed the difference.' tressamer ground his teeth. he was afraid to interrupt again, for fear of the effect on the minds of the jury. they are apt to think a man is losing when he interrupts too often. 'what happened next?' 'she went into the bedroom below.' 'what bedroom?' 'her own, i suppose, or miss lewis's.' 'you couldn't tell which?' 'no.' 'well, and how long was the person, whoever it was, inside?' 'about a quarter of an hour, i should think. i thought she had come in for good, and gone to bed.' the judge (_suddenly looking up from his notes_): 'look here, don't let me have to stop you again, or i shall do something you won't like. it's not for you to tell us what you thought. confine yourself to answering the questions.' mr. pollard (_thinking the judge has finished_): 'and then what did you----' the judge (_superbly indifferent to mr. pollard_): 'do you realize that you are giving evidence in a court of justice? you must be extremely careful--extremely careful.' (_a long pause; mr. pollard afraid to begin again._) 'well, do you ask her anything more?' mr. pollard: 'i beg your lordship's pardon. if your lordship pleases.' (_to witness_) 'after the quarter of an hour, did you hear anything more?' witness (_now thoroughly frightened_): 'yes.' 'what did you hear?' 'i heard her come out.' at this point the judge threw down his pen, and threw himself back in his chair. mr. pollard hastened to take off the edge of his lordship's wrath by reprimanding the witness himself. 'you mustn't tell us that. you don't know it was the prisoner. what was it you actually heard?' the girl now felt and looked ready to resort to tears. she really did not know what answer was safe, and prudently adopted a strictly non-committal form. 'i heard a noise below.' 'what was the noise like?' 'like someone going downstairs.' 'well, why didn't you say that? you heard footsteps going down?' 'yes.' the judge took up his pen again and took down the answer. 'and did you notice the footsteps this time?' 'yes; they were----' 'stop! not so fast. answer my questions.' mr. pollard was by this time little less nervous than the witness. he was really utterly at a loss how to frame his next question without incurring tressamer's wrath or the rebuke of the bench. at last he blurted out: 'was there anything different about the footsteps this time?' tressamer opened his mouth, but the judge was before him this time: 'don't answer. really, mr. pollard, you are as bad as the witness. you know you ought not to put a question like that.' then, seeing that the poor young man was quite unequal to extracting the desired evidence, his lordship quietly took over the examination himself: 'did you notice the footsteps this time when they were going downstairs?' 'yes, sir--my lord.' 'did anything strike you about them?' 'yes, my lord.' 'what?' 'they were heavier, sir, and thumpy.' 'had you ever heard anything like it before? i mean, did they or did they not sound familiar in spite of this heaviness?' 'no, my lord; i don't remember.' 'did you go downstairs again?' 'no, sir.' the judge turned round to the jury with complacency, and smiled as if to say, 'you see, gentlemen, how it can be done by one who knows how.' then he asked the counsel: 'now, mr. pollard, do you want anything more from this witness?' 'no, my lord, thank you.' he sat down, feeling considerably the worse for his experience, and tressamer got up. he looked severely at the young woman for some seconds, and then suddenly asked her: 'why do you dislike miss owen?' at once the court was all ears. it was one of those strokes of brilliant advocacy which few men care to venture on. it was dangerous, but in the present case it was completely successful. the witness lost countenance, stammered, and with difficulty got out a lame denial. 'i don't dislike her particular.' 'do you like her?' 'no.' 'did you ever have any complaint against her when you were her servant?' (he intentionally chose a phrase calculated to irritate.) 'i wasn't her servant,' was the angry reply. 'i should be very sorry to be.' 'i thought so. tell me, you said to my learned friend that the first sound you heard on this night was like somebody being hurt, didn't you?' 'yes, sir.' 'when did you discover that?' 'when did i discover that?' 'yes, woman; don't echo me like that. you know what i mean.' 'i thought so at the time.' _'what!'_ the barrister assumed an expression of amaze. 'i thought so all along.' 'then why didn't you say so all along? when you were before the magistrates, did you say anything about somebody being hurt?' 'yes, i think so.' 'you think so! remember you are on your oath, please, and that i have a copy before me of what you actually did say before the magistrates. when you were before them, did you say a syllable about a sound as if somebody were being hurt?' 'i don't know whether i did or not.' 'i thought so. did you tell the magistrate that you thought it was the sound of someone in troubled sleep?' here the barrister read from his brief. 'yes, sir.' 'and that you thought'--here he turned over the page at which he was looking and glanced at the top of the next, so as to give the impression that he was still reading her exact words--'that the sound came from miss owen's room?' the witness fell into the trap. 'i dare say i did,' she answered. the judge was equally taken in. he had read the depositions, but had not remembered their contents clearly enough to check the barrister. tressamer went to another point. taking out his watch, he said: 'i want to test your notion of ten minutes. will you turn round, with your back to the clock, and tell me when one minute has passed, after i have said the word "now."' all the jurymen and most of the other persons in court took out their watches to check this experiment. the girl turned round, and tressamer gave the word, 'now!' 'tick--tick--tick--tick--tick----' 'now!' said the witness, turning quickly round. a general smile passed over the court. 'seventeen seconds exactly, my lord,' observed tressamer. 'the witness's ten minutes may therefore be put down as three. you have told his lordship that the last set of footsteps you heard sounded heavy when they went downstairs. will you swear that they did not sound equally heavy coming up?' 'i didn't notice.' 'i didn't ask you if you had noticed. don't try and shirk my question, please. will you pledge your oath that they weren't equally heavy coming upstairs?' 'no, i won't swear it.' 'have you any reason, except your dislike of the prisoner, for suggesting that those footsteps were hers?' the judge interposed. 'really, mr. tressamer, you mustn't put it like that. she says that she didn't dislike the prisoner, and you must take her answer. i allow great latitude to counsel in your situation, but you must treat the witness fairly.' 'as your lordship pleases.' tressamer sat down, rather glad to leave his question unanswered, as the effect thereby produced on the jury's mind would be better than if the witness had had a chance of offering her grounds for suspicion. 'lucy griffiths.' this was the housemaid, and her evidence contained nothing of importance. in cross-examination she admitted that she had detected no likeness between the descending footsteps heard by her and miss owen's. in fact, she had at first thought they sounded like a man's. the next witness was the fisherman, who stated to mr. pollard that he had met a female about midnight on the eventful first of june, whom he at the time believed to be the prisoner. he thought so still. his cross-examination elicited two facts: first, that he had once met miss owen at the same late hour before; secondly, that he had met other persons going in the same direction the same night at or about the same time. tressamer chose to emphasize this point. 'could you tell those gentlemen,' he said, indicating the jury, who instantly tried to look as if they had been attending, and had not long ago given up the task in despair, 'what the other people were like whom you saw?' 'well, one of them was a man.' 'come, that's something; but it's not much. can't you tell us what sort of a man? was he tall?' the jury instantly looked at lewis. 'no; i didn't notice as how he was particular tall. middlin' short, i should say.' 'about my height?' 'yes; about that. summat about your size.' tressamer laughed, and a smile went round the court at the serious way in which the witness gave his answer. 'well, who else did you see?' 'i see another man afore then.' 'ah! was he tall?' 'why, yes; i think he was.' the jury again looked at lewis. but that gentleman's face revealed no emotion, except a sort of sullen wrath which had overhung it ever since his appearance in the witness-box. at last, when all the other witnesses had been disposed of, the policeman was called and gave the usual routine evidence. mr. pollard was rash enough to ask him: 'who came to the station to inform the police?' but his opponent at once objected, and the judge ruled the question out. mr. lewis's indignant declaration, therefore, which prescott had struck out of his brief with such prompt disdain, fared equally ill in court, and was not allowed to get to the ear of the judge or jury. at last the evidence was gone through, and then the prosecuting counsel stood up and made the final announcement: 'that is the case for the crown, my lord.' 'i will adjourn for half an hour,' observed the judge, getting on his feet. the whole court rose with him, and in a few minutes the entire place was empty. chapter vii. half an hour. scrambling, rushing, hurrying, squeezing, talking, laughing, and sighing, the great throng poured out of the building and dispersed down the streets of abertaff. one topic was on every tongue. the fate of the prisoner was the sole thing discussed. they weighed the evidence, they repeated it, they distorted it. some were violently in favour of the prisoner, and considered half the witnesses to be committing perjury. others were violently against her, and could not see, so they professed, a shadow of doubt in the case from first to last. others, again, in complete doubt as to how the case would end, wisely declined to commit themselves till they had heard more of the defence. then, again, these parties were subdivided into groups. there was the ignorant group, who knew nothing about the case, and went about asking questions of their wiser neighbours. there was the mysterious group, who suspected many things, but said nothing, contenting themselves with shaking their heads in corners, and suggesting that not half the real motives of the parties to the affair had come out at all. and there was the well-informed group of those who had watched the whole thing from first to last, and knew more, far more, about it than the counsel on either side, or the criminal either, for that matter. and they were not churlish in bestowing their information, either. there were the lewisite partisans, who knew exactly the value of the jewels to a halfpenny, and how they were kept in a box under the bed, and how the prisoner had carried them off by stealth, and buried them somewhere in the sands of newton bay. some of these, the more charitably disposed, could go even further than this. they explained how it was that the prisoner had never meant to commit the murder at all, but simply to steal the jewels, but had been interrupted in the act by the unexpected waking of the deceased woman. they grew impressive as they pictured the elder woman suddenly roused from sleep by the midnight robber, and the emotions of that robber detected in the act of guilt. they could tell you how she started back in terror, and then, realizing that ruin was upon her, succumbed to temporary frenzy, and with the weapon which she had brought to open the jewel-chest dealt the fatal blow to her unhappy victim. others, less lenient in their views, had obtained quite different details. they could relate numerous previous attempts of the prisoner on the life of her benefactress. they knew how she had sought to introduce poison into her food, from which she was only saved by a miraculous chance, which caused her to be summoned from the table just as she was about to taste the fatal dish. also how she had on one occasion led her victim along the cliff with the well-formed purpose of pushing her over the edge; only the curate happened to come along and meet them, and accompanied them till the opportunity was gone. the owenite section, on the other hand, had their account, equally authentic, and, if possible, more minute and graphic than the other. they would tell you more about their villain, lewis, than he himself could possibly have remembered. they took you back to his childhood. they started you with the well-known story of his beating his little sister, the sister in the north whom he had refused to go and see. they explained the causes which led to his expulsion from school after school. they tracked him to australia, and unearthed dark secrets in his life out there which would have made the bushranger kelly reject him from his historic gang. finally, they brought him back to england a ruined desperado, intent on getting at his relative's wealth by fair means or foul. the robbery of her jewels was only part of his scheme. by killing her he obtained the whole of her wealth at once. then a victim became necessary--a stalking-horse to mislead the minions of justice, and whose punishment would ensure his own safety. he was thus a double murderer. so the tongues wagged. meanwhile the object of these rumours had made his way round in a towering passion to the seat from which his solicitor was trying to get away. 'what does this mean?' he cried, as soon as he got near enough to speak without being heard by others. 'are you playing me false? where is mr. prescott?' 'he was called away into the other court,' said mr. james pollard, the barrister's brother, who was a partner with his father in the porthstone firm. 'he ought not to have gone. your brother managed the case wretchedly. i wasn't allowed to say the most important thing of all.' 'my brother did the best he could. no one could dream that prescott would desert us like this. i shall never give him another brief, i promise you.' by this time they had got outside the door of the court-house. they turned towards a hotel close by, where a general luncheon was put on the table for the convenience of people having business in the assize-courts. the civil court had risen a few minutes before the other, and the place was crowded with solicitors, witnesses, jurymen, and the general public. 'look here, mr. pollard,' lewis said, as they fought their way into the room, 'i could have proved that about the jewels up to the hilt if i had been allowed. why, my aunt was speaking to me about them that very night, and she said miss owen knew of them.' 'and why on earth didn't you tell me all this before?' retorted the solicitor. 'i thought i had.' 'thought you had! goodness me! that's just like you laymen. you keep back the chief points in a case, and then you're angry with us because we don't guess them by instinct. why didn't you tell the judge this when he was examining you?' 'because it wasn't said in the prisoner's presence.' 'pooh! why, it was evidence of motive. but there, it's no good trying to explain the law of evidence to you. if any thing's gone wrong, you have yourself to thank for it--a good deal, that's all. what shall you take?' and they fell to on the refreshments before them. meanwhile the barristers, whose self-imposed code forbade them to enter a public hotel room in a town where the assizes were being held, had straggled off, some to the county club, and others to the common-room reserved for their especial use in the chief hotel of the place. among the latter was tressamer, who found prescott awaiting him anxiously, and trying, with poor success, to get through the wing of a fowl. he (prescott) looked pale and dejected; but tressamer rushed into the place in a state of exaggerated buoyancy, and loudly called for a bottle of champagne. 'george, how goes it?' cried his friend. 'all went merry as a marriage-bell,' returned the other. 'have no fear; keep up your heart, old man. leave it to me; i'll get her off. much obliged to you for going away, though. young pollard did come some croppers, i can tell you. buller's against us, of course, on the evidence; but what do i care? i'll get the jury, see if i don't. i'll make a speech this afternoon the like of which hasn't often been heard in this dead-and-alive hole. lewis, beware! here's confusion to the guilty, and safety to the innocent!' he had rattled on in a jerky, excited, nervous manner, and he wound up by drinking off nearly a tumblerful of champagne. prescott could hardly make him out. he feared the strain of the last few weeks was unhinging his friend's mind. 'gently,' he said, remonstrating; 'you must keep cool, or you will spoil everything. beware of old buller. when he is giving you the most rope, he is getting ready to come down on you most heavily at the end. i think you'll find it a weak jury. they will do pretty well as the judge tells them.' 'don't you be afraid, charlie,' retorted the other in the same unnaturally careless strain; 'it's my case, and i know how to manage it. i've sworn to save her, and, by god! i'll do it, if i have to declare i did the thing myself! by jove, didn't i touch up that scoundrel in the witness-box, though! you saw me, beltrope?' he called to another barrister, who had been present in court the whole morning. 'yes, i know,' answered beltrope; 'but you'd better be awfully careful, tressamer. so far as i could see, your line of defence is that lewis must have done it. now, unless you're prepared with some very strong evidence against him, you'd far better change that tack before it's too late. you'll have old buller dead against you, as prescott says, and, i dare say, the jury too. whatever you do, don't leave it in such a way that they must convict one or the other.' 'rubbish! you don't understand,' replied tressamer. 'wait till you've heard my speech, that's all. well, i must be off.' he drank some more champagne. 'i want to have a wash just to cool my head.' and he darted out of the room to go upstairs. the other barristers looked at each other and exchanged meaning glances. they did not like to say much out loud before prescott, who was known to be tressamer's friend; but they whispered together, and the tenor of their whispers was precisely that of prescott's own reflections. tressamer, they agreed, had lost his head through over-excitement, and would probably create a scene in court that afternoon. so anxious did prescott feel, that he at last resolved to bare his own feelings to his friend in the hope of thereby sobering him. he accordingly went up to his bedroom, where he found him with his head in a basin of water, and addressed him in very grave accents: 'george, you must listen to me. you have told me that you love eleanor owen, and i suppose, as she has you to defend her, that she returns your love. now, i have a confession to make to you. i love her, too.' 'what! you, charles!' he was certainly sobered for the moment. 'yes. you know i saw something of her as a child. i was fond of her then, i recollect. but to-day, when i saw her, so beautiful, so innocent, in that dreadful place, i found another feeling overmastering me. oh, do not be afraid! she shall never know it. i shall not try to take her from you. i am not the sort of man to rob his friend. but, george, let me say this to you: that if anything--oh, the thought is horrible!--if any miscarriage of justice should occur, i shall blame you. i shall never forgive you if she comes to harm through your means. be careful. oh, great heaven, man, do your best, your very best! it is the crisis of our lives--of all our lives. beware how you fail to prove yourself worthy of your trust.' and without waiting for an answer he turned away, and hastened back to his own work in the nisi prius court. in spite of the confident opinions expressed by the barristers, the judge's mind was less firmly settled than they supposed. sir daniel buller was in the judges' private room at the court-house, sharing a dish of cutlets with sir john wiseman. and, of course, they were discussing the case. 'i tell you what it is, wiseman,' the first judge was saying, 'there is something in this case that hasn't come out yet. so far, there has been absolutely no real defence. waiter!' the waiter darted into the room. 'look at this cutlet! it's burnt to a cinder. take it away. and tell your cook, with my compliments, that it's always better to have a thing underdone than overdone, because if it's not cooked enough you can always do it more, but if it's cooked too much you can't do it less. d'you hear?' the waiter bowed low and retired, deeply impressed with the profound wisdom displayed in these observations. 'you know, if that man who's defending her--what's his name: tressamer?--thinks he's going to get her off by attacking lewis, he makes a mistake. i shall go for him if he tries it on.' 'most improper--most improper,' assented sir john. 'i don't know what the bar's coming to, i don't indeed! these young men are throwing over all the old traditions. the judges will really have to do something.' 'you see, lewis has acted a perfectly natural and straightforward part. he was bound to do what he did.' 'what sort of a girl is she? because that will make a good deal of difference with the jury.' 'i don't quite agree with you,' answered sir daniel. 'my experience is that in a case of this kind the jury are sobered by their sense of responsibility too much to be influenced by a thing like that. it's the outside public afterwards who get up petitions and kick up a row in the press about a pretty woman.' 'then she is pretty?' said the other. 'you old sinner!' retorted sir daniel playfully. 'it's well for the interests of justice that you're not on the jury. yes, begad! wiseman, she's one of the loveliest creatures i've ever tried. waiter! where are those tomatoes?' the tomatoes were brought in and hurriedly partaken of, as the time was running out. 'i suppose you'll sum up for a conviction, then?' questioned the other judge, as he rose and put on his wig. 'no, i shan't,' said sir daniel, helping his brother on with the purple-coloured garment which is worn in presiding over the civil court. 'i shall just leave it to the jury. i don't feel a bit satisfied, and i'm very glad, for once in my life, that i have got a jury to take the decision off my shoulders.' and with these words he drew his own scarlet gown around him and, grasping a small square piece of silk in his left hand, strode back to his seat in court. at his entrance the whole assemblage rose, including the prisoner, who had been brought back a minute before. then a start of horror ran through them, and eleanor's calmness for a moment gave way in a faint gasp. for the object which the judge had just laid on the desk beside him was--the black cap. chapter viii. the defence. 'may it please your lordship. before i go into the case for the prisoner, i have to submit that the crown has not produced sufficient evidence to warrant a conviction. 'it has been laid down by the authority of lord hale, which your lordship will find quoted on page of _archbold_ that no man should ever be convicted of murder or manslaughter on circumstantial evidence alone, unless the body has been found; and in a comparatively recent case--_regina v. hopkins_----' 'yes, i know that is the law, mr. tressamer,' said the judge, interrupting him; 'but how do you say the body has not been found? the prosecution have identified the hand.' 'i submit that is not sufficient, my lord.' 'the coroner's inquest was held upon it,' called out the counsel for the prosecution, who was decidedly taken by surprise at this unusual objection. tressamer treated the interruption with contempt. 'the coroner is hardly an authority to quote to this court. your lordship sees my point is this. of course the finding of the hand is some evidence of some crime. but it is nowise decisive. the deceased, or, rather, the person said to be deceased, might have cut off her own hand. we have no _conclusive_ evidence that she is really dead.' 'but what do you want? do you mean that in every case the entire body should be found?' 'oh no, my lord. if some vital part were discovered, and sufficiently identified, i should say that was enough to go upon. but what lord hale means, i take it, is this: that where you are going upon circumstantial evidence--as in this case--where no one saw the crime committed at all, then you must have conclusive evidence from some other source, namely, the dead body.' 'but that is not conclusive. that might be the result of suicide.' 'still, it affords a very strong presumption. in any case, there is the rule, laid down by lord hale, and acted upon ever since.' 'i know, mr. tressamer; i am not disputing the law. the only question in my mind is whether this case is not taken out of it by the production of what is part of the body. of course, i will leave it to the jury to say whether they are satisfied that this is the deceased's hand, if that is any use to you.' 'no, my lord, i don't know that i can hope to contest that. but this is a case of life and death, and i certainly would strongly urge your lordship to consider my point.' the judge got up. 'i will just go and ask my brother wiseman what he thinks,' he said. 'personally, i am afraid i cannot go with you.' he went out, and tressamer sat down in a state of intense agitation. he dared not look round at the dock; but others did, and saw, to their surprise, that the prisoner seemed indifferent to what had just passed. eleanor did not want to get off on a law point. without a real, full acquittal her life, as she had told tressamer, would be too wretched to be worth preserving. and even an acquittal would not be enough while the mystery of her friend's death was left unexplained. only the full clearing up of the whole story, only the exposure of the real criminal, could bring peace back into her life. she showed no disappointment, therefore, when the judge returned, with a grave face, and took his seat, saying: 'the trial must proceed. my brother wiseman inclines to your view, but i am dead against it. i will, of course, reserve the point for the court for crown cases, if you desire.' 'if your lordship pleases,' said tressamer. this was exactly what he had wanted. he now had the chance of getting an acquittal from the jury before him, and, if that failed, of succeeding on the point reserved in the court above. he rose and said: 'i have one witness to call as to the state of the prisoner's health. i shall, therefore, say nothing now, but call my witness, and address the jury after. alfred benjamin james.' a respectably-dressed man stepped into the witness-box. 'you are a chemist, carrying on business at porthstone. and you have known the prisoner some time?' 'all her life, sir.' 'now, have you advised her recently as to the state of her health?' 'i have.' 'will you just tell us briefly what she has spoken to you about?' 'for some time before the day of the murder she had been unwell. she came to me and asked me to give her something to make her sleep at night. i persuaded her to do without anything, and to take a walk before going to bed instead.' 'yes, and what else?' 'the last night but one before the murder she came to me complaining of nervous headache. i gave her something for it and advised her to go for long walks, two or three miles or more, so as to tire herself out before going to bed. she said she had mislaid her latchkey lately, but would ask miss lewis to let her have another, as she thought miss lewis had a spare one.' this statement caused the jury to prick up their ears. even they had realized by this time that something in the case turned upon a latchkey. no further questions were put to the witness by tressamer, and pollard saw no opening for cross-examination. the former, therefore, at once began his speech. 'may it please your lordship: gentlemen of the jury----' the counsel paused a moment, shook his robe out of his way, clenched his fists upon the table in front of him, and bent forward towards the jury with stern and solemn brow. 'i shall not weary you with the platitudes usual on occasions like this. i shall say nothing to you about banishing from your minds all you may have heard or read in the newspapers about this case, for i am sure it is unnecessary. 'nor shall i say anything about the weight of responsibility which rests upon my shoulders, because, after all, what is my responsibility to yours? if i make any mistake, if i fail after doing my best, i shall have the consolation of knowing that i am in no way to blame, i have not to answer for the result. 'but you have! in your hands are life and death! the hangman is your instrument; the judge upon the bench is but your assistant. seek not to shirk your liability; do not trust to others to shield you. on the way in which you discharge your duty to-day depends the most solemn and awful of all considerations--a human life. if you by any prejudice, by any weakness, by any deference to superstition or authority, give an innocent fellow-creature to the tomb, it had been better for you that you had never been born!' the twelve men in the box shifted themselves uneasily under this indignant apostrophe. they had expected to be cajoled. they found themselves threatened. the rest of those present looked on amazed, and held their breath to listen. the speaker seemed perfectly indifferent to the impression he was creating around him. he glanced at neither the judge nor the prisoner, but fixed his searching eye upon the dozen men he was addressing. 'you know your duty as well as i do. you know you must not give a verdict upon suspicion, no, not though that suspicion were as dark as erebus, as heavy as lead. you must have proof. you must have certainty. you must know how this crime was done, and why and wherefore, or you must acquit the prisoner.' it is only under great provocation that a judge will interrupt the counsel for the defence in a case of life and death, but sir daniel buller frowned and fidgeted as he listened to this extreme view of a jury's duties. however, he reflected that he would have the last word. he could afford to wait till the summing-up. meanwhile he took up his pen and made a note. 'now, gentlemen, let me say this to you, and let me enforce it with all the earnestness i can command--the fact that a murder has been committed is no evidence whatever against the prisoner at the bar. 'no one denies that the crime has been committed. to do so were absurd. elderly ladies do not disappear mysteriously in the night like this unless somebody has an interest in making them disappear. the whole question for you is this--had the prisoner any such interest? 'something has been said in this case about jewels. a question--a shamefully leading and improper question--was put by the counsel for the prosecution, the junior counsel--who seems to have brought to his work a bitterness and an amount of prejudice against the unhappy prisoner which is fortunately rarely met with in a case of this kind; a demeanour which presents a contrast, indeed, to the moderate and judicious tone adopted by my learned friend mr. prescott, whom i was sorry to see summoned elsewhere--a question, as i was saying, was put to the prosecutor lewis, who was only too ready to take a sinister hint, with a view of making him swear that the prisoner knew something about those jewels, about which so much prejudice had been imported into this case. gentlemen, you know nothing about jewels. no evidence has been put before you to-day as to anything of the sort. so far as you or i can tell, the prisoner was never aware of the existence of such things. we are bound to assume--you are bound by your oaths to assume--that there was no such motive to operate upon the prisoner's mind. what motive was there, then? 'gentlemen, from the beginning to the end of this case not one motive has been suggested, not one syllable has been uttered from first to last, to account for the theory which you are asked to accept, that a young, beautiful, well-cared-for, and well-brought-up girl has suddenly, without the smallest provocation, developed the instincts of a cannibal, and committed a shocking and ferocious murder under circumstances which would revolt the most bloodthirsty of savages.' every word was emphasized by look and gesture. every word went home to those who heard it. the crowded bar stared in astonishment: they had not believed their colleague to possess such force. but he went on with hardly a pause. 'you have been told that this is a prosecution on behalf of the crown. i deny it. technically it is so, of course; but who is the real prosecutor? who has been the moving spirit all along--if not the prosecutor, then the persecutor? who has lost, or professes to have lost, his wretched jewels? who, the moment he heard that the crime was discovered, turned round and hurled his brutal accusation at this helpless girl? who rushed off to lodge his information, so as to be beforehand in case any information were to be lodged against him? who instructed the solicitors at the inquest? who gave evidence there and at the police-court? who has been hand in glove with the prosecuting solicitors all along? who is sitting by their side at this moment, without a particle of decent shame?' this furious burst of invective seemed to fairly overwhelm the subject of it. he made a movement to go away, but the solicitor restrained him by a whisper in his ear. 'gentlemen, i am here to defend the prisoner. i am not here to attack anyone else. i do not wish to do so. would to god that i could shut my eyes to the fact that a terrible murder has been done! but i cannot, and you cannot. someone did that deed. someone who had a motive for his act treacherously murdered and brutally mangled that old, feeble, defenceless woman. i ask you to say it was not the prisoner. i ask no more. 'in the old days it would have been different. it was once the law that when a prisoner was accused of murder by a coroner's inquest, then the jury in this court were not entitled to bring in a verdict of acquittal unless they at the same time, and by the same verdict, indicated the person who was really guilty. if that were still the law--and i am glad it is not--but if it were, i should not hesitate for one moment in pointing out to you at least one person who is more likely to have been guilty of this crime than eleanor owen. 'i should ask you, in the famous ciceronian phrase, _cui bono_? for whose profit was this murder? you have been told by a spiteful servant-girl, whom you may believe for aught i care, that miss lewis once promised to remember the prisoner in her will. but did she? in the will which has been proved--and if there was any other will it has been destroyed by the same criminal hands that dyed themselves in blood--in a will dated two years ago, there is not one stiver, not one half-farthing left to eleanor owen. but the whole of the testatrix's property, amounting, i believe, to between twenty and forty thousand pounds, is given unconditionally to her beloved nephew, john lewis!' what a depth of sarcasm on the word 'beloved' as the barrister brought it out! the object of this terrible attack fairly writhed in his seat. 'mind,' resumed the speaker, 'i am not responsible for the suggestion that this crime was committed for the sake of profiting under this poor woman's will. that suggestion came from the other side, prompted, i dare say, by the man lewis himself. what applies to the prisoner applies to him. as far as motive is concerned--and i am now dealing solely with the question of motive--everything is against the prosecutor, and everything is in favour of his victim. 'and now to examine more closely the evidence, such as it is, of the way in which this crime was brought about. it must have been done after ten that night. so far i agree with the prosecution. now, where is the evidence as to the prisoner's doings that night? 'we know--we have it from the witnesses for the crown, and from the respectable chemist, james--that she had been unwell, and had been in the habit of taking midnight walks for some time previously. she took one on this particular night. i do not deny it--i admit it. i demand of you to believe it. she went out at twelve, or rather before, let us say, just as the spiteful servant-girl told you. she went out, leaving the door latched, but not bolted, and she walked in an easterly direction along the shore, where the fisherman met her. 'and i want you to note here for a moment how the evidence for the prosecution has been coloured even in small things. as you have heard, the body, or rather the hand, was found next day at the entrance of newton bay. now, as most of you know, newton bay lies to the east of porthstone, some two miles further along the coast. when the fisherman, evan thomas, met the prisoner, she was nowhere near newton bay, and she had not the smallest intention, so far as we know, of going there. she was simply strolling up and down the porthstone esplanade, and her face happened to be turned towards the east when she was met by him. yet, how is his evidence put before you? "i met her. she was going in the direction of newton bay." gentlemen, i say that is a poisoned answer. it is a poisonous suggestion to your minds that the prisoner was actually going to newton bay--was making for it at the time. why didn't they say that she was going towards the tennis-ground, or the grand hotel, or the bathing-place? all those lay in the same direction, and there is not a tittle of evidence to show, there is not the smallest reason to suppose, that she ever went a yard beyond those places. 'that is how the prosecution has been conducted throughout. that wicked servant, who practically admitted that she nursed a dislike to her young mistress, got into that box, i put it to you, for the deliberate purpose of making the case against her as black as she could. in reality her evidence was strongly in the prisoner's favour, as i shall point out to you. but she, too, was instructed, or was taught by her own evil nature, to so distort the facts as to make them bear an appearance against the unhappy girl who is on trial for her life. 'first, we have the incident of the groan. on that subject i ask you to accept her first story, that it was a mere troubled exclamation in sleep, if it was really heard at all, which i may be permitted to doubt. for when a witness exhibits such recklessness and malice and wilful perversion of the truth in a case of this solemn character, i cannot willingly believe that any jury of englishmen will consent to take away a human life on such testimony. 'then we come to the incident of prisoner's going out. good heavens! what colouring is put into a simple incident like that! the prisoner, as we now know, and as this wretched woman doubtless knew perfectly well, often went out at night. she suffered from some nervous attack, accompanied by insomnia, and the chemist, mr. james, whom the counsel on the other side, with all his bitterness, dared not cross-examine--mr. james told you that he had himself advised her to take these walks at night. do you believe him? do you think a respectable tradesman--i may almost call him a professional man--would come into the box and perjure himself on such a subject? hardly. it would be too much to expect. i do not think that even my learned friend will ask you to say that mr. james has committed perjury, though i have no doubt at all that lewis would like to have it suggested.' there was an intense bitterness in the way in which he brought out lewis's name. unconsciously the jury began to be influenced by it, and to look at lewis each time he was referred to with undisguised aversion. 'yet how this simple incident is magnified and invested with importance and mystery by the other side--by lewis and his friends! they tell you how the servant awoke at midnight--you know it is an absurd trifle, but the word "midnight" sounds so much more solemn and dreadful than the words "twelve o'clock p.m."--how she woke at midnight and heard a door open--as if people didn't always open doors when they wanted to go out! how she got up quietly--perhaps you may be inclined to say treacherously--and stole downstairs. how she had recognised the footsteps as those of miss owen. how she heard the front-door go, and finally found it unfastened, except for the latch. and all as if something very dreadful had taken place, instead of the ordinary incident of a young lady going out for an hour to walk off a headache! 'and, after all, what does it come to? why, it sounds ridiculous, but the whole end and result of all this is to prove the very thing which i am most anxious to have proved on behalf of the prisoner--namely, that she was out of the house when this murder was committed. they have tried to incriminate the prisoner, and they have ended in proving an unimpeachable alibi!' he stopped to let his words sink into the minds of the jury, and everyone in court took advantage of the break to change their positions and breathe more freely. whispers were exchanged, and the feeling began to prevail that a good point had been made, and the prisoner might very likely get off. 'with what happened after that the prisoner has nothing to do. mr. lewis and his friends do not seem to realize, what i hope you will realize, that the fact of footsteps being heard a few minutes after is the strongest point in the prisoner's favour. why, if no one else had been heard to enter the house on that night, it would have looked bad for her. but that is just what the prosecution, in their blind mismanagement, have proved. they have shown out of the mouth of their own witness that someone did come in; someone who had been waiting outside ready to come in, and who took advantage of miss owen's exit to slip in by means of a latchkey which he had found, or stolen, or borrowed from the deceased. 'now you have the clue. this girl, who stated that ten minutes had elapsed, when it must have been only three, to judge by her notions of time in other matters, this same girl wanted to insinuate that the footsteps she heard the second time were the prisoner's. gentlemen, i ask you frankly not to believe it. i ask you to discount her evidence by the evident ill-feeling she manifested. i ask you to believe that the last footsteps were those of the murderer, and that they were heavier because they were a man's. 'what else is there against the prisoner? i ask, what else? she came down late the next morning, forsooth! that is the reason why you are asked to send her in her youth and beauty to a felon's doom. incredible! monstrous! as if we all did not constantly get up late, for some reason or another. as if a person who had been out late the night before would not naturally oversleep herself. why, if she had committed a crime she would have taken particular care to be down early. she would have tried to throw off suspicion by acting in her ordinary way. i am ashamed of answering such arguments. 'the latchkey incident is dead in her favour.' here the jury, who had shown signs of weariness after their long sitting, brightened up again. they had made up their minds that this was the real point in the case, and were honestly anxious for light upon it. 'two things are clear--first, that the person who last came into the house, and did up the fastenings, was the prisoner; second, that the prisoner had a latchkey, whether her own one found again or one which she borrowed from miss lewis. now, if the prisoner had committed this murder, let us see what she would naturally have done in trying to throw suspicion off herself. 'in the first place, i say she would not have fastened up the front-door. to do so was practically saying that the crime was not the work of an outsider. no, she would have left the door wide open, as if the criminal were some common robber who had carried off his booty and run away. in the second place, she would have thrown away her latchkey, so as to make it appear that she had not been outside. these points are so important that, with your permission, i will repeat them again.' anyone who has had experience of juries knows how difficult it is to get into their minds a process of logical reasoning. to the trained lawyer such a thing is not so hard, but even to him it is far easier to master reasoning from a book than by word of mouth. oral teaching has its advantages, doubtless, but few things are harder than to convey ideas of any subtlety by means of speech to an audience. tressamer patiently set to work, and for twenty minutes he repeated and explained all that he had been saying. when he thought that the jury really understood him he returned to where he had started from, and re-directed their suspicions on lewis. 'before i sit down i think i ought to suggest to you how this crime really was done. you have heard the story of the prosecution. now let me put to you my story on behalf of the prisoner. 'the deceased woman was wealthy. about her jewels we know nothing, and i do not refer to them, but she had other property to a large extent. the whole of this was to go at her death to a nephew. for two years she lived in this house alone night after night with the prisoner, and nothing happened. at last the nephew who was to inherit her wealth suddenly returned from the other end of the world. that night she met her death. 'at twelve o'clock her companion, who suffered from sleeplessness, went out for a long walk. hardly had she closed the door behind her than the murderer stole up to it and made his way in. probably he had a latchkey. we know that miss owen had mislaid hers. it may have been that. we also know that miss lewis had a spare one, and that her nephew was to take up his residence in the house on the very next morning. so that, mark this, if the murder had been deferred for one more day he would have fallen under the same suspicion as miss owen, and probably a good deal more. 'the murderer entered, as i said, by means of his latchkey. but it was the first time he had used it. he did not know the peculiarity of the latch. he raised it too high, and it stuck. 'not staying to notice this, in his wickedness, he passed into the house and upstairs. he tried the door of his aunt's--i mean the deceased's--room. it was, of course, locked, as it was found the following morning. he went into the next, miss owen's, which he knew to be empty, having seen her leave the house. through this he passed into the adjoining chamber. beneath the bed, in all probability, lay a chest of valuables. charity would fain suggest that his first intention was merely to steal these, and that the blacker crime was, in a sense, forced upon him by the awakening of the sleeper. the secrets of that terrible night will never be known. we cannot say what passed in that room between that strong, evil man and that weak old woman. we only know the result. a blow was struck, perhaps blows. a life was taken, and the robber became a murderer as well. 'the next step was to remove the body. for what reason it matters not. it is an impulse with all murderers to conceal the traces of their guilt. they dig holes in the earth and bury it, they carry it into the wilderness and hide it, they sink it in the depths of the sea. but the earth will not contain it, the wilderness betrays the ghastly secret, the waves cast up the horror.' his voice rang through the crowded court like that of one possessed, and every man trembled. 'he lowered it through the window, where the traces were found next day. then, clutching up his booty, and forgetting, it may be, that all would be his erelong, or possibly not feeling sufficiently sure of his heirship, he hurried down, with agitated tread, so that even the half-sleeping girl in the room above could discern a something strange about his walk. 'then he carried off the body, mutilated for some mysterious and terrible reason which may never be revealed--possibly to lighten his hideous load; but let me spare you these shocking considerations. (all this, remember, lewis asks you to think was done by a young girl not twenty years of age.) 'you know the rest. you know how the fisherman saw others that night, one of them a tall man, going in the direction of the bay where the remains were washed ashore within twenty-four hours. one only point i have to notice. whether in carelessness, or whether in hellish malice, that man left a damning stain upon the door-handle in the prisoner's room. i say i know not whether he did this in his haste and guilty dread, or whether he did this with a deliberate and diabolical intention of throwing suspicion upon a hapless, innocent girl, whom he has since pursued through every stage of this history, and under every form of law, with the persistence of a machine, and the passion of a bloodhound!' the speaker's voice vibrated with the fury which he threw into this denunciation. the jury trembled under his eye, as he rolled it fiercely from face to face. as for the object of these fearful invectives, he turned red and white by turns, and would have interrupted over and over again if he had not been almost forcibly restrained by the solicitor for the prosecution. tressamer went on, after a moment's pause to recover from his exhaustion: 'and eleanor owen, what of her? what was she doing meanwhile? pacing the shore, and trying to soothe her throbbing head with the medicine of the sea breezes. at last she returns, tired and abstracted. she puts her key into the latch, the door yields before her; she notices nothing, but comes in, closes and fastens the door behind her, and retires to rest. and there she sleeps the sleep of innocence, knowing nothing, dreaming nothing, of the dark shadow which hangs over her head, nothing of the foul deed which has so recently been perpetrated under that roof, nothing of the frightful stain upon the empty bed next door, nothing of that yet more appalling stain which will meet her eyes when she attempts to pass out of her own room into that. 'the next morning she awakes. just as she is dressed, the servants rush up; the whole horror bursts upon her. she is stunned. she does not realise what has happened, or how it concerns her. she finds herself seized and dragged away by this devoted nephew and his creatures. and thus, gentlemen, in that state of darkness and bewilderment, has she rested ever since, and must rest till your just verdict sends her forth once more into the light of day, and the verdict of another jury, not less courageous and righteous than yourselves, sends the real author of this hidden tragedy to the doom he has now doubly deserved.' he sat down. but there was no applause in court, as happens so often at the end of a speech on the prisoner's behalf. all present felt that they had listened not so much to a plea for eleanor owen as to an accusation against john lewis. the barrister had put it too plainly for any man to be deceived. it was not a mere question of guilt or innocence. the issue now before the jury was--which of these two is guilty? chapter ix. the judge. when evidence is called on behalf of the prisoner, counsel for the prosecution enjoys the right of reply. this right young pollard rose to exercise, and, as is often the case with beginners at the bar, he did much better as a speaker than he had done as an examiner. as soon as he was fairly on his feet, his leader came into court and took his seat. the other case in which he had been engaged had come to an end shortly before this, but prescott had purposely lingered outside, so as to avoid the duty of replying, which would have been assigned to him had he returned in time. as he had heard nothing of the case, nor of tressamer's defence, the course he adopted was the best even for the interests of the prosecution--in fact, it was the course usually followed under parallel circumstances. the first part of pollard's reply was simply a recapitulation of the evidence. afterwards he made an attempt to answer the attack on lewis. 'gentlemen,' he said, 'my learned friend has practically charged mr. lewis with this murder. on what grounds has he done so? what evidence has he brought against mr. lewis? mr. lewis is the heir of the deceased, it is true, but then he is her nephew. when he came back from australia, he went at once to see her. he has told you, in answer to my questions, that this was out of gratitude to her for her kindness to him when he was a young man. there is nothing suspicious, therefore, in his going to her before his sister, who lived in the north of england, moreover, probably a long way off. 'then my learned friend has laid stress on the fact that this crime occurred the night of his arrival. but i submit, gentlemen, that it would have been more natural if he had abstained from it the first night, and done it some time after, if he did it at all. i might suggest to you that the prisoner did it the night mr. lewis arrived on purpose to throw suspicion on him.' and so on. finally he closed in a form of words which even the most inexperienced prosecutor has by heart. 'in conclusion, gentlemen, i ask you to banish from your minds every trace of prejudice, and to forget everything which you have read elsewhere about this case, and to determine it solely on what has passed here to-day. if the evidence you have heard leaves a fair and reasonable doubt in your minds as to the prisoner's guilt, no doubt you will acquit her; but if that evidence is so strong and convincing that you are morally satisfied that the deceased woman met her death at the prisoner's hands, then it is your duty to return a verdict of guilty.' with this he sat down, and his brother leant over and congratulated him, while the other solicitors began to consider whether there might not be something in the young man after all. and now it was sir daniel buller's turn, and all eyes were directed upon him as he settled himself in his chair, with his face towards the jury, who strove to catch his lordship's eye, and conveyed as much appreciation as possible into their faces. 'gentlemen of the jury, it now becomes my duty to recall your attention to the facts of this case, and to give you what assistance i can towards finding your verdict. you have been told by counsel on both sides that this is a grave and important case. gentlemen, every case which comes before a criminal court is grave and important. in this case, it is true, the life of a fellow creature is at stake, but that consideration ought not to affect you one way or the other in bringing to bear upon the evidence before you that impartiality and cautious discrimination which it is the duty of a jury to apply indifferently to every matter that may come before them.' a slight sensation of relief in the jury-box. among the audience an impression that his lordship is going against the prisoner. 'the duties of a jury in a case like this are exceedingly simple, but perhaps it may be advisable that i should briefly remind you in what they consist. and, first of all, it is, i am sure, unnecessary for me to insist on the absolute necessity of your resolutely putting out of your minds every particle of knowledge, and every impression of whatever kind, which you may have collected in regard to this case from sources external to the inquiry conducted here to-day. it is, i feel, equally superfluous for me to caution you against attaching the smallest weight to any evidence which i was compelled in the course of this case to exclude. the law of evidence is the accumulated experience of the ablest intellects that have adorned that bench of which i am so unworthy an occupant.' (strong impulse on part of jury to murmur 'no,' manfully suppressed.) 'and in applying it i can only say that i have never personally laboured under any hesitation as to its general soundness, though i may occasionally doubt as to its applicability to particular instances. 'you will remember that allusion was made by the prosecution in their opening to the supposed existence of certain valuables, the property of the deceased. it is my duty to tell you, speaking as judge in this case, with all the evidence before me, that there is not sufficient evidence that any such valuables were in the deceased's possession at the time when she came to her unhappy end, and that in any case there is not a particle of evidence that the prisoner had ever heard, or was even remotely aware, of the existence of the articles in question. 'whether they were there or no is, of course, immaterial to the case. the jeweller, whose name, i believe, was john--thomas--no----' 'william williams, my lord,' called out pollard. 'ah, thank you, mr. pollard! but it is of no consequence, because, as i am explaining to you, gentlemen, his evidence really ought not to affect your minds one way or the other. even if deceased bought these things, there is no evidence that she kept them by her. she may have disposed of them in some manner of which we know nothing. the fact that they have been missing since her decease affords in itself some ground for supposing that she did so part with the control over this property. but, as i must repeat, what became of it is perfectly immaterial, because there is absolutely nothing in the whole of the evidence before us, and by which we must be guided, to fix the prisoner with knowledge that these valuables existed at all. 'you will observe, gentlemen, how important this becomes when we come to consider the question of motive. i agree with mr. tressamer, about whose general line of defence i shall have something to say presently'--(tressamer frowned, the rest of the bar looked nervous)--'in saying that the apparent absence of motive is the most inexplicable feature in the case for the prosecution. you will, of course, have fresh in your minds the evidence of the servant on this point.' (the jury found it quite hopeless to even pretend that they had anything of the sort.) 'i refer to her statement, which i will read to you presently'--(visible depression in the jury-box and throughout the court)--'that deceased promised the prisoner on one occasion to leave her a legacy, or something of that sort. gentlemen, that is peculiarly and emphatically a matter for you to deal with, and on which it would be out of place for me to offer you any guidance whatever.' (dismay among several jurymen, stolid pride among others.) 'if you believe that evidence, and i confess i am wholly unable to follow the prisoner's counsel in some of his comments upon the general demeanour of the witnesses, most of whom appeared to me to give their evidence with every appearance of impartiality, and in a manner which showed that they realised their responsibility--but all that, again, is rather a matter for you than for me--if, i say, you believe that evidence as to the legacy, you must consider for yourselves what weight you ought fairly to attach to it, and how far in your opinion it furnishes a motive adequate to inspire the very heinous crime into which we are now inquiring.' the jury by this time were fairly at sea. they could not for the life of them make out which side his lordship was taking, and, of course, it never once occurred to them that he was trying to avoid taking any side at all. 'and now, gentlemen, to consider the evidence against the prisoner more in detail.' (suppressed sighs from the gentlemen.) 'this is one of those cases which depend entirely on what is commonly known as circumstantial evidence. well, gentlemen, the evidence of circumstances is just as good as any other evidence, and very often it is far more reliable and far less subject to be vitiated by improper influences than ocular and oral testimony. in cases of this kind it is seldom that we can get anything but circumstantial evidence. when a man is going to do a wicked and criminal act he does not call witnesses around him. no, he avoids all human sight, he perpetrates his deed in secrecy, and all that we can do is to seek to penetrate the mystery by such means as are at our disposal.' impression confirmed that judge is against the prisoner. tressamer looking slightly anxious. 'the question for us, therefore, or rather for you, gentlemen'--(the jury look important)--'is not whether the evidence is circumstantial or not, but whether it is sufficient to convict the prisoner. sufficient, that is, in your opinion, as men of intelligence and firmness, bringing to bear on this case the same qualities of mind which you bring to bear from day to day upon your ordinary avocations, whatever those may be. that the evidence is sufficient in law i am reluctantly compelled to decide. whether the court which deals with points of this description will confirm my judgment or overrule it i cannot say. in the meantime, you must take it from me that you are legally justified in convicting the prisoner. whether you are really justified on the facts is, of course, a very different question.' impression among many that judge is going for acquittal. jury still in doubt. 'this is one of those cases which make a judge congratulate himself on the existence of trial by jury. it is one of those peculiarly difficult cases in which the mind is perplexed between its desire to mete out punishment for a singularly atrocious crime, and its inability to disentangle the knotted skein of mystery which shrouds the whole circumstances of the affair. i rejoice unaffectedly that the responsibility of discharging this delicate and dangerous task is thrown not upon my shoulders, but upon yours.' undisguised dismay of jury. they cast appealing looks round the court and meet nothing but contempt. the general feeling now is that the judge is in the prisoner's favour. by this time the majority of those present share the same view. then sir daniel proceeded to go into the evidence at great length, reading passages here and there from his notes. when he came to the evidence of the servant rees, he threw out a suggestion which struck doubt into many a mind which had till then believed in the prisoner's innocence. 'a very great deal in this case undoubtedly turns on this evidence as to footsteps. you may, i think, take it as admitted on all hands, by the prisoner's counsel as well as by the prosecution, that the witness is correct in saying that she heard the prisoner leave the house. that she recognised her walk correctly that time there can be no manner of doubt. then we come to the second time, when she heard footsteps ascending the stairs. and i may pause here to remark that i think a quite exaggerated importance has been attached to the discrepancy between the witness's ideas of time and the correct idea. gentlemen, we should all of us fail if we strove to indicate with accuracy the length of a given interval of time. we use the expressions "five minutes" and "ten minutes" in ordinary conversation, without attaching any very definite meaning to them, and, therefore, i cannot see that the witness is in any way discredited if she mistook a period of three minutes for one of ten, or _vice versâ_.' the jury nodded approval. now they were on firm ground. 'but it is her answer to mr. pollard, when he asked her as to the second set of footsteps, that i wish to draw your attention to. she said, as i took it, "i did not notice them"--that is, the footsteps--"but i think they must have been miss owen's, or else i should have noticed the difference." now, i think you will see the importance of that.' (the jury try to see it, and, failing in that, try to look as if they saw it, and fail a second time.) 'remember the state of things is this: the witness is wide awake; she has just been down to the front-door and up again, and ten minutes after, or three minutes only according to mr. tressamer, she hears someone come in and walk upstairs. now, gentlemen, under those circumstances, one would naturally expect the witness to be on the alert to distinguish any difference, if difference there were, between the footsteps. and if the person entering the second time were not the prisoner, to whose tread she was accustomed, and which she was expecting to hear, but if it were someone else--a man, let us say, with an entirely different tread, and a tread to which she was wholly unaccustomed--i say one would naturally expect the witness to note the difference instantly, to wonder who it was that had entered, to feel alarm when she heard the unknown stranger proceeding upstairs and into the bedroom; and, in short, one would expect her to get up and rouse the whole household to discover the robber, as she would naturally assume him to be.' the jury were much impressed. a feeling of gravity spread all over the court. in the prisoner's mind there was a sensation as if the sun had retired behind a cloud, leaving a leaden atmosphere all round her. 'leaving you to attach much or little importance, as you please, to that observation' (jury puzzled again), 'i will pass on to the point about which so much has been said--namely, the latch.' (jury bend forward with straining ears. they have felt this to be the difficulty all along, and are anxiously desiring to be told what it all means, and what bearing it has on the case.) 'this latch, or rather lock, appears to have been of peculiar, though not unusual, construction. as you doubtless know, gentlemen, locks do differ very much from one another, and it is essential to their usefulness that they should do so. if all the locks on our doors were of the same pattern, one key would open them all, and consequently the locks would be rendered useless for the purpose for which they were designed. in ancient times, before such articles had come into common use, it was no doubt the custom to have a rude species of door-fastening, calculated rather to keep the door fixed in its place as against the violence of the weather, than to furnish any obstacle against the ingress of undesired visitors. but, gentlemen, we are not living in those times, but in our own; and we are here to administer justice, not with regard to the ideas prevalent among our remote ancestors, but with regard to the ordinary and reasonable practices of everyday life around us.' this last part appeals to the jury. they nod their heads in approval, and wait for further enlightenment. 'law, gentlemen, it has often been said, is common-sense; and though there may be a sense in which that maxim is not strictly verifiable, yet in a broad and general way its applicability has never been and cannot be disputed. and, therefore, gentlemen, your common-sense will agree with me when i say that it is a lawful presumption--a presumption which the law warrants you in drawing and in holding till you have some satisfactory evidence to rebut it--that the person who obtains access to a house or any other building secured by a lock of this description must have in his or her possession a key which is capable of opening that lock.' continued approval of the jury. they find his lordship a little tedious perhaps, but sound. at last there seems a fair prospect of light being thrown upon the case. 'now, that there were in existence keys which fitted this particular lock cannot, i think, be seriously doubted by anyone who has listened carefully to the evidence which has been put forward both by the prosecution and by the defence in this case.' (gratification of jury. how simple it all seems when a master-mind is at work upon the apparent mystery!) 'the only question left for you to decide, so far as i can discover, and if i am wrong it is not for want of careful consideration, is this: whether on that night into which we are inquiring the prisoner had or had not a latchkey, and, if so, whether she used it, and in either case, whether any other person had a similar key, which he also employed in opening the door of this house.' (jury getting slightly fogged again. but they no longer sorrow as one who hath no hope. they rely on his lordship to pull them through.) 'it is perhaps a circumstance worth noting, though the explanation may be very simple, that neither side has produced a latchkey purporting to be one of those belonging to the latch in question.' (the explanation _was_ simple. neither side had thought of it.) 'but in the absence of any ocular demonstration one way or the other, we are, i think, justified in assuming that the keys in question were small, portable articles, such as could conveniently be carried in the pocket. in saying this i merely appeal to your own experience as men of business and householders, who are most of you probably in the constant habit of carrying articles of this kind yourselves.' (jury in smooth water again. how could they ever have thought this matter presented difficulties?) 'there, gentlemen, i must leave you. i can throw no farther light upon the hidden circumstances of that night, and must leave you to decide for yourselves on a calm and deliberate review of the evidence whether, in your opinion, such a key as i have indicated was, or was not, in the possession of the prisoner at the bar, or of any other individual whose name has or has not transpired in the course of this trial, and if so, whether the prisoner, or that other person, or both of them, did or did not obtain access to the house by means of that nature.' collapse of jury. dashed in a moment from their height of fancied security, they lie helpless at the bottom of the abyss. the summing-up was nearly over. tressamer had begun to hope the judge had forgotten him. but sir daniel had reserved his melodramatic effects to the last, as all orators know they ought to do. 'and now a few words as to the unusual, i may say, i hope, the extraordinary, though unhappily not quite unprecedented, line of defence which has been adopted in this case. the prisoner's counsel has not contented himself with merely defending the prisoner; he has gone far beyond that, far beyond the necessities, so far as they present themselves to my mind, of his position, and has distinctly and deliberately brought an accusation against one who is not on trial before you, and has, therefore, no means of rebutting the attack. for such a course there is, in my opinion, not a shadow of excuse. i have listened with great patience to the evidence in this case from the beginning to the end, and i have not detected anywhere anything that casts one particle of suspicion upon mr. lewis. 'he was attacked for having come so promptly to visit his relative on his return. but his explanation was straightforward, and such as to commend itself to everyone who heard him. i shall not trouble you with any defence of mr. lewis, however'--(gratitude of the whole court)--'but i must condemn in the gravest and strongest manner the way in which mr. tressamer has abused his privilege as an advocate to spring a charge of this deadly character upon one who is, so far as we can see, a perfectly innocent man. if this sort of thing is to be indulged in, the honour of the bar--that noble profession to which it is my glory to have belonged--will be dragged in the dust, and its formidable immunities will have to be sharply and summarily curtailed. it has been well said that no assassin is so terrible to the community as the assassin of reputations, and in my opinion the man who is capable of taking advantage of a technical immunity from punishment to lie in wait for and destroy in cold blood the whole character and career of another, reveals a blackness of disposition which fits him for the commission of any crime, aye, though it were as heinous as that of which he has accused his victim.' it was a crushing rebuke. the crowded bar turned and looked at their comrade as though they expected him to sink through the floor. but he sat pale and rigid, tearing off the feather of a quill with his teeth, but showing no other sign that he had heard the judge. 'it is the prisoner who must suffer most by such a line of defence.' (here eleanor looked up suddenly, as if she had only just begun to pay attention to what was going on.) 'its natural effect on your minds must be to induce you to ask yourselves not the real question before you, namely, is eleanor owen guilty or not? but this other question: which is guilty, eleanor owen or john lewis? and to that you could, as conscientious men, give only one answer. 'but that is what i want, if possible, to avoid. my principal reason for making the remarks i have made about mr. tressamer's speech is that i do not want you to confuse the issues, as he has confused them, but to return your verdict freely and impartially, having regard solely to the bearing of the evidence which has been given upon the guilt or innocence of the prisoner.' here his lordship abruptly came to an end, just when the long-suffering jury were expecting that he was at last going to give them a hint as to his own leaning in the case. it was now the part of the clerk of arraigns to rise and request the jury to consider their verdict. but that functionary had taken advantage of the charge to fall into a light and pleasant slumber, from which it became necessary to rouse him. one of the bar, therefore, put out his hand and pulled the clerk of arraigns by the sleeve. he started awake, and, hastily stumbling on to his feet, looked wildly round for information. the day before this incident would have provoked mirth. to-day it caused nothing but impatient annoyance, except to a few junior barristers, who thought it professional to show callous indifference to what was going on. at last, however, the clerk of arraigns was made to realise what stage had been reached, and he called the bailiff of the court and gave the jury over to his charge, with the following form of words: 'you shall take this jury to some convenient place, where you shall lock them up without meat, fire, or light; you shall suffer no man to speak to them, neither shall you speak to them yourself, except to ask them if they have agreed upon their verdict; so help you god.' the oath was taken, and the twelve men filed slowly out. chapter x. the verdict. the secrets of the jury-room are little understood. doubtless this is because all the more intellectual classes are exempted, by a beautiful provision of our law, from serving on juries, and the remainder have not yet produced a man competent to chronicle his experiences. the mynyddshire jurymen were very much like their brethren all over the country. they had sworn a solemn oath to well and truly try, and true deliverance make, between our sovereign lady the queen and the prisoner at the bar, and they honestly tried to act up to their obligation. mr. jenkins, the queen street stationer, was among them, and his first words, after the door was closed on them, were: 'well, i don't know what you think, sir, but i couldn't make out whether he was for her or against her.' the person addressed was the foreman, a rich building contractor from a large seaport at the end of the county. he was a man of judicial mind, a model foreman, and wisely abstained from committing himself at this early stage. he turned round and asked his next neighbour, who happened to be the farmer from near porthstone, whose remarks to mr. jenkins were given in the fourth chapter: 'how did it strike you, sir?' 'i thought he was against her,' was the answer. 'didn't you hear him say, "the prisoner must suffer by that line of defence"? and then he didn't say nothing about reasonable doubts.' 'no; but the young barrister did--the one that prosecuted,' observed a tall, thin man, a tailor by trade. 'he's got nothing to do with it,' said the farmer. 'i thought him a fool all along. i know his whole family, and they're all alike.' 'what a terrible speech mr. tressamer made!' ventured a fifth juryman, a short, stumpy watchmaker from porthstone itself. 'i believe he's her lover.' 'what!' cried the foreman, losing his calm demeanour in the presence of this interesting revelation. 'how d'ye know that?' 'oh, it was common talk in porthstone,' was the answer. 'they knew each other ever since they was children, and he used to come down every summer and go about with her. that's what made him so fierce against mr. lewis, you may depend.' 'and did you know her?' 'what was she like, really?' 'what do you think of her?' broke from several voices as the whole jury clustered round the little man. but he drew in his horns at once. 'don't ask me anything,' he said. 'i've mended her watch, and i always thought she was all right up to this, but the lord only knows whether she did it.' he paused, and then, as if there were some vague connection in his mind between this charge and a general disposition towards acts of dishonesty, he added: 'she always paid me regular.' perhaps the jury scented an underlying distrust in this. at any rate, one of them said: 'i watched the judge carefully all through, and i saw him frown at her several times. to my mind he meant us to say guilty.' the word came with a little shock to the men. they instinctively realized its terrible gravity as falling from their lips. the tall, thin tailor put in his word again: 'anyhow, he said there was no evidence of motive.' 'except they jewels,' corrected the farmer. 'ah, but there was nothing came out about them.' 'phoo! that there was. didn't you see how her counsel was fighting to keep it back? you may depend she knew all about them, and could tell us where they are now if she liked.' 'you seem to have made up your mind,' said another man, who had been talking aside to a little knot of three; 'but for the life of me i couldn't make it out one way or the other. what did you think he meant about that latchkey?' this was offensive. it was reminding them of their weak point. it threw the whole room into confusion. eight or nine of the jury all began to speak at once, and four or five could find no listeners. when the hubbub had a little subsided, the foreman said: 'gentlemen, it's no use talking it over in this way. we must argue it out one at a time. i propose that we all sit round the table, and the one that has anything to say stands up and says it properly.' this suggestion was well received, but it had a fatal effect on three of the jury, who were wholly unable to attempt anything so much like a set speech as this course involved. as soon as all were seated the foreman commenced: 'gentlemen this is a doubtful case, a very doubtful case. talk of reasonable doubts, there's nothing but reasonable doubts, so far as i can see, from beginning to end. now, it would have been a great help to us if the judge had showed us which way he thought we ought to go, but i must confess i couldn't tell which side he meant to lean. if any other gentleman thinks otherwise, we shall be glad to hear him.' but no other gentleman thought otherwise. the man who had thrown out the suggestion about the latchkey, and who was a fishing-boat proprietor from a seaside suburb of abertaff, murmured from his seat: 'i call it a shame. i should like to know what a judge is for. we might as well try the case ourselves as this.' 'so we are trying it, aren't we?' rebuked the man who had been the first to blurt out the fatal word, and who was a farmer from near the same place. 'you may be, mr. rees,' returned the boat proprietor, with what was intended for biting sarcasm. 'come, gentlemen, gentlemen,' said the foreman impressively, 'let us remember that we are engaged on a case of life and death. we have got to come at the truth somehow, and we must do what we can by ourselves.' 'they should have give us more evidence,' objected mr. jenkins. 'what did they want to make so much fuss about those jewels for?' 'aye, and there was another thing,' said the porthstone farmer; 'did you notice that when mr. lewis wanted to say why he suspected her, the judge wouldn't let un?' 'well, she's an orphan,' said the tailor, 'and her father was rector of porthstone for thirty years, and i say we ought to let her off.' 'for shame, john,' said the watchmaker, who happened to be his next-door neighbour; 'don't you know we've got to decide according to the evidence?' the tailor hung his head. then the foreman interposed again. 'really, gentlemen, i think it will save time if we go round the table, and let each man express his opinion in turn. of course, i don't say his final opinion, but just any remarks that strike him on the evidence. will you begin, sir?' mr. jenkins rose from his seat on the foreman's right and cleared his throat. 'mr. foreman and gentlemen, i think this is, as our foreman has told us, a case of very great doubt. at the same time, it is our duty to punish the guilty, and not let the prisoner off simply because she is a woman and good-looking, and that sort of thing.' (subdued applause. the foreman raises his hand for silence.) 'now, what i look at in this case is the motive, and that is, i take it, the jewels. i don't believe she would have done it simply on the chance of getting something under the will. i don't know whether you remember, but the judge said miss lewis might have parted with the jewels, because they weren't found after her death. now, it seems to me that that points just the other way. i mean, it looks as if she had been murdered for the sake of them. it seems to me the only question is, who murdered her? was it mr. lewis or was it miss owen? that's my difficulty.' he sat down. the farmer, who sat next him, stood up in turn. 'i say what the judge said; let us decide according to the evidence. now, what evidence is there against mr. lewis? why, you say the judge didn't speak out clearly, but he did say there wasn't any evidence against him. all the evidence is against her, and we ought to act upon it.' the next speaker was a rather young man, who occupied a position of superintendence in a large millinery establishment, exclusively patronised by ladies. with such associations he was naturally disposed to be chivalrous. he said: 'i know a lady when i see her. miss owen's a lady; anyone can see that with half an eye. as for lewis, i didn't like the looks of him at all. you know they're a wild lot out in australia. i heard that he came back for good reasons, if the truth was known. then look how he lost his temper in the witness-box! and then, as mr. tressamer said, the very night he got there the murder happened. that looks as if he did it. he said she didn't give him a latchkey, but i believe she very likely did, else why did the barrister ask him? and then look at the hand being cut off. no young lady would go and do such a thing as that, surely!' the jury were impressed. the next man was of a shy and gentle disposition. he did not venture to get on his feet, but threw out a suggestion as he sat: 'i suppose it must have been one of the two. there couldn't have been somebody else, could there?' a withering look from eleven faces rewarded this disconcerting query. the foreman expressed the general feeling: 'really, sir, i can't think what ground you have for suggesting such a thing. the case is difficult enough as it is, without having fresh doubts raised.' 'ah, there should ought to have been a london detective brought down,' muttered another juryman, who had taken little part hitherto. 'one of them would have puzzled it out, you may depend.' 'well, i don't see what more you would have,' said the other farmer, rees, rising in his turn. 'here is this young woman, sleeping in the next room, going out at night secretly, under some pretence of headaches--why didn't she tell other people about them beside that chemist?--and here you have her mistress murdered, and the blood found on the door of her own room the next morning. what more do you want?' he sat down. it was now the tailor's turn. 'and how do you know lewis didn't put the blood there?' he asked. 'i believe it's lewis myself. anyway, one of them must have done it, that's clear.' but this was felt to be a weak defence, and the next two jurymen shook their heads, and professed themselves unable to throw any light upon the question. then it was the turn of the boat proprietor. 'look here,' he said, 'what's the good of our trying to come to a verdict when we're none of us sure which of them did it? better give it up, and tell the judge we can't agree.' but the foreman would not hear of this. 'no, sir,' he said, 'we are here sworn to do justice between man and man and mete out punishment to the guilty, and we must not shrink from our task. we have heard the case through, and if we are not competent to give a verdict on it, who is?' this was felt to be unanswerable. not only were the foreman's words worthy of attention in themselves, but he was a great man, the reputed possessor of twelve thousand a year; he wore a frock coat and a white waistcoat as well, and his word was, therefore, practically equivalent to law. there remained only the watchmaker. he felt a friendly feeling towards the prisoner, but he was troubled by real misgivings as to her innocence. 'the judge said we oughtn't to go against mr. lewis,' he said, 'and i stand by what the judge says. besides, i look at what he said when he gave her in charge.' 'what was that?' said the foreman eagerly. 'i'll tell you, sir. it was in the paper at the time, and i happened to keep it by me, and so when i was summoned as a juror, thinks i to myself, "this may come in useful if i should happen to be on the jury that's to try her," so i just cuts it out and brings it in my pocket.' the other men looked on keenly, as he slowly drew out his pocket-book and extracted a newspaper cutting, embracing some two and a half columns of the _southern daily news_. everyone hoped that something of a decisive character would now be forthcoming. the watchmaker ran his finger down the columns. 'here it is!' he exclaimed, and read it aloud. '"on reaching the police-station, of which constable smithies was then in charge, mr. lewis said: 'i charge eleanor owen with the murder of my aunt, ann elizabeth lewis. i have made some money, and, please god, i'll spend every penny of it rather than my poor aunt shall remain unavenged.' '"constable smithies at once summoned sergeant--" that's it,' concluded the watchmaker, looking up from his extract. a murmur and shaking of heads followed, and the foreman again felicitously voiced the general feeling: '_that_ doesn't sound like guilt,' he said, with emphasis. 'may i see that paper? perhaps it has some other things which we have forgotten.' 'certainly, sir. but i don't know whether we ought to be reading this,' hazarded its owner, handing the slip across. 'why not? we're only doing it to refresh our memory.' this reply was again felt to be worthy of its author. it had a fine flavour of legality about it too, which gave confidence to the other jurymen. they realized that they were fortunate in their foreman. that gentleman meanwhile proceeded to glance down the document before him. presently he stopped, frowned, pursed up his lips, and breathed a stern sigh. the others watched with anxiety. he proceeded to enlighten them. 'gentlemen, listen to this, and tell me what effect it has on your minds. sergeant evans said, "i arrested the prisoner on the morning of the second. i told her she was charged with the wilful murder of ann elizabeth lewis. she turned pale and said, 'it is impossible.' i cautioned her. she said nothing more, and _shed no tears_." gentlemen, is that like innocence?' he laid down the paper. the prisoner's doom was sealed. the waverers among the jury went over at once, and even the friends of the prisoner no longer dared to hold out. the tailor would have resisted if he had dared, but his sense of social inferiority was too much for him. what was he, a humble little tradesman, to set himself against eleven men, headed by a wealthy contractor who wore three spade guineas on his watch-chain? then a solemn awe settled down over the faces of the twelve men. they did not hesitate in doing what they believed was their duty, but they felt some natural horror of the result. at last the foreman said: 'gentlemen, are we all agreed?' and, as there was no reply, he led them back into court. they had not been out quite an hour, but the interval seemed terribly long to those they left behind. when they came in one by one, with drooping heads and set faces, the verdict was read before it was heard. only the prisoner still held out, with that obstinate unbelief in the worst which is a part of strong natures. only the prisoner and the prisoner's counsel. he manifested no sorrow and no surprise. prescott put his stoical calmness down to over-exhaustion, others of the bar attributed it to his confidence in the point reserved. the public hardly noticed him. their eyes were fixed upon the dock. the clerk of arraigns stood up, and went as best he could through the tedious process of calling each juryman by name. then followed the routine question, followed by the awful word, heavy with issues of death, pealing forth through the hushed, agitated hall: _'guilty!'_ the prisoner neither moved nor answered, as the clerk formally summoned her to declare if there were any reasons why sentence should not be passed upon her. some of the women whispered that she had gone mad, or that she was going to faint. the judge covered his wig with the sombre square of silk. suddenly she looked up, cast her eyes rapidly round the court, and fixing them full on prescott, who was attentively watching her, she exclaimed: 'i am _not_ guilty.' 'eleanor margaret owen, the jury, after a long and patient hearing, and after taking time for careful deliberation, have found you guilty of the crime of wilful murder. what motive inspired you to commit such a crime i cannot say, and it may, perhaps, never be known. it only remains for me to discharge my very painful duty, which i do by declaring that the sentence of the court upon you is----' the details followed. the words are too familiar to need setting forth. they sounded in unconscious ears. eleanor owen had fainted at last, and was carried helpless and lifeless away from the scene of her long martyrdom. chapter xi. the prisoner's statement. the day after the trial tressamer went with confident mien to the prison for the purpose of having an interview with eleanor as to the appeal of which he had given notice. the governor at first hesitated about permitting this. the prison regulations forbid intercourse with a convict, except under certain rigorous limitations. but the name and function of counsel prevailed, and a warder was sent to fetch the prisoner. presently he returned alone, with the startling message that eleanor positively refused to hold any communication whatever with her late advocate. tressamer left the gaol with the air of a beaten man. in his dismay he bethought himself of prescott, and hurried to the court-house to find him and get his advice. he was there, but he was busy in a case then before the nisi prius court, and it was not till late in the afternoon that tressamer could get a word with him. the case had been decided in favour of prescott's client, and he strode into the robing-room with a little natural elation. but no sooner did he catch sight of his friend, who was waiting for him there, than his whole manner changed, and a stern expression settled round the corners of his mouth. it was their first meeting since the result of eleanor's trial. they were alone in the room, and prescott at once addressed the other: 'tressamer, what have you to say for yourself? i told you yesterday that i should hold you responsible. you disobeyed my advice, and that of everybody else. you set the judge and jury against you, and the result is what you were told it would be. i gave you fair warning, and i tell you now that, unless you have some reason for your conduct of which i know nothing, i cannot look upon you as a friend.' tressamer pinched in his lips hard as he listened to this. 'i might have expected it,' he said. 'we all know that love is stronger than friendship. the first woman that likes can break up the strongest attachments of some men.' 'silence!' cried prescott. 'i am not going to bandy retorts with you. ever since we were boys i have liked you and befriended you, and borne with your waywardness. you have outraged all your other friends long ago, but i bore with everything till now. but this is too much. where a life is at stake, to indulge in your freaks of eccentricity! it is murder morally. what are you better than the man who killed that wretched woman?' tressamer shook with anger. 'be careful, prescott! i will stand a great deal from you, but you are going too far now. you know as well as i do that her life is in no danger. what is old buller's opinion worth on a criminal case? wiseman is worth ten of him, and he is in our favour. the c.c.r. will save her.' 'wretched man! have you no heart, no moral sense, that you talk like that? as if a mere escape on a technical point could give any comfort to a woman like her! one would think you were wanting in some ingredient of human nature. what does eleanor herself say?' 'i haven't seen her,' was the muttered reply. 'haven't seen her! then go at once, and get her authority to appear.' 'i have been to the prison, but she won't see me. i suppose she is ill.' a look of positive pleasure crossed the face of the elder man. 'ill--no, but innocent!' he exclaimed. 'i can understand her refusing to see you. you have played with her life for the prize of infamy, and you deserve that she should discard you. this is the best thing i have heard yet. why, i could almost forgive you now for telling me. i will go this instant and offer my services: they will be those of a plain, honest man.' and, flinging off his wig and gown, he rushed out of the place in a very unwonted state of excitement. tressamer was left, bewildered and enraged, to curse his own folly in betraying his defeat to a rival. * * * * * when eleanor was summoned by the gaoler to see mr. prescott, she at first thought there must be some mistake. 'are you sure you don't mean mr. tressamer?' she asked. 'no; he said prescott.' a faint smile rose in her face. she eagerly assented to the interview, and in a couple of minutes the two were closeted together. at first there was a brief, awkward silence. then prescott broke it by speaking in calm, precise words: 'it is nearly five years since we met, miss owen, but i hope you have not quite forgotten me.' 'no, indeed,' she answered; 'but you should have forgotten me. i know i ought to thank you for this visit, and for dealing so leniently with the case yesterday, but i cannot find the right words. it is all so strange--so terrible and so strange.' prescott was afraid to look at her, lest the tears should come into his eyes. 'don't thank me, please. i wish i could forgive myself for taking that wretched brief at all. i can only say i did so for fear it might fall into the hands of some abler and bitterer prosecutor. the solicitors were your enemies.' 'yes; i refused their services. i have wondered since if i was wise. it was mr. tressamer who advised me.' 'and why? why did you trust yourself so entirely to that man? but i forgot. i believe you are or were engaged.' eleanor raised her eyes, and looked long and searchingly at her questioner. suddenly she said: 'before i tell you, why did you come here--for any special object, i mean?' 'yes. i came, hearing you had refused--and in my opinion rightly refused--to see mr. tressamer. i came, taking the privilege of an old friend of your father's and your own, to ask if i might appear for you in the court to which your case is being taken.' 'ah, then there is a providence. i am not quite deserted!' she spoke in half irony, and then all at once broke down, and began sobbing as if her heart would break. 'miss owen!--don't, eleanor!' cried her friend in alarm and distress. 'do try and be calm. all will end happily yet, believe me. i swear to you i will never rest till your innocence is established by the discovery of the real criminal!' for some time she wept on without replying. at last the sobs grew feebler, and she lifted her head. 'oh, if you knew,' she said, 'what i have gone through these last two months--no, i ought to say these last two years, since my father died, and that you are the first to speak to me in tones that i can trust, you would not wonder that i weep. sometimes i have felt it too much to bear, and i have actually thought before now of writing to you to tell you all my troubles.' 'to me! why, do you--are you----' she checked him gently. 'to you, as to my oldest friend, whose memory i could recall with trust and confidence. i am speaking now of a time that has passed. now i shall never consent to claim anyone as my friend--if i live--until this horrible stain has been wiped off my name.' 'i will wipe it off. only trust me fully meanwhile, and if you won't claim my friendship, at least so far rely on it as to unburden yourself to me freely. tell me all, because i feel that you may hold in some way the clue to this mystery. i cannot think that all the circumstances piled up against you were purely accidental, and i must know everything before i can see my way clearly.' she shook her head doubtfully. 'i am afraid that my story will not throw much light on the murder. indeed, i fear i am abusing your kindness in troubling you with my affairs. it is a father-confessor i want, not a lawyer.' and she smiled faintly. but prescott was in earnest, and at length he persuaded her to speak. making allowance for some repetitions and some slips of memory, her story was something like this: 'when my father died i was only seventeen. in spite of his being rector, we had lived a very retired life and seen few visitors. the only people i knew at all intimately were miss lewis and the tressamers. 'miss lewis had been in the habit of inviting me to her house ever since i can remember. she used to give me valuable presents, too. in fact, she treated me more like a niece or some near relation than a mere acquaintance. i can never forget her kindness--never, never!' she had to stop a moment or two to overcome her emotion. 'i dare say you remember as much about the tressamers as i could tell you. you know that i was constantly at their house. george tressamer and i were always friends, and he showed me great kindness when i was a mere child. i remember i used to look forward to his coming home for the holidays. neither of us had any brothers or sisters, and so we were more ready to seek each other's company, i suppose. 'but i never quite understood him. i could see, even at an early age, that there was something in his feeling towards me quite different from ordinary friendship. and yet it was only friendship that i felt for him--yes, even to the very last, i assure you. i never felt for him any warmer feeling than gratitude and affection. 'when my dear father died, i was at first in despair. only two people would i listen to--my aunt lewis, as she liked me to call her, and george. my own relations were all far away. i had never seen them, and they were too poor to do anything for me. so when miss lewis offered me a home, i had no choice but to accept. and i was very, very grateful for it. 'but in the meantime george had shown me a great deal of kindness. he came down from london on purpose directly he heard of my father's death. he made all the arrangements for the funeral, and wound up all my father's affairs. i believe he must have paid some money out of his own pocket, as i know my poor father always spent every penny of his income, and was often hard pressed for money. but there were no demands ever made on me. all the things i expressed a wish for were saved, and after the rest were sold, and all debts settled, george brought me a sum of two hundred pounds, which he said was mine.' prescott frowned thoughtfully, and drummed with the toe of his boot on the floor. 'i suppose he didn't give you any accounts?' he said. 'no; i never asked for any. i felt sure that my father couldn't really have left me so much as that, and i told miss lewis i thought so. but she seemed to think it was all right, and i was really too distressed at his death to think much about money matters, one way or the other. 'well, that wasn't all. not only did he see to these business affairs for me, but he did everything he could to console me besides. he brought me books to read, he persuaded me to come out walks, and, in fact, he succeeded in making me get over my first grief sooner than i had thought it possible. the result was that i came to rely on him very much. i looked for him constantly, and felt a disappointment if a day passed without bringing him to see me. 'this was in the vacation time. at last he had to go up to london, and left me, feeling very lonely. he offered to write to me, and i was glad to accept. we corresponded the whole term, nearly every week, and at christmas he came down again. 'by this time some months had gone by since my father's loss, and i was beginning to recover my ordinary spirits. george saw this; he gave me more of his company than ever, and finally, before the christmas holidays were over, he told me that he loved me. 'you will think i ought to have been prepared for this. perhaps another girl would have been, but i can only say that it took me completely by surprise. you see, i had never known any other young man at all intimately, and george i had looked upon more as a brother than anything else. when he spoke of love, my first feeling was one of annoyance and fear. i shrank from answering, and when he pressed me i asked him to let me have time to think it over. he wisely dropped the subject, and before we got home he was chatting to me as familiarly as ever. 'the result was that i began to think that the love which he offered me was nothing very deep, but only a warm friendship like what i felt for him. then i reflected on my own position, as an orphan, dependent on one who was no relation and might cast me adrift at any moment. i realised what a loss it would be to be deprived of george's friendship. i had never really felt anything that i could call love for anyone else, and, in short, i reconciled myself by degrees to the idea. at easter of that year i accepted him. 'in all this i had made one great mistake. i thought george's feeling towards me was a mild one. the moment we were engaged i found the very opposite. 'when i first uttered the words which gave him the right to do so, he clasped me to him with a transport which frightened me. it was actually fierce in its intensity. he lost all that studied control which he had maintained for so long, and fairly gave himself up to the intoxication of his passion. had i dreamed what his state of feeling really was, i don't believe that i should ever have promised myself to him. but it was too late to draw back. he had obtained a power over me, from which i shrank, but of which i had no right to complain. i became in a sense his slave, and he did with me what he chose. 'from that moment, unhappily, my own feelings towards him underwent a rapid change. i ceased to look forward to his coming. i got in time to actually dread it. instead of taking pleasure in his society, i feared him. i disliked the little tokens of proprietorship which are common in the case of an engaged couple. i did not even tell miss lewis that we were engaged, though i believe she looked upon it as an understood thing. in fact, i suppose it would not have done for me to see so much of george otherwise. neither did i dare to tell her of the aversion which had begun to replace my former feelings towards him. to tell the truth, i was ashamed of it. in common gratitude, after all george had done for me, i ought not to have allowed myself to feel so. i did try to check it. i told myself of all his good qualities. i recalled how long i had known him, and how friendly we had always been. but it was no use. 'sometimes he seemed to realise that i was alienated by his passionate displays. then he would return for awhile to his old manner, and be cheerful and cynical with me. then my confidence in him returned, and i enjoyed his company. but this would not last long. when i was least expecting it, he would break into a strain of what i can only call love-frenzy, and disturb me more than ever. 'it was impossible for me to hide what was going on in my mind from him always. he began to find out that i avoided him. instead of openly coming and calling for me to go out with him, he took to lying in wait as it were, and joining me when i was out by myself. of course nothing was said between us. i did not complain of his stratagems, and he did not complain of my excuses. but i think we understood each other. 'then he managed to get miss lewis on his side. he used to come into the room where we both were and give me an invitation for a walk or sail or other excursion in his company. and if i tried to get out of it, he appealed to miss lewis to give me leave, and, of course, she then urged me to go. the way in which he went to work inspired me with a queer sort of admiration for him. i thought that he showed powers of intrigue that would have made him a great man if he had been able to apply them on some vast stage.' 'yes, yes,' said prescott, as she paused a few moments for breath; 'he has great ability, strange powers in many things, but----' he shrugged his shoulders, and turned a pitying eye on eleanor. he had known tressamer well enough to be able to understand her experience. she went on again. 'strange to say, you were the cause of our first open quarrel, about six months ago.' 'i? how?' 'you know you had not been to rivermouth for some four years or more. but i remembered you perfectly, and used always to ask george about you when he came down from london. at last, on this occasion, he happened to say he had a recent photograph of you. i got him to show it to me, and then i wanted to keep it. he objected; i persisted, and finally his jealousy was aroused. '"you always liked prescott better than me," he said. '"i haven't even seen him for five years," i said. "i remember him as an old friend, and i don't see why you should mind my taking an interest in him." '"taking an interest!" he scoffed back. "i wish you would take an interest in me. you have never asked me for my photograph, that i recollect." 'but i needn't tell you all that we said. it ended in his accusing me of not loving him, and in my saying that he was at liberty to find someone else, if he was dissatisfied with me. 'but he--he would not take the release. he altered his tone all at once and fell at my feet, protesting that he loved me above all others, and that nothing should ever separate us. 'so things went on, he alternately courting me and threatening me, i turning from coldness to dislike, and from dislike to detestation. but i hadn't the courage to break my bondage, intolerable as i sometimes felt it. perhaps i should never have shaken myself free but for his own action in bringing things to a crisis. our letters had been friendly for some time, and, at last, in the month of may, he threw out a suggestion in one that it was time to think of our marriage. 'i took no notice of this. he repeated it more distinctly. then i wrote, objecting that i was far too young to think of such a thing for some time to come. he took the alarm, came down by the next train, and sought me out. we went together to a lonely part of the shore, and there we came to a full explanation. 'don't ask me what passed between us. he may be able to tell you. i never can. enough, that after four hours' agonized entreaty and storm on his part, and agonized endurance on mine, we parted. i told him i could never hold intercourse with him again on any footing, and left him apparently resigned. that was just two days before my friend was murdered. 'he left the place next day, and i did not see him again till after i had been lodged in prison. 'there he came to me, asking no return to the old relations, but simply the privilege of befriending and defending me in my fearful trouble. i was crushed by his generosity, and freely gave myself to his guidance. 'but even in that first interview he threw out a suggestion which shocked and repelled me. he seemed to take it for granted that the jury would convict me, and to rely upon getting me off on a law point. i told him that life would not be worth anything to me under such conditions, and in reply he hinted that his devotion would still be mine, if i cared for it. 'since then you have seen how it has happened exactly as he foretold. now, it seems a dreadful thing to say, but the suspicion has forced itself into my mind, and i cannot get rid of it, that he wished all along that i might be blighted in my reputation, and just be saved at the last from actual condemnation, so that i might be driven to take refuge with him.' she spoke these last sentences in a whisper, as if afraid to hear such suggestions even from her own lips. prescott gave a groan. 'would to heaven i could contradict you!' he said, 'but i believe it myself.' and he related to her what had passed between his friend of old and himself. then he went on to ask: 'by the way, can you can tell me anything more about that night than what came out in court? it was you who went out the first time, i take it?' 'yes. i had been quite unwell for some time, owing to my trouble with george tressamer. after our final meeting i had a terrible headache, and could not sleep at all. i went out each night about the same hour, but i haven't the faintest idea where i wandered to or how long i was gone. i got a little sleep after i came in, towards the morning.' 'and what do you think yourself of this man, lewis?' 'i can hardly say. he has shown himself my enemy, and, of course, i cannot like him.' 'but as to suspecting him?' 'oh dear no! i suspect no one.' 'not one of the servants? rebecca, for instance?' 'no. i haven't any inkling whatever as to who committed the crime.' 'well, i suppose i must leave you. i will do whatever is in my power for your deliverance, not merely from danger, but from disgrace, and if i fail i will never venture in your sight again.' chapter xii. the c.c.r. the court for crown cases reserved is a modern institution, whose workings are not always quite understood by the public. in every case which is tried before a jury there are two questions to be decided. the first is whether the evidence produced by the plaintiff alone is sufficient in point of law to justify a verdict. the second is whether the balance of evidence at the end of the trial is in favour of the plaintiff or the defendant. the first of these questions is for the judge, the second for the jury. from the verdict of the jury there is, strictly speaking, no appeal. from the decision of the judge an appeal may be carried right up to the house of lords. but in criminal cases, where the queen is treated as plaintiff, there was anciently no such method of reviewing the judge's decision. now a special court has been established, embracing all the common law judges of the high court, who sit in a body to decide these questions. it was to this tribunal that tressamer had intended to resort. but though the prisoner's legal advisers, both her former and her present one, looked to this court for their client's deliverance from the extreme penalty of the law, the general public turned to a very different remedy, that of agitation, to be exerted upon a very different authority, an impressionable politician in the home office. up to the hour of her conviction public opinion had run strongly against eleanor. whether this was deliberately aimed at by tressamer or not, it was the consequence of the policy adopted by him. but no sooner had the law pronounced her doom than the tide turned with startling rapidity, and a gigantic agitation was at once set on foot for a reprieve. clergymen of mild manners and susceptible hearts went round canvassing their parishioners for signatures to petitions. legal gentlemen, whose practice did not yet correspond to their own opinion of their deserts, rushed into print with gratuitous opinions on the evidence and the various points in the case. newspaper reporters, sensitively alive to the first symptoms of a 'boom,' wrote up the tragic situation with graphic pens. they described the youth and beauty of the prisoner, her gentle bringing up, her desolate condition. even her relations with the counsel for the defence, of which some inkling had transpired, were freely glanced at, and the reader was invited to sympathize with the despair of the lover as well as of the beloved. then the illustrated journals took it up. they had already given pictures of the scene of the crime, of the deceased, and of other characters, including the prisoner. but they now threw away the blocks representing eleanor, and which had originally done service in america, where they represented a female temperance lecturer of moderate attractiveness, and came out with full-page illustrations, taken in one case from the portrait of the most charming actress on the parisian stage, and all calculated to feed the growing flame of sympathy with the victim of what was now boldly referred to as a 'miscarriage of justice.' the sporting fraternity, too, rallied round eleanor almost to a man. a tremendous number of wagers had been made as to her fate, and those whose success was involved in her escape neglected no means of bringing about the desired end. and as public sentiment has not yet sunk quite so low as to tolerate petitions and meetings against clemency, the natural effect of all this was to make it appear that the suffrages of the whole community were on one side. even the jurymen began to repent their verdict. several of them allowed themselves to be interviewed by pressmen, and went so far as to state that they had given their verdict with much misgiving, and hoped that a commutation of sentence would follow. petitions flowed in upon the home secretary. meetings were held, not only in porthstone and the neighbouring towns, but all over the country. finally the excitement culminated in a monster meeting in london itself, in one of the largest public halls of the metropolis, at which the chair was taken by a nobleman, and the speakers included a canon of the church of england, a roman cardinal, a leading light of the wesleyan denomination, a major-general (on half-pay), and an ex-colonial judge. the office of home secretary happened to be held at this time by an experienced member of the legal profession, and it is well known that trained lawyers are far more cautious in condemning, and usually milder in punishing, than laymen. the home secretary wavered. he sent for the judge who had presided at the trial, and sir daniel buller, who had had time to recover from his little pique against the prisoner's counsel, infused his own doubt into the home secretary's mind. at last the minister issued a decision. it was a thorough specimen of the not-guilty-but-don't-do-it-again order of judgment. it stated that the home secretary saw no reason to doubt the substantial guilt of eleanor owen, but that as, in his opinion, the evidence was of an imperfect character, and failed to throw a clear light upon all the circumstances of the case, including the motive for the crime, he had advised her majesty to commute the sentence to one of imprisonment for life. the very day that this unsatisfactory announcement appeared, thirteen judges sat side by side at the royal law courts to consider the point reserved. charles prescott represented the prisoner. if the judges felt any surprise at this change of sides they were careful not to express it. young mr. pollard appeared on behalf of the crown, but he was led by the great appleby, q.c., and, as a matter of fact, was not allowed to open his lips once during the proceedings. prescott's argument was long and elaborate. a crowded bar were present to hear the celebrated case, and the feeling was universal among them that he had never shone so conspicuously on any former occasion. he took up the history of the law of murder from its earliest stages, and along with it he traced the gradual evolution of circumstantial evidence. he showed with what suspicion and reluctance the latter had been gradually admitted into our courts, and how succeeding judges had been careful to fence it in and restrain its application. then he turned to the particular rule of law which tressamer had relied on in the assize court, and repeated and emphasized the arguments made use of by him. he wound up with an impressive appeal to the judges to lean in the prisoner's favour, reminding them of the old maxim that a statute must be construed in favour of life, and asking them to apply the same principle in expounding the common law. then appleby, q.c., addressed the court. in reply to prescott's last observations, he said that imperfection of evidence was a good ground for commutation of sentence, but none for releasing the prisoner altogether. this was, of course, a reminder to the judges of the home secretary's decision, announced that morning. then he proceeded to argue the case on general lines. he began by stigmatizing hale's precept as a mere piece of advice to juries, rather than a maxim of law. he went on to say: 'the most serious difficulty in following this rule is to know how far to apply it. how much of the deceased's body is it necessary to produce in order to justify a conviction? if the head had been discovered, surely my learned friend would not venture to argue that that was not sufficient. it seems clear that it must be a question of fact in each case, and a question of fact is eminently one for the jury, and where they are satisfied that a death has taken place, it would be the height of folly for their verdict to be set aside because there was not exactly what would enable a coroner to hold an inquest. 'in the present case, however, as a matter of fact, an inquest has been held. the proceedings have gone on all along on the assumption which every reasonable man must have formed, namely, that the body of the deceased had been committed to the waves. to set aside the conviction under such circumstances is simply to encourage crime, and to hold out a guarantee of safety to every murderer who will take a little trouble to conceal the remains of his victim.' when appleby had finished, prescott made a brief reply. he confined himself to saying that this was a case of interpreting the law, and not of framing it anew on the ground of expediency. but, he added, even if the court had to decide without reference to authority, he should still be prepared to urge that the danger of convicting one innocent person must always outweigh that of granting immunity to any number of felons, and he reminded their lordships how very rarely such a circumstance as the present occurred in actual experience. when the judges came to give their opinions it was at once evident that the court was divided. in accordance with old etiquette, the youngest judge delivered himself first, and he, with some hesitation, declared in favour of the prisoner. but the next three all took the opposite side, and did so with great firmness. after them came another who supported prescott's view, and then one who sided against him. sir daniel buller repeated his decision at the trial, and sir john wiseman dwelt with elaboration on the reasons which swayed his cautious mind to the opposite view. but the member of the court who was listened to with most attention by his brethren was sir stephen james, who had made a european reputation by his studies in criminal law. his works on the subject were in every library, and his mere dictum carried almost as much weight as a decided case. when it began to be evident that he was going in the prisoner's favour, prescott took courage again. his lordship's decision was brief, and to the point. 'when i am asked to apply a rule of law to a state of facts,' he said, 'and it appears doubtful whether or no the facts are included in the strict wording of the rule, i think it rational to look behind the words to the meaning, and to ask whether the reason for the rule applies with equal force to the facts now before me. now, the reason i am able to discover for sir matthew hale's rule is the danger of condemning anyone on a capital charge when you cannot be quite sure that a capital crime has been committed. it is no use to say to me that the jury believe this, that, or the other. the jury may believe it will be a fine day to-morrow, but that does not justify me in condemning a man to death on the assumption that it will be a fine day. the question is whether the jury are justified in coming to their verdict by cogent and decisive evidence. in this case i can see nothing of the sort. an eccentric old lady, with a mania for hoarding jewels, has disappeared in the night, carrying her jewels with her. a hand, identified as hers, because of the rings on it, was found on the beach next day. on those grounds, practically, we are asked to say that she is dead. i can only say that i decline to come to any such conclusion, and furthermore, i am quite satisfied that if sir matthew hale were sitting on this bench to-day he would be in favour of quashing this conviction.' two other judges at once subscribed this judgment, and finally, when all but the chief justice had spoken, it appeared that the court so far was evenly divided, and that lord christobel held the fate of the prisoner in his hands. possibly his lordship was not ill-pleased at this. he was a past master of dramatic effect, and in his hands the ancient dignity of lord chief justice of england lost nothing of its imposing character. it may be added that it lost nothing of that higher dignity conferred upon it by the gascoignes of another age. lord christobel had shown on more than one occasion that all ranks, even the highest, were equal in the eye of the law as administered by him. he was the scourge of truckling magistrates, and a thorn in the side of those petty tyrants whom our peculiar system allows to flourish in rural districts in the degraded robes of justice. he did not long keep the court in suspense. in a gracefully-worded judgment he endorsed the arguments of the prisoner's counsel, and pronounced the conviction of eleanor owen to be void in law. the prisoner was to be discharged forthwith. hardly did prescott wait for the closing words of the judgment before rushing out to the telegraph office at the entrance to the law courts, and despatching a message to eleanor, who was still in abertaff gaol. he followed this up by thrusting a few things into a bag, cashing a cheque, and hurrying to paddington, where he caught an express for the county town. within four hours he was in eleanor's presence. she had waited for him in the prison, and now put on some outdoor things. he led her to the door, where the governor took a courteous leave of them, and they passed through the gates. when she found herself for the first time in the open air, eleanor's limbs shook beneath her. she looked wildly round, as if fearing to behold some disagreeable object, and then begged prescott to take her to a seat. they had emerged into a wide, dirty street, formed by the prison wall on one side and a row of shabby little houses and shops on the other. a few boys were playing marbles on the path, and eleanor never saw the game afterwards without remembering that evening. the sun was about to set as they took their way by the quietest route to a little public garden in the neighbourhood, where was a grass plot and some seats. there they stopped, and sat down for a short time to decide on eleanor's future steps. eleanor's first words struck heavily in the ears of her companion. 'i almost wish myself back again. where am i to go now?' and she shivered slightly. 'oh, eleanor, don't say that! to-night you must go to some hotel in the town, but to-morrow we will go up to town together, and i will find you lodgings for a time.' she turned and looked at him sorrowfully, not reproachfully, and shook her head. 'no, no. you forget what i said to you before. i have accepted your friendship, and i need not tell you how grateful i am for it, and for your efforts in obtaining my release. but i am still where i was, as far as the world is concerned. they will go on believing me guilty, and while they do i cannot let you associate with me.' 'oh, why not? surely you know by this time what you are to me? need i tell you, eleanor----' she put up her hand. 'hush, charles!' the word sent a thrill through him. he looked round. some children were engrossed in a game a hundred yards and more away. the sunlight was fading from gold to crimson across the roofs and chimneys beyond. the whole scene was still and sabbath-like. a great peace seemed to speak to him, and bid him take courage and hope for better things. he turned again to eleanor. 'thank you,' he said, in acknowledgment of her tacit confession. 'but oh! if i am satisfied, what need you care for others? listen: i have some money--more than enough to keep us for some years. we will go to australia, where they have not heard of us; or, if they have, we will change our names. i can join the bar there, and do as well as here. are you not my only happiness? what are other things compared to that?' again she looked at him sorrowfully. again she shook her head. then she turned and gazed into the green and crimson of the sunset while she spoke. 'you would not speak like that if you knew me. do you suppose i have not thought of all these things during my weary prison hours? i have done nothing else since i saw you, since i saw you and knew you loved me, charles. but i must be strong where you are weak. i must decide in this matter without heeding your wishes. i must decide as your mother would, if you asked her. would she wish you to marry a convicted murderess? i have to speak plainly, because i want you to understand me at once, charles, and spare me the pain of further talk like this. i shall go to london by myself, and i shall let you have my address on the strict condition that you are never to come and see me till my character stands clear again. you may write to me sometimes, not often, but if you break the condition and come to me, i shall move somewhere else and hide myself from you altogether. now let us go and find a hotel for me, different from yours.' she made a movement to rise. charles looked round once more. the children had finished their game and disappeared. the brilliancy of the sunset was dropping into dusk and gray. they were alone in the twilight, beneath the faded trees. 'eleanor, one pledge that you will not forsake me!' she turned. their eyes met; then their lips. the silent, close embrace lasted but a minute, though to both of them it seemed longer than the whole of their previous life. then they arose and went forth out of their poor paradise, like adam and eve, with the world lying empty and desolate in front of them. chapter xiii. under the great seal. shortly after prescott had returned to town, he was surprised to get a letter from tressamer to this effect: 'i want you to give me eleanor's address. i must see her once more, as i have something of importance to say to her.' without an instant's hesitation he sat down and wrote an answer, in which he said: 'you have no further claim on my friendship, nor on miss owen's. fortunately, she is now under my protection, and in a place where you are not likely to find her. do not expect for one moment that i shall do anything to bring her again within the reach of your dangerous character. only the memory of our old kindness restrains me from writing in a very much stronger way. i am sorry that i must ask you never to hold communication with me again.' meanwhile prescott had been doing his utmost to obtain some further light upon the mystery. but neither his inquiries nor those of the skilled detective whom he sent down at his own expense to investigate had resulted so far in finding the smallest clue to what had happened on the night of the first of june. he had not seen eleanor since they parted at abertaff. he now received a letter from her, in which she fulfilled her promise of letting him know her address. but her letter was so despondent, and showed her to feel her situation so deeply, that prescott was greatly shocked and grieved. two days after he was roused by seeing in the papers this announcement: 'the porthstone murder: discovery of the lost jewels.--last night, while dragging for fish along the shore of newton bay, some fishermen brought to land in their net a chest which had evidently been in the water some time. on being opened, it was found to be full of valuable gems. the police were at once communicated with, it being supposed that they were those missing since the night of the murder. they sent for mr. lewis, but as he was unable to speak to their identity, mr. williams, of abertaff, who had supplied deceased with jewellery, was wired for, and he came down by the next train and identified the contents of the chest as the missing jewels. it will be remembered that a part of the body was discovered at or about the same place. 'the importance of the discovery is in negativing the theory that the crime was committed for the sake of robbery. but it cannot be said that the mystery which has enshrouded this murder from first to last is in any degree dispelled by this new incident.' while prescott was still pondering over this discovery, and its bearing on the position of eleanor and the facts in the case, he received a second letter from tressamer. his first impulse was to return it unopened, but he thought this might be doing an injustice, as the letter might contain some explanation, though hardly any excuse for his strange conduct. he therefore opened it. the letter was a long one, taking up many sheets of paper. after the opening words, it went on: 'i know not what opinion you have formed of me and of my conduct towards eleanor owen. neither do i write in any hope of excusing myself. i am past that now, and i shall soon be past the reach of your anger and of hers. 'let me begin at the beginning. you remember our childhood, and you know, none better, the bonds between eleanor and myself. but you do not know that, as children, we were united by those pledges which children sometimes make in imitation of the serious engagements of later life. of course, as we grew older that passed more or less out of sight, but the memory of it remained--at least, with me. 'i think it was you who first came between us, even at that early age. i used to think she liked you better than me. but why dwell on these things? let me come on to a later time, the time of her father's death, when i had passed into manhood, and she was passing into young womanhood. 'that was my first opportunity of showing her my devotion, and i did so. i paid off her father's debts, and by the time i had settled everything, and handed over a little sum to her, i had spent some hundreds of pounds of my own. 'eleanor was grateful. whether she had any warmer feeling for me at that time, i cannot say. but i thought then that she had, and that she returned my love--not in the degree that i gave it; no, that could not be. still, the pleasure she took in my company, the trust with which she seemed to lean on me, certainly filled me with the hope of some day winning her. 'i went to work cautiously. i dreaded her being afraid of my passion if i let her see its whole force. i never did. i chained it up when i was with her, and played a mild and cheerful part. i had my reward. at last, the christmas after her father's death, i ventured to speak. she heard me with no delight, but yet, it seemed, with no great repugnance. time soon reconciled her to the idea, and before long, i had the rapture of hearing her consent to be mine. 'then it was that i betrayed myself. i let my mad passion peep forth for an instant, and in that instant i was undone. i saw i had terrified and shocked her. i would have given worlds to recall that volcanic outburst, but it was too late. her feelings, mild hitherto, were soured by the lightning of my intense love. from that hour she turned from me with deeper and deeper aversion, and from that hour my passion grew and grew upon me with the force of mania, till it usurped the functions of reason, morality, prudence, and every motive that guides and controls the life of man, and left me with but one dominating, desperate idea, that i must possess eleanor owen, or perish. 'i need not dwell on what happened during the next year. how i saw her turning from me, with a sickening heart; how i hungered for the tokens of even that mild friendship she had shown me of old, and how even that was denied; how i brooded upon my wrongs till i scarce knew whether i loved or hated her, whether it was passion or revenge that inspired my mad resolve to kill her rather than forfeit my right to her. 'you, yes, you, came between us again. god help me, i sometimes think she must have loved you all along, unconsciously. she asked me for your portrait; i refused. she persisted. then my wrath broke out in an ungovernable transport of jealousy, and i showed--i must have shown--something of the black stuff that was working in my heart. i saw her lose colour. i saw her tremble, and i rushed away to calm myself if i could. 'from that moment i could see that all friendly feeling was at an end between us. she hated me and i hated her. but i would not give her up. the very animosity between us seemed only to feed my fierce desire to have her and make her my slave. am i writing wildly? do you start back and shudder at all this? go on; you have not yet come to a glimmering of the worst! 'i began to grow impatient for a final end to this state of things, and i pressed her to name a day for the marriage. she replied, putting me off. i went down by the next train to have it out with her. and then at last we spoke freely. 'i accused her of having ceased to love me. she said she had never really felt love for me, but only affection, and that i had extinguished that by my own behaviour. 'i asked her what behaviour. she was silent. then the flood-gates of my wrath broke loose, and i put all her weakness and wickedness before her. ah, how i spoke! you may think you have heard me eloquent. but you never have. i was that afternoon as one inspired. i stood there on the bare sands, alone with her, with the wind rushing past us, and the sea roaring in front, and the wild seabirds wheeling and screaming far away. oh, it was a grand hour for me! the frenzy mounted to my brain. i felt like a destroying angel. i took her miserable girl's heart in my hands and rent it in twain, and cast its miserable pretences to the earth. i showed her myself, my manhood, my ardour, my passion, my devotion. i terrified her, awed her, fascinated her. for a time i think i had almost won upon her to yield. 'but my power forsook me. no sooner did i see the first symptom of returning tenderness in her, or what i mistook for it, than my hatred and rage departed; i was melted in a moment; i flung myself in front of her on my face, and implored her with sobs and tears to give me one little spark of love. fool that i was! fool! fool! 'she took advantage of my weakness. doubtless she despised me for it. she made me one of those mincing, lying answers that women know how to make to us in our madness, and she took courage at last to rise and leave me lying there--lying there with my face upon the wet sand, and the wet rain beating down upon my head, and the moaning tempest rising over me in the heavens, like the awful eruption of maniacal hatred that was working its way into my being within. 'i got up at night and came away. i suppose i still looked and acted as if i were sane. at all events, the people i passed said nothing to me. i packed up and left for abertaff that night. 'with me i took an object which i had picked up on the sands where eleanor had sat. it was the key of the house where she lived. when i caught sight of it it seemed like an inspiration. in an instant i resolved to make use of it to execute my vengeance. since i could not marry eleanor, i would kill her. 'but in the train a more subtle scheme presented itself. if i killed her, she would be lost to me for ever, and i still longed for her as madly as at any time. the new idea which i had got was this. i would kill, not eleanor, but her friend and benefactress, and i would do it in such a way as to cast the stain of guilt on eleanor herself. you see the plot. her life was to be in no real danger. the body was to disappear, and hence she was to escape a trial. but the horror and condemnation of the whole world were to be turned upon her, and then, in her hour of blackest misery, i was to come forward and say: "i love you still. i believe in your innocence. come with me to a foreign land as my wife, and i will make you happy." 'i need not tell you much more. i came back by road for greater secrecy, and did not arrive in porthstone till eleven at night. i was not tired. some superhuman power had taken possession of me, and in all i did i felt as if i were but a passive instrument in its hands. 'i approached the house at twelve, expecting all its inmates to be asleep. just as i was about to enter it the door opened, and to my astonishment eleanor herself emerged. i gazed at her retreating figure with a sort of stupid fascination for some time, and then recovered myself, and went in. i had taken off my boots outside, and hence, i suppose my footsteps sounded light as i went upstairs. 'well, do you want more? do you care to hear how i killed her; how i stabbed her in her sleep, lowered her through the window, and came down with the jewel-chest in my arms? i had to mutilate the corpse; the weight would have been too great for me at once. as it was, i made three journeys before i had disposed of all, and thrown everything, including the latchkey, into the sea. 'then i walked back to abertaff--twenty miles it was, and i got there before ten the next morning. i had breakfast, and was still walking the streets when the news came that the murder was discovered. 'it overwhelmed me. i assure you, charles prescott, on the oath of a dying man, that i knew not what i did, till that moment. i was possessed as surely as any of the galilean sufferers of old. madness, your modern science calls it. it is all the same. i passed out of it into my ordinary state with a terrible shock, and then i set about playing the part i had looked forward to, of delivering eleanor, and carrying her off. 'but it was not to be. i had forgotten that she was not mad, too; i had made no allowance for her, and now i found that my protection, my confidence, was of no value to her, when she had lost the good opinion of the world. 'of the world, do i say? verily, i believe it was you; i believe you unconsciously thwarted me then, as before. 'i gave way to my frenzy again in secret. again the demon came back and resumed his sway. he has held me ever since. he holds me now. 'yet i can act my part. i deceive all. i just rang for my clerk, and told him i should want him to carry this to your chambers. fool! he had no suspicion that he was never going to hear me speak again. 'good-bye. 'twere folly to ask you to forgive. i do not wish it. yet, eleanor--eleanor----' the letter ended abruptly at this point. the reader put on his hat and rushed round to tressamer's chambers. it was too late. he found him sitting in a chair, stark and dead, with a dagger driven through his heart. * * * * * when a year had elapsed, a quiet wedding took place, in an out-of-the-way city church, between charles prescott and eleanor owen. the only dowry brought by the bride was her restored beauty, and a parchment under the great seal of england, pardoning her from all accusations that had been or might be raised against her on account of the tragedy which had so nearly involved her in a felon's doom. the end. * * * * * billing and sons, printers, guildford. transcriber's note: minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. transcriber's note: quotation marks have been added to block quotes set in smaller type. the text of signs and business cards was set in box rules, which have been omitted. typographical errors have been corrected; th-century spellings have been retained. loc call number: ps .r c the confessions of artemas quibble being the ingenuous and unvarnished history of artemas quibble, esquire, one-time practitioner in the new york criminal courts, together with an account of the divers wiles, tricks, sophistries, technicalities, and sundry artifices of himself and others of the fraternity, commonly yclept "shysters" or "shyster lawyers," as edited by arthur train formerly assistant district attorney new york county illustrated new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , by charles scribner's sons printed at the scribner press new york, u.s.a. illustrations [omitted] the confessions of artemas quibble chapter i i was born in the town in lynn, massachusetts, upon the twenty- second day of february, in the year . unlike most writers of similar memoirs, i shall cast no aspersions upon the indigent by stating that my parents were poor but honest. they were poor _and_ honest, as indeed, so far as i have been able to ascertain, have been all the quibbles since the founder of the family came over on the good ship _susan and ellen_ in , and, after marrying a lady's maid who had been his fellow passenger, settled in the township of weston, built a mill, and divided his time equally between selling rum to the indians and rearing a numerous progeny. my father, the reverend ezra quibble, was, to be sure, poor enough. the salary that he received as pastor of his church was meagre to the degree of necessitating my wearing his over-worn and discarded clerical vestments, which to some extent may account for my otherwise inexplicable distaste for things ecclesiastical. my mother was poor, after wedlock, owing to the eccentricity of a parent who was so inexorably opposed to religion that he cut her off with a shilling upon her marriage to my father. before this she had had and done what she chose, as was fitting for a daughter of a substantial citizen who had made a fortune in shoe leather. i remember that one of my first experiments upon taking up the study of law was to investigate my grandfather's will in the probate office, with a view to determining whether or not, in his fury against the church, he had violated any of the canons of the law in regard to perpetuities or restraints upon alienation; or whether in his enthusiasm for the society for the propagation of free thinking, which he had established and intended to perpetuate, he had not been guilty of some technical slip or blunder that would enable me to seize upon its endowment for my own benefit. but the will, alas! had been drawn by that most careful of draughtsmen, old tuckerman toddleham, of barristers' hall, boston, and was as solid as the granite blocks of the court-house and as impregnable of legal attack as the constitution. we lived in a frame house, painted a disconsolate yellow. it abutted close upon the sidewalk and permitted the passer-by to view the family as we sat at meat or enjoyed the moderate delights of social intercourse with our neighbors, most of whom were likewise parishioners of my father. my early instruction was received in the public schools of my native town, supplemented by tortured hours at home with "greenleaf's mental arithmetic" and an exhaustive study of the major and minor prophets. the former stood me in good stead, but the latter i fear had small effect. at any rate, the impression made upon me bore little fruit, and after three years of them i found myself in about the same frame of mind as the oxford student who, on being asked at his examination to distinguish between the major and minor prophets, wrote in answer: "god forbid that i should discriminate between such holy men!" but for all that i was naturally of a studious and even scholarly disposition, and much preferred browsing among the miscellaneous books piled in a corner of the attic to playing the rough-and-tumble games in which my school-mates indulged. my father was a stern, black-bearded man of the ante-bellum type, such as you may see in any old volume of daguerreotypes, and entirely unblessed with a sense of humor. i can even now recall with a sinking of the heart the manner in which, if i abjured my food, he would grasp me firmly by the back of the neck and force my nose toward the plate of indian mush--which was the family staple at supper--with the command, "eat, boy!" sometimes he was kind to a degree which, by a yawning of the imagination, might be regarded as affectionate, but this was only from a sense of religious duty. at such times i was prone to distrust him even more than at others. he believed in a personal devil with horns, a tail, and, i suspect, red tights; and up to the age of ten i shared implicitly in this belief. the day began and ended with family prayers of a particularly long-drawn-out and dolorous character. my mother, on the other hand, was a pale young woman of an undecided turn of mind with a distinct taste for the lighter pleasures that she was never allowed to gratify. i think she secretly longed for the freedom that had been hers under the broader roof of her father's stately mansion on high street. but she had, i suspect, neither the courage nor the force of mind to raise an issue, and from sheer inertia remained faithful to the life that she had elected. my grandfather never had anything to do with either of them and did not, so far as i am aware, know me by sight, which may account for the fact that when he died he bequeathed a moderate sum in trust, "the proceeds to be devoted to the support and maintenance of the child of my daughter sarah, at some suitable educational institution where he may be removed from the influences of his father." thus it was that at the age of nine i was sent away from home and began an independent career at the boarding-school kept by the reverend mr. quirk, at methuen, massachusetts. here i remained for seven years, in the course of which both my parents died, victims of typhoid. i was cast upon the world utterly alone, save for the rather uncompromising and saturnine regard in which i was held by old mr. toddleham, my trustee. this antique gentleman inhabited a musty little office, the only furniture in which consisted of a worn red carpet, a large engraving of the hon. jeremiah mason, and a table covered with green baize. i recall also a little bronze horse which he used as a paper weight. he had a shrewd wrinkled face of the color of parchment, a thick yellow wig, and a blue cape coat. his practice consisted almost entirely in drawing wills and executing them after the decease of their respective testators, whom he invariably outlived, and i think he regarded me somewhat in the light of a legal joke. he used to send for me twice a year, for the sole purpose, i believe, of ascertaining whether or not i was sufficiently nourished at quirk's establishment. on these occasions he would take me to lunch with him at the parker house, where he invariably ordered scallops and pumpkin pie for me and a pint of port for himself. on my departure he would hand me solemnly two of the pieces of paper currency known as "shin plasters," and bid me always hold my grandfather's memory in reverence. on one of these occasions, when he had laid me under a similar adjuration, i asked him whether he had ever heard of the man who made his son take off his hat whenever he met a pig--on the ground that his father had made his money in pork. he stared at me very hard for a moment with his little twinkling eyes and then suddenly and without any preliminary symptoms exploded in a cackle of laughter. "goddamme," he squeaked, "i wish your gran'ther could a' heard y' say that!" then without further explanation he turned and made his way down school street and i did not see him for another six months. my life at quirk's was a great improvement over the life i had led at home in lynn. in the first place i was in the real country, and in the second i had the companionship of good-natured, light- hearted people. the master himself was of the happy-go-lucky sort who, with a real taste for the finer things of literature and life, take no thought for the morrow or indeed even for the day. he was entirely incapable of earning a living and had been successively an actor, a lecturer, a preacher, and a pedagogue. he was a fine scholar of latin and could quote terence, horace, and plautus in a way that could stir the somnolent soul even of a school-boy. his chief enemy, next to laziness, was drink. he would disappear for days at a time into his study, and afterward explain that he had been engaged in the preparation of his _magnum opus_, which periodically was just on the point of going to press. during these interludes the school was run by mrs. quirk, a robust, capable, and rosy englishwoman, who had almost as much learning as her husband and ten times as much practical ability. there were twelve boys in the school, for each of whom the quirks received the modest sum of two hundred and seventy-five dollars a year. in exchange for this they gave board, lodging, and tuition. each of us received separate instruction--or as quirk expressed it "individual attention"--and excellent instruction it was. we arose at six, breakfasted at six-thirty, and helped around the house until eight, when our studies began. these continued until twelve, at which time we had dinner. after that we were free until two-thirty, when we resumed our labors until four. quirk was a tall, lank, loose-jointed man, with long black hair that lay well over his byronic collar. he had a humorous eye and a cavernous mouth that was always twisting itself into grimaces, alternately side-splitting and terrifying. on occasions he would use the birch--and very thoroughly, too, as i have reason to remember --but he ruled us by fear of authority. for though he dressed like a clergyman, he always smelled strongly of stale cigar smoke, and his language at times was more forcible than is generally expected of a wearer of the cloth. i dwelt with the quirks, winter and summer, until i was able to pass my examinations for harvard, which i did in the summer of . my allowance had been gradually increased to meet my new expenses, and i entered the freshman class with an income sufficient to permit me to dress suitably and enjoy myself in such simple ways as were in vogue among the collegians. but coming as i did, alone, from a small boarding-school, proved to be a great disadvantage, for i had all my friends to make after my arrival and i had neither the means nor the address to acquire ready-made social distinction. thus it happened that i was very lonely during my first years in cambridge; missed the genial companionship of my old friends, the quirks, and seized every opportunity that offered for going back to methuen. i had grown into a tall, narrow-shouldered youth, with a high-arched nose between rather pale cheeks, and prominent ears. though i could hardly flatter myself into the belief that i was handsome, i felt that my appearance had something of distinction and that i looked like a gentleman. i affected coats with long tails and a somewhat dandified style of waistcoat and neck-cloth, as well as a white beaver, much in favor among the "bloods" of those days. but this took most of my available cash, and left me little to expend in treating my fellow students at the tavern or in enjoying the more substantial culinary delights of the boston hotels. thus though i made no shabby friends i acquired few genteel ones, and i began to feel keenly the disadvantages of a lean purse. i was elected into none of the clubs, nor did i receive any invitations to the numerous balls given in boston or even to those in cambridge. this piqued my pride, to be sure, but only intensified my resolution to become a man of fashion on my own account. if my classmates could get on without me i felt that i could get on without them, and i resolutely declined to appreciate any social distinction that might artificially exist between a man born in salem and one born in lynn, although i now understand that such distinction exists, at least so far as boston society is concerned. consequently as time went on and i could achieve prominence in no other way, i sought consolation for the social joys denied by my betters in acquiring the reputation of a sport. i held myself coldly aloof from the fashionable men of my class and devoted myself to a few cronies who found themselves in much the same position as my own. in a short time we became known as the fastest set in college, and our escapades were by no means confined to cambridge, but were carried on with great impartiality in boston and the neighboring towns. we organized a club, which we called the cock and spur, and had a rat-pit and cock-fights in the cellar, on which occasions we invited out young actors from the boston museum and howard athenaeum stock companies. these in turn pressed us with invitations to similar festivities of their own, and we thus became acquainted with the half-world of the modern athens, which was much worse for us, i trow, than would have been the most desperate society of our college contemporaries. there was a club of young actors that we used to frequent, where light comedy sketches and scenes from famous plays were given by the members, and in due time several of us were admitted to membership. of these i was one and learned to do a turn very acceptably. on one occasion i took a small part upon the boston museum stage to fill the place made vacant by the illness of a regular member of the cast--an illness due in part to a carousal at the cock and spur the night before, in which he had come out second best. we were a clever crew, however, and never gave the faculty reason to complain of any failure on our part to keep up in our studies. when examination time came we hired an impecunious coach and, retiring from the world, acquired in five days knowledge that our fellows had taken eight months to imbibe. it is true that the college at large viewed us with some disgust, but we chose to regard this as mere envy. that we were really objectionable must, however, be admitted, for we smoked cigars in the yard, wore sky-blue pantaloons and green waistcoats, and cultivated little side whiskers of the mutton-chop variety; while our gigs and trotters were constantly to be seen standing in harvard square, waiting for the owners to claim them and take the road. on sundays, when the decorous youths of boston had retired to beacon street for their midday family feast of roast beef and baked beans, the members of the cock and spur might be observed in their white beaver hats driving countryward in chaises from the local livery stables, seated beside various fair ladies from the boston stage or the less distinguished purlieus of the cambridge chop-houses. at noon these parties would foregather at some country tavern and spend long afternoons singing, drinking, and playing draw poker and other games of chance; and occasionally we would fight a main of cocks in some convenient pig-pen. but this sort of life took money, and i soon found myself borrowing freely from my associates, most of whom were young fellows from other states who had already come into their inheritances and had gone to harvard to get rid of them under the most approved conditions. for these i came to stand as a sort of sponsor, and was looked up to by them as a devil of a fellow, for i swore picturesquely and had a belligerently unpleasant manner that was regarded as something quite out of the ordinary and distinguished. these youthful spendthrifts i patronized and taught the mysteries of a sporting life, and for a time it became quite smart for a fellow to have gone on one of "quib's" notes. these notes, however, increased rapidly in number, and before long amounted to such a prodigious sum that they gave me great uneasiness. my habits had become extravagant and careless. having no money at all i took no heed of what i did with that of others, for i hardly believed that i could ever repay any of it. but i continued on in my luxurious ways, well knowing that any change in my mode of life would precipitate a deluge. the safety of my position lay in owing everybody, and in inducing each to believe that he would be the one person ultimately or immediately to be paid. moreover, i was now completely spoiled and craved so ardently the enjoyments in which i had indulged that i would never of myself have had the will to abjure them. i had gained that which i sought--reputation. i was accounted the leader of the fast set--the "all knights" as we were known--and i was the envy and admiration of my followers. but this bred in me an arrogance that proved my undoing. it was necessary for me to be masterful in order to carry off the pose of leadership, but i had not yet learned when to conciliate. it so happened that in the spring of my junior year my creditors became more than usually pressing, and at the same time a jew by the name of poco abrahams began to threaten suit on a note of mine for two thousand dollars, which i had discounted with him for seven hundred and fifty. i made my usual demands upon my friends and offered to do them the favor of letting them go on some more of my paper, but without the usual result. i then discovered to my annoyance that a wealthy young fellow know as "buck" de vries, who had considered himself insulted by something that i had said or done, had been quietly spreading the rumor that i was a sort of hocus-pocus fellow and practically bankrupt, that my pretensions to fashion were ridiculous, and that i made a business of living off other people. incidentally he had gone the rounds, and, owing to the rumors that he himself had spread, had succeeded in buying up most of my notes at a tremendous discount. these he lost no time in presenting for payment, and as they amounted to several thousand dollars my hope of reaching a settlement with him was small. in point of fact i was quite sure that he wanted no settlement and desired only revenge, and i realized what a fool i had been to make an enemy out of one who might have been an ally. in this embarrassing situation i bethought me of old mr. toddleham, and accordingly paid him an unexpected visit at barristers' hall. it was a humid spring day, and i recall that the birds were twittering loudly in the maples back of the probate office. as befitted my station at the time of year, i was arrayed in a new beaver and a particularly fanciful pair of rather tight trousers. "come in," squeaked mr. toddleham, and i entered easily. the old lawyer peered quizzically at me from behind his square- boned spectacles. "oh," said he, "it's you, master quibble." "the same, and your most obedient," i replied, letting myself fall gracefully into a chair and crossing my legs. "you want money, i suppose?" he continued, after a few minutes, during which he inspected by get-up with some interest. "well," i commenced lightly, "the fact is i am rather pressed. i thought if you could make me a small advance out of my grandfather's legacy--" "legacy! what legacy?" he inquired. "the legacy my grandfather left me." "he left you no legacy," retorted the old gentleman. "your grandfather, to whom you were once so considerate as to refer in my presence as a pig, left you no legacy. he directed that as long as you seemed to deserve it i should spend a certain sum on your maintenance and education." "gad!" i cried. "that puts me in a nice position!" the old lawyer looked at me whimsically. "my gay young man," he remarked finally, "the only position you occupy is one into which you have deliberately walked yourself. you come here in your fine clothes and your beaver hat and--excuse me--your whiskers, and you are surprised that there is no money forthcoming to pay your debts. do not look astonished. i know and have known for a long time of your debts. i have followed your career with attention if not with edification. even for the son of a baptist minister you have done pretty well. however, life is life and everybody is not the same. i sha'n't judge you. i was a bit of a dog myself, although i don't look it now. but i can give you no more money for game-cocks and cigars. it is time for you to start in and earn your own living--if you can. at the end of the term i will give you fifty dollars and a ticket to new york, or one hundred dollars and no ticket to anywhere. you will have to kick out for yourself. so fine a fellow," he added, "ought not to find it hard to get along. no doubt you could find some rich girl to marry you and support you in idleness." i flushed with anger and sprang to my feet. "i did not come here to be insulted!" i cried furiously. old mr. toddleham chuckled apologetically. "tut, tut! no offence. you won't find earning your living such an easy matter. have you thought anything about what you'll do?" "no," i answered, still indignant. "how much do you owe?" "about forty-eight hundred dollars." "damme!" muttered mr. tuckerman toddleham. "more than you could earn in the first five years at the law!" "see here," i interrupted, "do you seriously mean that except for fifty dollars or so there is nothing coming to me out of my grandfather's estate? why, he was worth over a million!" "that is exactly what i mean," he returned. "he left you nothing except an allowance for your education during your good behavior. he made me the judge. i'm your trustee and i can't conscientiously let you have any more money to drink up and gamble with. it's over and done with." he rapped with an air of finality on his desk with the little bronze horse. "who gets all the money?" i asked ruefully. "the society for the propagation of free thinking," he answered, eyeing me sharply. "i should think anything like that ought to be contrary to law!" i retorted. "it ought to be a crime to encourage atheism." "it's a good devise under our statutes!" he answered dryly. "i suppose your own faith is beautiful enough, eh?" i did not respond, but sat twisting my hat in my hands. through the open window the soft damp odors of spring came in and mingled with the dusty smell of law books. so this was law! it suddenly struck me that i was taking the loss of over a million dollars very resignedly. how did i know whether the old boy was telling me the truth or not? he had drawn the will and got a good fee for it. certainly he was not going to admit that there was anything invalid about it. why not study law--i might as well do that as anything --and find out for myself? it was a game worth playing. the stakes were a million dollars and the forfeit nothing. as i looked around the little office and at the weazened old barrister before me, something of the fascination of the law took hold of me. "i rather think i should like to study law myself," i remarked. he looked at me out of the corners of his bead-like little eyes. "and break your gran'ther's will, mebbe?" he inquired slyly. "if i can," i retorted defiantly. "that would be better than fighting cocks and frittering your time away with play actors," said he. "mr. toddleham," i returned, "if i will agree to turn over a new leaf and give up my present associates, will you continue my allowance and let me stay on in cambridge and study law?" "if you will agree to enter my office and study under my supervision --yes." once more i glanced around the little room. somehow the smell of decaying leather did not have the same fascination that it had exercised a few moments before. the setting sun sinking over the probate office entered the window and lingered on the stern old face of the hon. jeremiah mason over the fireplace. the birds twittered gayly amid the branches by the window. spring called me to the open air, to the world outside, to the future. "give me fifty dollars and my ticket to new york," said i. it had so happened that at the time of my visit to mr. toddleham my credit, and consequently my ready funds, had become so reduced that i had only a dollar or two in my pocket. therefore the check for fifty dollars that the old gentleman had carefully drawn for me with his quill pen and then had as carefully sanded over was by no means inopportune. i took the shore-car back over the warren avenue bridge, depressed at the thought of leaving the scene of my first acquaintance with the world and at the same time somewhat relieved, in spite of myself, by the consoling thought that i should no longer be worried by the omnipresent anxiety of trying to escape from duns and jews. resolved to terminate my collegiate career in a blaze of glory, i went the rounds of the college buildings and bade all my friends to a grand celebration at the tavern, where, owing to the large amount of trade that i had been able to swing to it, my credit was still good. even "buck" de vries was not forgotten, and without a suggestion of my contemplated departure i entertained my colleagues royally with a bowl of punch brewed after a celebrated cambridge recipe, which in a decadent age spoke eloquently of the glories of the past. i was in the midst of a highly colored speech--during which i must confess de vries had eyed me in a somewhat saturnine manner--when the proprietor tapped me on the shoulder and said that i was wanted outside. excusing myself i stepped to the door only to be unexpectedly confronted by the local sheriff, who apologetically informed me that he held a warrant of attachment for my worldly goods and another for the arrest of my very worldly person. with admirable presence of mind i requested his patience until i should find my coat, and returning via the buttery made my escape from the premises by means of the rear exit. _sic gloria transit!_ that night i slept under the roof of the amiable quirk in methuen, and the day after reached new york, the city of my future career. chapter ii my arrival in the metropolis was unaccompanied by any newspaper comment or by any particular excitement on the part of the inhabitants. i simply landed, after a seven hours' journey from boston, with a considerable quantity of fine raiment--rather too fine, as i soon discovered, for the ordinary uses of a serious-minded, working youth--some fifty odd dollars, and a well-developed bump of self- confidence that was supported by a strong reserve resolution not to let anybody get ahead of me. i had all the assurance of a man double my years and an easy way of making acquaintances that was destined to stand me in good stead, but i do not wish to be understood as admitting that my manners were offensive or that i was in any degree supercilious. i was simply a good fellow who had always enjoyed the comradeship of other good fellows, and as a result felt reasonably sure that the rest of the world would treat him kindly. moreover, i could dissemble without difficulty and, if occasion arose, could give the impression of being a diffident and modest young man, ready and anxious to order himself "lowly and humbly before his betters." yet i had seen enough of the world to know that unless a man puts a high appraisal upon his attainments and ability no one else is likely to do so, and that the public takes one, nine times out of ten, at his own valuation. coming on the clay itself: i wore my hair rather long, with an appreciable modicum of bear's grease well rubbed in, side whiskers and white beaver, and carried a carpet bag on which was embroidered a stag's head in yellow on a background of green worsted. and the principal fact to be observed in this connection is that, instead of creating a smile as i passed out of the grand central station, i was probably regarded as a rather smart and stylishly dressed young man. i had a card to some young actors in the city, given me by my thespian friends in boston, and it proved but a short trip on the horse-cars down fourth avenue to the locality, near the academy of music, then as now frequented by the fraternity. i began my professional career, then, by taking lodgings in an actors' boarding- house, and i am free to confess that at the time i was undecided whether to follow the bar or the boards. i have since frequently observed that the same qualities make for success in both, and had it not been for the fact that i found my new friends somewhat down at the heels and their rate of emolument exceedingly low, as well as for a certain little incident to be recounted shortly, i might well have joined the group of future booths and forrests that loitered along the near-by rialto, looking for jobs as roman soldiers or footmen in some coming production. but the change from my well-appointed lodgings in cambridge and my luxurious surroundings at the cock and spur to a distinctly shabby theatrical boarding-house, where the guests plainly exhibited traces of the lack of proper ablutional facilities and the hallways smelt of cabbage and onions, was a distinct shock to my highly sensitive tastes. however, my new acquaintances proved warm-hearted and hospitable and did everything in their power to make me feel at my ease, with the result that in spite of the cabbage and the wooden slats that served as springs in my bed--which nearly filled the rear hall bed-room i had hired for one week at four dollars and twenty-five cents--i resolved to postpone entering upon an active career until i should know the city better and have made a few friends. those of my new comrades who were lucky enough to have employment did not rise in the morning until the neighborhood of twelve o'clock, and those who had no employment at all followed their example. i thus found myself adopting of necessity, as it were, the pleasant practice of sauntering out on broadway after a one o'clock breakfast, and of spending most of the afternoon, evening, and following morning in or about the same locality. we usually went to some theatrical show on what was known as "paper," and i afterward joined my actor friends at a restaurant, where we sang songs and told stories until the gas-lamps were extinguished and gray dawn crept over the house-tops. downtown--into the mysterious district of wall street--i did not, as yet, go, and i might still be haunting the stage entrances of the theatres had it not been for an adventure in which i was an involuntary participant. it so happened that among my new acquaintances was a careless, rattle-brained youth known as toby robinson, who in spite of some histrionic ability was constantly losing his job and always in debt. he was a smooth-faced, rather stout, good-natured-looking person, of the sort who is never supposed to have done harm to anybody. not long before he had enjoyed a salary of fourteen dollars per week, but having overslept several times running he had been discharged for absence from rehearsals. he had reached the limit of his resources about the time of my arrival in the city and had been in a most lugubrious frame of mind when i first had the honor of his acquaintance. suddenly, however, he appeared one day with a large roll of bills and entered upon a period of lubrication and open-handed hospitality, in which we all participated. during this season of good cheer, as toby and i were strolling down broadway one afternoon, an ugly looking man who had been following us stepped forward and, touching my friend on the shoulder, said gruffly: "the captain wants to see you." the uttering of these cryptic syllables produced a most extraordinary effect upon my companion, for he turned deadly pale and the perspiration collected in beads upon his temples, while he commenced to wring his hands and bemoan his ill fortune. "what is the trouble?" i inquired in great solicitude. the belligerent stranger, however, pushing between us, grasped toby firmly by the arm and marched him across the street, while i trailed behind in the nature of a rear guard. i had already begun to suspect that the ugly man was none other than an officer of the law, and visions of myself locked up in jail as a possible accomplice, although innocent of wrong-doing, hovered in my mind. toby, giving every indication of guilt, slouched along beside his captor, occasionally glancing shamefacedly over his shoulder. we were now nearing a police station, and our companion, for the first time showing any sign of personal interest, inquired if we had a lawyer. on receiving a negative reply, the officer strongly recommended our immediately retaining counsel in the person of one gottlieb, who could be found across the street from the police station and whose precise whereabout were made obvious by means of a large sign about six feet by three and one-half in size, reading as follows: abraham gottlieb's law office notary deeds rents collected bail bonds insurance general advice without giving toby time for consideration the officer led us across the street and into the stuffy little den occupied by the lawyer. "here's the gent i told you of," said he, nodding in the direction of a hawk-faced little man smoking a vile cigar, who was sitting with his feet upon a table. "i'll leave you alone," he added, and sauntering across the threshold, took his stand in front of the window outside. "howdy," remarked gottlieb, without arising or removing his cigar. "mike tells me you're charged with obtaining money by false pretences." "what!" gasped toby, grasping the table for support. "false pretences!" "flying a bit of bad paper, eh? come now, didn't you cash a check on the cotton exchange bank for about six hundred dollars when there was only fifteen on deposit? don't try to bluff me. i know your sort. lucky if you don't get ten years." "save me!" wailed toby. "yes, i did cash a check, come to think of it, for that amount, but i had no idea my account had run so low." mr. gottlieb spat into a sawdust box under the table and winked with great deliberation. "how much have you got left?" he inquired indifferently. tony delved into his breeches and with trembling hands produced a roll of bills still of some dignity. gottlieb stretched forth a claw, took them, placed them in his own pocket, and then swung his feet to the floor with alacrity. "come on, my lads," he exclaimed, "and i'll show you how we get the sinners off! all right, mike." and he led the way across the street and into the station-house, where poor toby was searched and his pedigree taken down by the clerk. it being at this time only about eleven in the morning we were then conducted to the nearest police court, where we found in attendance the unfortunate hotel keeper who had so unwisely honored toby's check. "you rascal!" he shouted, struggling to reach my unfortunate friend. "i'll show you how to take other people's money! i'll put you where you belong!" but the officers haled him back and he was forced to restrain himself until the could tell his story to the judge. this, it so happened, was not to be for several hours, and during this interval gottlieb mysteriously vanished and as mysteriously reappeared. it was half after three before the judge announced that he would take up toby's case. now, the judge looked even more of a rascal than did gottlieb, which was paying his honor a high compliment, and i suspect that it was for this reason that the complainant had in the meantime sent round for his own lawyer to represent him. we were now pushed forward and huddled into a small space in front of the rail, while the lawyers took their places upon the platform before us. "your honor," began the lawyer for the hotel man, "this fellow here has swindled my client out of six hundred dollars by inducing him to cash a worthless check." "what have you to say, mr. gottlieb?" asked the judge. "confession and avoidance, your honor," replied the attorney, with what appeared to me to be the slightest possible drawing down of his right eyelid. "confession and avoidance. we admit the fact, but we deny the imputation of guilt. my client, mr. robinson, whose abilities as an actor have no doubt hitherto given your honor much pleasure, was so careless as to forget the precise amount of his bank account and happened to draw a check for too large an amount. no one was more surprised and horrified at the discovery than he. and his intention is at once to reimburse in full the complainant, whose action in having him arrested seems most extraordinary and reprehensible." "your honor," interrupted the other lawyer, "were there the slightest possibility of any such outcome i should be glad to withdraw the charge; but, as a matter of fact, this person is a worthless, lazy fellow who has not a cent to his name, and who induced my client to cash his check by leading him to believe that he was a man of substance and position. no doubt he has spent the money, and if not we might as well try to squeeze it out of a stone. this fellow is guilty of a crime and he ought to be punished. i ask your honor to hold him for the grand jury." "well, mr. gottlieb," remarked the judge, "tell me, if you can, why i should not lock your client up. did he not falsely pretend, by requesting the complainant to cash the check, that he had money in the bank to meet it?" "by no means, your honor," answered gottlieb. "the proffering of a check with a request for money thereon is merely asking that the money be advanced on the faith that the bank will honor the demand made upon it. one who cashes a check does so at his own risk. he has a full remedy at civil law, and if the bank refuses to pay no crime has been committed. this is not a case for the penal law." "that seems reasonable," said the judge, turning to the other. "how do you make this out a crime? what false pretence is there in merely inviting another to cash a check?" "why," answered the attorney, "if i ask you to cash a check for me, do i not represent that i have a right to draw upon the bank for the amount set forth? if not, no one would ever cash a check. the innocent person who advances the money has the right to assume that the borrower is not offering him a bad check. there is a tacit representation that the check is good or that the maker has funds in the bank to meet it." "true--true!" nodded his honor. "there is something in what you say. what answer can you make to that, brother gottlieb?" "i have a hundred good arguments," replied the lawyer in a low tone. then he added briskly: "but the intent, your honor! there can be no crime without a wrongful intent; and how can there have been any such when my client honestly believed that he had the money in the bank to meet the check?" "but," cried the other, "he knew very well he had not!" "what evidence have you to that effect?" queried gottlieb. "you say so, to be sure, but i, on the contrary, assert that he was perfectly honest in the matter. now, there is absolutely nothing in this case to prove that he had any guilty knowledge to the effect that his account was too low to meet the draft in question. you have proven no scienter whatever." "ah!" exclaimed the judge. "that is it! you have shown no scienter!" "exactly!" cried gottlieb--"no scienter at all." "but how in the world could i have proved a scienter?" wrathfully demanded the lawyer. "i can't pry open the prisoner's skull and exhibit his evil intent." "no, but you could have shown that he knew he had only a few dollars in the bank by the fact that he had previously tried to cash a similar check and that it had been returned. in any event, my own mind is clear on the subject. you have shown no scienter. the prisoner is discharged." poor toby was so overcome by his unexpected release that he began to stammer out incoherent expressions of gratitude to the judge, such as "oh, thank you, your honor! god bless your honor! thank you, your honor! i am an innocent man, your honor!" until gottlieb, grasping him by the arm, dragged him away from the rail and pushed him into the street. the complainant and his attorney indignantly followed us, the former loudly deploring the way modern justice was administered. once outside gottlieb shook hands with toby and told him if he were ever in trouble again to look him up without fail. toby promised gratefully to do so, and the lawyer was about to leave us and enter his office when it occurred to me that he still had my friend's roll of bills. "but, mr. gottlieb," said i, "you are going to return mr. robinson's money to him, are you not?" "what!" he exclaimed, growing frightfully angry. "give him back his money! i have no money of his. it is he owes me money for keeping him out of jail." "but how about the roll of bills?" i protested. "you certainly do not intend to keep all of that?" "certainly--that is my fee," he retorted calmly; "and small enough it is too!" "how much was there in that roll, toby?" i asked. "about five hundred dollars," answered my friend. "but let him keep it, by all means!" "why," i exclaimed, "he has done nothing to earn such a fee. he merely got up and said that you had no scienter--whatever that is. it is not worth more than ten dollars." "ten dollars!" shouted gottlieb. "ten dollars! why scienter is one of the most complicated and technical defences known to the law. ten dollars! scienter is worth a thousand! your rascally friend got his money for nothing, didn't he? he's lucky to be outside the bars--for if i ever saw a guilty man he's one. get along, both of you, or i'll call an officer!" and with that gottlieb slipped inside his office and banged the door. "come along, quib!" urged tony; "there's a great deal of truth in what he says. i don't begrudge it to him. it was well worth it to me." "lord!" i groaned. "five hundred dollars just for scienter. if that is the law, then i'll turn lawyer." and with that idea growing more firmly each moment in my mind i returned to the boarding-house with my friend. chapter iii i am free to confess that the ease with which counsellor gottlieb had deprived my friend toby of the ill-gotten proceeds of his check --or, for his sake putting it more politely, had earned his fee-- was the chief and inducing cause that led me to adopt the law as a career. i shall not pretend that i had any lofty aims or ambitions, felt any regard for its dignity or fascination for the mysteries of its science when i selected it for my profession. my objects were practical--my ambition to get the largest financial return consonant with the least amount of work. my one concrete experience of the law had opened my eyes to its possibilities in a way that i had never dreamed of, and i resolved to lose no time in placing myself in a position to rescue others from harm on the same pecuniary basis as did mr. gottlieb. of course i realized that i must serve an apprenticeship, and indeed the law required that were i not a graduate of a law school that i must have worked as a clerk for two years before i could be admitted to the bar. accordingly i began to make inquiries as to what were the best law firms in the city, and before long had acquired pretty definite information as to who were and who were not in high standing. now, i had no letters of introduction and nothing to recommend me except a certain degree of maturity and a cultivated manner of speaking, and i might and probably should have been trying to this day to break into some sedate and high-toned old-fogy office had it not been for one of those accidents with which my career has been replete. i had visited all the firms on my list without finding any who wanted to take in a student. indeed all the offices seemed filled if not crowded with studious-looking young men whose noses were buried in law books. in one or two, to be sure, i might have secured admittance and been given desk room in exchange for the services of my legs as a runner of errands and a server of papers, but none had any idea of paying anything. the profession at the bottom was more overcrowded than the gallery of the academy of music when they ran rosedale. each night as i returned to my lodgings i felt more and more discouraged. its smell of cabbage came to have for me an inexpressible sensation of relief, of protection, even of luxury. here, at any rate, even in an actors' boarding-house, i was independent, as good as anybody, and not regarded as if i were a beggar on the one hand or a questionable character on the other. how long this might have continued i have no means of knowing, but one afternoon as i was trudging uptown, still holding in my hand a copy of a legal journal, the advertisements in which i had been engaged in sedulously running down, my attention was attracted by a crowd gathered in the street around a young man who had been so unfortunate as to be run over by a stage. there was nothing external to indicate the extent of his injuries, and as i drew nearer two persons assisted him to his feet and began to lead him toward the nearest store. having nothing better to do i walked along with them, and after they had gone inside remained looking curiously through the window. while i was thus engaged a stout, bustling man of about forty years of age came hurrying down the sidewalk and turned to enter the store. as he did he observed me apparently waiting there and his eye with a quick glance took in the title of the paper in my hand. instantly he stepped up beside me and tapping me on the arm said in a low tone: "whom do you represent?" i was somewhat taken aback by this inquiry, not seeing at the moment its immediate relation to the business at hand, but for want of a better answer i replied in the same spirit: "artemas quibble." "oh! quibble, eh! i've heard of him. but look here, my young friend, there is no reason why honest men should cut one another's throats. tell my friend quibble i was here before ye and keep this for yourself." and with that he peeled a twenty-dollar bill from the top of a heavy roll that he produced from his pocket and placed it within my palm. "very good," said i. "it may cost me dear if quibble hears of it, but a man must live, and i work at starvation wages." i placed the bill in my breast pocket and made way for him to enter the store, which he did without more ado. why this busy gentleman should gratuitously present me with twenty dollars did not at the moment occur to me. i continued on my way northward, pondering upon the question, and passed the street upon which the police court was located and counsellor gottlieb had his office. the thought came into my mind that here was the very person to shed light upon the subject and i turned the corner and opened the door. gottlieb was in his customary position with his feet elevated upon the table before him. "well," he said, "i didn't expect you back so soon." "i've come for free advice this time," i answered. "oh," he grunted. "well, in that case perhaps you won't get it." somehow i had taken a shine to the fellow, for all his robbery of poor toby, and i admired his quickness of perception and readiness of speech. perhaps he too felt not unkindly toward me. at any rate i told him my story. "now," says i, "what d'ye make of it?" gottlieb laughed. "was he a fat little turkey with gray eyes?" he inquired. "the same," i replied. "then it was tom kelly," he answered. "on his daily still hunt for the maimed, the halt and the blind. you say the chap had been run over by the stage? well, tom'll take his case on a contingent fee--fifty per cent. to tom and fifty per cent. to the client of all that comes of it--bring an action against the stage line and recover heavy damages. oh, it's terrible to think what that poor injured young man will suffer. to-day he may feel quite well, but to-morrow he will have all kinds of pains in his head and eyes, his spine will ache, he will experience symptoms of a nervous breakdown. he will retire to bed and not emerge for six months, and when he does he'll be a hopeless and helpless cripple for life. tom is an artist, he is, in his own line. they tell me he made sixty thousand last year out of his accident practice alone. why, the case he gave you twenty to keep out of may net him five thousand dollars." "if i'd known that it would have cost him fifty!" i said, feeling that an unjust advantage had been taken of me. "twenty is the regular rate," answered gottlieb. "there are too many chances to make it worth much more merely to get the other fellow out of the way. sometimes, though, i've paid as high as fifteen hundred for a case." "fifteen hundred!" exclaimed i. "yes, and got a verdict of nineteen thousand, of which i pocketed ninety-five hundred and four hundred dollars costs besides." "whew!" i whistled. "oh, there's pretty good pickin's on occasion even for a police- court lawyer," he continued; "but it's nothin' to the return from what i might call legitimate practice. now, there's old haight, of haight & foster, for instance. he gets half a dozen twenty- thousand-dollar fees every year, and all he has is strictly old- fashioned probate and real-estate practice and a little of this new-fangled railroad business. my great regret is that i didn't stick to regular trade instead of going after easy money. who's gottlieb now? just a police-court lawyer, when he might be arguing before the supreme court of the united states! my brain's just as good as haight's. i've licked him many a time in my young days. and then i get tired of all this hogwash! i tell you it's dirty business, most of it!" "well," i answered, remembering "scienter," "i've no doubt that you could beat them all. but i fancy you have nothing to complain of in the way of returns, yourself. what worries me is how to get any start at all. i've tried half the law offices in town." gottlieb listened with some interest as i outlined my experiences. "but," he exclaimed, "you didn't go to the right person. you should have tackled the head of the firm himself. find some sort of introduction. flatter him. offer to work for nothing--and, trust me, he'll have you. now, my advice is to go straight to old haight and make up your mind to get into his office willy-nilly. it'll be worth three thousand a year to you to graduate from there. it'll give you the tone you need in the profession. there are two qualities that make for the highest success in the law--honesty and dishonesty. to get ahead you must have one or the other. you must either be so irreproachable in your conduct and elevated in your ideals that your reputation for virtue becomes your chief asset, or, on the other hand, so crooked that your very dishonesty makes you invaluable to your clients. both kinds of lawyers are equally in demand. some cases require respectability and some dirty work. but the crooked lawyer has got to be so crooked that everybody is afraid of him, even the judge. now, the trouble with me is that i'm too honest. sometimes i wish i were a crook like the rest of them!" he sighed deeply and slowly drew down his left eyelid. "thank you, mr. gottlieb," said i, suppressing an inclination to smile. "i'll take your advice. perhaps you'll let me talk to you again later on." "come as often as you like," he replied. "and look you, young- feller-me-lad, i'll give you half of all the profits i make out of any business you bring me. you don't have to be a lawyer to get clients. hustle around among your friends and drum up some trade and you'll do almost as well as if you could try cases yourself. for every dollar i earn you get another. is it a go?" "surely!" i cried. "and if i'm not very much mistaken i'll not be long about it, for i have an idea or two in my head already." the next day i again presented myself at the office of haight & foster, where i had already applied for a position to the chief clerk. this time i asked for the head of the firm himself, and i was amused to see that whereas before i had been almost kicked out of the office, i was now treated with the respect due to a possible client. after a wait of some twenty minutes i was ushered into a large sunny office lined with books and overlooking the lower east river. mr. haight was a wrinkled old man with a bald scalp covered with numerous brown patches about the size of ten-cent pieces. a fringe of white hair hung about his ears, over one of which was stuck a goose-quill pen. he looked up from his desk as i entered and eyed me sharply. "well, mr. quibble," he began gruffly, as if he were about to add, "out with what you have to say, young man, and be gone as soon as possible!" "mr. haight," said i with great defence, "i have called on you at the suggestion of my guardian and trustee, mr. tuckerman toddleham, of barristers' hall, boston, to inquire whether i may not be allowed the great privilege of a desk in your office. i am a harvard man, born in salem, and of an old massachusetts family. ever since i made up my mind as a boy to enter the law it has been my ambition to study in your office; and, i may add, it is also the earnest hope of my guardian, mr. toddleham." "do you refer to the mr. toddleham of 'toddleham on perpetuities'?" he asked with some interest. "the same," i answered, for although i had never heard of the work in question, it seemed just the sort for old toddleham's production. "i am glad to know you, mr. quibble," he exclaimed, extending his hand. "i have often wished that i could meet your guardian and ask the great mr. toddleham face to face what he really thinks of the rule in shelley's case--what do you think of it? what _was_ the rule in shelley's case, may i ask?" now, i had never heard of the rule in question, so for want of a better answer i replied: "the law is no respecter of person. i suppose the rule was _the same in his case as in any other_." mr. haight looked at me strangely for a moment and suddenly began to chuckle. then he eyed me again and chuckled still more. finally he laid aside all modestly and hugged himself with delight. "i see that you are a man of _esprit!_" he remarked between spasms. "i shall be glad to take you into my office. you may go and introduce yourself to mr. spruggins, the chief clerk." thus it was that i secured my first slender foothold at the bar of new york, and it was not for several years that i discovered that the toddleham who had written the book on perpetuities was an entirely different person, belonging to another branch of the family. of course i received no compensation for my services at haight & foster's, but that was the customary rule with all students. as a result we were not strictly tied down in our attendance at the office. i really believe it would have been cheaper for the firm to have paid a small salary to their clerks, for it would then have been in a position to demand much more of them in return. as it was i found myself able to come and go about as i chose, and being obliged to support myself in some way my attendance at the office was quite irregular. but i was started at last and belonged somewhere. no longer was it necessary for me to wander about the streets looking for a place to hang my hat, and i already had schemes in mind whereby i was soon to become rich. my associates in the office were all scholarly, respectable young men, most of them law-school graduates and scions of well-known families, and i was not insensible to the advantage to me that my connection with them might be later on. it was essential that i should impress them and the firm with my seriousness of purpose, and so i made it a point, unpleasant as i found it, to be on hand at the office every morning promptly at eight-thirty o'clock, ready to arrange papers or serve them, and to be of any assistance, no matter how menial, to mr. spruggins, whose sense of dignity i took pains to flatter in every way possible. in the afternoon, however, i slipped away on the pretext of having to go uptown to study, but in point of fact in order to earn enough money to pay for my board and lodging. i had been cogitating several ideas since i had visited gottlieb, and the one that appealed to me the most was that of procuring of business for other lawyers upon a percentage basis. i reasoned that there must be several hundred thousand people in the city who had no acquaintance with lawyers and would be as ready to consult one as another. reputable lawyers did not advertise, to be sure, but i was not yet a lawyer, and hence many courses were open to me at this stage in my career that would be closed later on. i had considerable confidence in my own persuasive ability and felt that it was only a question of time before i could drum up a substantial amount of business. accordingly i had a few cards neatly printed on glossed board reading: mr. artemas quibble broadway of haight & foster contracts attorneys-at-law mortgages wall street tax matters new york city general advice the haight & foster end of the card was done in very heavy type, while my own name was comparatively inconspicuous. further to assist my plans i rented a tiny office not far from madison square for the sum of two dollars per week and furnished it with a table, two chairs, and an inkpot. the door bore the inscription: office of artemas quibble, esq. counsellor the reader will observe that not being authorized as yet to practice as an attorney i was scrupulous not to hold myself out as one. "counsellor" might mean anything. certainly i had the right to give counsel to such as desired it. here i might be found at and after half-past one of every day, having already done five hours' work at the office of haight & foster. i still had enough funds to carry me for some three weeks and so felt no immediate anxiety as to the future, but i realized that i must lose no time in getting out my tentacles if i were to drag in any business. accordingly i made myself acquainted with the managers and clerks of the neighboring hotels, giving them the impression, so far as i could, that haight & foster had opened an uptown office and that i was in charge of it. i made friends also with the proprietors and barkeepers of the adjacent saloons, of which there were not a few, and left plenty of my cards with them for distribution to such of their customers as might need legal assistance, in each case promising that any business which they secured would be liberally rewarded. in short, i made myself generally known in the locality and planted the seed of cupidity in the hearts of several hundreds of impecunious persons. it was very necessary for me to net ten dollars per week to live, and under the circumstances it seemed reasonable to believe that i could do so. almost at the outset i had a piece of luck, for a guest at a fifth avenue hotel was suddenly stricken with a severe illness and desired to make a will. it was but a few days after i had called upon the manager, and, having me fresh in his mind, he sent for me. the sick man proved to be a wealthy californian who was too far gone to care who drew his will so long as it was drawn at all, and i jotted down his bequests and desires by his bedside. i had originally intended to go at once to mr. haight and turn the matter over to him, but my client seemed so ill that it appeared hardly necessary. i persuaded myself with the argument that the affair required a more immediate attention than the office could give, and accordingly decided to draw the will myself and incidentally to earn the whole fee. the proceeding seemed honest enough, since, although i had been introduced as representing haight & foster, the sick man had never heard of them before and obviously did not care one way or the other. i had never drawn a will or any other legal paper, but i lost no time in slipping around to gottlieb's office and borrowing a work on surrogates' practice, including forms, with which under my arm i hurried back to my office. here after a good many unsuccessful attempts i produced a document sufficiently technical to satisfy almost any layman and probably calculated to defeat every wish of the testator. of this, however, i was quite ignorant, and do myself the justice to say that, had not that been the case, i would not have attempted what i now know to have been an impossible task for one of my lack of legal education. i carefully engrossed the will in long hand on fresh foolscap, ornamented it with seals and ribbons and, returning to the hotel, superintended its execution. my client asked my how much was my fee and i modestly replied--as i never expected to see him again this side of the grave--that my charge would be one hundred and fifty dollars. he nodded, and indicating his pocketbook, told me to help myself, which i did, regretting not having asked for more. that night he died, and my impromptu will was forwarded to california and became the subject of a litigation lasting over eleven years and costing several hundred thousand dollars. it thus happened that my eagerness to begin to build up my material fortunes, coupled with the necessity of having a technical connection with a regular firm of lawyers, resulted in my leading a sort of double legal existence. in the morning i was a mere drudge or office devil, in the afternoon i was counsellor quibble, head of his own office and my own master. having now a capital of one hundred and fifty dollars i was in a position to put one of my schemes into practice, and accordingly i drew up with great care the following instrument, copies of which i had struck off by a theatrical job printer near by: ====================================================================== this agreement made this . . . . day of . . . . . . . . , , between . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . , of the city and county of new york, party of the first part, and artemas quibble, esquire, of the same, party of the second part, witnesseth: that the said party of the first part in consideration of one dollar to him in hand paid upon the first day of each month by the party of the second part, hereby covenants and agrees to employ at a reduced rate the said party of the second part to look after all the legal matters that my arise in his business and to recommend said party of the second part to his friends and acquaintances as a suitable person to perform the like services for them; in the latter event the said party of the first part to receive as a further consideration a commission of one-third of the fees of the party of the second part procured therefrom. in witness whereof we have hereunto set our hands and seals the day and year above named. ...................................(*) ...................................(*) ====================================================================== armed with these insinuating documents i procured a fresh roll of one hundred one-dollar bills and set forth to interview all whose acquaintance i had made in the course of my brief residence in the city. my argument ran thus: almost anybody would be willing to receive a dollar every month in return for a service that would cost him nothing. with an outlay of one hundred dollars i could have a hundred persons virtually in my employ trying to get me business. after the first month i could discontinue with those who seemed likely to prove unremunerative. almost any case would return in fees as much as my original disbursement. on the whole it seemed a pretty safe investment and the formal-looking contract would tend to increase the sense of obligation upon the contracting party of the first part. nor did my forecast of the probabilities prove at all wide of the mark. practically every one to whom i put the proposition readily accepted my dollar and signed the agreement, and at the end of a week my one hundred dollars had been distributed among all the cab drivers, conductors, waiters, elevator men, clerks, bartenders, actors, hall boys, and storekeepers that i knew or with whom i could scrape an acquaintance. none of them expected to have any business of their own and all welcomed with delight the idea of profiting by the misfortunes of their friends. i had often lost or won at a single sitting at cards a much larger sum than the one i was now risking in what seemed an excellent business proposition, so that the money involved caused me no uneasiness. besides, i had fifty dollars left in my pocket. meantime i spent my evening in my office reading blackstone and such text-books as i cared to borrow from the well-equipped library of my employers. business came, however, with unexpected promptitude. at the end of the first week i had received calls from two actors who desired to sue their managers for damages for breach of contract, five waiters who wished to bring actions for wages due, and actress who wanted a separation from her husband, a bartender who was charged with assault for knocking the teeth of an unruly customer down his throat, and a boy whose leg had been caught under an elevator and crushed. each of these i made sign an agreement that i should receive half of any sum recovered in consideration of seeing that they received proper legal advice and service, and each of them i sent over to counsellor gottlieb, with whom i executed a mutual contract to divide evenly the fees received. the reader will notice that i did not technically hold myself out as a lawyer in these contracts, and merely agreed to furnish counsel. thus i flattered myself i was keeping on the lee side of the law. gottlieb settled the case of the boy for twelve hundred dollars, and we divided six hundred between us, and the other cases that came in the first month netted us three hundred dollars apiece more. the future began to look bright enough, as i had to distribute as commissions only two hundred dollars, which left me a gross profit of four hundred dollars. with this i secured fifty new contracts, and after paying the second installments upon all the first i pocketed as a net result two hundred and fifty dollars cash. i now had a growing business at my back, finding it necessary to employ an office assistant, and accordingly selected for that purpose an old actor who was no longer able to walk the boards, but who still retained the ability to speak his part. for a weekly wage of ten dollars this elderly gentleman agreed to sit in my office and hold forth upon my ability, shrewdness, and learning to all such as called in my absence. in the afternoons i assumed charge myself and sent him forth armed with contracts to secure new allies. my business soon increased to such an extent that it bid fair to take up all my time, and the bookkeeping end of it, with its complicated division of receipts, proved not a little difficult. the amazement of my friend gottlieb knew no bounds, but as it was a profitable arrangement for him he asked no questions and remained in ignorance as to the source of my stream of clients, until one of his friends, to whom my assistant had made application, showed him one of the contracts. that night he sent for me to come to his office, and after offering me a very large and exceedingly good havana cigar delivered himself as follows: "harkee, quib, you are more of a fellow than i took you for. you have more cleverness than any man of your years in my acquaintance at the bar. this scheme of yours, now, it's a veritable gold mine. not but that anybody could make use of it. it can't be patented, you know. but it's excellently devised; no one will deny that. what do you say to a partnership, eh? on the same terms?" now, i had more than once thought of the same thing myself, but the idea of associating myself in business with an out-and-out criminal attorney had to my mind serious drawbacks. we discussed the matter at length, however, and gottlieb pointed out very wisely that i was running a great risk in distributing broadcast cards upon which appeared the unauthorized name of haight & foster, as well as in conducting an office under my own name, when in fact i was but an attorney's clerk downtown. my connection and association with such a reputable firm was an asset not to be jeopardized lightly, and he advised my withdrawing so far as i could all my cards from circulation and conducting my business _sub rosa_. in the end we came to an understanding which we reduced to writing. i was to become a silent partner in gottlieb's business and my office was to become a branch of his, my own name being entirely in abeyance. on the whole, this arrangement pleased me very well, as under it i ran practically no risk of having my activities discovered by my employers. it is somewhat difficult to know just in what order to present these memoirs to the reader, for from this time on my life became a very varied one. had i the time i should like nothing better than to paint for my own satisfaction an old-fashioned law office as it was conducted in the 'seventies--its insistent note of established respectability, the suppressed voices of its young men, their obvious politeness to each other and defence to clients, their horror at anything vulgar, the quiet, the irritating quiet, mr. wigger's red wig--he was the engrossing clerk--the lifelessness of the atmosphere of the place, as if nothing real ever happened there, and as if the cases we prepared and tried were of interest only on account of the legal points involved. when i was there, filing papers in their dusty packages, i used to feel as though i was fumbling among the dust of clients long since dead and gone. the place stifled and depressed me. i longed for red blood and real life. there i was, acting as a clerk on nothing a year, when uptown i was in the centre of the whirlpool of existence. it was with ill-concealed gratification that i used daily at one o'clock to enter the library, bow to whatever member of the firm happened to be there, remove a book from the shelves and slip out of the door. a horse-car dropped me in half an hour at a hotel near my office. after i had snatched a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the café i would dash up to my office--the door of which now bore the lettering: abraham gottlieb attorney & counsellor-at-law branch office siddons kelly, manager siddons kelly was the superannuated actor of whom i have already spoken, and when he was not, so to speak, in drink he was an invaluable person. he had followed the stage all his life, but he was of the sort that tear passion to tatters and he had never risen above third-rate parts. in every respect save declamation he had all the elegances and charm of manner that the stage can give, and he would receive and bow out a scrubwoman who had fallen down a flight of back stairs and wanted to make the landlord pay for her broken head with a grace truly chesterfieldian. this was all very fine until he had taken a drop too much, when his vocabulary would swell to such dimensions that the confused and embarrassed client would flee in self-protection unless fortunate enough to be rescued by gottlieb or myself. poor kelly! he was a fine old type. and many a client then and later was attracted to my office by his refined and intellectual old face with its locks of silky gray. an old bachelor, he died alone one night in his little boarding- house with a peaceful smile on his wrinkled face. he lies in greenwood cemetery. over him is a simple stone--for which i paid --bearing, as he had requested, only the words: siddons kelley an actor as may well be supposed, my professional career uptown was vastly more entertaining than my experiences at haight & foster's. my afternoons were filled with a constant procession of clients of all ages, sexes, colors, and conditions. as the business grew and greater numbers of persons signed our contracts and received their honorarium of a dollar a month, a constantly increasing percentage of criminal or semi-criminal cases came to the office. of course there was no better criminal lawyer than gottlieb in the city, and before long the criminals outnumbered our civil clients. at the same time i noticed a tendency on the part of the civil business to fall off, the reason for this probably being that my partner was known only as a criminal attorney. now, i began to dislike the idea of paying a dollar a month to induce people to refer business to us, and indeed i found that the disbursement of five or six hundred dollars every four weeks for this purpose was no trifling matter. accordingly i decided to try letting them go for a month or so, but business fell off to such an alarming extent that i almost immediately resumed the contract system, merely reducing its proportions. in addition to our "dollar-a-monthers," as we called them, gottlieb employed half a dozen professional "runners," whose sole occupation it was to hunt down unfortunate persons injured accidentally and secure their cases. these employees made a business of joining as many social clubs, labor and other organizations as possible and swinging the business in gottlieb's direction. at one time the competition for accident cases became so fierce that if a man were run over on broadway the rival runners would almost tear him limb from limb in their eagerness to get his case; and they would follow a dying man to the hospital and force their way on one pretext or another to his bedside. there used to be a story, which went the rounds of the clubs and barrooms, of a very swell old buck who owed an enormous amount of money and who happened to be knocked down and rendered insensible by a butcher's wagon. he was taken to the hospital and did not regain consciousness for several hours. when at last he opened his eyes he saw several dozen cards plastered upon the ceiling directly over his head, reading: go to levy & finklestein attorneys-at-law we get you money! try einstein & goldberg in the business years solomons & meyer attorneys can get you $ for a leg $ , for a liver moses bloom the honest lawyer samuel sharp counsellor-at-law "ah!" he murmured, rubbing his eyes and turning to the nurse; "i thought i was in some strange place, but i see that all my friends have been to call already!" our criminal business, however, was so extensive that it took practically all of gottlieb's time, and he found it necessary to hire a couple of clerks to attend to the civil cases that came to us. my partner was obliged to spend the whole of almost every day in attendance at the criminal courts. frequently he remarked jestingly that under the circumstances, as he had to give all his time to it anyway, he could as easily attend to _all_ the criminal business of the city as to the small part of it that came to him. "well," i said to him one day, "why don't you?" "why don't i what?" he retorted. "get all the criminal business there is," i answered. "quib," he exclaimed excitedly, "have you got another of your ideas?" "i think so," i returned. "how does this strike you? why not issue a policy, like life or accident insurance, in which for a moderate sum you agree to defend _free of charge_ any man accused of crime? you know that every criminal is always trying to save up money against the time when he shall be caught and have to hire a lawyer. now, it is true that these fellows pay very well, but there are not many that can pay a large fee. if you could get enough crooks to take out a policy at ten dollars per year you might make a good thing of it." "but how would we get our scheme going?" inquired my partner, with a gleam in his eye. "it certainly is a gold mine, if it will work." "leave the thing to me," i admonished him. that evening i drew up with great care a policy of insurance against the loss occasioned by having to employ counsel if arrested for crime. on its back was indorsed the following insidious philosophy: "innocent men, as well as guilty, are frequently arrested for violating the law. this costs money. lawyers are notorious extortioners. for ten dollars a year we guarantee to defend you _for nothing_ if charged with crime. twenty-five dollars insures entire family. we make no distinction between ex-convicts and others. "abraham gottlieb, "of counsel." my next task was to boom my scheme by successful advertising, and with this in view i persuaded gottlieb to issue free policies to a dozen or so of the worst rascals that he knew. naturally it was not long before one of them was arrested for some offence, and gottlieb as naturally succeeded in getting him off, with the natural result that the fellow went all over town telling how one could be a burglar with impunity for ten dollars a year. at about the same time i heard of a man who was in the tombs charged with murder, but who was almost certain to get off on account of the weakness of the case against him. i, therefore, visited the defendant and offered to give him a policy for ten dollars, in spite of the fact that he was already in jail. he snatched readily enough at the chance of getting as good a lawyer as gottlieb to defend him for ten dollars, and when he was acquitted made so much of it that there was hardly a prisoner in the tombs who did not send for one of our policies to guard against future legal difficulties. to all of these we offered free advice and a free trial upon the charges pending against them, as a sort of premium or inducement to become policy-holders, and in six months had over two hundred subscribers. this meant in cash about two thousand dollars, but it necessitated defending any or all of them whenever they were so unfortunate as to run foul of the police, and as luck would have it out of the two hundred policy-holders forty-seven of them were arrested within the first six months--fifteen for burglary, eleven for robbery and assault, sixteen for theft, and five for murder. these latter cases took all of gottlieb's working hours for some seven and a half weeks, at the end of which time he threw up his hands and vowed never to insure anybody against anything again. it was impossible for me to try any of the cases myself, as i was not as yet admitted to the bar, and the end of the matter was that we returned the premiums and cancelled the policies of the remaining one hundred and fifty-three insured. this done, gottlieb and i heaved sighs of mutual relief. "you are a clever fellow, quib," he acknowledged good-naturedly, "but in some ways you are ahead of your time. you ought to have gone into life insurance or railroading. your genius is wasted on anything that ain't done wholesale. let's you and me just stick to such clients as come our way in the natural course of events. there isn't any one born yet big enough to do all the criminal law business in this little old town by himself." and in this i with some regret agreed with him. chapter iv as i have already taken some pains to indicate, i was fully persuaded of the practical value of a professional connection with a legal firm of so eminent a standing as that of messrs. haight & foster, and for this reason the reader may easily appreciate the shock with which i received the information that my presence was no longer desired in the office. mr. haight had unexpectedly sent for me word that i was wanted in the library and i had obeyed his summons without a suspicion that my career as a civil attorney was to be abruptly terminated. as i closed the door behind me i saw the old lawyer standing near the window, his spectacles poked above his eyebrows and his forehead red with indignation. between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand he held a card. "so," he exclaimed, vainly trying to appear collected, "i find that my firm has been conducting an uptown office for criminal business! this is one of your cards, i believe?" he tossed it from him as if it were infected with some virulent legal disease, and i saw that it was one of the unfortunate cards that i had had printed before forming my partnership with gottlieb. it was no use denying anything. "yes," i answered, as quietly as i could, "it is one of my cards." "i am also informed," he continued, his voice trembling with suppressed wrath, "that while you have been masquerading as a student in this office you have been doing a police-court law business in association with a person named gottlieb." i turned white, yet made no traverse of his indictment. i was going to be kicked out, but i felt that i could at least make my exit with a dignified composure. "young man, you are no longer wanted here," continued mr. haight with acerbity. "you have found your own level without assistance and you will no doubt remain there. you obtained your position in this office by means of false pretences. i do not know who you really are or whence you really come, but i have no doubt as to where you will eventually go. this office does not lead in the right direction. you ought to be locked up! get out!" i went. glib as i was in the defence of others i found it difficult to argue in my own behalf. at any rate, it would have availed nothing. i had been tried, convicted, and sentenced in my absence, and it was vain to hope for pardon. there is something in righteous indignation that inevitably carries respect with it. i fully sympathized with mr. haight. i had cheated and outraged his firm and i knew it. i had no excuse to offer and he was entitled to his burst of excoriation. morally i felt sure that the worm that had worked deepest into his bone was the fact that my guardian, whose name, as the reader may recall, i had made use of as an introduction, had not in fact written "tottenham on perpetuities" at all. thus i passed out of the office of haight & foster much as i had slipped in--quite unostentatiously. all hope of success along the slow and difficult lines of legitimate practice faded from my mind. whether i willed it or not, as a criminal attorney i was destined to make my bread. there was now no reason why gottlieb and i should any longer conceal our partnership, and we decided, therefore, to go into things on a much larger scale than theretofore, and hired a suite of offices on centre street, near the tombs, where we could be within easy reach of the majority of our clients. a sign some forty feet long and three feet wide ran along the entire front of the building, bearing the names gottlieb & quibble. our own offices were in the rear, the front rooms being given over to clerks, runners, and process servers. a huge safe bought for a few dollars at an auction stood in the entrance chamber, but we used it only as a receptacle for coal, its real purpose being simply to impress our clients. we kept but few papers and needed practically no books; what we had were thrown around indiscriminately, upon chairs, tables--even on the floor. i do not recall any particular attempt to keep the place clean, and i am sure that the windows were never washed. but we made money, and that was what we were out for--and we made it every day--every hour; and as we made it we divided it up and put it in our pockets. our success from the start seemed in some miraculous way to be assured, for my partner had, even before i knew him, established a reputation as one of the keenest men at the criminal bar. as time went on our offices were thronged with clients of all sexes, ages, conditions, and nationalities. the pickpocket on his way out elbowed the gentlewoman who had an erring son and sought our aid to restore him to grace. the politician and the actress, the polite burglar and the wall street schemer, the aggrieved wife and stout old clubman who was "being annoyed," each awaited his or her turn to receive our opinion as to their respective needs. good or bad they got it. usually it had little to do with law. rather it was sound, practical advice as to the best thing to be done under the circumstances. these circumstances, as may be imagined, varied widely. whatever they were and however little they justified apprehension on the part of the client we always made it a point at the very outset to scare the latter thoroughly. "conscience doth make cowards of us all." but a lawyer is a close second to conscience when it comes to coward-making; in fact, frightening people, innocent or guilty, became to a very large extent our regular business. the sinners most of them live in daily terror of being found out and the virtuous are equally fearful of being unjustly accused. every one knows how a breath of scandal originating out of nothing can wither a family and drive strong men to desperation. the press is always ready to print interesting stories about people, without inquiring too closely into their authenticity. curiously enough we found that an invitation to call at our office usually availed to bring the most exemplary citizens without delay. i can remember not more than three who had the courage to refuse. most came, as it were, on the run. others made a bluff at righteous indignation. all, in the end, paid up--and paid well. our reputation grew, and in the course of a few years the terror of us stalked abroad through the city. our staff was well organized, however disordered may have been the physical appearance of our office. in the first place we had an agent in every police court who instantly informed us whenever any person was arrested who had sufficient means to make it worth our while to come to his assistance. this agent was usually the clerk or some other official who could delay the proceedings in such a way as to give us time to appear upon the scene. we also had many of the police in our pay and made it a practice to reward liberally any officer who succeeded in throwing us any business. in this way defendants sometimes acquired the erroneous idea that if they followed the suggestion of the officer arresting them and employed us as their attorneys, they would be let off through some collusion between the officer and ourselves. of course this idea was without foundation, but it was the source of considerable financial profit to us, and we did little to counteract the general impression that had gone abroad that we "stood in" with the minions of the law and were _personae gratae_ to the judges of the police courts. after the telephone came into general use gottlieb employed it in many ingenious ways. he even had an unconnected set of apparatus hanging on the wall of the office, through which he used to hold imaginary conversations with judges and city officers for the benefit of clients who were in search of "inflooence." it is a common weakness of the layman to believe that more can be accomplished through pull than through the merit of one's cause. even litigants who have the right on their side are quite as apt to desire an attorney who is supposed to be "next" to the judge as are those whose only hope is through judicial favor. gottlieb's relations to the lower magistrates were in many instances close, but he professed to be on the most intimate terms with all who wore the ermine, whether in the police courts or on the supreme bench. time after time i have overheard some such colloquy as the following. a client would enter the office and after recounting his difficulties or wrongs would cautiously ask gottlieb if he knew the judge before whom the matter would come. "do i _know_ him?" my partner would cry. "i lunch with him almost every day! wait a minute, and i'll call him up." vigorously ringing the bell attached to the unconnected instrument upon the wall gottlieb would indulge his fancy in some such dialogue as: "hello--hello! is this judge nemo? oh, hello, jack, is it you? yes, it's me--abe. say, i want to talk over a little matter with you before i go into court. how about lunch? sure--any time will suit me. one o'clock? i'll be there. thanks. so long, old man. see you later!" the client by virtue of this auricular demonstration of our friendly relations with the bench would be instantly convinced that his success was assured and that gottlieb & quibble were cheap at any retainer they might choose to name. for the most part the routine office work fell to me and gottlieb attended to the court end of the business. for there was no more adroit or experienced trial attorney in the courts than my little hook-nosed partner. even down-town attorneys with almost national reputations as corporation lawyers would call him in as associate counsel in important cases in which a criminal element was involved. thus we frequently secured big fees in what gottlieb was pleased to call legitimate practice, although i am inclined to believe that our share was small compared with that of the civil lawyers who had retained us. on one occasion where gottlieb had been thus called in, the regular attorney of record, who happened to be a prominent churchman, came to our office to discuss the fee that should be charged. the client was a rich man who had sued successfully for a divorce. "how much, mr. gottlieb," inquired the attorney, stroking his chin, "do you think would be a fair amount to ask for our services?" my partner hesitated for a moment and mentally reviewed the length of time of the case--a very simple one--had occupied. "do you think five thousand dollars would be too much?" he finally asked with some hesitation. "five!" cried the lawyer in astonishment. "it should be twenty thousand--at the least!" it is not my intention to give a history of the firm of gottlieb & quibble, but rather a general description of the work of any criminal law office. its object is precisely the same as that of the best offices where civil law is practised--that is, to make money out of the client. but inasmuch as the client who seeks the aid of a criminal attorney is usually in dread of losing not merely money but liberty, reputation, and perhaps life as well, he is correspondingly ready to pay generously for any real or fancied service on the part of the lawyers. thus the fees of a criminal practitioner--when the client has any money--are ridiculously high, and he usually gets sooner or later all that the client has. indeed, there are three golden rules in the profession, of which the first has already been hinted at--namely, thoroughly terrify your client. second, find out how much money he has and where it is. third, get it. the merest duffer can usually succeed in following out the first two of these precepts, but to accomplish the third requires often a master's art. the ability actually to get one's hands on the coin is what differentiates the really great criminal lawyer from his inconspicuous brethren. the criminal attorney, therefore, whether he be called to see his client at the tombs or in the police station, or is consulted in his own office, at once informs the latter that he is indeed in a parlous state. he demonstrates to him conclusively that there exist but a few steps between him and the gallows, or at least the state's prison, and that his only hope lies in his procuring at once sufficient money to--first, get out on bail; second, buy off the witnesses; third, "fix" the police; fourth, "square" the judge; and lastly, pay the lawyer. even where the prisoner has no money himself, his family are usually ready to do what they can to get him off, in order to save themselves from the disgrace of being related to a convict. it is not what may actually happen to your client, but what he thinks may happen, that makes him ready and anxious to give up his money. thus, the more artistic the practitioner in painting the dire consequences which will result if the family of the offender does not come to his rescue the quicker and larger will be the response. time also is necessary to enable the ancestral stocking to be grudgingly withdrawn from its hiding-place and its contents disgorged, or to allow the pathetic representations of his nearer relatives to work upon the callous heart of old uncle john, who once held a city office and has thus plenty of money. the object of the lawyer being to hang on to the client until he has got his money, it follows that if the latter is locked up in jail it is all the better for the lawyer, unless it be expedient to let him out to raise funds. thus criminal attorneys are not, as a rule, particularly anxious to secure the release of a client from jail. solitary confinement increases his apprehension and discomfort and renders him more complacent about paying well for liberty. the english king who locked up the money-lender and had one of his teeth drawn out each day until he made the desired loan knew his business. once the fellow is out of jail--pfft! he is gone, and neither the place nor you know him more. very likely also he will jump his bail and you will have to make good your bond. one client in jail is worth two at large. lawyers exercise much invention in keeping their clients under control. i recall one recent case where a french chauffeur who had but just arrived in this country was arrested for speeding. the most that could happen to him would, in the natural course of events, be a fine of fifteen or twenty dollars. but an imaginative criminal practitioner got hold of him in the police court and drew such a highly colored picture of what might happen to him that the frenchman stayed in jail without bail under an assumed name, raised some three hundred dollars by means of a draft on paris, handed it over to his counsel, and finally after a delay of two weeks was tried in special sessions, found guilty, and let go on a suspended sentence. he is now looking for the lawyer with a view to doing something to him that will inevitably result in his own permanent incarceration. another practical distinction between civil and criminal practitioners is that while the first are concerned for the most part with the law, the second are chiefly occupied with the facts. in civil cases the lawyers spend most of their time in trying to demonstrate that, even assuming their opponents' contentions as to the facts to be true, the law is nevertheless in their own favor. now, this is a comparatively easy thing, since no one knows what the law in most civil cases is--and it truth it might as well be one way as the other. a noted member of the supreme bench of the united states is reported to have said that when he was chief justice of one of the state courts, and he and his confrères found themselves in a quandary over the law, they were accustomed to send the sergeant- at-arms for what they called the "implements of decision"--a brace of dice and a copper cent. thus the weightiest matters were decided without difficulty. now, the taking of a purse out of a lady's reticule does not present much confusion as a legal proposition. it would be somewhat difficult to persuade a judge or a jury that picking a pocket is not a crime. it is far easier to demonstrate that the pocket was not picked at all. this is generally only a question of money. witnesses can easily be secured to swear either that the lady had no reticule, or that if she had a reticule it contained no purse, or that some person other than the defendant took the purse, or that she herself dropped it, or that even if the prisoner took it he had no criminal intent in so doing, since he observed that it was about to slip from the receptacle in which it was contained and intended but to return it to her. lastly, if put to it, that in fact the owner was _no lady_, and therefore unworthy of credence. few persons realize how difficult it is for an outsider, such as an ordinary juryman, to decide an issue of fact. a flat denial is worth a hundred ingenious defences in which the act is admitted but the attempt is made to explain it away. it is this that gives the jury so much trouble in criminal cases. for example, in the case of the pickpocket the lawyers and the judge may know that the complaining witness is a worthy woman, the respectable mother of a family, and that the defendant is a rascal. but each comes before the jury presumably of equal innocence. she says he did, he says he didn't. the case must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. generally the defendant's word, so far as the jury can see, is as good as his accuser's. if there are other witnesses it is usually not difficult, and certainly not impossible, to show that they have poor eyesight, bad memories, or are undesirable citizens in general. the criminal lawyer learns in his cradle never to admit anything. by getting constant adjournments he wears out the people's witnesses, induces others to stay away, and when the case finally comes to trial has only the naked accusation of the complainant to disprove. or, to put it in more technically correct fashion, the complainant has only his own word wherewith to establish his case beyond a reasonable doubt. a bold contradiction is often so startling that it throws confusion into the enemy's camp. i once defended a worthy gentleman named cohen on a charge of perjury, alleged to have been committed by him in a civil case in which he, as defendant, denied that he had ever ordered a set of stable plans from a certain architect. the latter was a young man of very small practice who had an office but no clerks or draughtsmen. he certainly believed with the utmost honesty that my client had come to his office, engaged him to design a stable, and approved an elaborate set of plans that he had drawn. when it came to paying for them mr. cohen declined. the architect brought suit, and at the trial swore to the dates and places of the interviews between cohen and himself, and to all the surrounding circumstances and details connected with the execution of the plans in question. his lawyer expected that the defendant would interpose the defense that the plans were inferior, defective, or worthless. not at all! mr. cohen swore that he had never ordered the plans and, in fact, had _never seen the architect in his life!_ he alleged that until the suit was brought he had never even _heard_ of him, and that either the architect was demented or a liar, or else some other cohen had given the order. the architect and his lawyer were thunderstruck, but they had no witnesses to corroborate their contentions, since no one had ever seen cohen in the other's office. the jury disagreed and the architect in some way secured cohen's indictment for perjury. but during the criminal trial, at which i defended him, mr. cohen calmly persisted in his denial that he had ever enjoyed the honor of the architect's acquaintance, and after two prosecutions, in each of which the jury hopelessly disagreed, the indictments against him were dismissed. from this it may easily be inferred that no fact is too patent to be denied. frequently the more heroic the denial the greater its verisimilitude to truth. the jury feel that no prisoner would _deny_ a fact that it would be much easier to _explain away_--and believe him. i once represented an italian called the king of mulberry street, who was charged with having deliberately shot in the head and killed a respectable dealer in olive-oil against whom he held no grudge whatsoever. the king was just an egotistic little man who liked notoriety and admiration. he was wont to refer to himself simply as "the bravest man," without reference to time or place--just "the bravest man." he was accustomed to demonstrate his bravery by shooting inoffensive people whenever the idea seized him. he never killed anybody save quiet and law-abiding fellow citizens who made no resistance, and the method he selected was to shoot them through the head. he seemed to feel that it was essential to his dignity thus to execute at least one human being every six months, and the extraordinary feature of his history was that he had never been convicted. the case that i was called upon to defend was this: not having killed anybody for nearly a year and fearing to jeopardize his dual title of king of mulberry street and the bravest man, he put a forty-four calibre pistol in his pocket, donned his sunday clothes and took a walk. the thoroughfare was crowded, the day bright and fair, the time twelve o'clock noon. presently the oil merchant approached and the king, first glancing about him to make sure that he had a "gallery," went up to him, placed the pistol at his head and fired. he was immediately arrested and indicted for murder. now, twenty witnesses had seen him fire the fatal shot. yet there was not the slightest reason in the world why he should have done such a thing. upon the trial my client insisted on simply denying that he had done anything of the kind. i had naturally assumed that he would either claim that the shooting had been accidental or that he had fired in self-defense, after he had first been attacked by the deceased. but no--he had had no pistol, did not know the man, and had not killed him. why should he have killed him? he inquired. no one could answer the question, least of all the jury. the twenty witnesses were positive that he had done so, but he was equally positive that he had not. no one could offer the slightest explanation of the deed--if it had in fact taken place. the jury puzzled over the case for hours, at one time, i am informed, being on the point of acquitting the prisoner for lack of proof of any motive. they reasoned, with perfect logic, that it was almost if not quite as improbable that the defendant should in broad daylight on a public street have shot down a man against whom he had not the slightest grudge as that twenty commonplace citizens should be mistaken as to what they had seen. whether they were aided in reaching a verdict by "the implements of decision" i do not know, but in the end they found my client guilty and in due course he paid the penalty, as many another king has done, upon the scaffold. the plain fact was that the king was a "bravo," who took a childish and vain pride in killing people. he killed for the love of killing, or rather for the egotistic satisfaction of being talked of as a killer. at any rate, there are many like him. while his defence was unsuccessful, he came near enough to escaping to point out the value of a bold denial in a criminal case. our clients consisted, for the most part, of three clearly defined classes of persons: criminals, their victims, and persons involved in marital or quasi-marital difficulties. these last furnished by far the most interesting quota of our business, and, did not professional confidence seal my lips, i could recount numerous entertaining anecdotes concerning some of what are usually regarded as new york's most respectable, not to say straight-laced, households. a family skeleton is the criminal lawyer's strongest ally. once you can locate him and drag him forth you have but to rattle his bones ever so little and the paternal bank account is at your mercy. new york is prolific of skeletons of this generic character, and gottlieb had a magnificent collection. when naught else was doing we used to stir them up and revive business. over this feature of the firm's activities i feel obliged, however, from a natural feeling of delicacy, to draw a veil. our function usually consisted in offering to see to it that a certain proposed action, based on certain injudicious letters, should be discontinued upon the payment of a certain specified sum of money. these sums ranged in amount from five to twenty thousand dollars, of which we retained only one-half. i understand that some lawyers make more than this percentage, but for such i have only contempt. a member of a learned and honorable profession should be scrupulous in his conduct, and to keep for one's self more than half the money recovered for a client seems to me to be bordering on the unethical. but perhaps i am hypersqueamish. of course we had a great deal of the ordinary "knock-down-and-drag- out" variety of assault, robbery, theft, and homicide cases. most of these our clerks attended to, but the murder cases gottlieb defended in person, and in this he was so singularly successful that there was hardly a celebrated trial in which he was not retained in some capacity or other. for he was an adept in all those little arts that make a jury feel well disposed toward a lawyer, and as a word artist he was unsurpassed. gottlieb could, i believe, have wrung tears from a lump of pig iron, and his own capacity to open the floodgates of emotion was phenomenal. he had that rare and priceless gift shared by some members of the theatrical profession of being able to shed real tears at will. his sobs and groans were truly heart-rending. this, as might be expected, rendered him peculiarly telling in his appeals to the jury, and he could frequently set the entire panel snivelling and wiping their eyes as he pictured the deserted home, the grief-stricken wife, and the starving children of the man whom they were asked to convict. these unfortunate wives and children were an important scenic feature in our defence, and if the prisoner was unmarried gottlieb had little difficulty in supplying the omission due to such improvidence. some buxom young woman with a child at the breast and another toddling by her side could generally be induced to come to court for a few hours for as many dollars. they were always seated beside the prisoner, but gottlieb was scrupulous to avoid any statement that they _belonged_ to the client. if the jury chose to _infer_ as much that was not our fault. it was magnificent to hear (from the wings) gottlieb sum up a case, his hand, in which was concealed a pin, caressing the youngest little one. "think, gentlemen, of the responsibility that rests upon you in rendering this woman a widow and depriving this poor innocent babe of a father's protecting love!" here gottlieb would hiccough out a sob, sprinkle a few tears upon the counsel table, and gently thrust the pin into the infant's anatomy. sob from gottlieb--opportune wail from the baby. verdict --not guilty. there was a certain class of confidence men for whom we soon became the regular attorneys. they were a perennial source of delight as well as profit, and much of my time was given up to the drafting of circulars and advertisements for the sale of stock in such form that, whereas they contained no actual misstatement of an existing fact, they nevertheless were calculated to stimulate in the most casual reader an irresistible desire to sell all that he had and invest therein. originally the dealers in valueless securities did not take the trouble to purchase any properties but merely sold their stock and decamped with the proceeds. of course such conduct was most ill- advised and unnecessary. it was obviously criminal to sell stock in a concern that has no existence, and several of my clients having been convicted of grand larceny, for this reason i took it upon myself to advise the others actually to purchase lands, mines, or other property and issue their stock against it. in this way their business became absolutely legitimate--as strictly honest and within the law as any of the stock-jobbing concerns of the financial district. to be sure, the mine need not be more than the mere beginning of a shaft, if even that; the oil-well might have ceased to flow; the timber land might be only an acre or so in extent; but at any rate they existed. their value was immaterial, since the intending purchaser was not informed in the advertisement as to the amount of gold, silver, or copper mined in any specific period, the number of gallons of oil per minute that flowed from the well, or the precise locality of the timber forests, but merely as to the glorious future in store for all who subscribed for the stock. this vital distinction has always existed in civil as well as criminal law between what is fraud and what is legitimate encouragement to the buyer. to tell the prospective vendee of your old gray mare that she is the finest horse in the county is not fraud even if she is the veriest scarecrow, for it merely represents your opinion --perhaps colored in part by your desire to sell--and is not a matter of demonstrable fact. to assure him, however, that she has never run away, had blind staggers, or spring halt, when these assertions are not true, is "a false statement as to a past or existing fact," and as such constitutes a fraud--if he buys your horse. now, it frequently has happened in my experience that gentlemen desiring to find purchasers for securities or property of little value have so carelessly mingled statements of fact with opinions, laudations, and prophecies as to their goods, that juries have said that they were guilty of fraud in so doing. thus the lawyer becomes at every turn indispensable to the business man. the following circular was drawn up for one of our clients and is an excellent example of a perfectly harmless and legal advertisement that might easily become fraudulent. we will suppose that the corporation owned one-quarter of an acre of wood lot about ten miles from a region where copper was being mined. "sawhide coppers "your last chance to buy this stock at present figures! "the company's lands are located near the heart of the copper district, not far from properties now paying from forty to sixty per cent. a year. there is no reason in the world why sawhide should not do as well if not better. with immense quantities of ore just beneath the surface, when our new smelter is completed sawhide will undoubtedly prove one of the best dividend payers in the country! as the buggenheims and other well-known financiers are largely interested in the stock, it is only a question of time before it will be marked up out of sight. the properties have great surface value and are rolling in timber and mineral wealth." this is a fair example of a perfectly safe variety of advertisement that does not commit the author to anything. as long as there is a piece of land somewhere and an actual incorporated company the stock of which, however valueless, is being offered for sale, the mere fact that the writer indulges himself in rosy prophecies does not endanger him so far as the criminal law is concerned. it is only when he foolishly--and usually quite as unconsciously--makes some definite allegation, such as, for instance, that the company "owns six hundred acres of fully developed mining property," or has "a smelter in actual operation on the ground," or "has earned sixty-five per cent. on its capital in the past year," that the financier runs the slightest risk. it may be that a purchaser would find it so difficult to prove the falsity of any of the statements upon which he had relied in purchasing the stock that the vendor would practically be immune, but in these days of muck- raking and of an hysterical public conscience prosecutors sometimes go to the most absurd lengths and spend ridiculous sums of money out of the county treasuries to send promoters to jail. they are apt to have a hard time of it, however. i recall one scheme in which a client of mine was interested, involving the floatation of about a hundred thousand dollars' worth of railroad stock. the circulars, printed by a famous engraver and stationer, were twenty pages in length and contained the minutest description of the company's board of directors, rolling stock, capitalization, bond issues, interests in other railroads, government grants of land, and the like. they were embellished with beautiful photographs of deep cuts, suspension-bridges, snow-sheds, railroad-yards, and round-houses. the promoter did a mail-order business and sold the stock by the bagful to elevator men, trained nurses, policemen, porters, clerks, and servant girls. after he had salted away about forty thousand dollars some of the purchasers began to get anxious about their dividends. none were forthcoming, and as the promoter was inclined to be indefinite as to future prospects he was presently arrested. but when the case came to trial i pointed out a fact that, strange as it may seem, practically no one of the multitude of stockholders had previously noticed, namely, that the circulars made no actual statement _as to where the railroad was located_. by inference it might well have been supposed to be somewhere in canada, but there was no such fact clearly alleged. of course it was impossible for the prosecutor to prove that my client did not own a railroad _somewhere_ in the world and the indictment had to be dismissed. negations are extremely hard to establish, and therein lies the promoter's safety. if he sticks to generalizations, no matter how they glitter, he is immune. had my railroad promoter inserted a single word descriptive of the location of his franchise or his terminals he would now be in sing sing instead of owning a steam yacht and spending his winters in florida. from the foregoing the reader will observe that the first-class criminal lawyer by no means devotes his time to defending mere burglars and "strong-arm" men. the élite of the profession do as gilt-edged an office practice as the most dignified corporation attorneys. indeed, in many respects their work is strictly identical. chapter v the firm of gottlieb & quibble had not been long established before --quite by chance--a new vista of opportunity opened before us. my partner had a wretched client who, not unlike many others, would go to more pains and trouble to steal a dollar than it would have taken him to earn twenty. this, i have noticed, is a general peculiarity of lawbreakers. the man's name was mcduff and my partner had defended him on several occasions and had got him off, with the result that he was always hanging about the office and asking if this and that were "within the law." one fine day he was arrested on the charge of having obtained money by false premises in an unique manner. it appeared that he had learned through a certain bar-tender that one jones, a patron of the place, had but recently come into a legacy of a couple of hundred dollars and, in connection therewith, had imbibed so freely that he had become involved in a fist fight with a gentleman by the name of holahan and had done the latter considerable facial damage. mcduff pondered upon these facts for some time over his beer and then set out to find jones--not a difficult task, as the legatee was making a round of all the near- by saloons and endeavoring to drink up his good fortune as rapidly as possible. overtaking him in a side street mcduff grasped him roughly by the shoulder. "look here, jones," says he, pretending to be an officer; "i have a warrant for your arrest for committing a battery upon thomas holahan. you must come along with me to the station-house." "what! for me!" cries jones in an agony of dismay. "sure, i did nothing to the man. you're not going to lock me up for that!" "it's my unpleasant duty," answers mcduff. "an officer has no choice in the matter. you must step along." "come, come!" replies jones, pulling his money from his pocket. "here's a hundred and fifty dollars. say you couldn't find me!" "i would be taking a great risk," responds the supposed officer. "have you no more than that?" "i have my gold watch and chain," returned jones. "you can have them and welcome--only let me go!" the bargain was struck then and there and the transfer from jones' pockets to those of mcduff effected. unfortunately, however, jones next day discovered that holahan harbored no ill-will against him and that the supposed officer was nothing of the kind. rising in his wrath, he in turn procured a warrant for mcduff and caused his arrest and indictment. the trial came off and despite gottlieb's best efforts his client was convicted by the jury of stealing jones' watch, chain, and money by falsely representing himself to be an officer of the law. the case went on appeal to the supreme court, which affirmed the conviction, and there seemed no escape for mcduff from a term in prison. one evening gottlieb and i got talking about the case among other things. "how is it," said i, "that the criminal law will step in and give a man back his money when, under precisely the same circumstances, the civil law will let him whistle?" "what mean you by that?" asked my partner. "why," answered i, "the civil law will not settle disputes between thieves, it will not enforce an equitable division of stolen property, and it will not compel rogues to keep a dishonest contract between themselves. now this fellow, jones, it seems to me, was almost as bad as your friend mcduff. he tried to induce a man he thought was a sworn officer of the law to violate his oath and disregard his duty. why should the criminal law do anything for him? why should it hand him back his money as if he were an innocent and honest man?" "it is an ingenious argument," replied gottlieb, scratching his ear; "and yet it is poppycock for all that. the criminal law is to punish criminals. according to your reasoning, two wrongs would make a right and two thieves one honest man. would you let mcduff go unpunished simply because he was clever enough to induce jones to try to break the law as well as himself? why, any judge would laugh you out of court on such a proposition." "but," i retorted, "surely, if i gave you a hundred dollars for the purpose of bribing a judge and you failed to accomplish your purpose, no court would assist me to recover the money. 'twould be against public policy and _contra bonos mores_." "even so," answered my partner, "would it not be more _contra bonos mores_ to let a thief go unpunished, once he had been arrested? take my word, quib, there's nothing in it," insisted gottlieb warmly. "for instance, there is the crime against usury--a very foolish law to be sure, but there it is. no one can commit usury unless some one else participates in the offense by paying the unlawful interest; but the usurer does not escape on that account. why, then, should the false pretender in our case?" "i admit the force of your analogy," said i, "and i could easily suggest others myself. bribery, for instance; extortion and many other offences, where the law does not refrain from punishing the one because the other is equally guilty. but the cases differ in that, in bribery, the briber is seeking to influence the acts of an official; and, in extortion, the law imputes an element of force which is supposed to overcome the will of the person paying the money. i am not so clear on your usury. still, i believe there is a fighting chance to win the case on my theory." "if you think so," grumbled gottlieb, "you had better argue it yourself before the court of appeals." "very well," said i. "nothing will give me greater pleasure." it was with some trepidation, however, that i went to albany to argue, before so august a body of judges, a proposition of law that had in reality so little to commend it; particularly as i was opposed in person by the district attorney of new york county--a man of great learning and power of sarcasm. however, i found the court of appeals much interested in my argument and had the pleasure of hearing them put many puzzling questions to my opponent, in answering which he was not always altogether successful. pending the opinion of the court, which was not handed down for several months, an incident occurred in our practice that may serve to amuse the reader if not to illustrate the dangers of ignorance. we were engaged in a litigation in the united states district court, where the subpoenas for the witnesses are issued by the clerk to the deputy marshals for service. our opponent in the case was a testy old member of the bar over sixty years of age and of the very highest respectability and standing, who had several times refused elevation to the bench and was regarded as the personification of dignity and learning. unfortunately his appearance belied his position, for he was almost totally bald and his face was as weazened and wrinkled as that of a monkey. it so happened that we desired to have in court the following day certain papers that were in his possession; and, in order that we might be in a position to introduce copies of them in case he failed to produce the originals, we secured what is called a _duces tecum_ subpoena for him--that is to say, a subpoena directing him to bring with him--_duces tecum_--"bring with you"--the papers in question. there had recently been appointed as a deputy marshal a very honest and enthusiastic, but exceedingly ignorant irishman named hennessey, who, prior to his advent into officialdom, had been employed at heaving coal at a dollar and eighty cents a day. the clerk called him into his office and handed to him our subpoena. "mike," he said, "here is a subpoena for winthrop van rennsellaer" --our worthy opponent. "it is a _duces tecum_. understand?" "shure, i do!" answered mike, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and taking the paper; for, though he had no idea of what _duces tecum_ meant, he had no intention of disclosing the fact. "it's important," continued the clerk. "be sure and attend to the matter at once." "lave that to me!" mike assured him. "don't forget that it's a _duces tecum_," admonished the clerk as mike passed out of the door. "not on yer life!" replied the newly appointed deputy. outside, he found a fellow deputy, also newly appointed. "pat," said mike, holding out the subpoena, "phat is the meanin' o' thim two wurrds?" his friend carefully examined the paper. "'_duces tecum_'," he repeated thoughtfully. "'_dooces taycum_.' they be latin words meanin' 'take him alive or dead.'" "thanks," said mike. "trust me!" and he started forthwith for wall street, where mr. winthrop van rennsellaer's office was located. having ascertained by inquiry that his quarry was in, mike pushed by the clerks and scriveners in the outer offices and armed with the majesty of the law, boldly forced his way into the lawyer's sanctum. marching up to him, he demanded in a loud voice: "are you van rennsellaer?" the lawyer, exceedingly astonished, replied, with what dignity he was able to assume under the circumstances; "i am mister winthrop van rennsellaer." "come wid me!" ordered mike. "i shall do nothing of the kind!" retorted the lawyer, getting red in the face. "y' won't, eh?" exclaimed the deputy; and, grasping mr. winthrop van rennsellaer by his linen collar, he yanked him out of his chair and, to the horror of the servile supernumeraries in the lawyer's employ, dragged that eminent member of the bar through his own offices, down the stairs, and into the street. the lawyer protested loudly at the indignities to which he was being subjected and a large crowd gathered, which for the time being blocked broadway. mike, confident that he had the authority of the united states government behind him, exhibited his badge, called upon the police to assist him in the exercise of his duty and proceeded triumphantly to march mr. winthrop van rennsellaer, hatless, up the street at the head of a large and enthusiastic procession of interested citizens. from time to time mike would turn and call upon the crowd to disperse, at the same time announcing in a loud voice that he had arrested his prisoner by an order of the government to take him alive or dead. by this time the lawyer's little round head was glowing a bright red and his legs almost refused to carry him. once they had arrived at the post-office building the mistake was quickly discovered and mr. van rennsellaer was set at liberty; but each and every united states judge had to descend in his robes from the bench and implore his pardon before the furious little lawyer would consent to call a cab and return to his office. i understand that he always believed that the whole thing was a trick of gottlieb's to humiliate him; and, indeed, some members of the bar have suspected me of the same thing--entirely without justification, of course. during the rest of his exceedingly distinguished career one had only to mention the words _duces tecum_ in the presence of mr. winthrop van rennsellaer to deprive him instantly of his composure; in fact, for a long time he abandoned appearing in court and contented himself with nursing his dignity in his office. i should add that the incident so affected his confidence the next day in court that we won our case without difficulty. but to return to the unfortunate mcduff. to my great astonishment and still more so to that of my partner the court of appeals handed down an opinion sustaining my contention and holding his client's conviction to be illegal. that night gottlieb and i, sitting in his office, shook our sides with laughter at the idea of having hoodwinked the greatest court in the state into a solemn opinion that a rogue should not be punished if at the same time he could persuade his victim to try to be a rogue also! but there it was in cold print. they had followed my reasoning absolutely and even adopted as their own some of the language used in my brief. does any one of my readers doubt me, let him read the report of a like case in the forty-sixth volume of the reports of the court of appeals of new york, at page four hundred and seventy. said the court: "the prosecutor"--jones--"parted with his property as an inducement to a supposed officer to violate the law and his duties; and if in attempting to do this he has been defrauded the law will not punish his confederate, although such confederate may have been instrumental in inducing the commission of the offence. neither the law nor public policy designs the protection of rogues in their dealings with each other, or to insure fair dealing and truthfulness, as between each other, in their dishonest practices." (this sentence had been in my brief.) "the design of the law is to protect those who, for some _honest_ purpose, are induced upon false and fraudulent representations to give credit or part with their property to another, and not to protect those who, for _unworthy_ or illegal purposes, part with their goods." "why, quib," quoth gottlieb, "you are the discoverer of a new legal principle. you will inaugurate a new field of human activity. generations yet unborn will profit by your ingenuity. from now on every rascal in the land will set his wits to work trying to bring his schemes within the scope of this beneficent opinion." "indeed," i replied, "however fine it may be for mcduff, i can easily see that i have unloosed as many troubles as ever flew out of pandora's box." "yes--but to our profit," he retorted, with a grin. "don't forget that. the inventors will all come flocking straight to us to get them out of their difficulties--you may be sure of it!" "'tis extraordinary," i said, "what a multitude of opportunities this new principle enunciated by the court of appeals affords to a man of an inventive turn of mind. as i take it, all one has to do is to induce another man to part with his money in the belief that he is going to take a sharp advantage of some one else. for example, let us suppose that i go to some person and falsely tell him that i have a client serving a term in sing sing for burglary who has confided to me the whereabouts of the secret hiding-place of his loot. all that is necessary is some one to put up sufficient money to cover the expense of transportation and excavation--and it can be divided between us. for this purpose he intrusts me with several hundred dollars, with which i make off. i have stolen the money fast enough, but i can never be punished for it." "exactly!" exclaimed my partner. "and here is another idea that is well calculated to appeal to almost anybody. it has just occurred to me quite involuntarily while you were speaking. many of our clients want to know if they cannot send the judge, who is trying the case, a present of some sort, or maybe loan him a little money; and it is always distressing to be obliged to tell them--usually-- that it is quite out of the question; that it would only get them into trouble. of course, occasionally we let them send the judge a box of cigars, _but always with the compliments of our adversary --never our own_. now this shows how readily persons who are mixed up in lawsuits or other difficulties would be ready to put up their money if they supposed the judge were going to get it. all you need is some unscrupulous fellow to go up to one of our clients and mention the fact that he is the judge's brother-in-law and is in dearth of ready money. can't you see the client digging up the needful? he'd be stuffing it down our friend's pockets before he got through speaking; and the whole thing could be done quite openly, you observe, because, even if the client found out later that he had made a mistake, the law would not help him." "an excellent illustration," i answered, "of the uses to which a legal decision may be put." "indeed, though," continued gottlieb, "the scheme need by no means by as raw as all that. it is enough if there be merely an _immoral_ or _improper_ motive that induces the victim to part with his money. for example, if he but thinks that he can do a sharp trick to some one else. let us suppose that i pretend to have secret information to the effect that certain property is really much more valuable than the owner supposes it to be. i propose to another that--if he will put up the money for that purpose--we shall buy the property, leading the owner to suppose he is getting full value for it. now, if, to induce the latter to make the sale, it is agreed between us that we make false or misleading statements as to the real value of the property i do not see but that i would be perfectly safe." "safe?" i queried. "i don't understand. you would have bought the property, that is all." "my dear quib," returned my partner, "you seem singularly dull this evening for one of your brilliant parts. the point is that the property really isn't worth anything. i am in cahoots with the man who sells it; and we divide even!" "yes," i answered; "a dozen similar schemes could be worked like that." "a dozen!" cried gottlieb, bounding enthusiastically out of his chair and commencing to stalk up and down the room. "a hundred! why, there are endless ways in which it can be worked--and i know the man to work them too!" "eh!" i exclaimed. "i mean, who will undoubtedly avail himself of some of them," he corrected himself. "take this case: it is a crime under the law to give back or rebate part of the premium on a life insurance policy. now many a man could be induced to insure his life if he could get back the first year's premium. all you have got to do is to tell him that you are an insurance agent and will give it back--and then put the money in your own pocket, for he will have given you the premium for an illegal purpose--that is to say, with the idea of having it paid back to him contrary to law. under the decision he will have no chance to get you arrested." "never say that you are not a man of ingenuity yourself," said i. i bade my partner good-night and walked slowly homeward meditating upon the wonders of the law, but totally unconscious of what a harvest was to be reaped from the seed i had sown so innocently. it was but a short time after this that, happening to enter the office somewhat unexpectedly one evening, i discovered gottlieb in animated conversation with a stockily built man of about forty years of age, whose coal-black hair--by far his most conspicuous feature--had been suffered to grow quite long and was parted evenly in the middle, so that it gave him somewhat the appearance of the hooded seal that was then on exhibition at p. t. barnum's museum. he had a good-humored face, jet-black eyes, and a familiar, easy way with him that put one on a friendly footing at once. "hello! quib!" exclaimed my partner. "i want you to meet my friend, charlie billington." "delighted to meet you, mister quibble," cried the stranger, grasping my hand. "our friend gottlieb knows me almost better than i know myself--eh, gottie? between us we have turned many a trick." "you mean that i have pulled you out of many a bad hole," retorted gottlieb. "as you please," answered billington good-temperedly. "but in any event you are a splendid fellow at all times--and especially in times of need." "may i inquire your business, mr. billington?" i asked, curious to identify my new acquaintance. billington winked at gottlieb. "how would you describe it, mr. lawyer?" said he. gottlieb laughed and shifted his cigar. "our friend charlie lives by his brains," he replied. "he is an inventor, a promoter, an artist. he has earned many a small fortune by the simple use of a postage stamp. he can extract gold from seawater or silver from pineapples. incidentally, he is of a scientific turn of mind and can rattle off the morse alphabet as deftly as any operator in the business. occasionally he has, in the interest of finance, tapped a wire." "tapped a wire!" instantly i regarded billington with a new interest. so at last i had met one of those famous gentry of whom i had so often heard! "never again, i fancy!" laughed charlie. "my friend, you have saved a lot of poor devils a deal of trouble. from this time on none of us will ever need to tap wires. after this we shall only _pretend_ to tap 'em." "how so?" i inquired, dropping into a near-by chair. "why, under the new law," responded billington--"the law of which, i may say, you are the creator--we shall only have to induce some innocent countryman to believe that he has heard the result of a horse-race being sent over the wire in advance of the pool rooms, and persuade him to turn over his roll for the purpose of betting it on a horse that is presumably already cooling off in the paddock and we can keep his money, for he has parted with it for an illegal or an inimical purpose--to wit, cheating the bookies." "not with my sanction!" i retorted, somewhat aghast at the idea of having paved a broad and easy path for the way of criminals. "tut, tut, quib!" said gottlieb. "you have nothing to do with what use our friend here sees fit to put your law to. i have never yet advised any man how to do an illegal thing. the most i have ever done has been to show some of my clients how to do in a perfectly legal manner that which had heretofore been unlawful." "yea, gottlieb," remarked billington. "and many things that before were accounted faults have now, thanks to you, become virtues." after billington bade us good-night, gottlieb said to me: "quib, the more i think of it, the more astonishing is the result of this new doctrine of yours that has been sanctified by the court of appeals. i do not for the life of me see how a seller of 'green goods' can be prosecuted. the countryman comes to the city for the purpose of buying counterfeit money at a ridiculously low figure. he puts up his money and gets a package of blank paper with a genuine one-dollar bill on top of it. what good will it do him to appeal to the police? has he not parted with his money avowedly for a most wicked purpose--that of uttering counterfeit bills?" "i quite agree with you," i answered. "there seems to be no escape from your result; and i, for one, do not see what is to prevent new york from becoming the mecca of all the thieves and rogues in the country." and such, indeed, it became. from this time on, until very recently, the metropolis was the stamping ground of all the rogues who could not earn a dishonest living elsewhere. with our friend charles as their sponsor, there sprang into being herds of "sick engineers," fake "wire-tappers," "green-goods" swindlers, and confidence men of all sorts, who flourished safely under the protection of the decision of the court of appeals in mcduff's case. it was but shortly after this that one of billington's friends found himself in the toils of the police for having pretended to sell a package of "green goods" to a yokel from the rural part of the state. charlie at once engaged me to defend him, asserting that as i was responsible for the law it was my duty to apply it for the benefit of our clients. so once again i entered the arena in behalf of a principle that at heart i believed to be vicious and even absurd, and once again, to my surprise and the delight of my new clients, i triumphed. the appellate division reversed the conviction that had followed the arrest and discharged the prisoner, asserting that there was no longer any authority for holding him if the mcduff case was to be taken as law. thus it was, by such unconscious steps, that i, the only son of a clergyman, found myself--willy-nilly--a leader of the criminal bar. yet at no time during my career would i have exchanged places with my honored parent or even with mr. tuckerman toddleham, of barristers' hall, boston. chapter vi as i jot down these random reminiscences i am impressed in a singular fashion with the fact that my career consisted entirely in the making, or rather getting, of money and the spending of it. i had no particular professional ambitions and never but once sought distinction as a constitutional lawyer; and, however unworthy of an officer of the court such a confession may be, i am quite ready to admit that a seat upon the bench would have afforded me neither amusement nor sufficient compensation to satisfy my desires. let other men find their gratification and emolument in the supposed honor of wearing the ermine! i have never found that a judge became any the less an erring human being after his elevation to the dais, and i could rake out of one good semi-criminal case twice the salary of any judge on the supreme bench. what is popularly regarded as respectability is oft-times in reality--if the truth were known-- merely stodginess and stupidity. i am compelled to admit that in my early days, before i had formed my affiliation with gottlieb, i had different ambitions, although they were none the less worldly. then i wanted to be a judge because i supposed a judge was the king-pin of the profession. now, as pat flanagan says, "i know different." the judge is apt to be no less a tool of the boss than any other public officer elected by the suffrages of a political party. he is merely less obviously so. there are a few men in wall street who can press a button and call for almost any judge they want--and he will come-- and adjourn court if necessary to do so--with his silk hat in his hands. and if any young aspirant for legal honors who reads these fugitive memoirs believes that the road to the supreme bench leads _via_ blackstone, and is lighted by the midnight oil of study, let him disabuse himself of that idea, but seek rather the district leader; and let him make himself useful in getting the boys that are in trouble out of it. under our elective system there is no more honor in being a judge than in being a sheriff or a hog-reeve; but, when one is young--and perhaps starving--it may seem otherwise. if any of my lay readers believe that the practice of the law is a path of dalliance, let him but hazard his fortunes for a brief space on the good ship jurisprudence--he will find the voyage tedious beyond endurance, the ship's company but indifferent in character and the rations scanty. i make no doubt but that it is harder to earn an honest living at the law than by any other means of livelihood. once one discovers this he must perforce choose whether he will remain a galley slave for life or hoist the jolly roger and turn freebooter, with a chance of dangling betimes from his own yard-arm. many a man has literally starved at the law. and most of the profession nearly do so; while some, by merest luck, have managed to struggle on until they stumbled upon some professional gold mine. i have heard many stories of how some young men managed to pull success out of disaster when the odds seemed overwhelming. one which has particularly appealed to me i shall call the anecdote of the most capable young lawyer in new york. some years ago there came to the great city a young fellow who had always lived in a country town where the neighbors were all such good friends that they never went to law. he was able and industrious, but in his native place found it almost impossible to earn a living; and when by chance he met a well-known and prosperous attorney from new york who advised him to seek his fortune in the whirlpool rather than in the back eddies of life, he decided to follow the suggestion. "i will endeavor to throw you something from time to time," said the prosperous lawyer, for it made him feel his own success to see such a poor young man and it tickled his vitals into benignity. the country boy sold all his possessions for a few hundred dollars and came to new york. his friend was very kind in his manner and prolific of advice, but, unfortunately, he had no room in his own office for a junior or even an errand-boy. so peters, for that was the young man's name, dragged himself up and down the city trying to find an opening, no matter how small. he was too old to begin as a clerk and too much of a bumpkin for anything else, and he found that nobody had any use for a young man of his particular type and training. at last, in despair, he hired desk-room in an office, shared jointly by half a dozen young men like himself, and waited for something to turn up; but nothing came. his bank account fell lower and lower, and he became more and more shabby. moreover, he was eating his heart out with disappointment, for he could not return to his native town and confess himself a failure. from time to time he would drop into his prosperous friend's offices, but the latter never had anything to turn over to him and he would return dejectedly to his own solitary desk. at last he was forced to give up lunch and get along as best he could on two scanty meals a day; he grew thin and haggard, his adam's apple projected redly above a frayed collar, his trousers grew wrinkled and shiny, and he looked ready to take his place in the "bread line." finally he spent his last cent on a pretzel and made ready to "turn in his checks." at this point peters paid a last visit to his friend, who was visibly shocked at his emaciated appearance, for his eyes burned with the fever of starvation and his jaw was set in a pitiful determination to keep going until he dropped. "mr. banks," said he grimly, "unless you give me something to do i'll go under. the fact is, i'm starving!" mr. banks look at him critically. "pretty near ready to give up, eh?" he remarked. "better chuck it and go back! i guess i was wrong when i told you to come down here." "not yet," answered peters doggedly. "when i go back it'll be in a wooden box." "well," replied mr. banks, "i'm sorry; but there isn't a thing in the office i can give you." he pondered a minute. "i've got a lot of old judgments against a fellow named rosenheim--in the cigar business, but he's no good--judgment proof--and they aren't worth the paper they're written on." "give them to me!" almost shouted peters. mr. banks laughed. "you can have ninety per cent. of all you collect," said he as he bent over and, pulling out a lower drawer, removed a bundle of soiled documents. "here they are. my blessing to you!" peters grabbed the transcripts and staggered down the stairs. it took him less than ten minutes to find mr. simon rosenheim, who was sitting inside a brass fence at a mahogany desk, smoking one of the best of his own cigars. "mr. rosenheim," said peters, "i have some judgments here against you, amounting to about three thousand dollars." "yes?" remarked rosenheim politely. "can you let me have the money?" inquired peters. "my dear fellow," retorted rosenheim, with an oily sneer, "i owe the money all right, but i don't own a thing in the world. everything in this room belongs to my wife. the amount of money i owe is really something shocking. even what is in the safe"--he nodded to a large affair on the other side of the room--"belongs to somebody else." rosenheim had been through this same performance hundreds of times before, but not with the same dénouement. suddenly he saw a lean young man, with hollow cheeks and blazing eyes, leap over the brass railing. in another instant horny hands grasped him firmly by the windpipe and a voice hissed in his ear: "pay me those judgments or i'll strangle you here and now!" with bursting veins and protruding tongue he struggled helplessly to escape as his assailant dragged him toward the safe. "i mean what i say!" half shrieked peters. "i'm starving! i'd as lief die one way as another; but before i die you'll pay up those judgments--every cent!" rosenheim was on his knees now before the safe, his eyes starting from his head. "open the safe!" commanded peters. rosenheim, the sweat of death on his brow, fumbled with the combination; the tumbler caught, the door swung open. peters lifted his captive enough to permit him to reach in and take out the bills. "count 'em out!" he ordered. rosenheim did as he was told, shaking with fear. peters stuffed the money into his pocket. "now do your damdest!" he shouted. "i've had one piece of law business before i died. good afternoon!" rosenheim crawled back to his desk, relit his cigar and endeavored to pull himself together. he had a half-scared, half-puzzled look on his face and once in awhile he scratched his head. meantime peters repaired to the nearest hotel and ordered a dinner of steak and fried potatoes, washed down with a pint of champagne. he then purchased a new suit of clothes, a box of collars, a few shirts, and a hat. when he entered mr. banks' office an hour later the latter with difficulty recognized his visitor. "i owe you three hundred dollars, i believe," remarked peters, laying down the bills. "owe--me--what? you didn't get that money out of rosenheim?" stammered banks. "why not?" asked peters casually. "of course i did. every cent of it." banks looked at him in utter amazement. he, too, scratched his head. "say," he suddenly exploded, "you must be quite a feller! now, look here, i've got a claim against the pennsylvania and susquehanna terminal company for two million dollars that i wish you'd come in and give me a little help on. what do you say?" peters hesitated and pursed his lips. "oh, i don't mind if i do," said he carelessly. you may have heard of the celebrated law firm of banks & peters-- who do a business of about four hundred thousand a year? well, that is peters. banks says he's "the ablest young lawyer in new york." peters, however, does not deserve the same credit as another young fellow of my acquaintance, since in peters' case necessity was the parent of his invention; whereas in the other the scheme that led to success was the offspring of an ingenuity that needed no starvation to stimulate it into activity. baldwin was a youth of about thirty, who had done pretty well at the bar without giving any evidence of brilliancy and only moderate financial success. he perceived the obvious fact that the way to make money at the law is to have money-makers for clients, but he had no acquaintances with financiers and had no reason to advance to himself why he should ever hope to receive any business from such. reading one day that a certain young attorney he knew had received a large retainer for bringing an injunction in an important railroad matter, it occurred to him that, after all, it was merely chance and nothing else that had sent the business to the other instead of to himself. "if i'd only known morgan h. rogers i might have had the job myself," thought he. so he pondered deeply over how he could get to know mr. morgan h. rogers and at last conceived the idea of pretending that he had a client who--without disclosing his name for the time being-- desired to create a trust for the benefit of a charity in which the railroad magnate was much interested. with this excuse he found no difficulty in securing an interview and making an agreeable impression. the next step was more difficult. finally, having learned through a clerk in the banker's office with whom he had cultivated an acquaintance that mr. morgan h. rogers was going to boston at a certain hour that very afternoon, he donned his best funeral suit and boarded the same train himself. as he passed through the drawing-room car he bowed to the great man, who returned his greeting with the shortness characteristic of him, and passed on to the smoker, where he ensconced himself in a chair near the door, depositing on the seat next to him a pile of magazines and his coat. half an hour passed and the car filled up, save for the seat next the young lawyer. presently the bulky form of morgan h. rogers filled the door-way. he already had a black unlit cigar in his mouth and he scanned the rows of seats with ill-concealed disappointment. then his eye caught the one occupied by our friend's coat. "let me have this seat!" said he abruptly. "oh, how are you, mr. rogers!" exclaimed the young lawyer. "certainly! let me give you a light." "your name's baldwin, isn't it?" inquired the banker as he took up a magazine. "saw you about that trust matter last week, didn't i?" "yes," answered baldwin. "nothing has occurred in connection with it since then." and he returned to his paper without paying any further attention to his companion. at bridgeport a telegraph boy rushed into the car and yelled: "baldwin! mr. baldwin!" mr. baldwin held out his hand, in which lay half a dollar, and without much apparent interest opened the envelope and scanned its contents. "h'm!" he remarked, half inwardly, and thrust the paper into his pocket. at new haven another boy boarded the train, calling anxiously for everitt p. baldwin--this time there were two telegrams; and just as the train pulled out a third arrived. mr. baldwin read them all with the keenest interest and could hardly conceal an exclamation of satisfaction; but the magnate gave no sign. at new london there was another flurry and, in spite of himself, mr. baldwin slapped his knee and muttered: "good enough!" as the train started again morgan h. rogers let fall his magazine and growled half-facetiously: "what the devil are all those telegrams about?" "just a little injunction suit," the young man answered modestly, "in which my firm has been quite successful." and, without giving any names--for, indeed, there were none--he sketched rapidly a hypothetical situation of the greatest legal delicacy, in which he had tied up an imaginary railroad system with an injunction, supposedly just made permanent. morgan h. rogers became interested and offered mr. baldwin a remarkably big cigar. he had been having a few troubles of his own of a similar character. in a few moments the two were deep in the problems of one of the financier's own transcontinental lines and a week later baldwin was on rogers' regular staff of railroad attorneys. it is pleasant to reflect upon such happy incidents in the history of a profession that probably offers more difficulties to the beginner than any other. yet the very obstacles to success in it are apt to develop an intellectual agility and a flexibility of morals which, in the long run, may well lead not only to fortune, but to fame--of one sort or another. i recall an incident in my own career, upon my ingenuity in which, for a time, i looked back with considerable professional pride, until i found it a common practice among my elders and contemporaries of the criminal and even of the civil bar. it so happened that i had an elderly client of such an exceedingly irascible disposition that he was always taking offence at imaginary insults and was ready to enter into litigation of the fiercest character at the slightest excuse. now, though he was often in the right, he was nevertheless frequently in the wrong--and equally unreasonable in either case. he was turned over to me in despair by another and older attorney, who could do nothing with him and wished me joy in my undertaking. i soon found that the old gentleman's guiding principle was "millions for defence, but not one cent for tribute." in other words, as he always believed himself to have been imposed upon, he litigated almost every bill that was presented to him, with the result that three times out of five judgment was given against him. he had himself studied for the bar and had a natural fondness for technicalities; and he was quite ready to pay handsomely any one he believed to be zealously guarding his interests. he was, at the time i became acquainted with him, nearly seventy years of age and his chief diversion was to sit in my office and harangue me upon his grievances. being a sort of sea-lawyer himself he was forever devising quaint defences and strange reasons why he should not pay his creditors; and he was ever ready to spend a hundred dollars in lawyers' fees in order to save fifty. this is the most desirable variety of client a lawyer can have. one trifling weakness, common to mankind in general, gave him much encouragement; for he soon discovered that, rather than incur the trouble of hiring lawyers and going to court, his creditors would usually compound with him for considerably less than their just claims. this happened so frequently that he almost never paid a bill in the first instance, with the natural result that those who had sent him honest bills before, after one or two experiences with him, made it a practice to add thirty per cent. or so to the total, in order that they might later on gracefully reduce their demands without loss. thus my client, by his peevishness, actually created the very condition regarding which, out of an overactive imagination, he had complained originally without just cause. it so happened that the first matter in which he required my services was a dispute over a tailor's bill that he regarded as excessive. he had ordered a pair of trousers without inquiring the price and was shocked to discover that he had been charged three dollars more than for his last pair. the tailor explained at great length that the first had been summer weight and that these were winter weight; but to no purpose. "you think you can take advantage of me because i'm an old man!" he shrieked in rage. "but you'll find out. just wait until i see my lawyer!" so down he came to my office and fumed and chattered for an hour or more about the extra three dollars on his trousers. if he had been less abusive the tailor might have overlooked the matter; but even a tailor has a soul, and this time the man swore to have the law on his cantankerous customer. "fight to the last ditch!" shouted the old man. "don't yield an inch!" a day or two later the tailor served my client, whose name was wimbleton, with a summons and complaint; and i was forced to put in an answer, in which i took issue upon the reasonable value of the trousers. by the time i had drawn the papers and listened to my client's detailed history of the transaction, as well as his picturesque denunciation of his opponent, i had already put in about a hundred dollars' worth of my time without any prospect of a return. i knew that if the case were tried it would mean a day lost for myself and a judgment against my client. the old fellow had a large amount of property, however, and i was willing to take a loss if it meant future business. yet the time involved and the trifling character of the suit annoyed me and i resolved to take it upon myself to settle the matter over my client's head. on my way home i stopped in at the tailor's and told him to take his three dollars and discontinue his action, which he was glad enough to do. the next day i wrote mr. wimbleton that i had forced his enemy to capitulate--horse, foot, and dragoons--and that the suit had been withdrawn. my embarrassment may be imagined when my client arrived at the office in a state of delirious excitement and insisted not only on inviting me to dinner, but on paying me fifty dollars for services in giving him the satisfaction of beating the tailor. instantly i saw a means of entirely satisfying the old man and earning some good fees without the slightest exertion. the same method--although for another purpose--will be recalled by my readers as having been invoked by the unjust steward who called his lord's debtors to him and inquired how much they owed. one, if i remember correctly, said a hundred measures of oil. "take thy bill," said the steward, "and sit down quickly, and write fifty." another, who confessed to owing a hundred measures of wheat, the steward let off with eighty. on discovering what he had done his lord commended him for having done wisely, on the ground that the children of this world were wiser than the children of light. thus, it will be observed, my early biblical training stood me in practical stead; and the only difference between the unjust steward and myself lay in the manner in which we were each eventually treated by our respective masters. indeed, i found this scriptural scheme so profitable and effective that soon my client swore i was the cleverest lawyer he had ever employed. some one would commence a suit against him for damages for breach of contract amounting to a couple of thousand dollars, where he thought he ought to pay only fifteen hundred, but where he really had no defense. i would file an elaborate answer setting up all sorts of defences, move for an examination of the plaintiff and of his books and papers, secure a bill of particulars and go through all sorts of legal hocus-pocus to show how bitterly i was contesting the case as a matter of principle. before the action came to trial, however, i would settle it for one thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, telling my client that we had brought the other side to his terms, and charge him seven hundred and fifty dollars for my services--thus netting five hundred dollars in fees. often, when the amount sued for was small--say, fifty or one hundred dollars--and where my client had absolutely declined to pay anything, i paid the claim in full, simply for the satisfaction of leading him to believe that he had been successful in resisting what he regarded as an unjust or excessive demand. this went on for several years, until, quite by chance, one of his creditors, with whom i had settled over his head, either out of forgetfulness or an evil wish to do me a bad turn, wrote him a letter thanking him for his generosity. the next day he appeared, purple with rage, and for some unaccountable reason, instead of "commending" me, denounced me for a shyster. and this in spite of the undoubted fact that my pacific methods had probably saved him hundreds of dollars! it was about this time that gottlieb devised a truly brilliant scheme, which had to commend it the highly desirable quality of being absolutely safe. there is a very wise provision of our law to the effect that, where a wife desires to bring an action against her husband for divorce and is without means for the purpose, the courts will allow her a counsel fee and alimony _pendente lite_. the counsel fee is to enable her to pay a lawyer and prepare for trial, and the amount usually varies from one hundred to one thousand dollars. one morning my partner came grinning into my office and showed me a very soiled and wrinkled paper. "what d'ye think of that?" he laughed. the document, which turned out to be an affidavit executed in chicago, read as follows: "state of illinois ) "cook county, city of chicago ) ss. "lizzie yarnowski, being duly sworn, deposes and says that she is over twenty-one years of age and engaged in the employment of making artificial flowers; that in the year the defendant induced her to leave her home in new york and journey with him in the west under a promise of marriage, representing himself to be a traveling salesman employed by a manufacturer of soda fountains; that they were married on july , , in the town of piqua, ohio, by a justice of the peace under the names of sadie bings and joshua blank, and by a rabbi in chicago on august , ; that two weeks thereafter defendant deserted plaintiff and has never since contributed toward her support, and that she has since learned that the defendant is a banker and a broker, doing business on wall street in the city of new york." the affidavit then went on to state that the defendant had given the plaintiff good grounds for seeking for a divorce and that she was without means to engage counsel or prepare for trial. the contents of the paper was skilfully worded so as to convey the impression that the deponent was a woman of somewhat doubtful character herself, but that on the other hand she had been tricked by the defendant into a secret--and what he intended to be a temporary--marriage. attached thereto was another affidavit from the justice of the peace to the effect that on the date in question he had united in the holy bonds of matrimony a man and a woman who had given the names of sadie bings and joshua blank. "well, gottlieb," said i, "this is interesting reading, whether it be fact or fiction; but what is its significance to us?" "why," answered my associate, "these are the papers i propose to use on a motion for counsel fee and alimony in a divorce action brought against mr. chester gates, a broker downtown--and, i may add, a very rich and respectable young gentleman. of course, i have no personal knowledge of the matter, as the case has been sent to us by one of our legal friends in chicago; but i am quite sure that the court will grant me a counsel fee in order to enable the poor woman to prepare her case and bring it to trial." "but," i replied, "we have made just such applications a thousand times before, have we not?" gottlieb gave me one of his long, slow winks. "not just like this," said he, and went back into his room, while i pondered on what i had read. a few days later gottlieb served the complaint in an action for absolute divorce upon mr. chester gates, to the young man's great indignation and annoyance; and shortly thereafter a very respectable and prosperous old family lawyer called upon us to explain that the whole matter was a mistake and that his client had never, never been married, and knew no miss lizzie yarnowski, either as sadie bings or under any other name. gottlieb and i treated him with the greatest deference, explaining that we had no option but to go on with the matter, as we were only acting for our chicago correspondent. at this the old lawyer grew very indignant and muttered something under his breath about perjury and blackmail, to which, however, neither gottlieb nor i paid any attention. a week or so later we made our motion for alimony and counsel fee _pendente lite_, and in spite of the vehement affidavit of chester gates, esquire, that he had never seen or heard of the plaintiff nor been married to anybody in his life, the court granted us two hundred and fifty dollars as counsel fee. this was made payable at our office, as the attorneys for plaintiff; and a day or two later mr. gates himself called and asked to see us. he was a rosy-cheeked, athletic young fellow, who could, i fancy, have knocked both our heads together had he chosen to do so. "good afternoon, gentlemen," said he, closing the door and seating himself at gottlieb's invitation. this is a very interesting experience you are putting me through. i am made the defendant in a divorce action and ordered to pay you two hundred and fifty dollars on affidavits that i know are perjured from start to finish. well, if that's law i have nothing to say. of course, you can't win your case, because you can't prove that i ever married anybody --which latter fact, of course, you very well know. i would never pay you a cent to settle this or any other unfounded suit, and i never did anything for which you or any other scoun--beg pardon, i mean lawyer--could blackmail me. but this is a new one on me. you have got a court order that i am to pay you two hundred and fifty dollars to bring a bogus action against myself. well, here's my check for it. i congratulate you. now, i'm amused to see what you're going to do next. i want to get something for my money." gottlieb took the check and rang a bell for the office boy. "take this over to the bank and cash it," he directed. "that's the first thing i'm going to do," turning to gates. "the next is this." he opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a legal paper. "here," said he, "is a discontinuance of the action, which i received this morning from chicago. i suppose you have no objection to having the matter disposed of in that way? you'll take it?" mr. gates looked at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. "by george!" he exclaimed. "take it? of course i'll take it. i have no particular desire to go on with the litigation, i assure you. i fully expected to be adjudged the father of a large family of little yarnowskis. but, now that the matter is settled, would you mind telling me who the lady really is?" gottlieb looked at him very solemnly and, to my horror, gave an imperceptible wink. "all i can tell you, sir," he replied, "is that her name is lizzie yarnowski, and that you married her under the name of sadie bings before a justice of the peace at piqua, ohio." at one time gottlieb and i represented a very objectionable old party who ran a scurrilous "society" paper, chiefly for the opportunity it gave him to blackmail people. his method was the very simple one of publishing some unfounded scandal without using any names, and then to print a paragraph immediately following in which the real names of the parties appeared, ostensibly with relation to some other item of news: "it is a well-known fact that a certain young society couple, both of whom have, to say the least, led rather lurid lives, are no longer on good terms and are carrying on--_sub rosa_--independent establishments. mr. ---- prefers the upper west side, while mrs. ---- has a tidy little louis xvi flat on eleventh street. incidentally the family mansion remains at ---- fifth avenue. "mr. and mrs. kopeck louis d'or jones are not going to newport this summer. there is a persistent rumor that mrs. jones will remain with her mother on the hudson, while her husband's plans are quite indefinite." in point of fact it was gottlieb who had invented this neat method of publishing scandal without any of the usual attendant risks. generally what would happen would be that the day after the issuing of the number in which the objectionable article had appeared, mr. kopeck louis d'or jones would call up the white-haired editor of _social sifting_ on the telephone and tell him that he proposed to sue him for libel unless he printed an immediate retraction. our client would thereupon refer him to gottlieb, who would explain to mr. jones that the libel in question had no reference to him whatsoever; that he could hardly expect _favorable_ items to appear about him unless he took a financial interest in the paper; and end by offering to negotiate a purchase for him of some of the stock. in many instances the injured parties would instantly take this means of insuring that no further publications of such a character should appear. the stock usually cost about ten thousand dollars, which went into the pocket of the "general," as he was called; and from that time on none but the most pleasing reflections could be found in the columns of his paper in regard to its new stockholder. unfortunately for all parties, however, the "general" took exception to the size of one of our bills and we parted with mutual recriminations, although he had paid us many thousands of dollars in fees and we had saved him many more in judgments. he still owed us a large sum of money, but gottlieb had tied up his property in such a fashion that the old fellow was judgment-proof. he was thus able to snap his fingers in our faces, a fact that naturally intensified our hard feelings against him. we cherished our anger until an appropriate occasion should present itself for getting even with him, which occurred sooner than any of us, least of all the "general," expected. it so happened that one of the victims, having failed to "come across" substantially enough, discovered very shortly another libelous paragraph, which reflected very seriously upon his young and attractive wife; and as it was pretty generally known at the time that the "general" and ourselves had parted company, the husband forthwith came to us for advice. "of course," said he ruefully, "i can't thrash a white-haired villain who is old enough to be my grandfather, even if i could get to him, which is unlikely. you know he has an inner office 'way off from the rest and sneaks in and out, up and down the back stairs. a suit for libel wouldn't do any good and the publicity would hurt more than the satisfaction i might get out of a verdict. but vengeance i'll have--at any cost. how can i get it?" gottlieb pondered the matter for several days and at last sent for his new client, at the same time making an appointment at our office with a well-known feather-weight prize-fighter. "if you will leave this matter to me i'll guarantee--for a thousand dollars--that the 'general' shall receive as severe a pounding as his old carcass can stand." the client joyfully wrote out a check to our order and an hour later hennessey, the celebrated bantam, arrayed in the uniform of an overgrown messenger boy, called with a letter at the "general's" office and asked to see him. he had, he insisted, orders to deliver the letter into nobody's hands but those of the "general" himself, and on this pretext in due course found himself, after being led through a labyrinth of passages and stairs, in the presence of our ex-client. "are you general ----?" he inquired. "that's my name," answered the "general." "i've got a letter for yous," continued the bantam, fumbling in his cap and producing two letters, one of which he handed over. the "general" took it and his eye glinted for he perceived that it was addressed to a very well-known member of society whose escapades were notorious. quickly he ran his penknife through the tongue of the envelope. "hold on, there!" suddenly cried hennessey. "i've give yous the wrong letter. here's yours. that one is for mr. ----. gimme it back!" "one moment, my boy!" replied the "general," hastily tearing open the envelope. "just one moment." "don't you take out dat letter! it ain't fer yous!" expostulated the messenger. "here's your letter." but the "general," with watering mouth, was already feverishly devouring a violet-colored note beginning, "darling guy," his bulbous nose close to the paper and scenting scandal in every line --that is, he devoured it until, quite unexpectedly, the bantam squared off and proceeded to hand him a few "upper cuts," "hooks," and straight leads from the shoulder, until the scandalmonger howled for mercy. but the bantam had his instructions. "no!" says he. bing! "i'll teach you to read other people's letters!" bing! "i'll show yous what yous'll get if yous violates de united states mail--see?" bing! "read mr. ----'s letter, will yous?" bing! "not wit' me here--see?" bing! bing! "you white- haired old son of a printing-press!" hennessey's description, on his return to the office, of the "general's" appearance at the conclusion of his drubbing was eminently satisfactory; and he forthwith exchanged his messenger's uniform for his broadway regalia and a crisp one-hundred dollar bill. that is the only time, so far as i ever learned, that the "general" ever got his real deserts; but i am glad that he did, for once. and the sight of his red nose--somehow it looks redder now than it used to--invariably fills me with satisfaction. quite naturally our firm attracted a number of strange wastrels in the way of clients, all of whom were picturesque and many of them profitable. among these was a gentleman known as the "human dog," who frequented the main thoroughfares during the crowded hours and simulated the performances of a starving animal with a verisimilitude that i believe to have been unsurpassed in the annals of beggary. he would go on all fours snuffling along the gutters for food and when he came to a morsel of offal he would fall upon it and devour it ravenously. if he found nothing he would whine and sit on his hind legs--so to speak--on the curb, with an imploring look on his hairy face. if a police officer approached the "human dog" would immediately roll over on his back, with his legs in the air, and yelp piteously; in fact, he combined the "lay" of insanity with that of starvation in a most ingenious and skilful manner. he was a familiar sight and a bugbear to the police, who were constantly arresting him; but, as he never asked for money, they had great difficulty in doing anything with him. usually the magistrate sent him to the "island," for thirty days and then gottlieb would get him out on a writ of habeas corpus. some of these writs attracted the attention of the bar and several appear in the reports. i am under the impression that we secured his release some twenty-nine separate times. at last he died in a fit of apoplexy caused by overeating; and when we administered his estate we found that he had already laid by, in a comparatively brief career, the very creditable sum of forty-one thousand dollars. the "human dog" was but a clever variation of the "crust-thrower" --the beggar who tosses a dirty crust of bread into the gutter when no one is looking and then falls upon it with a cry of fierce joy. these "crust-throwers" have plied their trade for over six hundred years and were known in england and flanders long before the discovery of america. gottlieb was very shrewd at devising schemes that came just within the law and used to amuse himself by so doing in his leisure moments. one of the best--the idea which he sold for three hundred dollars and which is still being used in new york, chicago, and elsewhere--is the following: an old man, with a square of plate glass in a newspaper and a bundle of glass-cutter's tools by his side is seen sitting dejectedly on a curb with his head in his hands. he has no coat and the icy wind blows through his straggling locks of gray hair--a pathetic picture. he seems utterly discouraged, but no word of complaint passes his lips. presently a well-dressed woman approaches and her pity is instantly aroused. she accosts him, and the aged one informs her in a faint voice that he works in harlem and has been sent by his boss to set a pane of glass on varick street; but not knowing exactly where varick street is, he has got off the elevated at fifty-ninth street and finds that he is still several miles from his destination. what woman, unless she had a heart of granite, would not be moved by such a tale! she opens her purse and pours its contents into his lap; for it is a psychological truth that, if you can once get a woman up to the point of giving anything, she will give all that she has. how often have i seen these old men--the children of gottlieb's brain--sitting patiently and silently on the streets! and how often have they paid us handsome fees to get them out of the "jug"! in this catalogue of clients i must not forget "banana anna," who recently, i am sad to say, met her waterloo. anna was a lady so peculiarly gifted by the almighty that she was able at will to simulate a very severe physical mishap. i shall not describe with any greater degree of particularity what her precise affliction was, save to say that if genuine it would have entitled her to the sympathy and generosity of mankind. it was the kind of thing that might easily result from a fall; but which, in fact, under ordinary circumstances gave her no inconvenience whatever. anna would conceal a bit of banana peel in her muff and, dropping in upon a station platform, would put her heel upon it and fall prostrate, uttering a groan of pain. the guard would come hastily to her assistance and find, to his horror, a woman with every mark of respectability suffering terrible agony from a condition obviously the result of a fall caused by a bit of banana skin carelessly left lying upon the premises. an ambulance would be summoned, but she would insist upon being taken to her own home--an imposing mansion --and calling her own physician. in due course the railroad would send its doctor, who would report that her condition was serious; and, as the leaving of a banana peel upon a public platform is in its very nature "negligent," the company's lawyer would recommend settlement. thus "banana anna" was able to live in comfort if not in luxury; and an infirmity that might under other circumstances have been a curse became, in fact, a blessing. of course she took a new name and hired--temporarily--a new residence for each accident; but, as she moved from city to city, she was able to keep up the same old ruse for years. perhaps our most interesting client was the one who made his living by supplying "to the trade" all kinds of corporate bonds and certificates of stock. some of these bonds had originally been issued by corporations in good standing, but had been exchanged, cancelled, outlawed, or in some other way had become valueless. how our client secured them i never discovered. he also dealt in the repudiated bonds of southern cities and states, which can be purchased for practically nothing almost everywhere. his principal line of goods, however, was the bonds of companies that he incorporated himself and disposed of at cut rates to a clientele all his own. these companies all bore impressive names, such as tennessee gas, heat, and power company, the mercedes-panard- charon motor vehicle supply company, the nevada coal, coke, iron, and bi-product company, the chicago banking and securities company, the southern georgia land and fruit company, and so on. he had an impressive office in a marble-fronted building on wall street, doors covered with green baize inside and gold lettering outside, and he wore a tall hat and patent-leather shoes. he also had a force of several young lady stenographers and clerks, who acted as the officers and directors of his various concerns, all of which were legally incorporated under the laws of west virginia and new jersey. his clients were the gilt-edged "con" men of wall and nassau streets, who, when they needed them, could purchase a couple of hundred engraved one-thousand-dollar bonds of imposing appearance, in a real corporation, for a few hundred dollars in cash. our client did not act as an officer of these himself, but merely took a power of attorney from the president, secretary, and treasurer, authorizing him to sign their names to these bond issues. yet no one ever saw these officers, all of whom had names connotative of wealth and financial responsibility. the gates, morgan, rogers, and other families multiplied and brought forth at the mere wave of his pen. if you wished a half-million bond issue you simply called him up on the telephone and some "light and power company" would hold a directors' meeting and vote a fifty-year debenture gold seven-per-cent security that you could peddle around at fifty- eight and one-eighth to unsuspecting investors, so as to net them merely thirteen per cent. on their money--when they got it. you could buy a million in these bonds for about three hundred and seventy-five dollars and fifty cents; but they were real bonds in real companies and legally issued against some form of property, even if it had no market value. sometimes, i am told, these securities paid interest for a year or so, and the suckers got their friends in while there were a few left--bonds, i mean--there are always suckers. like other egoists, our client became careless as time went on and one day took it upon himself to issue a few hundred bonds in a company without holding a directors' meeting. he should not be severely blamed for neglecting a detail of this sort when he was so well aware of its purely formal if not farcical character. still, it was one of those little slips that even the most careful of us will sometimes make, and the district-attorney took an underhand advantage of our friend and indicted him for forging the names of the officers of the company to an unauthorized issue of bonds. gottlieb and i had, perforce, to defend him; but, unfortunately, his real defence would have been even worse than the charge. he could not say that there was no real company and that there were no such human beings as the persons whose names he had written across the back of the bonds in question. poor fellow! he was an absolutely innocent man. yet he went to sing sing for seven years for committing no crime at all. how could he forge the names of persons who did not exist? however, he had invented these financial frankensteins and they finally overwhelmed him. somewhere lying around i have my share of the fee in this case--i forget just where. it consists of fourteen millions in the securities of the national mortgage and security company of jampole, mississippi. chapter vii the fear that most people have of the criminal law has its origin in their ignorance of it. they are, luckily, most of them unfamiliar with bailiffs and constables, except at a distance. the gruff voice of authority has echoed but dimly for them. they have heard of the "third degree," "the cooler," "the sweat-box," and "the bracelets," yet they have never seen the inside of a station-house; and their knowledge of jails, if they have any at all, is derived from reading in their childhood of the miraculous escapes of baron trenck or the fall of the bastille. they picture officers of the law as human bulldogs, with undershot, foam-dripping jaws and bloodshot eyes. the bourne--from which so many travellers never return--bounded by the criminal statutes, is a _terra incognita_ to the average citizen. a bailiff with a warrant for his arrest would cause his instant collapse and a message that "all was discovered" would--exactly as in the popular saw--lead him to flee at once. upon this dread of the unknown the criminal attorney plays whenever possible. it is his strongest asset, his stock in trade. the civil lawyer, vaguely believing that there must be a criminal law to cover every obvious wrong, retains him to put the screws on the evil-doer and bring him to terms. the man who has done a dirty business trick--in reality a hundred miles from being a crime-- engages the shyster to keep him out of jail. the practical weapon of the criminal lawyer is the warrant of arrest. just as at civil law any one can bring a groundless suit and subject his enemy to much annoyance and expense, so almost anybody can get almost anybody else arrested. of course if there is no justification for it a suit for malicious prosecution and false arrest may arise; but most persons who resort to such tactics are "judgment proof" and the civil law has no terrors for them at all. at least fifty persons out of every hundred would gladly pay an unrighteous claim rather than be subjected to the humiliation of arrest, even if their confinement were of the most temporary character. in new york the right of having the defendant arrested in certain classes of civil cases is a matter of statute. it is a preliminary remedy not half as much availed of as it might be. the young lady who brings a breach-of-promise suit against her faithless follower has the right to put him under arrest and make him give bail; and the young gentleman who would laugh ordinarily at the mere service of papers may well settle her claim if a sheriff whispers in his ear that he has a warrant for his person. in the early days, before gottlieb and i practised at the criminal bar, a judgment creditor could arrest and lock up his delinquent debtor. this was a most ancient and honorable form of redress; and the reader has undoubtedly read dozens of novels in which some of the scenes are laid in "fleet street." this locking up of people who owed other people money but could not meet their just obligations was sanctified by tradition and deeply rooted in our jurisprudence; but the law governing the procedure in such cases was highly technical and the wind of destiny was somewhat tempered to the shorn lamb of the creditor. thus, a warrant for the arrest of a debtor could not be executed on the sabbath, and, of course, had no value outside of the state. accordingly the neighboring cities of new jersey harbored thousands of bankrupt new yorkers who could not pay their bills and suffered a voluntary exile until they should be in funds again. indeed, there were certain hostelries entirely given over to their accommodation. the man who had defied his creditors simply converted his available property into ready cash and slipped across the river to jersey city or hoboken, where he remained six days in every week and returned to the bosom of his adoring family on the seventh. later on civil orders of arrest were limited by statute to certain classes of cases, such as, for instance, the conversion of money. among our clients there was a certain exceedingly attractive young lady of french extraction, named mademoiselle valerie carrell, who was a popular favorite upon the light-opera stage when light opera was in swaddling-clothes. our fair client, like many another histrionic genius, had more charm than business ability and was persuaded by an unscrupulous manager to intrust to him a large sum of money for investment in his various enterprises. time went on, and, although he seemed to be successful in his ventures, he insisted that he had no money and was absolutely unable to repay her. in utter desperation she came to gottlieb and myself for assistance and we speedily secured judgment for the full amount--fifteen thousand dollars--after a hotly contested trial, in which the defendant perjured himself very unlike a gentleman. the only result was that mr. brown, the manager, gayly offered to settle for fifteen hundred, and, on receiving a curt refusal, transferred his residence to hoboken, from which place he managed his business and paid furtive visits to the metropolis in the night-time. on sundays, however, he always appeared in full regalia on broadway and could invariably be seen entertaining his friends lavishly in the restaurants. gottlieb suffered this course of conduct to become a habit and then informed me that he proposed to collect the full amount of mademoiselle carrell's judgment upon the following monday. i expressed some incredulity at the idea, but later events proved that my partner was well justified in his prophecy. we had long before procured a warrant for brown's arrest and the only difficulty lay in executing it upon a week-day. sunday came and as usual brother brown, with his customary bravado, made his appearance in the city. that evening gottlieb invited me to dine with him at the resort ordinarily frequented by our quarry. true to his invariable custom, brown turned up there with a party of his cronies and spent the evening in merry feasting, presumably upon the money of our client. it was a clear, moonlight night and when the glowworm showed the matin to be near--or, more correctly, when it neared twelve o'clock-- brown beckoned to the waiter, paid his bill out of a fat roll of greenbacks, winked good-naturedly at us, and bade his friends good- night. a moment or two later gottlieb whispered to me to follow him and we stepped forth upon the street. brown was strolling quietly down broadway toward twenty-third street. a short distance behind followed a thick-set man with a square-cut jaw whom i had frequently noticed in gottlieb's office. on the corner of the cross-town thoroughfare brown paused, looked first at the moon and then at his watch, and proceeded on his constitutional toward the ferry. the street, save for a distant and presumably somnolent policeman, was deserted. the thick-set man crossed to the other side of the way, quickened his steps, overtook and passed brown, recrossed and sauntered toward him. a moment later there was a collision between them, voices were raised in angry altercation and presently brown was rolling undignifiedly on the pavement, his calls for the police rending the stillness of the night. the officer hastily approached, whistling wildly for aid. gottlieb and i took refuge in an adjacent doorway. abruptly, however, brown's outcries ceased. it is probably that a sudden vision of the consequences of an appeal to police protection came to him as he lay like an overturned june-bug upon the sidewalk. but the law had been invoked. the car of juggernaut had started upon its course. "what's the trouble here?" cried the policeman, as he arrived panting upon the scene. "this fellow here assaulted me!" instantly answered the man with the bulldog jaw. "it's a lie!" bellowed brown, climbing to his feet. "well, what have you got to say?" inquired the officer. brown hesitated. if he made a counter charge he realized that he would have to go to the police station to make the complaint. this would keep him in the city until after midnight. "well?" continued the policeman. still brown paused, rapidly taking account of stock. if he did not deny the charge in terms he would be locked up, which was just as bad. but the bull-jawed chap spoke first. "i want this man arrested!" he insisted. "he deliberately attacked me!" "i did no such thing!" shouted brown. "he came at me without provocation and knocked me down." "it took you long enough to say so," commented the officer. "i'll have to take you along to the house. come on, both of you." grasping brown by the arm, he marched him down the street. suddenly the unfortunate manager began to pour forth a long explanation, quite incoherent so far as the policeman was concerned. he was the victim of a frame-up--it was a job to get him arrested. the officer remarked unsympathetically that he had heard that sort of thing many times before. gottlieb and i skulked in the rear. when the police station was at last reached the thick-set man made a charge of assault against the manager and brown was compelled perforce to make a similar charge against his adversary. then both were locked up to await a hearing the next morning in the magistrate's court, when, after a prolonged examination, brown was discharged with an admonition against a too free indulgence in alcoholic liquors. "don't be hard on him, judge," said the bull-jawed man. "i had no trouble in defending myself. i think he has had lesson enough." much the worse for wear, mr. brown passed out of the court-room, only to be confronted on the sidewalk by a marshal with a warrant for his arrest. it was monday morning. his period of immunity was over. his eye caught gottlieb and myself standing on the corner. "well, boys," he exclaimed ruefully, "i'm caught. how much is it going to cost?" "fifteen thousand dollars," answered gottlieb, adding, after a moment's pause--"and disbursements." i need hardly add that mr. brown lost no time in raising the necessary ransom and within the hour had paid his judgment in full and secured his discharge. the days are long since over, however, when judgment defaulters had anything to fear; and now a beneficent bankruptcy law, merely for the asking, washes all their debts away. but the power to secure another's arrest is even more easily available now than in the days of my early practice owing to the great number of new crimes created by the statutes. one of the most ingenious devices for extorting money that ever came to my attention was invented by a client of mine named levine --a poor sort of character, to be sure, but cleverer than many a better man. in detail his method was as follows: he first bought at wholesale a large quantity of cheap watches covered with gold plate. to the inexperienced they looked as if they might possibly be worth forty or fifty dollars apiece. they cost levine about two dollars and twenty-five cents each. his next step was to select some small shop belonging to a plumber, grocer, or electrician which was ordinarily left in the charge of a clerk while the owner was out attending to his work or securing orders. levine would find some excuse for entering the shop, engage the clerk in conversation, and having secured his attention would produce one of his watches and extol its merits at length, explaining what a great bargain it was and how--only owing to an exceptional concatenation of circumstances--he was able to offer it for the ridiculously low figure of thirty dollars. now it never made any difference to levine whether the clerk wanted the watch or not. his procedure remained the same in all cases. he would first offer to let the fellow have it by paying one dollar a week on the installment plan. if this did not appeal to the clerk levine would persuade him to keep it for a short time on approval, paying down a dollar "as security." almost all of his victims would agree to this if only to be rid of him. in default of aught else he would lay the watch on the counter and run away. nothing more would occur for a couple of weeks, during which the clerk would hold the watch pending its owner's return, little suspecting what was going on meantime. levine, having "landed" his watch, immediately swore to a verified complaint in an action at law for "goods sold and delivered," setting forth on the date in question he had sold--not to the clerk, but to his _employer_-- a gold watch for the sum of fifty dollars, which the latter had then and there promised to pay for at once. the complaint further recited that the money had been duly demanded and payment refused, and asked judgment for fifty dollars and the costs and disbursements of the action. levine would then procure from some irresponsible person an affidavit that the latter had personally served a copy of the complaint in question, together with a summons, upon the defendant, and place the case on the calendar for trial. of course no papers were in fact served upon anybody and levine would in due course secure judgment by default for sixty-odd dollars. armed with a certified copy of the judgment and a writ of attachment, and accompanied by a burly deputy marshal selected for the ferocity of his appearance, levine would wait until some opportune time when the owner of the shop was again absent and the shop had been left in charge of the same clerk or a member of the family. bursting roughly in, he would demand whether or not it was the intention of the owner to pay the judgment, while at the same moment the deputy would levy on the stock in trade. the owner of the shop, having been hastily summoned, would return to demand angrily what the rumpus was all about. by this time the clerk would have recovered his wits sufficiently to denounce the proceeding as an outrage and the suit as baseless. but his master, who saw judgment against himself for sixty dollars and his goods actually under attachment, was usually in no mood to listen to, much less believe, his clerk's explanations. at all events, they availed naught, when levine, with an expression of horror at such deliberate mendacity on the part of the clerk, was wont to say: "ask him, pray, whether he has not got the watch in his pocket at this very moment!" usually this was indeed the fact, as the clerk had no idea what else to do with it until levine should return. "so-ho!" his master would shout wrathfully. "what do you mean by saying that you did not agree to buy the watch? why, you have kept it all the time! what's more, you've pretended to buy it in my name! and now my shop is turned into a bear garden and there is a judgment against me and my goods are attached! a fine result of your extravagance!" "but i never agreed to buy it!" insists the clerk. "this man left it here on approval!" "pish!" answers the employer. "that is all very well; but what have you to say to the judgment of the court? now, my fine fellow, you will either pay up this money that you owe or i'll advance it myself and take it out of your wages." in every case, despite the protests of the clerk, the money would be handed over and the shop released from levy. unfortunately, after working the game for several years, levine came a cropper by carelessly trying it on one of the same clerks that he had victimized some time before. the clerk, being of an unusually vindictive disposition, followed the matter up. having first arrested the man who made the false affidavit of service, he induced him to turn state's evidence against my client and landed the latter in jail. being a great reader, however, levine did not find his incarceration particularly unpleasant; and, hearing of the court of appeals decision in the mcduff case, he spent his time in devising new schemes to take the place of his now antiquated specialty. on his release he immediately became a famous "sick engineer" and for a long time enjoyed the greatest prosperity, until one of his friends victimized him at his own game by inducing him to bet ten thousand dollars on the outcome of a prize-fight that he was simple-minded enough to believe had already been fought and won. this was an elaborate variation of the ordinary wire-tapping game, where the sucker or lamb is introduced to a person alleged to be an inside official of a large telegraph company, who is ready to sell advance information of the results of sporting events in return for a share in the profits. the victim is taken to a supposed "branch office" of the company and actually hears the results of the races coming in over the wires and being telephoned to the pool- rooms. of course the whole place is merely a plant fitted up for his benefit. he is then taken to a supposed pool-room and gives up his money for the purpose of having it placed as a wager on a horse-race already won. under the mcduff case, it had been held by the courts that he had parted with his money for an illegal and dishonest purpose--to wit, in an attempt to win money from another who was wagering his own money in good faith--and the rogue who had seduced his conscience and slit his purse went free. this was levine's favorite field of operations. but his friend went him one better. knowing that levine had salted away a lot of money, he organized a gang of "cappers" and boosters, who made a great talk about the relative merits of two well-known pugilists. it was given out that a fight was to be "pulled off" up the hudson and a party was made up to attend it. a private car was taken by the friend in question and levine was the guest of honor. champagne flowed freely. the fight came off in a deserted barn near a siding above poughkeepsie; and levine wagered all of his money, with other prosperous-looking guests in the car, under the assumption that a bargain had been made between the "pugs" that his man should win. but the supposed sports were all "boosters" in his friend's pay and the other man won after a spirited exhibition, which, although exciting, hardly consoled levine for the loss of his money. it is a curious fact that those of my clients who made great sums from time to time in ways similar to these rarely had any money; most of them died in abject poverty. sooner or later all ran foul of the law and had to give up to the lawyers all they had managed to lay by. when at last john holliday, a dealer in automatic musical instruments, was "trimmed" out of sixty-five thousand dollars by various schemes of this character, the tardy legislature finally amended the penal code in such a way as to do away with the farcical doctrine of the mcduff case and drove all our erstwhile clients out of business. chapter viii "shake hands with mr. dillingham, quib," said gottlieb as i one day unexpectedly entered the latter's office. "we have a matter on hand in which he is interested." "glad to know you, mr. quibble," quoth the client, extending a rather soft hand. "your name is well known to me, although i have never personally had the pleasure of your acquaintance." "the future will, i trust, remedy that," i replied, not particularly impressed with the stranger's features or expression, but conscious somehow of the smell of money about him. for he was short and fat and wore a brown surtout and a black stovepipe hat, and his little gray eyes peeped out of full, round, red cheeks. on his lower lip he wore a tiny goatee. "as i was saying," he continued, turning again to my partner, "we all of us make mistakes and i made the biggest one when i annexed the present mrs. d. i was a young fool hardly out of my teens, and the sight of a pretty face and a tearful story of woe were too much for me. she was an actress. _comprenez?_ a sort of lydia languish, la-de-da kind of a girl. oh, she caught me fast enough, and it was only after i had swallowed the hook, sinker and all, that i found out she was married." "ho-ho!" remarked gottlieb. "the old story." "the same little old story," assented dillingham. "take a cigar?" he produced a well-filled case. i dropped into a chair and hitched it toward them. "now, the fact of the matter is," continued he, "she wouldn't look at me as long as she was tied to her husband, miserable rat though he was; and he was and is a rat! i could call and take her out to dinner, and all that, but--pst! nothing more! and she was always telling me how i was her good angel and inspired her to higher things! gad! even then it bored me! but i could see nothing but her face. you know how it is. i was twenty-six and a clerk in a hardware house." he laughed grimly. "well, as luck would have it, my uncle john died just about that time and left me ten thousand dollars and i started in to make her my own by getting her a divorce. now, this husband of hers was a wretched fellow--the son of a neighbor--who never got beyond being a waiter in a railroad station. say, it is rather rough, eh? to think of me, dillingham, of dillingham, hodges & flynn, the biggest independent steel man in the state, tied up to a pale-faced woman who can't speak the king's english properly and whose first husband is a waiter--yes, a waiter to-day, understand, in a railroad restaurant at baltimore! it makes me sick every time i go to washington. i can't eat--fact! so i hired a lawyer for her--you know him, i guess--bunce. oscar willoughby bunce! and he prepared divorce papers--oh, we had cause enough! and the next time hawkins --that was the husband's name, arthur p. hawkins--came over to new york, to borrow some money from his wife, bunce slapped a summons on him. it makes me squirm to think how delighted i was to know we had actually begun our case. hawkins hired a lawyer, i believe, and pretended he was going to put up a defence, but i bought him off and we got our decree by default. then, gentlemen"--dillingham paused with a wry face--"i had the inestimable privilege of marrying my present wife!" he sucked meditatively on his cigar for a few moments before resuming his narrative. "curious, isn't it--the fascination of the stage? you, gentlemen, probably have observed it even more than i have; but when he sees a slim girl with yellow curls capering around in tights behind the footlights, a young man's imagination runs riot and he fancies her the incarnation of coquetry and the personification of vivacious loveliness. i admit it--the present mrs. dillingham was a dancer. on the stage she used to ogle me out of my shoes and off it she'd help me spend my money and drink my wine and jolly me up to beat the cars; but once i'd married her she changed completely. instead of a dashing, snappy, tantalizing sort of a little yum-yum, she turned religious and settled down so you wouldn't have known her. there was nothing in it. instead of a peach i had acquired a lemon. i expected champagne and found i was drinking buttermilk. get me? you would never have guessed she'd been inside a theatre in her life. well, we got along the best we could and she made a hit at the church, as a brand plucked from the burning. used to tell her experiences friday nights and have all the parsons up to five- o'clock tea. meanwhile i forgot my romantic dreams of flashing eyes and twinkling feet and began to get interested in business. to-day i'm worth real money and am on top of the heap downtown; but socially--good lord! the woman's a millstone! she's grown fat and talks through her nose, and--" "you want to get rid of her," finished gottlieb. "exactly!" answered dillingham. "how much will it cost?" "i think you had better give me your check for ten thousand dollars to begin with," replied my partner. "such a case presents great difficulties--almost insuperable without money. i am not even sure that what you want can be accomplished without running grave personal risks--not on your part, but on ours. such risks must be compensated for. what you desire, i take it, is to have your marriage annulled. to do that it will be necessary to prove that the divorce procured by mrs. dillingham from her former husband, hawkins, was improperly and illegally granted. we must knock out the decree in hawkins _versus_ hawkins somehow or other. to be frank with you, it may cost you a large sum." "it is worth it," answered dillingham. "free me from this woman and i'll give you twenty-five thousand dollars." "make it thirty-five thousand dollars," coaxed gottlieb. "well, then, thirty-five thousand dollars," said dillingham after a pause. "but you must promise to do exactly what we tell you!" continued my partner. "i expect to," replied the other. "very good, then," said gottlieb. "in the first place, the original decree is no good unless the summons actually was served on hawkins and the suit properly commenced. now, perhaps bunce served the wrong man. he didn't know hawkins. the latter was merely pointed out to him. already i begin to feel that there is grave doubt as to whether the proceedings in hawkins _versus_ hawkins were ever legally initiated." "hold on, mr. gottlieb!" remonstrated dillingham. "you want to go easy there. after hawkins was served he retained a lawyer. i know that, dammit, because it cost me twenty-five hundred dollars to get rid of him." "what was his name?" asked gottlieb sharply. "crookshank--walter e. crookshank--down on nassau street." gottlieb gave a short, dry laugh. "luck's with you, dillingham. crookshank died three years ago." none of us broke silence for the space of about two minutes. "you see now why this sort of thing costs money?" finally remarked my partner. dillingham wiped his forehead with his handkerchief nervously. "say," he began, "isn't that taking a pretty long chance? i--" "it is taking no chance at all," retorted gottlieb, his little eyes glistening like a snake's. "you have simply retained us to see if your wife's original divorce was regular--not to see if it was irregular--catch on? you tell us nothing. we ask you nothing. we make our investigation. much to our surprise and horror, we discover that the defendant never was served--perhaps that he never even knew of the proceeding until years afterward. we don't know what you know. we simply advise you the divorce is n. g. and you ask no questions. we'll attend to all that--for our thirty-five thousand dollars." "well, you know your business," responded dillingham hesitantly, "and i leave the matter in your hands. how long will it take?" "everything now depends on our friend hawkins," replied gottlieb. "we may be able to hand you your manumission papers in three months." when dillingham had written out his check and bade us good day i no longer made any pretence of concealing from my partner my perturbation. i had, of course, known that from time to time we had skated on thin ice; but this was the first occasion upon which gottlieb had deliberately acknowledged to a client that he would resort to perjury to accomplish his ends. "don't you think we're running entirely too close to the wind?" i asked, pacing up and down the office. "my dear quib," answered gottlieb soothingly, "don't agitate yourself over so trifling a matter. the only living man who can prove that hawkins was served is bunce--and bunce is a fool. at best it would simply be one swearing against the other. we have a perfect right to believe hawkins in preference to bunce if we choose. anyhow, we're not the judge. all we have to do is to present the evidence at our command--if we can get it. and, by god! we will get it if it costs us ten thousand dollars! why, quib, the thing is a windfall. thirty-five thousand! why, thirty-five _hundred_ for such a case would be a big fee!" "i don't know!" i answered, for i felt a curious premonition in the matter. "something tells me that we ought to take no chances." "come, come!" quoth gottlieb, with a light show of irritation. "don't lose your nerve. you've done many a worse thing than this, to my own knowledge!" i do not pretend to any virtue in the matter and yet i must admit to some feelings of compunction about mrs. dillingham. truth to tell, i had taken a strong dislike to her husband, with his sleek confidence and cold-blooded selfishness. in addition, i was quite sure that there was some other fell reason why he wished to divorce her--probably he had another marriage in contemplation, even if he had not admitted it. "i wish we could make the beggar do his own dirty work," i exclaimed. "but what does he pay us for?" inquired gottlieb innocently. "quib, just think of the money!" i had, in fact, been thinking of the money, and it looked very good to me. since my days in haight & foster's law office, a great, great change had come in my manner of life; and, though my friends to a great extent remained among the theatrical and sporting class to which i had received my first introduction on coming to new york, i now occupied a large brick house with stone trimmings in washington square, where i entertained in truly luxurious fashion. i had a french cook and an english butler, and drove a pair of trotters that were second to none except those of william h. vanderbilt, with whom i had many a fast brush on the speedways. though i had never allowed myself to be caught in the net of matrimony, i had many friends among the fair sex, particularly among those who graced the footlights; and some of my evening parties did not break up until dawn was glinting over the roofs of the respectable mansions round about me. it was a gay life, but it cost money--almost more money than i could make; and my share in the thirty-five thousand dollars offered by our friend dillingham would go a long way to keeping up my establishment for another year. so i allowed my qualms to give me no further uneasiness and told myself that gottlieb was clever enough to manage the business in such a fashion that there would be no "come-back." a week or so later i encountered in our office a narrow-shouldered, watery-eyed, reddish-nosed party that i instantly recognized for hawkins. there could be no doubt about the matter, for he had a way of standing at attention and thrusting his head forward when addressed that were unmistakable. he was waiting, it turned out, for gottlieb, who had sent for him to come on from baltimore; and the readiness with which he had responded could be better accounted for by the five hundred dollars which he had received at the hands of our emissary for travelling expenses than by any desire on his part to regain the society of the present mrs. dillingham. "i suppose," began gottlieb when he had retired to the seclusion of his inner office, "that you fully understand that the divorce secured by your wife is inoperative--tut! tut! don't interrupt me!"--for hawkins had opened his mouth in protest--"for the reason --for the very good reason, i repeat--that you were never served with any summons or notified that the proceeding had been commenced. am i correct?" hawkins grinned and turned his watery eyes from one of us to the other. "quite so, sir!" he stuttered. "exactly, sir!" "now, on the contrary, if any one says you were served with such a paper, it was quite impossible for the reason--by the way, what _was_ the reason?" hawkins dropped one eyelid to a narrow slit and pursed his lips. "quite impossible, sir! the fact is, sir, i was waitin' on a dinin'- car that ran at the time between san antonio and new orleans, sir." "you see, quib?" exclaimed gottlieb. "my suspicions in the matter were quite correct. this gentleman has been most outrageously treated! if you will kindly retire for a moment--as i have a matter which i wish to discuss with him privately--i will turn him over to you for the purpose of taking his affidavit." a few moments thereafter hawkins appeared in my office, apparently in the act of stuffing something into his pocket, and announced that he was ready to sign his "davy." although i had no taste for the business, there was nothing for it but to do my part; so i called in a stenographer and dictated the following: "supreme court--county of new york "rufus p. dillingham, plaintiff ) _against_ ) _action for annulment of marriage_ lilian dillingham, defendant ) "city and county of new york, _ss_.: "arthur p. hawkins, being duly sworn, deposes and says: that he is forty-three years old, a waiter by occupation, and resides in the city of baltimore, maryland; that he was married to the defendant herein on the eighteenth day of june, -, and thereafter lived with her as man and wife until the month of december, , when for some reason unknown to deponent the defendant left his house and did not thereafter return; that he has recently learned that said defendant, in july, , procured a decree of divorce against him in the county and state of new york, upon grounds of which deponent is totally ignorant, and that thereafter said defendant contracted a marriage with one rufus p. dillingham, the plaintiff therein; that deponent was never served with any summons or complaint in said action of divorce and had no knowledge or information that any such proceeding was pending against him; that he never appeared in such proceeding and until recently always supposed that the defendant was his lawful wife. "sworn to before me this fourteenth ) day of september, ) arthur p. hawkins "isaac m. cohen, "notary public, new york county." there was something about this seedy rascal that filled me with disgust and suspicion, and he looked at me out of the corners of his evil eyes as if he knew that by some trick of fate he had me in his power and was gloating over it. even while he was swearing to the paper he had a sickly sneer on his pimply face that sickened me, and when cohen, my clerk, administered the oath to him he had the audacity to wink in his face and answer: "it's the truth--_not!_" cohen, who knew a thing or two and had taken affidavits before, merely laughed, but the words sent a shiver down my spine and i snarled out: "be careful what you're saying! do you swear that this affidavit of yours is true?" "yes, sir! yes, sir!" he hastened to answer, somewhat chagrined at my not taking as a joke what he had intended for one. "very well," i said to cohen. "show the gentleman out. i'm very busy. good-day." afterward i would have given all the money i possessed to undo what i had done. the case of dillingham _versus_ dillingham duly came on for trial, with oscar willoughby bunce as the chief witness for defendant. he had visited our office several times in an attempt to convince us that we were entirely misinformed in regard to the service of the papers in the original action and had insisted vehemently that he had personally delivered them to hawkins in the office of the astor house. gottlieb had gently assured him that he must be mistaken and bowed him out, but bunce for once in his little toy career was "all up in the air." he felt that his own integrity was, in some mysterious way, at stake, since it was upon his own testimony to the effect that he had made the service of the papers in question that the original decree had in part been granted. the case was sent to a referee for hearing, and on the morning of the day set gottlieb called me into his office and said: "harkee, quib! i've a plan that will put our little friend bunce's nose out of joint for good. it is nearly seven years now since he has seen hawkins and it was then only for a moment." "well," said i, "what is your game?" "come along to the hearing and you'll find out, my lad," answered gottlieb. "don't fail if you want to see some fun." curious to discover what trick gottlieb would be able to play, i accordingly arranged my work so as to attend the hearing, which was to be held in the referee's office in an old wooden building on broadway. as i climbed the stairs i caught sight of hawkins skulking on one of the landings, but he laid a finger on his lips and i passed on and up to the attorney's office. the room, like most old-fashioned lawyers' offices, was but dimly lighted, and on entering i found the other side, with the exception of mrs. dillingham, already there. the referee sat at one end of a large table, surrounded by his books, with his stenographer beside him; and to his left sat bunce and a lawyer named stires, the present "attorney of record" for the defendant. i took my seat opposite them, introduced myself to the referee and waited. in a few moments the door opened noisily and gottlieb entered with much bustle, accompanied by a clerk carrying books and papers and by a perfectly strange man, arrayed in very new clothes, who seemed much embarrassed and doubtful as to what he should do. "good afternoon, gentlemen!" exclaimed gottlieb breezily. "i regret to have kept you waiting, but i was unavoidably detained. shall i sit down here? yes? very good. please take your seat beside me, mr. hawkins." the stranger blushed, fumbled his hat, and sat down bashfully in the place designated. "are you ready to proceed, gentlemen?" inquired the referee over his spectacles. "call your first witness." bunce, who had been fidgeting in his eagerness to tell what he knew, instantly bobbed up and asked to be sworn. after giving his name, age, and profession, he detailed how he had prepared the papers in the original case of hawkins _versus_ hawkins and served them upon the defendant personally at the astor house. "i handed them to mr. hawkins myself and explained them to him. he was dressed very much as he is now," cried bunce. "do you positively identify this gentleman on your oath as the person you served with the summons and complaint?" inquired gottlieb as if the matter were merely one of routine. "absolutely!" retorted bunce hotly. "i could identify him anywhere by the shape of his nose. i took especial pains to remark his appearance in case the service should ever be disputed." "thank you. that is all," said gottlieb. then turning to the stranger he directed him to take the stand. "what is your name?" he asked sternly. "aaron finkelstein--as you know very well, mr. gottlieb," answered the stranger. "do you recognize this gentleman who has just testified?" indicating bunce. "as far as i know i never saw him in my life," answered finkelstein. "did he ever serve you with any papers--in the astor house or anywhere else?" "never." "what is your business?" "i am an undertaker." in an instant the room was in a turmoil, bunce screaming out that he had been tricked by a parcel of shysters, gottlieb indignantly defending his ruse as a perfectly proper method of discrediting bunce, and the referee vainly endeavoring to restore order. as for myself, in spite of my anxiety over the whole affair, i could not do otherwise than laugh heartily over bunce's ludicrous mistake. when hawkins was brought in from outside, and, after proclaiming his identity, denied ever being served in the original action, the referee was but little inclined to listen to lawyer bunce, who now corrected his testimony and swore just as insistently that the real hawkins was the person to whom he had given the papers in the case. here, then, was as pretty a trick as had ever been played upon an unsuspecting and well-meaning lawyer; and by it gottlieb had so strengthened our position that, very likely, the referee would have found for our side even had not hawkins taken it upon himself to swear the matter through. moreover, the only person who could have disproved the latter's testimony or given evidence that might have militated against its probability--to wit, crookshank, his former attorney--was dead and buried, and it seemed as if truth were buried with him. on the way back to our office i congratulated my partner on the napoleonic strategy which he had displayed and a few days later a more substantial compliment followed, in the shape of an unqualified finding in our favor on the part of the referee. "was ever thirty-five thousand dollars earned so easily!" laughed gottlieb over his cigar as we were dining at delmonico's. "so long as hawkins stays bought--yes," i answered. "don't be a death's head, quib!" he retorted. "why, even if he turned state's evidence, no one would believe him! have another glass of this vintage--we can drink it every night now for a year at dillingham's expense!" "well, here's to you, gottlieb!" i answered, filling my goblet with creaming wine; "and here's to crime--whereby we live and move and have our being!" and we clinked our glasses and drained them with a laugh. i had now been a resident of new york for upward of twenty years and had acquired, as the junior member of the firm of gottlieb & quibble, an international reputation. it is true that my partner and i felt it to be beneath our dignity to advertise in the newspapers --and, indeed, advertising in new york city was for us entirely unnecessary--but we carried a card regularly in the english journals and received many retainers from across the water; in fact, we controlled practically all the theatrical business in the city, drawing the contracts for the managers and being constantly engaged in litigations on their behalf. we had long since abandoned as trivial all my various profit-sharing schemes, and, with the exception of carrying on our pay-rolls many of the attendants attached to the police and other criminal courts, had practically no "runners." we did not need any. there was no big criminal case in which we were not retained for the defence and rarely a divorce action of any notoriety where we did not appear for one of the parties. this matter of hawkins's was the first in twenty years in which he had ever deliberately faked an entire case! yet, if ever there was a safe opportunity to do so, this seemed the one, and i cannot even now charge gottlieb with recklessness in taking the chances that he did; but, as luck would have it, there were two facts connected with the dillingham annulment the significance of which we totally overlooked--one, that bunce was not so much of a fool as he looked, and the other, that mrs. dillingham was a mother. once, however, judgment had been entered to the effect that mrs. dillingham had never lawfully ceased to be mrs. hawkins, then the real reason of our client's anxiety to be rid of his wife and her child, a girl of six years, became apparent; for he instantly announced his engagement to a fashionable widow, who lacked money if not experience, and who needed the one as much as he had a super- abundance of the other. he made a fairly liberal allowance for his child and its mother, and since this was paid monthly through our office, i had an opportunity of making their acquaintance; and i confess that i had no sooner done so than i began to have a sort of regret for my own part in the transaction. for mrs. dillingham --hawkins, or whatever she was--proved to be a rather sweet-faced young woman, with great, sad blue eyes and a winsomely childish innocence of expression that concealed, as i afterward found out, a will of iron and a heart full of courage. she used to come and wait for gottlieb or me to pay over her money, and while she waited she would sit there so helplessly, looking withal so lovely, that the clerks cannot be blamed for having talked to her. incidentally she extracted from the susceptible cohen various trifles in the way of information which later proved highly inconvenient. yet she never asked me or my partner any questions or showed the slightest resentment at the part we had played as her husband's attorneys in ruining her life. sometimes she brought the little girl with her and i marvelled that dillingham could have sacrificed such a charming little daughter so easily. six months passed and the dillingham scandal ceased to be a matter of public or even of private interest. other affairs, equally profitable, engaged our attention, and the waiter, hawkins, having received a substantial honorarium from the firm's bank account, had passed completely out of our minds. i had that winter been giving a series of dinners at my house to actor clients and their managers, and these had proved conspicuously successful for the reason that my guests were of the sort who, after the wine had begun to flow, had no hesitation in entertaining the rest of the company by an exhibition of their talents. occasionally, as part of the fun, i would do a bit of a turn myself by way of reviving old memories of the cock and spur and my athenaeum days in boston. it was on one of these festive occasions--not unlike, my readers may recall, my famous translation from college during my banquet at the cambridge tavern--that fate struck me my first severe blow. my guests were still sitting at table while one of the ladies executed a fantastic dance amid the wine-glasses, when my butler touched me upon the arm and whispered that mr. gottlieb was outside and desired to see me on urgent business. excusing myself, i hurried out, greeting my partner rather impatiently, as i disliked to be interrupted by business details in my hours of relaxation; but one sight of his weazened little hawk face sufficed to tell me that no trifling matter was at stake. he was in his day clothes, which were even more than ordinarily dishevelled, and his face, usually pale, was chalklike. "quibble," he cried in a rasping voice as soon as my man had gone, "our luck's turned! that woman has tricked us. she and bunce went down to crookshank's office and, under the pretext of looking for some deed or release, went through his papers and turned up some letters from hawkins in regard to the original divorce proceedings. they've got one in which he admits being served by bunce in the astor house and asks crookshank to appear for him. they've got another, written after dillingham had fixed him, telling crookshank to put in no defence. yesterday she and bunce went before the grand jury, who returned an indictment against hawkins for perjury. then she telegraphed him to come on to new york and meet her to arrange some money matters; and when he stepped off the train this afternoon he was arrested and taken to police head-quarters." "my god!" i cried, turning quite faint. "what's to be done?" "get him out of the way as soon as possible!" answered gottlieb, his lips trembling. "to-morrow morning he will be arraigned in the general sessions. they are going to ask for fifty thousand dollars bail. we've got to have it. it's the only thing that stands between us and state prison, for they've got the goods on hawkins and unless we see him safe he'll turn on us and help them send us up!" "have you seen him?" i gasped. "i've just come from head-quarters," he answered. "the fool had been drinking and had given up a lot of information already. so i frightened him until he agreed to shut up. they trouble is we gave him too much money. he says now that unless we protect him and keep him out of state prison he will give up the whole game to the district attorney. that would be fun, wouldn't it? the district attorney wouldn't waste much time on arthur p. hawkins if he could land gottlieb & quibble in jail for subornation of perjury, would he--eh? we've got to scratch gravel--and quick too!" "but where can we raise fifty thousand dollars?" i groaned helplessly. "dillingham," he retorted without hesitation. "he's our only hope. he's in as bad as the rest of us. if we go we can pull him along too. i understand that the woman is prepared to swear not only that hawkins admitted to her that he was properly served, but that she told this to dillingham, and that he and hawkins talked the thing over in her presence. besides, cohen confessed to me to-day that she had pumped him all about hawkins's coming over to new york and signing papers; and, although he swears he didn't tell her anything in particular, yet i don't trust the idiot. no, quib; it's bad business and we've got to get hawkins out of the way at any cost." it was not until nearly three o'clock in the morning that i discovered dillingham's whereabouts, which happened to be at the fifth avenue house of a fashionable friend, where he was playing draw poker. he greeted me in much the same inhospitable fashion that i had accorded to gottlieb, but only a few words were needed to convince him of the gravity of the case. i had never loathed the man more than i did at that instant when, with a cigar stuffed in his fat face, he came out of the card-room, dressed in his white waistcoat and pearl studs, and with a half-drunken leer asked what i wanted. "i want fifty thousand dollars to keep you and me out of state prison!" i cried. he turned a sickly yellow and gave a sort of choking gasp. "hawkins!" he muttered. "damn him!" then dillingham had a sort of fit, due no doubt partly to the fact that he had drunk more champagne than was good for him; for he trembled with a kind of ague and then broke out in a sweat and blubbered, and uttered incoherent oaths, until i was half beside myself lest he should keep it up all night and i should not get the money from him. but at last he regained control of himself and promised to borrow the fifty thousand dollars the first thing in the morning and to have it at my office at ten o'clock. yet, as i bade him good night, he had another turn of terror and his teeth chattered in his head as he stammered out that he was a ruined man, that he had cast off a good wife for a deceitful hussy who only wanted his money, that he had lost his child, that now his career was over, and that, unless i stood by him, he would end his days in prison. this was hardly the sort of encouragement i wanted; and though his words brought the cold sweat out upon my back, i told him pretty sharply that he had better pull himself together and not be any more of a fool than he could help, that all we needed was enough money to whip hawkins out of the way, and that if he would "come up" with the needful we would look out for him. i left him a disgusting sight, sitting in a red plush armchair, with his face in his hands, his hair streaking down across his forehead, moaning and mumbling to himself. outside, the city slept the prenatal sleep of dawn. a pale greenish veil hung over the roofs, through which day must peer before awakening those who slept beneath. i had often noticed this greenish color in the sky, made doubtless by the flare of gas and electricity against the blue-black zenith, yet never before had i felt its depressing character. it was the green of jealousy, of disappointment, of envy, hatred, and malice and all uncharitableness! the city trembled in its sleep and the throbbing of its mighty pulse beat evilly upon my ears with distant hostile rumblings. i was alone in it and in danger. disaster and ruin were looking for me around the corner. i was like a child, helpless and homeless. i could not call upon god, for i did not believe in him. it came home to me, as i stood there in the night upon the open street, that there was not one soul among all the city's sleeping millions who owed me aught but harm, and that even those who had drunk the wine of my hospitality had done so more in fear than in friendship. i had no friends but those who were bound to me in some devil's bargain--no kith, no kin, nor the memory of a mother's love. as i lingered there, like some outcast beast waiting for day to drive me to my lair, i envied, with a fierce hatred and with a bitter and passionate pity for myself, those to whom fate had been more kind and given home and wife and children, or at least the affection of their fellow men, and i envied the lads i had known in college who led clean lives and who had shunned me--they knew not why--and the happy-go-lucky quirk and his busy wife; and even old tuckerman toddleham, in his dingy office in barristers' hall. chapter ix daybreak found me still wandering in the streets, haunted by the fear that the police might already be upon my track and furious at the thought that one foolish step should have changed me from a prosperous and powerful member of the bar into a fugitive. often in earlier days i had pitied the wretches who would come slinking into our office after nightfall, empty their pockets of gold and notes--taken often, no doubt, by force or fraud from others--and pour it out before us, begging for our aid to save them from punishment. it seemed incredible to me that human beings should have staked their liberty and often their lives for a few wretched dollars. outcasts, they skulked through existence, forced, once they had begun, to go on and on committing crimes--on the one hand to live, and on the other to pay tribute to gottlieb and myself, who alone stood between them and jail. how they had cringed to us. we were their masters, cracking the lash of blackmail across their shoulders and sharing equally, if invisibly, in their crimes! and how i had scorned them--fools, as they seemed to me, to take such desperate chances! yet, as the sun rose, i now saw myself as one of the beings whom i had so despised. we were no longer their masters--they were our masters! hawkins had us in his power. he alone could prevent us from donning prison stripes. already the streets were beginning to stir. wagons rumbled along the pavements. streams of people emerged from the caverns of the east and trudged westward across the city. i circled the square and entered it from the lower side. my big brick mansion, with its stone trimmings--the home where i had held my revels and entertained my friends, where i had worked and slept--was but a stone's throw away. i strained my eyes to detect any signs of the police; but the street was empty. then, pulling my hat down upon my head, i turned up my coat-collar and, glancing from side to side, hurried across the square and let myself in. the household still slept. the air was close and heavy with the perfume of roses and the reek of dead cigars. on the floor of the entrance hall lay a pair of woman's white gloves, palms upward. beyond, through the open doors of the dining-room, i could see the uncleared table, littered over with half-empty bottles and glasses. an upset chair reclined as it had fallen. last night i had been an envied host; to-day i was an outcast. as i stood there, a shadow darkened the doorway and with a leap of the heart i jumped behind a portière. then, as the shadow remained and knowing that in any event i was trapped, i threw open the door. gottlieb, with wild eyes peering out of a haggard face, stood before me. without a moment's hesitation, he dodged inside. "did you get it?" he almost shrieked. "yes," i answered faintly. "what are we to do?" "for god's sake give me something to drink!" he cried. "i need it!" i led him to the sideboard and filled two glasses with whiskey. "here's to crime!" i muttered, with a bitter laugh. gottlieb shot a fierce look at me and his hand shook so that i thought he would drop the tumbler; but he poured the liquor down his throat and threw himself into a chair. "that fellow has us by the throat!" he groaned. "we should have thought of that--" i began. "stop!" he gasped. "you can hold a post-mortem later on. they haven't got us yet--and, by god! we've a long start. once let us whip hawkins out of the way and they're helpless! i must stay here to fight the case, but you, quib, must take this fellow where they'll never find him--africa, alaska, europe--anywhere! if you could drop him over a precipice or off an ocean liner--so much the better!" for an instant we eyed each other keenly. then i shook my head. "no," said i. "if it came to that i'd rather go to jail." it was now nearly seven o'clock and i felt faint for something to eat; so i stumbled upstairs and awakened my butler, who stared at me stupidly when he saw me beside his bed in evening dress. when i rejoined gottlieb i found him examining the morning paper, which a boy had just brought to the front door. across the front page in double-leaded type was printed: the dillingham divorce again arthur p. hawkins indicted for perjury extraordinary disclosures expected two prominent criminal attorneys said to be involved "they've raised the hue and cry already!" muttered my partner, pointing to the paper. "damn them! how ready they are to turn on a man! think of all the stories i've given to these very papers! stories worth thousands of dollars to 'em! and now--they're after our hearts' blood!" while we were waiting for our breakfast he outlined his plan. we were to get hawkins out of town as soon as we had given bail for him. of course the railroads and ferries would be watched, but we could manage somehow. i must take the fellow where nobody would find him and keep him there. if he ever were brought back and convicted he would turn on us like a snake. only while he still hoped to escape prison could we count on his co-operation. meanwhile my partner would remain in the city and try to upset the indictment. anyhow, some one must stand guard over dillingham; for, if he lost his nerve and endeavored to save himself by confessing his part in the affair, we would be lost! gloomily we ate a few pieces of toast and swallowed our coffee. then i hastily changed my clothes and accompanied gottlieb to the tombs, to which hawkins had been transferred the night before. he was brought down to us in the counsel-room, looking like a scared and sickly ghost. what little spirit he had before had already vanished. i have never seen a more wretched human creature. his one dread was of going to prison; and together we hastened to convince him that his only avenue of escape lay through us. we pointed out to him that so long as he stuck to the story we should prepare for him he had nothing to fear; and, as evidence of our power to protect him, we instanced the fact that we had already secured fifty thousand dollars' cash bail for him. at this he took much heart, and even whistled a bit and begged us for a drink, but we slapped him on the back and told him that he could have anything he wanted once he was outside the tombs--not before; so he gave us a cold, slimy hand and promised to do precisely as we wished. ten-thirty came and we both walked across to part one of the general sessions, where for so many years we had been monarchs of all we surveyed. a great throng filled the room and many reporters clustered around the tables by the rail, while at the head of a long line of waiting prisoners stood the bedraggled hawkins. presently the judge came in and took his seat and the spectators surged forward so that the officers had difficulty in preserving order. somehow, it seemed almost as if we were being arraigned ourselves--not appearing as counsel for another; but gottlieb preserved his composure admirably and, when hawkins's name was called, stepped forward, entered a plea of not guilty for him and gave bail. we had already deposited the money with the city chamberlain and hawkins was immediately discharged, pending his trial for perjury; but the tremendous sum demanded as security and the fact that it was immediately forthcoming for a prisoner who looked as if he had not a cent in the world of his own, and who was known to be a mere waiter in a restaurant, caused a sensation throughout the court-room; and as we forced our way to the street we were accompanied by a multitude, who jeered at the defendant and occasionally took a fling at gottlieb and myself. we still, however, were persons to be feared, and few dared venture beyond making suggestive allusions to our obvious desire to secure the immediate liberty of our client. so far we had no reason to believe that the district attorney--a man of high integrity and unrelenting zeal in the discharge of his official duties--had sought to tamper with hawkins; but i instinctively felt that, once he had an opportunity to offer the latter personal immunity in return for a confession which would implicate gottlieb and myself all would be over. as my partner had said, there was only one thing to do--and that was to put it out of our client's power to do us harm. the first step in this direction was to get him hopelessly drunk, and this we successfully did in a back room of our office. both of us knew that a dozen pairs of eyes were watching the entrance of the old-fashioned building in which our rooms were located, and that any attempt on our part to get hawkins out of the city would result in his immediate arrest. once he were sent back to the tombs he would be out of our control. so, for three days, we kept him--a foul, unwashed, maudlin thing--a practical prisoner, although from his condition quite unconscious of it. day and night, turn and turn about, gottlieb and i watched while he snored and gibbered, cursed and giggled; but the strain was getting too much for both of us and we set ourselves at work to devise a way to spirit him away. our offices were situated in a block the other side of which consisted of tenement-houses. investigation showed that it would be possible to get over the roofs, walk nearly the length of the block and gain access to one of the more distant tenements through a skylight. for the sum of fifty dollars we found an italian fruit- dealer who was willing to hire himself, his rickety wagon, and his spavined horse for our enterprise; and he agreed to carry hawkins concealed under piles of produce to a point on long island, where we could take a ferry across to one of the connecticut towns. the following night we arranged that a hack should be drawn up early in the evening in front of the entrance to the office, and bags and boxes were brought out and piled upon the seat beside the driver. we then half dragged, half lifted hawkins up the stairs and on the roof by means of a shaky ladder and conducted him across the leads to the scuttle of the tenement-house. at this juncture, by prearrangement, three of our clerks, one of whom somewhat resembled hawkins in size and who was arrayed in the latter's coat and hat, rushed out of the office and climbed into the hack, which at once set off at a furious gallop up centre street. coincidentally gottlieb and i escorted our still maudlin prisoner down the narrow stairs at the other end of the block and cajoled him into getting into a sack, which the italian placed in the bottom of the cart and covered with greens. i now put on a disguise, consisting of a laborer's overalls and tattered cap, while gottlieb wheeled out a safety bicycle which had been carefully concealed in the basement. i had ten thousand dollars in the pocket of my ragged trousers and a forty-four-calibre revolver at my hip. gottlieb drew me back into the shadow and whispered harshly in my ear. "quib," said he, "this fellow must never come back!--do you understand? once the district attorney gets hold of him, it's all up with us! it's sing sing for each of us--ten years of it! for god's sake, hire somebody to put him out of the way!--quietly. many a man would take him off our hands for a thousand or so." i shuddered at the cold-blooded suggestion, yet i did not utter one word of refusal, and must have led gottlieb to believe that i was of a mind with him, for he slapped me on the shoulder and bade me good luck. good luck! was ever a man of decent birth and education forced upon such an errand? the convoying of a drunken criminal to--where? i knew not--somewhere whence he could not return. thus i set forth into the night upon my bicycle, my money bulging in my pocket, my pistol knocking against the seat at every turn of the wheel, my trousers catching and tearing in the pedals. at last i crossed the bridge and turned into the wastes of queens. gas- houses, factories, and rotting buildings loomed black and weird against the sky. i pedaled on and at last found myself upon a country road. i dared not ask my way, but luckily i had stumbled upon the highway to port washington, whence there was a ferry to the connecticut shore. as i stole along in the darkness, my ear caught far ahead a voice roaring out a ribald song--and i knew that the time had come to take personal charge of my wretched client-- the "old man of the sea" that my own stupidity had seated upon my shoulders. soon i overtook them, the italian stolidly driving his weary horse and hawkins sitting beside him with the sack wrapped around his shoulders. i halted them, threw my bicycle in among the vegetables, and climbed up to where they sat. hawkins gave a great shout of laughter when he saw who it was and threw his arm around my neck, but i pushed him away and he nearly fell under the wheels. my gorge rose at him! yet to him i was shackled as tightly as ever a criminal was to his keeper! the thought of the remainder of that night and of the ensuing three days and nights sickens me even now. in the early dawn we crossed the ferry with dozens of other produce-laden wagons and landed on the opposite side of the sound, where we caught a local train for hartford. i had made no arrangements for communicating with gottlieb, and was in utter ignorance of whether or not our escape had been discovered. we sat in the smoking-car, hawkins by this time ill and peevish. the air was stifling, yet i could not, arrayed as i was or in the company of my client, go into the regular passenger coach. at hartford we changed for springfield and i purchased a new york paper. there was nothing in it relating to the case and i breathed more easily; but, once in springfield, i knew not which way to turn, and hawkins by this time was crazy for drink and refusing to go farther. i gave him enough liquor to keep him quiet and thrust him on a way train for worcester. already i had exhausted my small bills and when i tried to cash one for a hundred dollars the ticket agent in the station eyed me with suspicion. that night we slept in a single bed, hawkins and i, in a cheap lodging-house--that is, _he_ slept a sordid, drunken sleep, while i lay tossing and cursing my fate until, burning with fever, i rose and drained part of the water in the pitcher. yet, in the early morning hours there came to me the first ray of hope throughout that dreary space since i had left new york--the quirks! the quirks! twenty years had passed since i had heard from them. they might be dead and gone long ago without my knowing it; yet, were they alive, i felt that one or other of them would hold out a friendly hand for auld lang syne. before daybreak, i stole forth, hired a horse and buggy, asked the way to methuen and, rousing hawkins, bundled him, whining and fretting, into it. slowly we drove in the growing light through the country lanes i had known and loved so well as a lad--the farmland which was the only friendly thing in my disconsolate boyhood. it was in the early spring and the apple-trees along the stone walls by the roadside were showered with clustering blossoms. dandelions sprinkled the fields. the cloud shadows slowly moved across rich pastures of delicate green. a sun-warmed, perfume-laden breeze blew from the east, tinged with a keen edge that sent the blood leaping in my temples. tiny pools stood in the ruts glinting blue toward the sky. the old horse plodded slowly on and the robins called among the elms that stood arching over white farm-houses with blinds, some blue, some green. with a harrowing sense of helplessness, the realization of what i had thrown away of life swept over me. i turned from the sodden creature beside me in disgust. hawkins had slumped back in his seat, so that his head rested upon the hood, and had fallen sound asleep, with his mouth wide open. how i wished that i had the courage to strangle him--and then it came to me that, after all, it was not he who had ruined me, but i who had ruined him! about noontime we came to a landscape that seemed familiar to me, although more heavily wooded and with many more farms than i remembered; and at a turn in the road i recognized a couple of huge elms that marked the site of the homestead occupied in my boyhood by the quirks. there was the brook, the maple grove upon the hill, the old stile by the pasture, and the long stone wall beside the apple orchard, radiant with white. yet the house seemed to have vanished. my heart sank, for somehow i had assumed that the quirks must still be living, just as they had always lived. and now, as we drew near the turn, i saw that the place where the homestead had stood was empty, and all that remained was a heap of blackened stone and brick thickly overgrown with brambles. fifty yards farther down the road we came upon an old man sitting on the fence, smoking a pipe. he wore a tattered old brown felt hat and overalls, and his long gray hair and beard were tangled and unkempt. i passed the time of day and he answered me civilly enough, although vacantly; and i saw that his eye had the red film of the drunkard. when i asked him for quirk, the schoolmaster, who used to live thereabout he gave a mirthless chuckle. "my name's quirk," said he; "but it's fifteen years since i taught school. how did you come to know of me?" could this be quirk--this aged and decrepit old man! somewhere beneath that mat of hair and beard, did there remain traces of those good-natured lineaments that were wont to set the boys in a roar? i scanned his face closely. the man was a stranger to my recollection. "do you remember me, mr. quirk?" i asked. he peered out at me under his bushy brows and slowly removed his pipe. "not to my knowledge," he answered. "what might be your name?" "quibble," i returned--"artemas quibble." "artemas quibble!" he exclaimed in a faltering voice and feebly crawled over to the buggy. i climbed down to meet him and extended my hand. "what has happened to you?" he stammered. "i thought you were a great lawyer in new york." "i'm in a peck of trouble," i answered. "i need all the friends i've got. i hope you're still one of them?" "well, well!" he muttered. "and to think that you're artie quibble! and who may this be?" pointing to hawkins. "i'll tell you all," said i, "later on. for the present, he's a friend of mine who's travelling with me--more on business than on pleasure." quirk's story was soon told. as i already expected, drink had become his master. the school had fallen away, his wife had died, and in a fit of despondency he had--he said accidentally, but i believe intentionally--overturned a lamp and set fire to the house. now he lodged in a small hotel farther down the road, living from hand to mouth, and doing a day's work here and there when chance offered. i gave him fifty dollars and bade him good-bye, for he had no accommodations to offer us even had i been able to induce hawkins to remain there. thus i realized that the only refuge i ever had from the outside world, the only real home i had ever known, was gone. i had nowhere to go, nowhere to deposit my evil load. we drove on for a space, and now hawkins awoke and began to clamor for food. where was i taking him? he demanded to know. and why was i togged out like a bricklayer? he announced that he had had enough of this kind of travelling and insisted on going to a hotel and having a decent meal. i tried to reason with him and explained that it was only for a day or so, and that presumably we would go to boston or some other city, where he should have everything that money could buy. but he leered at me and said he had plenty of promises already; that we had promised him that he would get into no trouble if he signed his original affidavit, and that, unless he were treated like a gentleman, he would go back to new york and get other lawyers. he must have seen me turn white at his threat, for from that moment he held it over me, constantly repeating it and insinuating that i was not so anxious to save him as to save myself, which, alas! i could not gainsay. soon we came to a small town and here hawkins flatly refused to go any farther. there was a hotel on the main street, and the fellow clambered out of the buggy and staggered into the bar and called loudly for whiskey. there was nothing for it but to put up the horse in the stable and do as my prisoner demanded. so we had dinner together, hawkins talking in a loud, thick voice that made the waitresses and other guests stare at him and me as if we were some sort of outlandish folk; and after the meal was over he dragged me to the nearest clothier and ordered new ready-made suits for both of us. he had now imbibed much more than was good for him; and when i took out my roll of bills to pay for what we had bought he snatched it out of my hand and refused to give it back. for a moment i almost surrendered myself to despair. i had had no sleep for two nights, i was overwhelmed with mortification and disgust, and here i was in a country store pranked out like a popinjay, the keeper of a half-crazy wretch who made me dance to any tune he chose to pipe; but i pulled myself together and cajoled hawkins into leaving the place and giving me back a small part of the money. there was a train just leaving for boston and my companion insisted upon taking it, saying that he proposed to spend the money that dillingham had so kindly furnished him with. i never knew how he discovered the part dillingham was playing in this strange drama; but if no one told him, he at any rate divined it somehow, and from this moment he assumed the lead and directed all our movements. it is true that i persuaded him to go to one of the smaller and less conspicuous hotels, but he at once sent for another tailor, ordered an elaborate meal for supper, with champagne, and procured a box at one of the theatres, whither i was obliged to escort him. neither would he longer permit me to occupy the same room with him --precious privilege!--but engaged a palatial suite for himself, with a parlor, while i had a small and modest room farther down the hall. in some respects this suited me well, however, since i was now able to induce him to have his meals served upstairs. yet i began to see the foolishness of thinking that we could elude the police should they set out to seek seriously for us, since, apart from changing our names, we were making no effort at disguising ourselves. the day after our arrival, hawkins slept late and i slipped out about ten o'clock and wandering aimlessly came to barristers' hall, where twenty years before old tuckerman toddleham had his office. the day was warm and humid, like that upon which so long ago i had visited the old lawyer when a student at harvard and had received from him my sentence. even as then, some birds were twittering around the stone window-ledges. an impulse that at the moment was beyond my control led me up the narrow, dingy stairs to the landing where the lawyer's office had been. a green-baize door, likely enough the same one, still hung there--where the lawyer's office had been. naught about the room was altered. there were the bookcases, with their glass doors and green-silk curtains; the threadbare carpet, the portrait of the honorable jeremiah mason over the fireplace; the old mahogany desk; the little bronze paper- weight in the shape of a horse; the books, brown and faded with years; and at the desk--i brushed my hand across my eyes--at the desk sat old tuckerman toddleham himself! for the first time in my entire existence, so far as i can now remember, i was totally nonplussed and abashed. i could not have been more astonished had i walked into the family lot in the salem cemetery and found my grandfather sitting on his own tombstone; but there the old lawyer surely was, as certainly as he had been there twenty years before; and the same sensations that i had always experienced as a child while in his presence now swept over me and made me feel like a whipped school-boy. not for the world would i have had him see me and be forced to answer his questions as to my business in the city of boston; so, holding my breath, i tiptoed out of the door, and the last vision i ever had of him was as he sat there absorbed in some legal problem, bending over his books, the sunlight flooding the mote-filled air of the dusty office, the little bronze horse standing before him on the desk and the branches of the trees outside casting flickering shadows upon the walls and bookcases. canny old man! he had never put his neck in a noose! i envied him his quiet life among his books and the well-deserved respect and honor that the world accorded him. ruminating in this strain, i threaded my way through the crowd in court street, and was about to return to my hotel, when to my utter horror i beheld hawkins, in all his regalia, being marched down the hill between two business-like-looking persons, who were unmistakably officers of police. he walked dejectedly and had lost all his bravado. there was no blinking the fact that in my absence he had managed somehow to stumble into the hands of the guardians of the law and was now in process of being transported back to new york. for a moment my circulation stopped abruptly and a clammy moisture broke out upon my back and forehead. unostentatiously i slipped into a cigar store and allowed the trio to pass me by. so the jig was up! back i must go, after my fruitless nightmare with the wretch, to consult with my partner as to what was now to be done. i reached the city late that evening, but not before i had read in the evening papers a full account of the apprehension of the fugitive, including my own part in the escape; and it now appeared that the police had been fully cognizant of all our doings, including the manner of our abduction of hawkins from our office. they had, under the instructions of the district attorney, simply permitted us to carry out our plan in order to use the same as evidence against us at the proper time, and had followed us every step of the way to worcester and on our drive to methuen. my heart almost failed me as i thought of how foolish i had been to undertake this desperate journey myself, instead of sending some one in my place for by so doing i had stamped myself as vitally interested in my client's escape. fearful to go to my own home, lest i should find myself in the hands of the police, i spent the night in a lodging-house on the water-front, wondering whether hawkins had already made his confession to the district attorney in return for a promise of immunity; for i well knew that such a promise would be forthcoming and that hawkins was the last man in the world to neglect the opportunity to save himself at our expense. next morning i telephoned gottlieb and met him by appointment at a hotel, where we had a heated colloquy, in which he seemed to think that i was totally to blame for the failure of our attempt. he was hardly himself, so worn out was he with anxiety, not having heard from me until he had read of hawkins's apprehension in boston; but, now that i was able to talk things over with him, we agreed that any effort to spirit our client away would have been equally unsuccessful, and that the one course remaining for us to pursue was to put on as bold a front as possible and let the law take its course. it was equally useless for us to try to conceal our own whereabouts, for all our movements were undoubtedly watched; and the best thing to do, it seemed to us, was to go as usual to our office and to act as nearly as possible as if nothing had happened. we were not mistaken as to the intended course of the district attorney; for, when we visited the tombs for the purpose of interviewing hawkins, we were informed by the warden that he had obtained other counsel and that our services were no longer required. this was an indisputable indication that he had gone over to the enemy; and we at once began to take such steps as lay in our power to prepare for our defence in case an indictment was found against us. and now we were treated to a dose of the medicine we had customarily administered to our own clients; for, when we tried to secure counsel, we found that one and all insisted upon our paying over in advance even greater fees as retainers than those which we had demanded in like cases. i had never taken the trouble to lay by anything, since i had always had all the ready cash i needed. gottlieb was in the same predicament, and in our distress we called upon dillingham to furnish us with the necessary amount; but, to our amazement and horror, our erstwhile client refused to see us or come to our office, and we definitely realized that he, too, had sought safety in confession and would be used by the prosecution in its effort to place the crime of perjury at our door. from the moment of hawkins's arrest the tide turned against us. there seemed to be a general understanding throughout the city that the district attorney intended to make an example in our case, and to show that it was quite as possible to convict a member of the bar as any one else. he certainly gave us no loophole of escape, for he secured every witness that by any possibility we might have called to our aid, and even descended upon our office with a search- warrant in his effort to secure evidence against us. luckily, however, gottlieb and i had made a practice of keeping no papers and had carefully burned everything relating to the dillingham case before i had left the city. the press preserved a singular and ominous silence in regard to us, which lasted until one morning when a couple of officers appeared with bench-warrants for our arrest. we had already made arrangements for bail in the largest amount and had secured the services of the ablest criminal attorneys we knew, so that we were speedily released; but, with the return of our indictments charging us with suborning the testimony of hawkins, the papers began a regular crusade against us. the evening edition carried spectacular front-page stories recounting my flight to boston, the entire history of the dillingham divorce, biographies of both gottlieb and myself, and anecdotes of cases in which we had appeared and notorious criminals whom we had defended. and in all this storm of abuse and incrimination which now burst over our heads not a single world appeared in mitigation of our alleged offence. it seemed as if the entire city had determined to wreak vengeance upon us for all the misdeeds of the entire criminal bar. even our old clients, and the police and court officers who had drawn pay from us, seemed to rejoice in our downfall. every man's hand was against us. the hue and cry had been raised and we were to be harried out of town and into prison. at every turn we were forced to pay out large sums to secure the slightest assistance; our clerks and employees refused longer to work for us, and groups of loiterers gathered about the office and pointed to the windows. our lives became a veritable hell, and i longed for the time when the anxiety should be over and i should know whether the public clamor for a victim were to be satisfied. gottlieb and the lawyers fought stubbornly every inch of the defence. first, they attacked the validity of the proceedings, entered demurrers, and made motions to dismiss the indictments. these matters took a month or two to decide. then came motions for a change of venue, appeals from the decisions against us to the appellate division, and other technical delays; so that four months passed before, at last, we were forced to go to trial. by this time my health had suffered; and when i looked at myself in the glass i was shocked to find how gaunt and hollow-cheeked i had grown. my hair, which had up to this time been dark brown, had in a brief space turned quite gray over my ears, and whatever of good looks i had ever possessed had vanished utterly. gottlieb, too, had altered from a jovial, sleek-looking fellow into a nervous, worried, ratlike little man. my creditors pressed me for their money and i was forced to close my house and live at a small hotel. the misery of those days is something i do not care to recall. we were both of us stripped, as it were, of everything at once--money, friends, health, and position; for we were the jest and laughing- stock of the very criminals who had before our downfall been our clients and crowded our office in their eagerness to secure our erstwhile powerful assistance. our day was over! it was useless to try to escape from the meshes of the net drawn so tightly around us. even if we could have forfeited our heavy bail--which would have been an impossibility, owing to the watchfulness of our bondsman--we could never have eluded the detectives who now dogged our footsteps. we were marked men. everywhere we were pointed out and made the objects of comment and half-concealed abuse. the final straw was when the district attorney, in his anxiety lest we should slip through his fingers, caused our re- arrest on a trumped-up charge that we were planning to leave the city, and we were thrown into the tombs, being unable to secure the increased bail which he demanded. here we had the pleasure of having hawkins leer down at us from the tier of cells above, and here we suffered the torments of the damned at the hands of our fellow prisoners, who, to a man, made it their daily business and pleasure to render our lives miserable. gottlieb wasted away to a mere shadow and i became seriously ill from the suffocating heat and loathsome food, for it was now midsummer and the tombs was crowded with prisoners waiting until the courts should open in the autumn to be tried. we were called to the bar together--gottlieb and i--to answer to the charge against us in the very court-room where my partner had won so many forensic victories and secured the acquittal of so many clients more fortunate than he. from the outset of the case everything went against us; and it seemed as if judge, prosecutor, and jury were united in a conspiracy to deprive us of our rights and to railroad us to prison. even when impaneling the jury, i was amazed to find the prejudice against criminal lawyers in general and ourselves in particular; for almost every other talesman swore that he was so fixed in his opinion as to our guilt that it would be impossible to give us a fair trial. at last, however, after several days a jury of twelve hard-faced citizens was sworn who asserted that they had no bias against us and could give us a fair trial and the benefit of every reasonable doubt. fair trial, indeed! we were convicted before the first witness was sworn! convicted by the press, the public, and the atmosphere that had been stirred up against us during the preceding months. and yet, one satisfaction remained to me, and that was the sight of hawkins and dillingham on the grill under the cross- examination of our attorneys. dillingham particularly was a pitiable object, shaking and sweating upon the witness chair, and forced to admit that he had paid gottlieb and me thirty-five thousand dollars to get him an annulment so that he could marry the woman with whom he was now living. the court-room was jammed to the doors with a curious crowd, anxious to see gottlieb and me on trial and to learn the nature of the evidence against us; and when our client left the stand--a pitiful, wilted human creature--and crawled out of the room, a jeering throng followed him downstairs and out into the street. the actual giving of evidence occupied but two days, the chief witness next to hawkins being the clerk who swore the latter to his affidavit in my office. this treacherous rascal not only testified that hawkins took his oath to the contents of the paper, but at the same time had told me that it was false. the farce went on, a mere formal giving of testimony, until at length the district attorney announced that he had no more evidence to offer. "you may proceed with the defence," said the judge, turning to our counsel. i looked at gottlieb and gottlieb looked at me. the trial had closed so suddenly that we were taken quite unawares and left wholly undetermined what to do. we had practically no evidence to offer on our behalf except our own denials of the testimony against us; and if once either of us took the stand we should open the door to a cross-examination at the hands of the district attorney of our entire lives. for this cross-examination he had been preparing for months; and i well knew that there was not a single shady transaction in which we had participated, not one attempt at blackmail, not a crooked defence that we had interposed that he had not investigated and stood prepared to question us about in detail. "what shall we do?" whispered gottlieb nervously. "do you want to take the stand?" "how can we?" i asked petulantly. "if we did we should be convicted --not for this but for every other thing we ever did in our lives. let's take a chance and go to the jury on the case as it stands." after consulting with our counsel, the latter agreed that this was the best course to pursue; and so, rising, he informed the court that in his opinion no case had been made out against us and that we should, therefore, interpose no defence. this announcement caused a great stir in the court-room, and i could see by the faces of the jury that it was all up with us. i had already surrendered all hope of an acquittal and i looked upon the verdict of the jury as a mere formality. "proceed, then, with the summing up," ordered the judge. "i wish the jury to take this case and finish it to-night." so, with that, our counsel began his argument in our behalf--a lame and halting effort it seemed to me, for all that we had paid him twenty-five thousand dollars for his services--pointing out how neither dillingham nor hawkins was worthy of belief, and how the case against us rested entirely upon their testimony and upon that of the clerk, who was an insignificant and unimportant witness injected simply for the sake of apparent corroboration. faugh! i have heard gottlieb make a better address to the jury a thousand times, and yet this man was supposed to be one of the best! somehow throughout the trial he had seemed to me to be ill at ease and sick of his job, a mere puppet in the mummery going on about us; yet we had no choice but to let him continue his ill-concealed plea for mercy and his wretched rhetoric, until the judge stopped him and said that his time was up. when the district attorney arose and the jury turned to him with uplifted faces, then, for the first time, i realized the real attitude of the community toward us; for in scathing terms he denounced us both as men not merely who defended criminals but who, in fact, created them; as plotters against the administration of justice; as arch-crooks, who lived off the proceeds of crimes which we devised and planned for others to execute. it was false and unfair; but the jury believed him--i could well see that. "these men have made a fat living for nearly a generation in this city by blackmail, bribery, and perjury. they have made a business of ruining homes, reputations, and the lives of others. they have directed the operations of organized bands of criminals. they are the fagins of the city of new york. once the poor and defenceless have fallen into their power, they have extorted tribute from them and turned them into the paths of crime. better that one of them should be convicted than a thousand of the miserable wretches ordinarily brought to the bar of justice!" and in this strain he went on until he had bared gottlieb and myself to our very souls. when he concluded there was a ripple of applause from the spectators that the court officers made little attempt to subdue; and the judge began his charge, which lasted but a few minutes. what he said was fair enough, and i had no mind to quarrel with him, although our counsel took many exceptions. the jury retired and my partner and i were led downstairs into the prison pen. it was crowded with miserable creatures waiting to be tried --negroes and sicilians, thieves and burglars--who took keen delight in jostling us and foretelling what long sentences we were to receive. one negro kicked me in the shins and cursed me for being a shyster, and when i protested to the keeper he only laughed at me. about half an hour later an officer came to the head of the stairs and shouted down: "bring up gottlieb and quibble!" our keeper unlocked the pen and, followed by the execrations of our associates, we stumbled up the stairs and into the court-room. slowly we marched around to the bar, while every eye was fixed upon us. the jury was already back in the box and standing to render their decision. the clerk rapped for order and turned to the foreman. "gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?" he intoned. "we have," answered the foreman unhesitatingly. "how say you, do you find the defendants guilty or not guilty?" "we find both of them guilty!" replied the foreman. a slight shiver passed through gottlieb's little body and for a moment the blood sang in my ears. no man can receive a verdict of guilty unperturbed, no matter how confidently expected. the crowd murmured their approval and the judge rapped for silence. "are you ready for sentence?" asked the judge. we nodded. it was useless to prolong the agony. "i have nothing to say to you," remarked the judge, "in addition to what the district attorney has said. he has fully expressed my own sentiments in this case. i regard you as vampires, sucking the blood of the weak, helpless, and criminal. mercy would be out of place if extended toward you. i sentence you both to the full limit which the law allows--ten years in state's prison at hard labor." an officer clapped us upon the back, faced us round toward the rear of the court-room, and pushed us toward the door leading to the prison pen, while another slipped a handcuff on my right wrist and snapped its mate on gottlieb's left. "get on there," he growled, "where you belong!" the crowds strained to get a look at us as, with averted faces, we trudged toward the door leading to the prison pen. our lawyers had already hastened away to avoid any reflected ignominy that might attach to them. the jurymen were shaking hands with the district attorney. "adjourn court!" i heard the judge remark. with a whoop, the spectators in the court-room crowded upon our heels and surged up to the grating before the door. "there's gottlieb!" cried one. "the little fellow!" "and that's quibble--the pale chap with the thin face!" said another. "damn you! get out of the way!" i shouted threateningly. "there go the shysters!" retorted the crowd. "sing sing's the best place for them!" the keeper opened the door and motioned back the spectators. i staggered through, shackled to my partner and dragging him along with me. as the door clanged to i heard some one say: "there goes the last of the firm of gottlieb & quibble!" ... or your money back by david gordon illustrated by summers [transcriber note: this etext was produced from astounding science fiction, september . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [illustration: there are lots of things that are considered perfectly acceptable ... provided they don't work. and of course everyone knows they really don't, which is why they're acceptable.... ] there are times when i don't know my own strength. or, at least, the strength of my advice. and the case of jason howley was certainly an instance of one of those times. when he came to my office with his gadget, i heard him out, trying to appear both interested and co-operative--which is good business. but i am forced to admit that neither howley nor his gadget were very impressive. he was a lean, slope-shouldered individual, five-feet-eight or nine--which was shorter than he looked--with straight brown hair combed straight back and blue eyes which were shielded with steel-rimmed glasses. the thick, double-concave lenses indicated a degree of myopia that must have bordered on total blindness without glasses, and acute tunnel vision, even with them. he had a crisp, incisive manner that indicated he was either a man who knew what he was doing or a man who was trying to impress me with a ready-made story. i listened to him and looked at his gadget without giving any more indication than necessary of what i really thought. when he was through, i said: "you understand, mr. howley that i'm not a patent lawyer; i specialize in criminal law. now, i can recommend--" but he cut me off. "i understand that, counselor," he said sharply. "believe me, i have no illusion whatever that this thing is patentable under the present patent system. even if it were, this gadget is designed to do something that may or may not be illegal, which would make it hazardous to attempt to patent it, i should think. you don't patent new devices for blowing safes or new drugs for doping horses, do you?" "probably not," i said dryly, "although, as i say, i'm not qualified to give an opinion on patent law. you say that gadget is designed to cause minute, but significant, changes in the velocities of small, moving objects. just how does that make it illegal?" he frowned a little. "well, possibly it wouldn't, except here in nevada. specifically, it is designed to influence roulette and dice games." i looked at the gadget with a little more interest this time. there was nothing new in the idea of inventing a gadget to cheat the red-and-black wheels, of course; the local cops turn up a dozen a day here in the city. most of them either don't work at all or else they're too obvious, so the users get nabbed before they have a chance to use them. the only ones that really work have to be installed in the tables themselves, which means they're used to milk the suckers, not rob the management. and anyone in the state of nevada who buys a license to operate and then uses crooked wheels is (a) stupid, and (b) out of business within a week. howley was right. only in a place where gambling is legalized is it illegal--and unprofitable--to rig a game. the gadget itself didn't look too complicated from the outside. it was a black plastic box about an inch and a half square and maybe three and a half long. on one end was a lensed opening, half an inch in diameter, and on two sides there were flat, silver-colored plates. on the top of it, there was a dial which was, say, an inch in diameter, and it was marked off just exactly like a roulette wheel. "how does it work?" i asked. he picked it up in his hand, holding it as though it were a flashlight, with the lens pointed away from him. "you aim the lens at the wheel," he explained, "making sure that your thumb is touching the silver plate on one side, and your fingers touching the plate on the other side. then you set this dial for whatever number you want to come up and concentrate on it while the ball is spinning. for dice, of course, you only need to use the first six or twelve numbers on the dial, depending on the game." * * * * * i looked at him for a long moment, trying to figure his angle. he looked back steadily, his eyes looking like small beads peering through the bottoms of a couple of shot glasses. "you look skeptical, counselor," he said at last. "i am. a man who hasn't got the ability to be healthily skeptical has no right to practice law--especially criminal law. on the other hand, no lawyer has any right to judge anything one way or the other without evidence. "but that's neither here nor there at the moment. what i'm interested in is, what do you want me to do? people rarely come to a criminal lawyer unless they're in a jam. what sort of jam are you in at the moment?" "none," said howley. "but i will be very soon. i hope." well, i've heard odder statements than that from my clients. i let it ride for the moment and looked down at the notes i'd taken while he'd told me his story. "you're a native of new york city?" i asked. "that's right. that's what i said." "and you came out here for what? to use that thing on our nevada tables?" "that's right, counselor." "can't you find any games to cheat on back home?" "oh, certainly. plenty of them. but they aren't legal. i wouldn't care to get mixed up in anything illegal. besides, it wouldn't suit my purpose." that stopped me for a moment. "you don't consider cheating illegal? it certainly is in nevada. in new york, if you were caught at it, you'd have the big gambling interests on your neck; here, you'll have both them _and_ the police after you. _and_ the district attorney's office." he smiled. "yes, i know. that's what i'm expecting. that's why i need a good lawyer to defend me. i understand you're the top man in this city." "mr. howley," i said carefully, "as a member of the bar association and a practicing attorney in the state of nevada, i am an officer of the court. if you had been caught cheating and had come to me, i'd be able to help you. but i can't enter into a conspiracy with you to defraud legitimate businessmen, which is exactly what this would be." he blinked at me through those shot-glass spectacles. "counselor, would you refuse to defend a man if you thought he was guilty?" i shook my head. "no. legally, a man is not guilty until proven so by a court of law. he has a right to trial by jury. for me to refuse to give a man the defense he is legally entitled to, just because i happened to think he was guilty, would be trial by attorney. i'll do the best i can for any client; i'll work for his interests, no matter what my private opinion may be." he looked impressed, so i guess there must have been a note of conviction in my voice. there should have been, because it was exactly what i've always believed and practiced. "that's good, counselor," said howley. "if i can convince you that i have no criminal intent, that i have no intention of defrauding anyone or conspiring with you to do anything illegal, will you help me?" i didn't have to think that one over. i simply said, "yes." after all, it was still up to me to decide whether he convinced me or not. if he didn't, i could still refuse the case on those grounds. "that's fair enough, counselor," he said. then he started talking. * * * * * instead of telling you what jason howley _said_ he was going to do, i'll tell you what he _did_ do. they are substantially the same, anyway, and the old bromide about actions speaking louder than words certainly applied in this case. mind you, i didn't see or hear any of this, but there were plenty of witnesses to testify as to what went on. their statements are a matter of court record, and jason howley's story is substantiated in every respect. he left my office smiling. he'd convinced me that the case was not only going to be worthwhile, but fun. i took it, plus a fat retainer. howley went up to his hotel room, changed into his expensive evening clothes, and headed out to do the town. i'd suggested several places, but he wanted the biggest and best--the golden casino, a big, plush, expensive place that was just inside the city limits. in his pockets, he was carrying less than two hundred dollars in cash. now, nobody with that kind of chicken feed can expect to last long at the golden casino unless they stick to the two-bit one-armed bandits. but putting money on a roulette table is in a higher bracket by far than feeding a slot machine, even if you get a steady run of lemons. howley didn't waste any time. he headed for the roulette table right away. he watched the play for about three spins of the wheel, then he took out his gadget--in plain sight of anyone who cared to watch--and set the dial for thirteen. then he held it in his hand with thumb and finger touching the plates and put his hand in his jacket pocket, with the lens aimed at the wheel. he stepped up to the table, bought a hundred dollars worth of chips, and put fifty on number thirteen. "no more bets," said the croupier. he spun the wheel and dropped the ball. "thirteen, black, odd, and low," he chanted after a minute. with a practiced hand, he raked in the losers and pushed out howley's winnings. there was sixteen hundred dollars sitting on thirteen now. howley didn't touch it. the wheel went around and the little ball clattered around the rim and finally fell into a slot. "thirteen, black, odd, and low," said the croupier. this time, he didn't look as nonchalant. he peered curiously at howley as he pushed out the chips to make a grand total of fifty-one thousand two hundred dollars. the same number doesn't come up twice in succession very often, and it is very rare indeed that the same person is covering it both times with a riding bet. "two thousand limit, sir," the croupier said, when it looked as though howley was going to let the fifty-one grand just sit there. howley nodded apologetically and pulled off everything but two thousand dollars worth of chips. the third time around, the croupier had his eyes directly on howley as he repeated the chant: "thirteen, black, odd, and low." everybody else at the table was watching howley, too. the odds against howley--or anyone else, for that matter--hitting the same number three times in a row are just under forty thousand to one. howley didn't want to overdo it. he left two thousand on thirteen, raked in the rest, and twisted the dial on his gadget over a notch. everyone at the table gasped as the little ball dropped. "that was a near miss," whispered a woman standing nearby. the croupier said: "fourteen, red, even, and low." and he raked in howley's two thousand dollars with a satisfied smile. he had seen runs of luck before. howley deliberately lost two more spins the same way. nobody who was actually cheating would call too much attention to himself, and howley wanted it to look as though he were trying to cover up the fact that he had a sure thing. he took the gadget out of his pocket and deliberately set it to the green square marked . then he put it back in his pocket and put two thousand dollars on the double zero. * * * * * there was more than suspicion in the croupier's eyes when he raked in all the bets on the table except howley's. it definitely didn't look good to him. a man who had started out with a fifty-dollar bet had managed to run it up to one hundred seventy-four thousand two hundred dollars in six plays. howley looked as innocent as possible under the circumstances, and carefully dropped the dial on his gadget back a few notches. then he bet another two thousand on high, an even money bet. naturally, he won. he twisted the dial back a few more notches and won again on high. then he left it where it was and won by betting on red. by this time, of course, things were happening. the croupier had long since pressed the alarm button, and five men had carefully surrounded howley. they looked like customers, but they were harder-looking than the average, and they were watching howley, not the wheel. farther back from the crowd, three of the special deputies from the sheriff's office were trying to look inconspicuous in their gray uniforms and white stetsons and pearl-handled revolvers in black holsters. you can imagine how inconspicuous they looked. howley decided to do it up brown. he reset his gadget as surreptitiously as possible under the circumstances, and put his money on thirteen again. "thirteen, black, odd, and low," said the croupier in a hollow voice. the five men in evening dress and the three deputies moved in closer. howley nonchalantly scraped in his winnings, leaving the two thousand on the thirteen spot. there was a combination of hostility and admiration in every eye around the table when the croupier said, "thirteen, black, odd, and low" for the fifth time in the space of minutes. and everyone of those eyes was turned on jason howley. the croupier smiled his professional smile. "i'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen; we'll have to discontinue play for a while. the gentleman has broken the bank at this table." he turned the smile on howley. "congratulations, sir." howley smiled back and began stacking up over three hundred thousand dollars worth of plastic disks. it made quite a pile. one of the deputies stepped up politely. "i'm an officer, sir," he said. "may i help you carry that to the cashier's office?" howley looked at the gold star and nodded. "certainly. thanks." [illustration] the other two deputies stepped up, too, and the three of them walked howley toward the cashier's office. behind them came the five men in dinner jackets. "you'll have to step into the office to cash that much, sir," said one of the deputies as he opened the door. howley walked in as though he hadn't a care in the world. he put his chips on the desk, and the deputies followed suit, while one of the dinner-jacketed men closed the door. then one of the deputies said: "i believe this gentleman is carrying a gun." he had his own revolver out and had it pointed at howley's middle. "carrying a concealed weapon is illegal in this city," he went on. "i'm afraid we'll have to search you." howley didn't object. he put his hands up high and stood there while his pockets were frisked. "well, well," said the deputy coolly. "what on earth is this?" it was howley's gadget, and the dial still pointed to thirteen--black, odd, and low. * * * * * the next morning, i went down to the jail in response to a phone call from howley. the special deputies had turned him over to the city police and he was being held "under suspicion of fraud." i knew we could beat that down to an "attempt to defraud," but the object was to get howley off scott-free. after howley told me the whole story, i got busy pushing the case through. as long as he was simply being held on suspicion, i couldn't get him out on bail, so i wanted to force the district attorney or the police to prefer charges. meanwhile, i made sure that howley's gadget had been impounded as evidence. i didn't want anyone fiddling with it before the case went to court--except, of course, the d. a. and his men. there wasn't much i could do to keep it out of _their_ hands. after throwing as much weight around as i could, including filing a petition for a writ of habeas corpus with judge grannis, i went over to howley's hotel with a signed power of attorney that howley had given me, and i got a small envelope out of the hotel safe. it contained a baggage check. i went over to the bus depot, turned over the check to the baggage department, and went back to my office with a small suitcase. i locked myself in and opened the case. sure enough, it contained three dozen of the little gadgets. then i sat down to wait. by noon, judge grannis had issued the writ of habeas corpus, and, rather than release jason howley, the police had booked him, and district attorney thursby was getting the case ready for the grand jury. there was over a quarter of a million dollars at stake, and the men behind the golden casino were bringing pressure to bear. if howley wasn't convicted, they'd have to give him his money--and that was the last thing they wanted to do. a quarter of a million bucks isn't small potatoes, even to a gambling syndicate. it wasn't until early on the morning of the third day after howley's arrest that i got a tip-off from one of my part-time spies. i scooped up the phone when it rang and identified myself. "counselor? look, this is benny." i recognized the voice and name. benny was one of the cabbies that i'd done favors for in the past. "what's the trouble, benny?" "oh, no trouble. i just got a little tip you might be interested in." "fire away." "well, the d.a. and some of his boys went into the golden casino about ten minutes ago, and now they're closin' up the place. just for a little while, i understand. hour, maybe. they're chasin' everyone out of the roulette room." "thanks, benny," i said, "thanks a lot." "well, i knew you was working on that howley case, and i thought this might be important, so i--" "sure, benny. come by my office this afternoon. and thanks again." i hung up and started moving. within ten minutes, i was pulling up and parking across the street from the golden casino. i locked the car and dodged traffic to get across the street, as though i'd never heard of laws against jaywalking. there were still plenty of people in the casino. the bar was full, and the dice and card games were going full blast. the slot machines were jingling out their infernal din while fools fed coins into their insatiable innards. but the roulette room was closed, and a couple of be-stetsoned deputies were standing guard over the entrance. i headed straight for them. both of them stood pat, blocking my way, so i stopped a few feet in front of them. "hello, counselor," said one. "sorry, the roulette room's closed." i knew the man slightly. "let me in, jim," i said. "i want to see thursby." the men exchanged glances. obviously, the d.a. had given them orders. "can't do it, counselor," said jim. "we're not to let anyone in." "tell thursby i'm out here and that i want to see him." he shrugged, opened the door, stuck his head inside, and called to district attorney thursby to tell him that i was outside. i could hear thursby's muffled "damn!" from within. but when he showed up at the door, his face was all smiles. "what's the trouble?" he asked pleasantly. i smiled back, giving him my best. "no trouble at all, thursby. i just wanted to watch the experiment." "experiment?" he looked honestly surprised, which was a fine piece of acting. "we're just checking to see if the table's wired, that's all. if it is, your client may be in the clear; maybe we can hang it on the croupier." "and get a conspiracy charge on my client, too, eh? well, if you don't mind, i'd like to watch that table check myself. you know how it is." thursby hesitated, then he scowled. "oh, all right. come on in. but stay out of the way." i grinned. "sure. all i want to do is protect my client's interests." thursby just grunted and opened the door wider to let me in. he was a shrewd lawyer, a good d.a., and basically honest, even if he did have a tendency to bend under pressure from higher up. * * * * * they were checking the table, all right. they had three specialists going over it with everything from fine tooth combs to geiger counters. they found nothing. no magnets, no wires, no mechanical gimmicks. nothing. it took them an hour to take that table apart, check it, and put it back together again. when it was all over, thursby glanced at me, then said: "o.k., boys; that does it. let's go." the men looked at him oddly, and i knew why. "aren't you going to test my client's gadget?" i asked innocently. thursby looked angrily baffled for a moment, then he clamped his lips grimly. "as long as we're here, i guess we might as well." i knew perfectly well it was what he had intended to do all along. "one of you guys spin that wheel," he said to the technicians. one of them gave the wheel a spin and dropped the ball. it clattered on its merry way and dropped into a slot. forty-two. thursby took the gadget out of his pocket. it was still set at thirteen. the men who had surrounded howley on the night of his arrest had been keeping their eyes open, and they had seen how howley had handled the thing. well--_almost_ how. thursby had the lens opening pointed at the wheel, but his thumb and fingers weren't touching the silver plates properly. "spin it again," he said. everyone's eyes were on the ball as it whirled, so i had time to get my own copy of howley's gadget out and set it at thirteen. i hoped the thing would work for me. i concentrated on thirteen, making sure my thumb and fingers were placed right. evidently they were. the ball fell into thirteen, black, odd, and low. a huge grin spread over thursby's face, but he was man enough not to turn and grin at me. "try it again," he said. thirteen, black, odd, and low. "i wonder how the thing works?" said thursby, looking at the gadget in a sort of pleased awe. "you'd better be able to prove that it _does_ work, thursby," i said, trying to put irritation into my voice. this time, he did grin at me. "oh, i think we can prove that, all right." he turned back to the technician. "spin it once more, sam, and show the defense counsel, here, how it works." the technician did as he was told. "thirteen, black, odd, and low," he chanted, grinning. "let's try another number," thursby said. he turned the dial to one. and this time, when he pointed it, his fingers were touching the plates in the right places. "just a minute," i said. "let me spin that thing." "be my guest, counselor," said thursby. i spun the wheel and scooted the ball along the rim. it dropped into a slot. one, red, odd, and low. i looked as disappointed and apprehensive as i could. "co-incidence," i said. "nothing more. you haven't proved anything." thursby's grin widened. "of course i haven't," he said with a soothing, patronizing tone. "but i don't have to prove anything until i get to court." then he looked at the technicians and jerked his head toward the door. "let's go, boys. maybe the counselor wants to look over the table for himself. maybe he thinks we've got it rigged." there was a chorus of guffaws as they walked out. i just stood there, scowling, trying to keep from laughing even harder than they were. * * * * * jason howley sat next to me at the defense table, just inside the low partition that divided the court from the public. there weren't many people in the auditorium itself; listening to some poor dope get himself sentenced for cheating at gambling is considered pretty dull entertainment in the state of nevada. thursby had managed to push the indictment through the grand jury in a hurry, but, as he sat across the room from me at the prosecution table, i thought i could detect a false note in the assumed look of confidence that he was trying to wear. howley tapped me on the shoulder. i turned around, and he whispered: "how much longer?" i tapped my wrist watch. "couple minutes. judge lapworth is one of those precisionists. never a moment late or early. getting jumpy?" he shook his head gently and smiled. "no. you've handled this even better than i'd have imagined. you thought of things i didn't even know existed. i'm no lawyer; i can see that." i returned the smile. "and i don't invent gimmicks, either. so what?" his eyes looked at me from behind the distorting negative lenses. "i've been wondering, counselor--why are you so interested in this? i mean, i offered you a pretty good fee, and all that, but it seems to me you're taking an unusual interest in the case." i grinned at him. "mr. howley, my profession is law--with a capital l. the study of the law isn't like the study of physics or whatever; these are manmade laws--commands, not descriptions. they don't necessarily have anything to do with facts at all. take the word 'insanity,' for instance; the word isn't even used by head-shrinkers any more because it's a legal definition that has nothing whatever to do with the condition of the human mind. "now, any such set of laws as that can't possibly be self-consistent and still have some use on an action level. a lawyer's job is to find the little inconsistencies in the structure, the places where the pieces have been jammed together in an effort to make them look like a structured whole. to find, in other words, the loopholes and use them. "and when i find a loophole, i like to wring everything i can out of it. i'm enjoying this." howley nodded. "i see. but what if something--" i held up my hand to silence him, because the door to the judges' chambers opened at that moment, and judge lapworth came in as the bailiff announced him. we all stood up while the bailiff intoned his "oyez, oyez." thursby made a short preliminary speech to the jury, and i requested and was granted permission to hold my own opening statement until the defense was ready to present its case. thursby was looking worried, although it took a trained eye to see it. i was pretty sure i knew why. he had been pushed too hard and had gone too fast. he'd managed to slide through the grand jury too easily, and i had managed to get the trial date set for a week later. thursby's case was far from being as tight as he wanted it. * * * * * i just sat still while the prosecution brought forth its witnesses and evidence. the croupier, the deputies, several employees of the golden casino, and a couple of patrons all told their stories. i waived cross-examination in every case, which made thursby even edgier than he had been. when he called in the head of the technicians who had inspected the table at the casino, i made no objection to his testimony, but i made my first cross-examination. "mr. thompson, you have stated your qualifications as an expert on the various devices which have been used to illegally influence the operation of gambling devices in this state." thursby said: "oh, if the court please, i should like to remind counsel for the defense that he has already accepted the qualifications of the witness." "i am not attempting to impugn the qualifications of the witness," i snapped. judge lapworth frowned at thursby. "are you making an objection, mr. district attorney?" thursby pursed his lips, said, "no, your honor," and sat down. "proceed with the cross-examination," said the judge. "mr. thompson," i said, "you have testified that you examined the table at the golden casino for such devices and found none. is that right?" "that's right," he said positively. "have you seen the device labeled people's exhibit a, which was found by the officers on the person of the defendant?" "well ... yes. i have." "have you examined this device?" thursby was on his feet. "objection, your honor! this material was not brought out in direct examination!" "sustained," said judge lapworth. "very well, your honor," i said. then i turned back to thompson. "as an expert in this field, mr. thompson, you have examined many different devices for cheating gambling equipment, haven't you?" "yes, i have." "how many, would you say?" "oh ... several hundred." "several hundred different _types_?" "no. several hundred individual devices. most of them are just variations of two or three basic types." "and you are familiar with the function of these basic types and their variations?" "i am." "you know exactly how all of them work, then?" he saw where i was heading. "most of them," he hedged. thursby saw where i was heading, too, and was sweating. i'd managed to get around his objection. "have you ever examined any which you could not understand?" "i ... i don't quite know what you mean." "have you ever," i said firmly, "come across a device used in cheating which you could not comprehend or explain the operation of?" thursby stood up. "same objection as before, your honor." "your honor," i said, "i am merely trying to find the limitations of the witness' knowledge; i am not trying to refute his acknowledged ability." "overruled," said judge lapworth. "the witness will answer the question." i repeated the question. "yes," thompson said in a low voice. "more than once?" "only once." "only once. you did find one device which didn't operate in any fashion you can explain. is that right?" "that's right." "can you tell me what this device was?" thompson took a deep breath. "it was people's exhibit a--the device taken from the defendant at the time of his arrest." there was a buzz in the courtroom. "no more questions," i said, turning away. then, before thompson could leave the stand, i turned back to him. "oh, just one moment, mr. thompson. did you examine this device carefully? did you take it apart?" "i opened it and looked at it." "you just looked at it? you didn't subject it to any tests?" thompson took a deep breath. "no." "why not?" "there wasn't anything inside it to test." * * * * * this time, there was more than just a buzz around the courtroom. judge lapworth rapped for order. when the room was quiet, i said: "the box was empty, then?" "well, no. not exactly empty. it had some stuff in it." i turned to the judge. "if the court please, i would like to have the so-called device, exhibit a, opened so that the members of the jury may see for themselves what it contains." [illustration] judge lapworth said: "the court would like very much to see the internal workings of this device, too. bailiff, if you will, please." the bailiff handed him the gadget from the exhibit table. "how does it open?" asked the judge. he turned to thompson. "will the witness please open the box?" reluctantly, thompson thumbed the catch and slid off the top. the judge took it from him, looked inside, and stared for a long moment. i had already seen the insides. it was painted white, and there were inked lines running all over the inside, and various pictures--a ball, a pair of dice, a roulette wheel--and some other symbols that i didn't pretend to understand. otherwise, the box was empty. after a moment, judge lapworth looked up from the box and stared at thursby. then he looked at thompson. "just what tests _did_ you perform on this ... this thing, mr. thompson?" "well, your honor," thompson said, visibly nervous, "i checked it for all kinds of radiation and magnetism. there isn't anything like that coming from it. but," he added lamely, "there wasn't much else to test. not without damaging the box." "i see." his honor glared at thursby, but didn't say anything to him. he simply ordered the box to be shown to the jury. thursby was grimly holding his ground, waiting. "have you any more questions, counselor?" the judge asked. "no, your honor, i have not." "witness may step down," said his honor to thompson. * * * * * thursby stood up. "if the court please, i would like to stage a small demonstration for the members of the jury." the court gave permission, and a roulette wheel was hauled in on a small table. i watched with interest and without objection while thursby demonstrated the use of the gadget and then asked each of the jurors in turn to try it. it was a long way from being a successful demonstration. some of the jurors didn't hold the thing right, and some of those that did just didn't have the mental ability required to use it. but that didn't bother thursby. "your honor, and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "you are all aware that a device constructed for the purpose of cheating at any gambling game is not necessarily one hundred per cent infallible. it doesn't have to be. all it has to do is turn the odds in favor of the user. "you are all familiar with loaded dice, i'm sure. and you know that loading dice for one set of numbers merely increases the probability that those numbers will come up; it does not guarantee that they will come up every time. "it is the same with marked cards. marking the backs of a deck of cards doesn't mean that you will invariably get a better hand than your opponent; it doesn't even mean that you will win every hand. "the device taken from the defendant at the golden casino does not, as you have seen, work every time. but, as you have also seen, it certainly _does_ shift the odds by a considerable percentage. and that, i submit, is illegal under the laws of this state." he went on, building on that theme for a while, then he turned the trial over to the defense. "call dr. pettigrew to the stand," i said. i heard thursby's gasp, but i ignored it. a chunky, balding man with a moon face and an irritated expression came up to be sworn in. he was irritated with me for having subpoenaed him, and he showed it. i hoped he wouldn't turn out to be hostile. "you are dr. herbert pettigrew?" i asked. "that is correct." "state your residence, please." " la jolla boulevard, los angeles, california." "you are called 'doctor' pettigrew, i believe. would you tell the court what right you have to that title?" he looked a little miffed, but he said: "it is a scholarly title. a doctorate of philosophy in physics from massachusetts institute of technology." "i see. would you mind telling the court what other academic degrees you have?" he reeled off a list of them, all impressive. "thank you, doctor," i said. "now, what is your present occupation?" "i am a professor of physics, at the university of california in los angeles." i went on questioning him to establish his ability in his field, and by the time i was finished, the jury was pretty well impressed with his status in the scientific brotherhood. and not once did thursby object. then i said, "dr. pettigrew, i believe you came to this city on a professional matter?" "yes, i did." he didn't hesitate to answer, so i figured i hadn't got his goat too much. "and what was the nature of that matter?" "i was asked to come here by mr. harold thursby, the district attorney, to perform some scientific tests on the ... er ... device ... the device known as people's exhibit a." "did you perform these tests?" "i did." "at the request of district attorney thursby, is that right?" "that is correct." "may i ask why mr. thursby did not call you as a witness for the prosecution?" thursby, as i had expected, was on his feet. "objection! the question calls for a conclusion of the witness!" "sustained," said judge lapworth. "dr. pettigrew," i said, "what were your findings in reference to exhibit a?" he shrugged. "the thing is a plastic box with a dial set in one side, a plastic lens in one end, and a couple of strips of silver along two other sides. inside, there are a lot of markings in black ink on white paint." he gestured toward the exhibit table. "just what you've seen; that's all there is to it." "what sort of tests did you perform to determine this, dr. pettigrew?" i asked. he took a long time answering that one. he had x-rayed the thing thoroughly, tested it with apparatus i'd never heard of, taken scrapings from all over it for microchemical analysis, and even tried it himself on a roulette wheel. he hadn't been able to make it work. "and what is your conclusion from these findings?" i asked. again he shrugged. "the thing is just a box, that's all. it has no special properties." "would you say that it could be responsible for the phenomena we have just seen? by that, i mean the peculiar action of the roulette wheel, demonstrated here by the prosecution." "definitely not," he stated flatly. "the box could not possibly have any effect on either the wheel or the ball." "i see. thank you, doctor; that's all. cross-examine." thursby walked over to the witness stand with a belligerent scowl on his face. "dr. pettigrew, you say that the box couldn't possibly have had any effect on the wheel. and yet, we have demonstrated that there _is_ an effect. don't you believe the testimony of your own senses?" "certainly i do!" snapped pettigrew. "then how do you account for the behavior of the roulette wheel as you have just seen it demonstrated in this court?" i suppressed a grin. thursby was so mad that he was having trouble expressing himself clearly. "in several ways!" pettigrew said sharply. "in the first place, that wheel could be rigged." thursby purpled. "now, just a minute! i--" i started to object, but judge lapworth beat me to it. "are you objecting to the answer, mr. district attorney?" "the witness is insinuating that i falsified evidence!" "i am not!" said pettigrew, visibly angry. "you asked me how i could account for its behavior, and i told you one way! there are others!" "the wheel will be examined," said judge lapworth darkly. "tell us the other ways, dr. pettigrew." "pure chance," said pettigrew. "pure chance, your honor. i'm sure that everyone in this courtroom has seen runs of luck on a roulette wheel. according to the laws of probability, such runs must inevitably happen. frankly, i believe that just such a run has occurred here. i do not think for a minute that mr. thursby or anyone else rigged that wheel." "i see; thank you, dr. pettigrew," said the judge. "any further questions, mr. district attorney?" "no further questions," thursby said, trying to hide his anger. * * * * * "call your next witness," said the judge, looking at me. "i call mr. jason howley to the stand." howley sat down and was sworn in. i went through the preliminaries, then asked: "mr. howley, you have seen people's exhibit a?" "i have." "to whom does it belong?" "it is mine. it was taken from me by--" "just answer the question, please," i admonished him. he knew his script, but he was jumping the gun. "the device is yours, then?" "that's right." "under what circumstances did this device come into the hands of the police?" he told what had happened on the night of the big take at the golden casino. "would you explain to us just what this device is?" i asked when he had finished. "certainly," he said. "it's a good luck charm." i could hear the muffled reaction in the courtroom. "a good luck charm. i see. then it has no effect on the wheel at all?" "oh, i wouldn't say that," howley said disarmingly. he smiled and looked at the jury. "it certainly has _some_ effect. it's the only good luck charm i ever had that worked." the jury was grinning right back at him. they were all gamblers at heart, and i never knew a gambler yet who didn't have some sort of good luck charm or superstition when it came to gambling. we had them all in the palms of our hands. "what i mean is, does it have any _physical_ effect on the wheel?" howley looked puzzled. "well, i don't know about that. that's not my field. you better ask dr. pettigrew." there was a smothered laugh somewhere in the courtroom. "just how do you operate this good luck charm, mr. howley?" i asked. "why, you just hold it so that your thumb touches one strip of silver and your fingers touch the other, then you set the dial to whatever number you want to come up and wish." "_wish?_ just _wish_, mr. howley?" "just wish. that's all. what else can you do with a good luck charm?" this time, the judge had to pound for order to stop the laughing. i turned howley over to thursby. the d.a. hammered at him for half an hour trying to get something out of howley, but he didn't get anywhere useful. howley admitted that he'd come to nevada to play the wheels; what was wrong with that? he admitted that he'd come just to try out his good luck charm--and what was wrong with that? he even admitted that it worked for him every time-- and what was wrong, pray, with _that_? thursby knew he was licked. he'd known it for a long time. his summation to the jury showed it. the expressions on the faces of the jury as they listened showed it. they brought in a verdict of not guilty. * * * * * when i got back to my office, i picked up the phone and called the golden casino. i asked for george brockey, the manager. when i got him on the phone and identified myself, he said, "oh. it's you." his voice didn't sound friendly. "it's me," i said. "i suppose you're going to slap a suit for false arrest on the casino now, eh, counselor?" "not a bit of it, george," i said. "the thought occurred to me, but i think we can come to terms." "yeah?" "nothing to it, george. you give us the three hundred grand and we don't do a thing." "yeah?" he didn't get it. he had to fork over the money anyway, according to the court order, so what was the deal? "if you want to go a little further, i'll tell you what we'll do. we'll give you one of our little good luck charms, if you'll promise to call your boys off howley." "nobody's on howley," he said. "you ought to know better than that. in this state, if we get whipped in court, we play it square. did you think we were going to get rough?" "no. but you kind of figured on lifting that gadget as soon as he gets it back from the d.a., didn't you? i saw your boys waiting at his hotel. i'm just telling you that you don't have to do that. we'll give you the gadget. there are plenty more where that came from." "i see," brockey said after a long pause. "o.k., counselor. it's a deal." "fine. we'll pick up the money later this evening, if that's o.k." "sure, counselor. anytime. anytime at all." he hung up. i grinned at howley, who was sitting across the desk from me. "well, that winds it up." "i don't get it," howley said. "why'd you call up brockey? what was the purpose of that 'deal'?" "no deal," i told him. "i was just warning him that killing you and taking the gadget wouldn't do any good, that we've covered you. he won't bother having anything done to you if he knows that the secret of the gadget is out already." howley's eyes widened behind those spectacles of his. "you mean they'd kill me? i thought nevada gamblers were honest." "oh, they are, they are. but this is a threat to their whole industry. it's more than that, it may destroy them. some of them might kill to keep that from happening. but you don't have to worry now." "thanks. tell me, do you think we've succeeded?" "in what you set out to do? certainly. when we mail out those gadgets to people all over the state, the place will be in an uproar. with all the publicity this case is getting, it'll _have_ to work. you now have a court decision on your side, a decision which says that a psionic device can be legally used to influence gambling games. "why, man, they'll _have_ to start investigating! you'll have every politico in the state of nevada insisting that scientists work on that thing. to say nothing of what the syndicate will do." "all i wanted to do," said howley, "was force people to take notice of psionics. i guess i've done that." "you certainly have, brother. i wonder what it will come to?" "i wonder, myself, sometimes," howley said. that was three and a half years ago. neither howley nor i are wondering now. according to the front page of today's _times_, the first spaceship, with a crew of eighty aboard, reached mars this morning. and, on page two, there's a small article headlined: rocket obsolete, say scientists. it sure is. the end none [illustration: bookcover] [illustration: spine the heart of mid-lothian by walter scott tales of my landlord collected and arranged by jedediah cleishbotham, schoolmaster and parish clerk of gandercleugh. second series. [illustration: frontispiece] [illustration: titlepage_ ] [illustration: first poem] the heart of mid-lothian. hear, land o' cakes and brither scots, frae maidenkirk to johnny groat's, if there's a hole in a' your coats, i rede ye tent it; a chiel's amang you takin' notes, an' faith he'll prent it! burns. editor's introduction to the heart of mid-lothian. scott began to work on "the heart of mid-lothian" almost before he had completed "rob roy." on nov. , , he writes to archibald constable announcing that the negotiations for the sale of the story to messrs. longman have fallen through, their firm declining to relieve the ballantynes of their worthless "stock." "so you have the staff in your own hands, and, as you are on the spot, can manage it your own way. depend on it that, barring unforeseen illness or death, these will be the best volumes which have appeared. i pique myself on the first tale, which is called 'the heart of mid-lothian.'" sir walter had thought of adding a romance, "the regalia," on the scotch royal insignia, which had been rediscovered in the castle of edinburgh. this story he never wrote. mr. cadell was greatly pleased at ousting the longmans--"they have themselves to blame for the want of the tales, and may grumble as they choose: we have taggy by the tail, and, if we have influence to keep the best author of the day, we ought to do it."--[archibald constable, iii. .] though contemplated and arranged for, "the heart of mid-lothian" was not actually taken in hand till shortly after jan. , , when cadell writes that the tracts and pamphlets on the affair of porteous are to be collected for scott. "the author was in great glee . . . he says that he feels very strong with what he has now in hand." but there was much anxiety concerning scott's health. "i do not at all like this illness of scott's," said james ballantyne to hogg. "i have eften seen him look jaded of late, and am afraid it is serious." "hand your tongue, or i'll gar you measure your length on the pavement," replied hogg. "you fause, down-hearted loon, that ye are, you daur to speak as if scott were on his death-bed! it cannot be, it must not be! i will not suffer you to speak that gait." scott himself complains to charles kirkpatrick sharpe of "these damned spasms. the merchant abudah's hag was a henwife to them when they give me a real night of it." "the heart of mid-lothian," in spite of the author's malady, was published in june . as to its reception, and the criticism which it received, lockhart has left nothing to be gleaned. contrary to his custom, he has published, but without the writer's name, a letter from lady louisa stuart, which really exhausts what criticism can find to say about the new novel. "i have not only read it myself," says lady louisa, "but am in a house where everybody is tearing it out of each other's hands, and talking of nothing else." she preferred it to all but "waverley," and congratulates him on having made "the perfectly good character the most interesting. . . . had this very story been conducted by a common hand, effie would have attracted all our concern and sympathy, jeanie only cold approbation. whereas jeanie, without youth, beauty, genius, warns passions, or any other novel-perfection, is here our object from beginning to end." lady louisa, with her usual frankness, finds the edinburgh lawyers tedious, in the introduction, and thinks that mr. saddletree "will not entertain english readers." the conclusion "flags"; "but the chief fault i have to find relates to the reappearance and shocking fate of the boy. i hear on all sides 'oh, i do not like that!' i cannot say what i would have had instead, but i do not like it either; it is a lame, huddled conclusion. i know you so well in it, by-the-by! you grow tired yourself, want to get rid of the story, and hardly care how." lady lousia adds that sir george staunton would never have hazarded himself in the streets of edinburgh. "the end of poor madge wildfire is most pathetic. the meeting at muschat's cairn tremendous. dumbiedikes and rory beau are delightful. . . . i dare swear many of your readers never heard of the duke of argyle before." she ends: "if i had known nothing, and the whole world had told me the contrary, i should have found you out in that one parenthesis, 'for the man was mortal, and had been a schoolmaster.'" lady louisa omits a character who was probably as essential to scott's scheme as any--douce davie deans, the old cameronian. he had almost been annoyed by the criticism of his covenanters in "old mortality," "the heavy artillery out of the christian instructor or some such obscure field work," and was determined to "tickle off" another. there are signs of a war between literary cavaliers and literary covenanters at this time, after the discharge of dr. mccrie's "heavy artillery." charles kirkpatrick sharpe was presented by surtees of mainsforth with a manuscript of kirkton's unprinted "history of the church of scotland." this he set forth to edite, with the determination not to "let the whig dogs have the best of it." every covenanting scandal and absurdity, such as the old story of mess david williamson--"dainty davie"--and his remarkable prowess, and presence of mind at cherrytrees, was raked up, and inserted in notes to kirkton. scott was sharpe's ally in this enterprise. "i had in the persons of my forbears a full share, you see, of religious persecution . . . for all my greatgrandfathers were under the ban, and i think there were hardly two of them out of jail at once." "i think it would be most scandalous to let the godly carry it oft thus." "it" seems to have been the editing of kirkton. "it is very odd the volume of wodrow, containing the memoir of russell concerning the murder, is positively vanished from the library" (the advocates' library). "neither book nor receipt is to be found: surely they have stolen it in the fear of the lord." the truth seems to have been that cavaliers and covenanters were racing for the manuscripts wherein they found smooth stones of the brook to pelt their opponents withal. soon after scott writes: "it was not without exertion and trouble that i this day detected russell's manuscript (the account of the murder of sharpe by one of the murderers), also kirkton and one or two others, which mr. mccrie had removed from their place in the library and deposited in a snug and secret corner." the covenanters had made a raid on the ammunition of the cavaliers. "i have given," adds sir walter, "an infernal row on the subject of hiding books in this manner." sharpe replies that the "villainous biographer of john knox" (dr. mccrie), "that canting rogue," is about to edite kirkton. sharpe therefore advertised his own edition at once, and edited kirkton by forced marches as it were. scott reviewed the book in the quarterly (jan. ). he remarked that sharpe "had not escaped the censure of these industrious literary gentlemen of opposite principles, who have suffered a work always relied upon as one of their chief authorities to lie dormant for a hundred and forty years." their "querulous outcries" (probably from the field-work of the christian instructor) he disregards. among the passions of this literary "bicker," which scott allowed to amuse him, was davie deans conceived. scott was not going to be driven by querulous outcries off the covenanting field, where he erected another trophy. this time he was more friendly to the "true blue presbyterians." his scotch patriotism was one of his most earnest feelings, the covenanters, at worst, were essentially scotch, and he introduced a new cameronian, with all the sterling honesty, the puritanism, the impracticable ideas of the covenant, in contact with changed times, and compelled to compromise. he possessed a curious pamphlet, haldane's "active testimony of the true blue presbyterians" ( mo, ). it is a most impartial work, "containing a declaration and testimony against the late unjust invasion of scotland by charles, pretended prince of wales, and william, pretended duke of cumberland." everything and everybody not covenanted, the house of stuart, the house of brunswick, the house of hapsburg, papists, prelatists and turks, are cursed up hill and down dale, by these worthy survivors of the auld leaven. everybody except the authors, haldane and leslie, "has broken the everlasting covenant." the very confession of westminster is arraigned for its laxity. "the whole civil and judicial law of god," as given to the jews (except the ritual, polygamy, divorce, slavery, and so forth), is to be maintained in the law of scotland. sins are acknowledged, and since the covenant every political step--cromwell's protectorate, the restoration, the revolution, the accession of the "dukes of hanover"--has been a sin. a court of elders is to be established to put in execution the law of moses. all offenders against the kirk are to be "capitally punished." stage plays are to be suppressed by the successors of the famous convention at lanark, anno . toleration of all religions is "sinful," and "contrary to the word of god." charles edward and the duke of cumberland are cursed. "also we reckon it a great vice in charles, his foolish pity and lenity, in sparing these profane, blasphemous redcoats, that providence delivered into his hand, when, by putting them to death, this poor land might have been eased of the heavy burden of these vermin of hell." the auld leaven swore terribly in scotland. the atrocious cruelties of cumberland after culloden are stated with much frankness and power. the german soldiers are said to have carried off "a vast deal of spoil and plunder into germany," and the redcoats had plays and diversions (cricket, probably) on the inch of perth, on a sabbath. "the hellish, pagan, juggler plays are set up and frequented with more impudence and audacity than ever." only the jews, "our elder brethren," are exempted from the curses of haldane and leslie, who promise to recover for them the holy land. "the massacre in edinburgh" in , by wicked porteous, calls for vengeance upon the authors and abettors thereof. the army and navy are "the most wicked and flagitious in the universe." in fact, the true blue testimony is very active indeed, and could be delivered, thanks to hellish toleration, with perfect safety, by leslie and haldane. the candour of their eloquence assuredly proves that davie deans is not overdrawn; indeed, he is much less truculent than those who actually were testifying even after his decease. in "the heart of mid-lothian" scott set himself to draw his own people at their best. he had a heroine to his hand in helen walker, "a character so distinguished for her undaunted love of virtue," who, unlike jeanie deans, "lived and died in poverty, if not want." in he erected a pillar over her grave in the old covenanting stronghold of irongray. the inscription ends-- respect the grave of poverty, when combined with love of truth and dear affection. the sweetness, the courage, the spirit, the integrity of jeanie deans have made her, of all scott's characters, the dearest to her countrymen, and the name of jeanie was given to many children, in pious memory of the blameless heroine. the foil to her, in the person of effie, is not less admirable. among scott's qualities was one rare among modern authors: he had an affectionate toleration for his characters. if we compare effie with hetty in "adam bede," this charming and genial quality of scott's becomes especially striking. hetty and dinah are in very much the same situation and condition as effie and jeanie deans. but hetty is a frivolous little animal, in whom vanity and silliness do duty for passion: she has no heart: she is only a butterfly broken on the wheel of the world. doubtless there are such women in plenty, yet we feel that her creator persecutes her, and has a kind of spite against her. this was impossible to scott. effie has heart, sincerity, passion, loyalty, despite her flightiness, and her readiness, when her chance comes, to play the fine lady. it was distasteful to scott to create a character not human and sympathetic on one side or another. thus his robber "of milder mood," on jeanie's journey to england, is comparatively a good fellow, and the scoundrel ratcliffe is not a scoundrel utterly. "'to make a lang tale short, i canna undertake the job. it gangs against my conscience.' 'your conscience, rat?' said sharpitlaw, with a sneer, which the reader will probably think very natural upon the occasion. 'ou ay, sir,' answered ratcliffe, calmly, 'just my conscience; a body has a conscience, though it may be ill wunnin at it. i think mine's as weel out o' the gate as maist folk's are; and yet it's just like the noop of my elbow, it whiles gets a bit dirl on a corner.'" scott insists on leaving his worst people in possession of something likeable, just as he cannot dismiss even captain craigengelt without assuring us that bucklaw made a provision for his necessities. this is certainly a more humane way of writing fiction than that to which we are accustomed in an age of humanitarianism. nor does scott's art suffer from his kindliness, and effie in prison, with a heart to be broken, is not less pathetic than the heartless hetty, in the same condemnation. as to her lover, robertson, or sir george staunton, he certainly verges on the melodramatic. perhaps we know too much about the real george robertson, who was no heir to a title in disguise, but merely a "stabler in bristol" accused "at the instance of duncan forbes, esq. of culloden, his majesty's advocate, for the crimes of stouthrieff, housebreaking, and robbery." robertson "kept an inn in bristo, at edinburgh, where the newcastle carrier commonly did put up," and is believed to have been a married man. it is not very clear that the novel gains much by the elevation of the bristo innkeeper to a baronetcy, except in so far as effie's appearance in the character of a great lady is entertaining and characteristic, and jeanie's conquest of her own envy is exemplary. the change in social rank calls for the tragic conclusion, about which almost every reader agrees with the criticism of lady louisa stuart and her friends. thus the novel "filled more pages" than mr. jedediah cleishbotham had "opined," and hence comes a languor which does not beset the story of "old mortality." scott's own love of adventure and of stirring incidents at any cost is an excellent quality in a novelist, but it does, in this instance, cause him somewhat to dilute those immortal studies of scotch character which are the strength of his genius. the reader feels a lack of reality in the conclusion, the fatal encounter of the father and the lost son, an incident as old as the legend of odysseus. but this is more than atoned for by the admirable part of madge wildfire, flitting like a _feu follet_ up and down among the douce scotch, and the dour rioters. madge wildfire is no repetition of meg merrilies, though both are unrestrained natural things, rebels against the settled life, musical voices out of the past, singing forgotten songs of nameless minstrels. nowhere but in shakspeare can we find such a distraught woman as madge wildfire, so near akin to nature and to the moods of "the bonny lady moon." only he who created ophelia could have conceived or rivalled the scene where madge accompanies the hunters of staunton on the moonlit hill and sings her warnings to the fugitive. when the glede's in the blue cloud, the lavrock lies still; when the hound's in the green-wood, the hind keeps the hill. there's a bloodhound ranging tinwald wood, there's harness glancing sheen; there's a maiden sits on tinwald brae, and she sings loud between. o sleep ye sound, sir james, she said, when ye suld rise and ride? there's twenty men, wi' bow and blade, are seeking where ye hide. the madness of madge wildfire has its parallel in the wildness of goethe's marguerite, both of them lamenting the lost child, which, to madge's fancy, is now dead, now living in a dream. but the gloom that hangs about muschat's cairn, the ghastly vision of "crying up ailie muschat, and she and i will hae a grand bouking-washing, and bleach our claise in the beams of the bonny lady moon," have a terror beyond the german, and are unexcelled by webster or by ford. "but the moon, and the dew, and the night-wind, they are just like a caller kail-blade laid on my brow; and whiles i think the moon just shines on purpose to pleasure me, when naebody sees her but mysell." scott did not deal much in the facile pathos of the death-bed, but that of madge wildfire has a grace of poetry, and her latest song is the sweetest and wildest of his lyrics, the most appropriate in its setting. when we think of the contrasts to her--the honest, dull good-nature of dumbiedikes; the common-sense and humour of mrs. saddletree; the pragmatic pedantry of her husband; the highland pride, courage, and absurdity of the captain of knockdander--when we consider all these so various and perfect creations, we need not wonder that scott was "in high glee" over "the heart of mid-lothian," "felt himself very strong," and thought that these would be "the best volumes that have appeared." the difficulty, as usual, is to understand how, in all this strength, he permitted himself to be so careless over what is really by far the easiest part of the novelist's task--the construction. but so it was; about "the monastery" he said, "it was written with as much care as the rest, that is, with no care at all." his genius flowed free in its own unconscious abundance: where conscious deliberate workmanship was needed, "the forthright craftsman's hand," there alone he was lax and irresponsible. in shakspeare's case we can often account for similar incongruities by the constraint of the old plot which he was using; but scott was making his own plots, or letting them make themselves. "i never could lay down a plan, or, having laid it down, i never could adhere to it; the action of composition always diluted some passages and abridged or omitted others; and personages were rendered important or insignificant, not according to their agency in the original conception of the plan, but according to the success or otherwise with which i was able to bring them out. i only tried to make that which i was actually writing diverting and interesting, leaving the rest to fate. . . when i chain my mind to ideas which are purely imaginative--for argument is a different thing--it seems to me that the sun leaves the landscape, that i think away the whole vivacity and spirit of my original conception, and that the results are cold, tame, and spiritless." in fact, sir walter was like the magician who can raise spirits that, once raised, dominate him. probably this must ever be the case, when an author's characters are not puppets but real creations. they then have a will and a way of their own; a free-will which their creator cannot predetermine and correct. something like this appears to have been scott's own theory of his lack of constructive power. no one was so assured of its absence, no one criticised it more severely than he did himself. the edinburgh review about this time counselled the "author of waverley" to attempt a drama, doubting only his powers of compression. possibly work at a drama might have been of advantage to the genius of scott. he was unskilled in selection and rejection, which the drama especially demands. but he detested the idea of writing for actors, whom he regarded as ignorant, dull, and conceited. "i shall not fine and renew a lease of popularity upon the theatre. to write for low, ill-informed, and conceited actors, whom you must please, for your success is necessarily at their mercy, i cannot away with," he wrote to southey. "avowedly, i will never write for the stage; if i do, 'call me horse,'" he remarks to terry. he wanted "neither the profit nor the shame of it." "i do not think that the character of the audience in london is such that one could have the least pleasure in pleasing them." he liked helping terry to "terryfy" "the heart of mid-lothian," and his other novels, but he had no more desire than a senator of rome would have had to see his name become famous by the theatre. this confirmed repulsion in one so learned in the dramatic poets is a curious trait in scott's character. he could not accommodate his genius to the needs of the stage, and that crown which has most potently allured most men of genius he would have thrust away, had it been offered to him, with none of caesar's reluctance. at the bottom of all this lay probably the secret conviction that his genius was his master, that it must take him where it would, on paths where he was compelled to follow. terse and concentrated, of set purpose, he could not be. a notable instance of this inability occurs in the introductory chapter to "the heart of mid-lothian," which has probably frightened away many modern readers. the advocate and the writer to the signet and the poor client are persons quite uncalled for, and their little adventure at gandercleugh is unreal. oddly enough, part of their conversation is absolutely in the manner of dickens. "'i think,' said i, . . . 'the metropolitan county may, in that case, be said to have a sad heart.' "'right as my glove, mr. pattieson,' added mr. hardie; 'and a close heart, and a hard heart--keep it up, jack.' "'and a wicked heart, and a poor heart,' answered halkit, doing his best. "'and yet it may be called in some sort a strong heart, and a high heart,' rejoined the advocate. 'you see i can put you both out of heart.'" fortunately we have no more of this easy writing, which makes such very melancholy reading. the narrative of the porteous mob, as given by the novelist, is not, it seems, entirely accurate. like most artists, sir walter took the liberty of "composing" his picture. in his "illustrations of the author of waverley" ( ) mr. robert chambers records the changes in facts made by scott. in the first place, wilson did not attack his guard, and enable robertson to escape, after the sermon, but as soon as the criminals took their seats in the pew. when fleeing out, robertson tripped over "the plate," set on a stand to receive alms and oblations, whereby he hurt himself, and was seen to stagger and fall in running down the stairs leading to the cowgate. mr. mcqueen, minister of the new kirk, was coming up the stairs. he conceived it to be his duty to set robertson on his feet again, "and covered his retreat as much as possible from the pursuit of the guard." robertson ran up the horse wynd, out at potter row port, got into the king's park, and headed for the village of duddingston, beside the loch on the south-east of arthur's seat. he fainted after jumping a dyke, but was picked up and given some refreshment. he lay in hiding till he could escape to holland. the conspiracy to hang porteous did not, in fact, develop in a few hours, after his failure to appear on the scaffold. the queen's pardon (or a reprieve) reached edinburgh on thursday, sept. ; the riot occurred on the night of sept. . the council had been informed that lynching was intended, thirty-six hours before the fatal evening, but pronounced the reports to be "caddies' clatters." their negligence, of course, must have increased the indignation of the queen. the riot, according to a very old man, consulted by mr. chambers, was headed by two butchers, named cumming, "tall, strong, and exceedingly handsome men, who dressed in women's clothes as a disguise." the rope was tossed out of a window in a "small wares shop" by a woman, who received a piece of gold in exchange. this extravagance is one of the very few points which suggest that people of some wealth may have been concerned in the affair. tradition, according to charles kirkpatrick sharpe, believed in noble leaders of the riot. it is certain that several witnesses of good birth and position testified very strongly against porteous, at his trial. according to hogg, scott's "fame was now so firmly established that he cared not a fig for the opinion of his literary friends beforehand." he was pleased, however, by the notice of "ivanhoe," "the heart of mid-lothian," and "the bride of lammermoor" in the edinburgh review of , as he showed by quoting part of its remarks. the reviewer frankly observed "that, when we began with one of these works, we were conscious that we never knew how to leave off. the porteous mob is rather heavily described, and the whole part of george robertson, or staunton, is extravagant and displeasing. the final catastrophe is needlessly improbable and startling." the critic felt that he must be critical, but his praise of effie and jeanie deans obviously comes from his heart. jeanie's character "is superior to anything we can recollect in the history of invention . . . a remarkable triumph over the greatest of all difficulties in the conduct of a fictitious narrative." the critique ends with "an earnest wish that the author would try his hand in the lore of shakspeare"; but, wiser than the woers of penelope, scott refused to make that perilous adventure. andrew lang. an essay by mr. george ormond, based on manuscripts in the edinburgh record office (scottish review, july, ), adds little to what is known about the porteous riot. it is said that porteous was let down alive, and hanged again, more than once, that his arm was broken by a lochaber axe, and that a torch was applied to the foot from which the shoe had fallen. a pamphlet of says that robertson became a spy on smugglers in holland, returned to london, procured a pardon through the butcher cumberland, and "at last died in misery in london." it is plain that colonel moyle might have rescued porteous, but he was naturally cautious about entering the city gates without a written warrant from the civil authorities. to the best of patrons, a pleased and indulgent reader jedediah cleishbotham wishes health, and increase, and contentment. courteous reader, if ingratitude comprehendeth every vice, surely so foul a stain worst of all beseemeth him whose life has been devoted to instructing youth in virtue and in humane letters. therefore have i chosen, in this prolegomenon, to unload my burden of thanks at thy feet, for the favour with which thou last kindly entertained the tales of my landlord. certes, if thou hast chuckled over their factious and festivous descriptions, or hadst thy mind filled with pleasure at the strange and pleasant turns of fortune which they record, verily, i have also simpered when i beheld a second storey with attics, that has arisen on the basis of my small domicile at gandercleugh, the walls having been aforehand pronounced by deacon barrow to be capable of enduring such an elevation. nor has it been without delectation that i have endued a new coat (snuff-brown, and with metal buttons), having all nether garments corresponding thereto. we do therefore lie, in respect of each other, under a reciprocation of benefits, whereof those received by me being the most solid (in respect that a new house and a new coat are better than a new tale and an old song), it is meet that my gratitude should be expressed with the louder voice and more preponderating vehemence. and how should it be so expressed?--certainly not in words only, but in act and deed. it is with this sole purpose, and disclaiming all intention of purchasing that pendicle or poffle of land called the carlinescroft, lying adjacent to my garden, and measuring seven acres, three roods, and four perches, that i have committed to the eyes of those who thought well of the former tomes, these four additional volumes of the tales of my landlord. not the less, if peter prayfort be minded to sell the said poffle, it is at his own choice to say so; and, peradventure, he may meet with a purchaser: unless (gentle reader) the pleasing pourtraictures of peter pattieson, now given unto thee in particular, and unto the public in general, shall have lost their favour in thine eyes, whereof i am no way distrustful. and so much confidence do i repose in thy continued favour, that, should thy lawful occasions call thee to the town of gandercleugh, a place frequented by most at one time or other in their lives, i will enrich thine eyes with a sight of those precious manuscripts whence thou hast derived so much delectation, thy nose with a snuff from my mull, and thy palate with a dram from my bottle of strong waters, called by the learned of gandercleugh, the dominie's dribble o' drink. it is there, o highly esteemed and beloved reader, thou wilt be able to bear testimony, through the medium of thine own senses, against the children of vanity, who have sought to identify thy friend and servant with i know not what inditer of vain fables; who hath cumbered the world with his devices, but shrunken from the responsibility thereof. truly, this hath been well termed a generation hard of faith; since what can a man do to assert his property in a printed tome, saving to put his name in the title-page thereof, with his description, or designation, as the lawyers term it, and place of abode? of a surety i would have such sceptics consider how they themselves would brook to have their works ascribed to others, their names and professions imputed as forgeries, and their very existence brought into question; even although, peradventure, it may be it is of little consequence to any but themselves, not only whether they are living or dead, but even whether they ever lived or no. yet have my maligners carried their uncharitable censures still farther. these cavillers have not only doubted mine identity, although thus plainly proved, but they have impeached my veracity and the authenticity of my historical narratives! verily, i can only say in answer, that i have been cautelous in quoting mine authorities. it is true, indeed, that if i had hearkened with only one ear, i might have rehearsed my tale with more acceptation from those who love to hear but half the truth. it is, it may hap, not altogether to the discredit of our kindly nation of scotland, that we are apt to take an interest, warm, yea partial, in the deeds and sentiments of our forefathers. he whom his adversaries describe as a perjured prelatist, is desirous that his predecessors should be held moderate in their power, and just in their execution of its privileges, when truly, the unimpassioned peruser of the annals of those times shall deem them sanguinary, violent, and tyrannical. again, the representatives of the suffering nonconformists desire that their ancestors, the cameronians, shall be represented not simply as honest enthusiasts, oppressed for conscience' sake, but persons of fine breeding, and valiant heroes. truly, the historian cannot gratify these predilections. he must needs describe the cavaliers as proud and high-spirited, cruel, remorseless, and vindictive; the suffering party as honourably tenacious of their opinions under persecution; their own tempers being, however, sullen, fierce, and rude; their opinions absurd and extravagant; and their whole course of conduct that of persons whom hellebore would better have suited than prosecutions unto death for high-treason. natheless, while such and so preposterous were the opinions on either side, there were, it cannot be doubted, men of virtue and worth on both, to entitle either party to claim merit from its martyrs. it has been demanded of me, jedediah cleishbotham, by what right i am entitled to constitute myself an impartial judge of their discrepancies of opinions, seeing (as it is stated) that i must necessarily have descended from one or other of the contending parties, and be, of course, wedded for better or for worse, according to the reasonable practice of scotland, to its dogmata, or opinions, and bound, as it were, by the tie matrimonial, or, to speak without metaphor, _ex jure sanguinis,_ to maintain them in preference to all others. but, nothing denying the rationality of the rule, which calls on all now living to rule their political and religious opinions by those of their great-grandfathers, and inevitable as seems the one or the other horn of the dilemma betwixt which my adversaries conceive they have pinned me to the wall, i yet spy some means of refuge, and claim a privilege to write and speak of both parties with impartiality. for, o ye powers of logic! when the prelatists and presbyterians of old times went together by the ears in this unlucky country, my ancestor (venerated be his memory!) was one of the people called quakers, and suffered severe handling from either side, even to the extenuation of his purse and the incarceration of his person. craving thy pardon, gentle reader, for these few words concerning me and mine, i rest, as above expressed, thy sure and obligated friend,* j. c. gandercleugh, this st of april, . * note a. author's connection with quakerism. introduction to the heart of mid-lothian--( ). the author has stated, in the preface to the chronicles of the canongate, , that he received from an anonymous correspondent an account of the incident upon which the following story is founded. he is now at liberty to say, that the information was conveyed to him by a late amiable and ingenious lady, whose wit and power of remarking and judging of character still survive in the memory of her friends. her maiden name was miss helen lawson, of girthhead, and she was wife of thomas goldie, esq. of craigmuie, commissary of dumfries. her communication was in these words:-- "i had taken for summer lodgings a cottage near the old abbey of lincluden. it had formerly been inhabited by a lady who had pleasure in embellishing cottages, which she found perhaps homely and even poor enough; mine, therefore, possessed many marks of taste and elegance unusual in this species of habitation in scotland, where a cottage is literally what its name declares. "from my cottage door i had a partial view of the old abbey before mentioned; some of the highest arches were seen over, and some through, the trees scattered along a lane which led down to the ruin, and the strange fantastic shapes of almost all those old ashes accorded wonderfully well with the building they at once shaded and ornamented. "the abbey itself from my door was almost on a level with the cottage; but on coming to the end of the lane, it was discovered to be situated on a high perpendicular bank, at the foot of which run the clear waters of the cluden, where they hasten to join the sweeping nith, 'whose distant roaring swells and fa's.' as my kitchen and parlour were not very far distant, i one day went in to purchase some chickens from a person i heard offering them for sale. it was a little, rather stout-looking woman, who seemed to be between seventy and eighty years of age; she was almost covered with a tartan plaid, and her cap had over it a black silk hood, tied under the chin, a piece of dress still much in use among elderly women of that rank of life in scotland; her eyes were dark, and remarkably lively and intelligent; i entered into conversation with her, and began by asking how she maintained herself, etc. "she said that in winter she footed stockings, that is, knit feet to country-people's stockings, which bears about the same relation to stocking-knitting that cobbling does to shoe-making, and is of course both less profitable and less dignified; she likewise taught a few children to read, and in summer she whiles reared a few chickens. "i said i could venture to guess from her face she had never been married. she laughed heartily at this, and said, 'i maun hae the queerest face that ever was seen, that ye could guess that. now, do tell me, madam, how ye cam to think sae?' i told her it was from her cheerful disengaged countenance. she said, 'mem, have ye na far mair reason to be happy than me, wi' a gude husband and a fine family o' bairns, and plenty o' everything? for me, i'm the puirest o' a' puir bodies, and can hardly contrive to keep mysell alive in a' the wee bits o' ways i hae tell't ye.' after some more conversation, during which i was more and more pleased with the old womans sensible conversation, and the _naivete_ of her remarks, she rose to go away, when i asked her name. her countenance suddenly clouded, and she said gravely, rather colouring, 'my name is helen walker; but your husband kens weel about me.' "in the evening i related how much i had been pleased, and inquired what was extraordinary in the history of the poor woman. mr. ---- said, there were perhaps few more remarkable people than helen walker. she had been left an orphan, with the charge of a sister considerably younger than herself, and who was educated and maintained by her exertions. attached to herby so many ties, therefore, it will not be easy to conceive her feelings, when she found that this only sister must be tried by the laws of her country for child-murder, and upon being called as principal witness against her. the counsel for the prisoner told helen, that if she could declare that her sister had made any preparations, however slight, or had given her any intimation on the subject, that such a statement would save her sister's life, as she was the principal witness against her. helen said, 'it is impossible for me to swear to a falsehood; and, whatever may be the consequence, i will give my oath according to my conscience.' "the trial came on, and the sister was found guilty and condemned; but in scotland six weeks must elapse between the sentence and the execution, and helen walker availed herself of it. the very day of her sister's condemnation she got a petition drawn, stating the peculiar circumstances of the case, and that very night set out on foot to london. "without introduction or recommendation, with her simple (perhaps ill-expressed) petition, drawn up by some inferior clerk of the court, she presented herself, in her tartan plaid and country attire, to the late duke of argyle, who immediately procured the pardon she petitioned for, and helen returned with it on foot just in time to save her sister. "i was so strongly interested by this narrative, that i determined immediately to prosecute my acquaintance with helen walker; but as i was to leave the country next day, i was obliged to defer it till my return in spring, when the first walk i took was to helen walker's cottage. "she had died a short time before. my regret was extreme, and i endeavoured to obtain some account of helen from an old woman who inhabited the other end of her cottage. i inquired if helen ever spoke of her past history--her journey to london, etc., 'na,' the old woman said, 'helen was a wily body, and whene'er ony o' the neebors asked anything about it, she aye turned the conversation.' "in short, every answer i received only tended to increase my regret, and raise my opinion of helen walker, who could unite so much prudence with so much heroic virtue." this narrative was inclosed in the following letter to the author, without date or signature-- "sir,--the occurrence just related happened to me twenty-six years ago. helen walker lies buried in the churchyard of irongray, about six miles from dumfries. i once proposed that a small monument should have been erected to commemorate so remarkable a character, but i now prefer leaving it to you to perpetuate her memory in a more durable manner." the reader is now able to judge how far the author has improved upon, or fallen short of, the pleasing and interesting sketch of high principle and steady affection displayed by helen walker, the prototype of the fictitious jeanie deans. mrs. goldie was unfortunately dead before the author had given his name to these volumes, so he lost all opportunity of thanking that lady for her highly valuable communication. but her daughter, miss goldie, obliged him with the following additional information:-- "mrs. goldie endeavoured to collect further particulars of helen walker, particularly concerning her journey to london, but found this nearly impossible; as the natural dignity of her character, and a high sense of family respectability, made her so indissolubly connect her sister's disgrace with her own exertions, that none of her neighbours durst ever question her upon the subject. one old woman, a distant relation of helen's, and who is still living, says she worked an harvest with her, but that she never ventured to ask her about her sister's trial, or her journey to london; 'helen,' she added, 'was a lofty body, and used a high style o' language.' the same old woman says, that every year helen received a cheese from her sister, who lived at whitehaven, and that she always sent a liberal portion of it to herself, or to her father's family. this fact, though trivial in itself, strongly marks the affection subsisting between the two sisters, and the complete conviction on the mind of the criminal that her sister had acted solely from high principle, not from any want of feeling, which another small but characteristic trait will further illustrate. a gentleman, a relation of mrs. goldie's, who happened to be travelling in the north of england, on coming to a small inn, was shown into the parlour by a female servant, who, after cautiously shutting the door, said, 'sir, i'm nelly walker's sister.' thus practically showing that she considered her sister as better known by her high conduct than even herself by a different kind of celebrity. "mrs. goldie was extremely anxious to have a tombstone and an inscription upon it erected in irongray churchyard; and if sir walter scott will condescend to write the last, a little subscription could be easily raised in the immediate neighbourhood, and mrs. goldie's wish be thus fulfilled." it is scarcely necessary to add that the request of miss goldie will be most willingly complied with, and without the necessity of any tax on the public.* nor is there much occasion to repeat how much the author conceives himself obliged to his unknown correspondent, who thus supplied him with a theme affording such a pleasing view of the moral dignity of virtue, though unaided by birth, beauty, or talent. if the picture has suffered in the execution, it is from the failure of the author's powers to present in detail the same simple and striking portrait exhibited in mrs. goldie's letter. abbotsford, april , . * [note b. tombstone to helen walker.] postscript. although it would be impossible to add much to mrs. goldie's picturesque and most interesting account of helen walker, the prototype of the imaginary jeanie deans, the editor may be pardoned for introducing two or three anecdotes respecting that excellent person, which he has collected from a volume entitled, _sketches from nature,_ by john m'diarmid, a gentleman who conducts an able provincial paper in the town of dumfries. helen was the daughter of a small farmer in a place called dalwhairn, in the parish of irongray; where, after the death of her father, she continued, with the unassuming piety of a scottish peasant, to support her mother by her own unremitted labour and privations; a case so common, that even yet, i am proud to say, few of my countrywomen would shrink from the duty. helen walker was held among her equals _pensy,_ that is, proud or conceited; but the facts brought to prove this accusation seem only to evince a strength of character superior to those around her. thus it was remarked, that when it thundered, she went with her work and her bible to the front of the cottage, alleging that the almighty could smite in the city as well as in the field. mr. m'diarmid mentions more particularly the misfortune of her sister, which he supposes to have taken place previous to . helen walker, declining every proposal of saving her relation's life at the expense of truth, borrowed a sum of money sufficient for her journey, walked the whole distance to london barefoot, and made her way to john duke of argyle. she was heard to say, that, by the almighty strength, she had been enabled to meet the duke at the most critical moment, which, if lost, would have caused the inevitable forfeiture of her sister's life. isabella, or tibby walker, saved from the fate which impended over her, was married by the person who had wronged her (named waugh), and lived happily for great part of a century, uniformly acknowledging the extraordinary affection to which she owed her preservation. helen walker died about the end of the year , and her remains are interred in the churchyard of her native parish of irongray, in a romantic cemetery on the banks of the cairn. that a character so distinguished for her undaunted love of virtue, lived and died in poverty, if not want, serves only to show us how insignificant, in the sight of heaven, are our principal objects of ambition upon earth. introductory so down thy hill, romantic ashbourn, glides the derby dilly, carrying six insides. frere. the times have changed in nothing more (we follow as we were wont the manuscript of peter pattieson) than in the rapid conveyance of intelligence and communication betwixt one part of scotland and another. it is not above twenty or thirty years, according to the evidence of many credible witnesses now alive, since a little miserable horse-cart, performing with difficulty a journey of thirty miles _per diem,_ carried our mails from the capital of scotland to its extremity. nor was scotland much more deficient in these accommodations than our rich sister had been about eighty years before. fielding, in his tom jones, and farquhar, in a little farce called the stage-coach, have ridiculed the slowness of these vehicles of public accommodation. according to the latter authority, the highest bribe could only induce the coachman to promise to anticipate by half-an-hour the usual time of his arrival at the bull and mouth. but in both countries these ancient, slow, and sure modes of conveyance are now alike unknown; mail-coach races against mail-coach, and high-flyer against high-flyer, through the most remote districts of britain. and in our village alone, three post-coaches, and four coaches with men armed, and in scarlet cassocks, thunder through the streets each day, and rival in brilliancy and noise the invention of the celebrated tyrant:-- demens, qui nimbos et non imitabile fulmen, aere et cornipedum pulsu, simularat, equorum. now and then, to complete the resemblance, and to correct the presumption of the venturous charioteers, it does happen that the career of these dashing rivals of salmoneus meets with as undesirable and violent a termination as that of their prototype. it is on such occasions that the insides and outsides, to use the appropriate vehicular phrases, have reason to rue the exchange of the slow and safe motion of the ancient fly-coaches, which, compared with the chariots of mr. palmer, so ill deserve the name. the ancient vehicle used to settle quietly down, like a ship scuttled and left to sink by the gradual influx of the waters, while the modern is smashed to pieces with the velocity of the same vessel hurled against breakers, or rather with the fury of a bomb bursting at the conclusion of its career through the air. the late ingenious mr. pennant, whose humour it was to set his face in stern opposition to these speedy conveyances, had collected, i have heard, a formidable list of such casualties, which, joined to the imposition of innkeepers, whose charges the passengers had no time to dispute, the sauciness of the coachman, and the uncontrolled and despotic authority of the tyrant called the guard, held forth a picture of horror, to which murder, theft, fraud, and peculation, lent all their dark colouring. but that which gratifies the impatience of the human disposition will be practised in the teeth of danger, and in defiance of admonition; and, in despite of the cambrian antiquary, mail-coaches not only roll their thunders round the base of penman-maur and cader-idris, but frighted skiddaw hears afar the rattling of the unscythed car. and perhaps the echoes of ben nevis may soon be awakened by the bugle, not of a warlike chieftain, but of the guard of a mail-coach. it was a fine summer day, and our little school had obtained a half-holiday, by the intercession of a good-humoured visitor.* * his honour gilbert goslinn of gandercleugh; for i love to be precise in matters of importance.--j. c. i expected by the coach a new number of an interesting periodical publication, and walked forward on the highway to meet it, with the impatience which cowper has described as actuating the resident in the country when longing for intelligence from the mart of news.-- the grand debate, the popular harangue,--the tart reply,-- the logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, and the loud laugh,--i long to know them all;-- i burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free, and give them voice and utterance again. it was with such feelings that i eyed the approach of the new coach, lately established on our road, and known by the name of the somerset, which, to say truth, possesses some interest for me, even when it conveys no such important information. the distant tremulous sound of its wheels was heard just as i gained the summit of the gentle ascent, called the goslin-brae, from which you command an extensive view down the valley of the river gander. the public road, which comes up the side of that stream, and crosses it at a bridge about a quarter of a mile from the place where i was standing, runs partly through enclosures and plantations, and partly through open pasture land. it is a childish amusement perhaps,--but my life has been spent with children, and why should not my pleasures be like theirs?--childish as it is then, i must own i have had great pleasure in watching the approach of the carriage, where the openings of the road permit it to be seen. the gay glancing of the equipage, its diminished and toy-like appearance at a distance, contrasted with the rapidity of its motion, its appearance and disappearance at intervals, and the progressively increasing sounds that announce its nearer approach, have all to the idle and listless spectator, who has nothing more important to attend to, something of awakening interest. the ridicule may attach to me, which is flung upon many an honest citizen, who watches from the window of his villa the passage of the stage-coach; but it is a very natural source of amusement notwithstanding, and many of those who join in the laugh are perhaps not unused to resort to it in secret. on the present occasion, however, fate had decreed that i should not enjoy the consummation of the amusement by seeing the coach rattle past me as i sat on the turf, and hearing the hoarse grating voice of the guard as he skimmed forth for my grasp the expected packet, without the carriage checking its course for an instant. i had seen the vehicle thunder down the hill that leads to the bridge with more than its usual impetuosity, glittering all the while by flashes from a cloudy tabernacle of the dust which it had raised, and leaving a train behind it on the road resembling a wreath of summer mist. but it did not appear on the top of the nearer bank within the usual space of three minutes, which frequent observation had enabled me to ascertain was the medium time for crossing the bridge and mounting the ascent. when double that space had elapsed, i became alarmed, and walked hastily forward. as i came in sight of the bridge, the cause of delay was too manifest, for the somerset had made a summerset in good earnest, and overturned so completely, that it was literally resting upon the ground, with the roof undermost, and the four wheels in the air. the "exertions of the guard and coachman," both of whom were gratefully commemorated in the newspapers, having succeeded in disentangling the horses by cutting the harness, were now proceeding to extricate the insides by a sort of summary and caesarean process of delivery, forcing the hinges from one of the doors which they could not open otherwise. in this manner were two disconsolate damsels set at liberty from the womb of the leathern conveniency. as they immediately began to settle their clothes, which were a little deranged, as may be presumed, i concluded they had received no injury, and did not venture to obtrude my services at their toilette, for which, i understand, i have since been reflected upon by the fair sufferers. the _outsides,_ who must have been discharged from their elevated situation by a shock resembling the springing of a mine, escaped, nevertheless, with the usual allowance of scratches and bruises, excepting three, who, having been pitched into the river gander, were dimly seen contending with the tide like the relics of aeneas's shipwreck,-- rari apparent mantes in gurgite vasto. i applied my poor exertions where they seemed to be most needed, and with the assistance of one or two of the company who had escaped unhurt, easily succeeded in fishing out two of the unfortunate passengers, who were stout active young fellows; and, but for the preposterous length of their greatcoats, and the equally fashionable latitude and longitude of their wellington trousers, would have required little assistance from any one. the third was sickly and elderly, and might have perished but for the efforts used to preserve him. when the two greatcoated gentlemen had extricated themselves from the river, and shaken their ears like huge water-dogs, a violent altercation ensued betwixt them and the coachman and guard, concerning the cause of their overthrow. in the course of the squabble, i observed that both my new acquaintances belonged to the law, and that their professional sharpness was likely to prove an overmatch for the surly and official tone of the guardians of the vehicle. the dispute ended in the guard assuring the passengers that they should have seats in a heavy coach which would pass that spot in less than half-an-hour, provided it were not full. chance seemed to favour this arrangement, for when the expected vehicle, arrived, there were only two places occupied in a carriage which professed to carry six. the two ladies who had been disinterred out of the fallen vehicle were readily admitted, but positive objections were stated by those previously in possession to the admittance of the two lawyers, whose wetted garments being much of the nature of well-soaked sponges, there was every reason to believe they would refund a considerable part of the water they had collected, to the inconvenience of their fellow-passengers. on the other hand, the lawyers rejected a seat on the roof, alleging that they had only taken that station for pleasure for one stage, but were entitled in all respects to free egress and regress from the interior, to which their contract positively referred. after some altercation, in which something was said upon the edict _nautae caupones stabularii,_ the coach went off, leaving the learned gentlemen to abide by their action of damages. they immediately applied to me to guide them to the next village and the best inn; and from the account i gave them of the wallace head, declared they were much better pleased to stop there than to go forward upon the terms of that impudent scoundrel the guard of the somerset. all that they now wanted was a lad to carry their travelling bags, who was easily procured from an adjoining cottage; and they prepared to walk forward, when they found there was another passenger in the same deserted situation with themselves. this was the elderly and sickly-looking person, who had been precipitated into the river along with the two young lawyers. he, it seems, had been too modest to push his own plea against the coachman when he saw that of his betters rejected, and now remained behind with a look of timid anxiety, plainly intimating that he was deficient in those means of recommendation which are necessary passports to the hospitality of an inn. i ventured to call the attention of the two dashing young blades, for such they seemed, to the desolate condition of their fellow-traveller. they took the hint with ready good-nature. "o, true, mr. dunover," said one of the youngsters, "you must not remain on the pave' here; you must go and have some dinner with us--halkit and i must have a post-chaise to go on, at all events, and we will set you down wherever suits you best." the poor man, for such his dress, as well as his diffidence, bespoke him, made the sort of acknowledging bow by which says a scotsman, "it's too much honour for the like of me;" and followed humbly behind his gay patrons, all three besprinkling the dusty road as they walked along with the moisture of their drenched garments, and exhibiting the singular and somewhat ridiculous appearance of three persons suffering from the opposite extreme of humidity, while the summer sun was at its height, and everything else around them had the expression of heat and drought. the ridicule did not escape the young gentlemen themselves, and they had made what might be received as one or two tolerable jests on the subject before they had advanced far on their peregrination. "we cannot complain, like cowley," said one of them, "that gideon's fleece remains dry, while all around is moist; this is the reverse of the miracle." "we ought to be received with gratitude in this good town; we bring a supply of what they seem to need most," said halkit. "and distribute it with unparalleled generosity," replied his companion; "performing the part of three water-carts for the benefit of their dusty roads." "we come before them, too," said halkit, "in full professional force--counsel and agent"-- "and client," said the young advocate, looking behind him; and then added, lowering his voice, "that looks as if he had kept such dangerous company too long." it was, indeed, too true, that the humble follower of the gay young men had the threadbare appearance of a worn-out litigant, and i could not but smile at the conceit, though anxious to conceal my mirth from the object of it. when we arrived at the wallace inn, the elder of the edinburgh gentlemen, and whom i understood to be a barrister, insisted that i should remain and take part of their dinner; and their inquiries and demands speedily put my landlord and his whole family in motion to produce the best cheer which the larder and cellar afforded, and proceed to cook it to the best advantage, a science in which our entertainers seemed to be admirably skilled. in other respects they were lively young men, in the hey-day of youth and good spirits, playing the part which is common to the higher classes of the law at edinburgh, and which nearly resembles that of the young templars in the days of steele and addison. an air of giddy gaiety mingled with the good sense, taste, and information which their conversation exhibited; and it seemed to be their object to unite the character of men of fashion and lovers of the polite arts. a fine gentleman, bred up in the thorough idleness and inanity of pursuit, which i understand is absolutely necessary to the character in perfection, might in all probability have traced a tinge of professional pedantry which marked the barrister in spite of his efforts, and something of active bustle in his companion, and would certainly have detected more than a fashionable mixture of information and animated interest in the language of both. but to me, who had no pretensions to be so critical, my companions seemed to form a very happy mixture of good-breeding and liberal information, with a disposition to lively rattle, pun, and jest, amusing to a grave man, because it is what he himself can least easily command. the thin pale-faced man, whom their good-nature had brought into their society, looked out of place as well as out of spirits; sate on the edge of his seat, and kept the chair at two feet distance from the table; thus incommoding himself considerably in conveying the victuals to his mouth, as if by way of penance for partaking of them in the company of his superiors. a short time after dinner, declining all entreaty to partake of the wine, which circulated freely round, he informed himself of the hour when the chaise had been ordered to attend; and saying he would be in readiness, modestly withdrew from the apartment. "jack," said the barrister to his companion, "i remember that poor fellow's face; you spoke more truly than you were aware of; he really is one of my clients, poor man." "poor man!" echoed halkit--"i suppose you mean he is your one and only client?" "that's not my fault, jack," replied the other, whose name i discovered was hardie. "you are to give me all your business, you know; and if you have none, the learned gentleman here knows nothing can come of nothing." "you seem to have brought something to nothing though, in the case of that honest man. he looks as if he were just about to honour with his residence the heart of mid-lothian." "you are mistaken--he is just delivered from it.--our friend here looks for an explanation. pray, mr. pattieson, have you been in edinburgh?" i answered in the affirmative. "then you must have passed, occasionally at least, though probably not so faithfully as i am doomed to do, through a narrow intricate passage, leading out of the north-west corner of the parliament square, and passing by a high and antique building with turrets and iron grates, making good the saying odd, 'near the church and far from god'"-- mr. halkit broke in upon his learned counsel, to contribute his moiety to the riddle--"having at the door the sign of the red man"-- "and being on the whole," resumed the counsellor interrupting his friend in his turn, "a sort of place where misfortune is happily confounded with guilt, where all who are in wish to get out"-- "and where none who have the good luck to be out, wish to get in," added his companion. "i conceive you, gentlemen," replied i; "you mean the prison." "the prison," added the young lawyer--"you have hit it--the very reverend tolbooth itself; and let me tell you, you are obliged to us for describing it with so much modesty and brevity; for with whatever amplifications we might have chosen to decorate the subject, you lay entirely at our mercy, since the fathers conscript of our city have decreed that the venerable edifice itself shall not remain in existence to confirm or to confute its." "then the tolbooth of edinburgh is called the heart of mid-lothian?" said i. "so termed and reputed, i assure you." "i think," said i, with the bashful diffidence with which a man lets slip a pun in presence of his superiors, "the metropolitan county may, in that case, be said to have a sad heart." "right as my glove, mr. pattieson," added mr. hardie; "and a close heart, and a hard heart--keep it up, jack." "and a wicked heart, and a poor heart," answered halkit, doing his best. "and yet it may be called in some sort a strong heart, and a high heart," rejoined the advocate. "you see i can put you both out of heart." "i have played all my hearts," said the younger gentleman. "then we'll have another lead," answered his companion.--"and as to the old and condemned tolbooth, what pity the same honour cannot be done to it as has been done to many of its inmates. why should not the tolbooth have its 'last speech, confession, and dying words?' the old stones would be just as conscious of the honour as many a poor devil who has dangled like a tassel at the west end of it, while the hawkers were shouting a confession the culprit had never heard of." "i am afraid," said i, "if i might presume to give my opinion, it would be a tale of unvaried sorrow and guilt." "not entirely, my friend," said hardie; "a prison is a world within itself, and has its own business, griefs, and joys, peculiar to its circle. its inmates are sometimes short-lived, but so are soldiers on service; they are poor relatively to the world without, but there are degrees of wealth and poverty among them, and so some are relatively rich also. they cannot stir abroad, but neither can the garrison of a besieged fort, or the crew of a ship at sea; and they are not under a dispensation quite so desperate as either, for they may have as much food as they have money to buy, and are not obliged to work, whether they have food or not." "but what variety of incident," said i (not without a secret view to my present task), "could possibly be derived from such a work as you are pleased to talk of?" "infinite," replied the young advocate. "whatever of guilt, crime, imposture, folly, unheard-of misfortunes, and unlooked-for change of fortune, can be found to chequer life, my last speech of the tolbooth should illustrate with examples sufficient to gorge even the public's all-devouring appetite for the wonderful and horrible. the inventor of fictitious narratives has to rack his brains for means to diversify his tale, and after all can hardly hit upon characters or incidents which have not been used again and again, until they are familiar to the eye of the reader, so that the development, _enle'vement,_ the desperate wound of which the hero never dies, the burning fever from which the heroine is sure to recover, become a mere matter of course. i join with my honest friend crabbe, and have an unlucky propensity to hope, when hope is lost, and to rely upon the cork-jacket, which carries the heroes of romance safe through all the billows of affliction." he then declaimed the following passage, rather with too much than too little emphasis:-- much have i feared, but am no more afraid, when some chaste beauty by some wretch betrayed, is drawn away with such distracted speed, that she anticipates a dreadful deed. not so do i--let solid walls impound the captive fair, and dig a moat around; let there be brazen locks and bars of steel, and keepers cruel, such as never feel; with not a single note the purse supply, and when she begs, let men and maids deny; be windows there from which she dare not fall, and help so distant, 'tis in vain to call; still means of freedom will some power devise, and from the baffled ruffian snatch his prize. "the end of uncertainty," he concluded, "is the death of interest; and hence it happens that no one now reads novels." "hear him, ye gods!" returned his companion. "i assure you, mr. pattieson, you will hardly visit this learned gentleman, but you are likely to find the new novel most in repute lying on his table,--snugly intrenched, however, beneath stair's institutes, or an open volume of morrison's decisions." "do i deny it?" said the hopeful jurisconsult, "or wherefore should i, since it is well known these delilahs seduce my wisers and my betters? may they not be found lurking amidst the multiplied memorials of our most distinguished counsel, and even peeping from under the cushion of a judge's arm-chair? our seniors at the bar, within the bar, and even on the bench, read novels; and, if not belied, some of them have written novels into the bargain. i only say, that i read from habit and from indolence, not from real interest; that, like ancient pistol devouring his leek, i read and swear till i get to the end of the narrative. but not so in the real records of human vagaries--not so in the state trials, or in the books of adjournal, where every now and then you read new pages of the human heart, and turns of fortune far beyond what the boldest novelist ever attempted to produce from the coinage of his brain." "and for such narratives," i asked, "you suppose the history of the prison of edinburgh might afford appropriate materials?" "in a degree unusually ample, my dear sir," said hardie--"fill your glass, however, in the meanwhile. was it not for many years the place in which the scottish parliament met? was it not james's place of refuge, when the mob, inflamed by a seditious preacher, broke, forth, on him with the cries of 'the sword of the lord and of gideon--bring forth the wicked haman?' since that time how many hearts have throbbed within these walls, as the tolling of the neighbouring bell announced to them how fast the sands of their life were ebbing; how many must have sunk at the sound--how many were supported by stubborn pride and dogged resolution--how many by the consolations of religion? have there not been some, who, looking back on the motives of their crimes, were scarce able to understand how they should have had such temptation as to seduce them from virtue; and have there not, perhaps, been others, who, sensible of their innocence, were divided between indignation at the undeserved doom which they were to undergo, consciousness that they had not deserved it, and racking anxiety to discover some way in which they might yet vindicate themselves? do you suppose any of these deep, powerful, and agitating feelings, can be recorded and perused without exciting a corresponding depth of deep, powerful, and agitating interest?--oh! do but wait till i publish the _causes ce'le'bres_ of caledonia, and you will find no want of a novel or a tragedy for some time to come. the true thing will triumph over the brightest inventions of the most ardent imagination. _magna est veritas, et praevalebit._" "i have understood," said i, encouraged by the affability of my rattling entertainer, "that less of this interest must attach to scottish jurisprudence than to that of any other country. the general morality of our people, their sober and prudent habits"-- "secure them," said the barrister, "against any great increase of professional thieves and depredators, but not against wild and wayward starts of fancy and passion, producing crimes of an extraordinary description, which are precisely those to the detail of which we listen with thrilling interest. england has been much longer a highly civilised country; her subjects have been very strictly amenable to laws administered without fear or favour, a complete division of labour has taken place among her subjects, and the very thieves and robbers form a distinct class in society, subdivided among themselves according to the subject of the depredations, and the mode in which they carry them on, acting upon regular habits and principles, which can be calculated and anticipated at bow street, hatton garden, or the old bailey. our sister kingdom is like a cultivated field,--the farmer expects that, in spite of all his care, a certain number of weeds will rise with the corn, and can tell you beforehand their names and appearance. but scotland is like one of her own highland glens, and the moralist who reads the records of her criminal jurisprudence, will find as many curious anomalous facts in the history of mind, as the botanist will detect rare specimens among her dingles and cliffs." "and that's all the good you have obtained from three perusals of the commentaries on scottish criminal jurisprudence?" said his companion. "i suppose the learned author very little thinks that the facts which his erudition and acuteness have accumulated for the illustration of legal doctrines, might be so arranged as to form a sort of appendix to the half-bound and slip-shod volumes of the circulating library." "i'll bet you a pint of claret," said the elder lawyer, "that he will not feel sore at the comparison. but as we say at the bar, 'i beg i may not be interrupted;' i have much more to say, upon my scottish collection of _causes ce'le'bres._ you will please recollect the scope and motive given for the contrivance and execution of many extraordinary and daring crimes, by the long civil dissensions of scotland--by the hereditary jurisdictions, which, until , rested the investigation of crises in judges, ignorant, partial, or interested--by the habits of the gentry, shut up in their distant and solitary mansion-houses, nursing their revengeful passions just to keep their blood from stagnating--not to mention that amiable national qualification, called the _perfervidum ingenium scotorum,_ which our lawyers join in alleging as a reason for the severity of some of our enactments. when i come to treat of matters so mysterious, deep, and dangerous, as these circumstances have given rise to, the blood of each reader shall be curdled, and his epidermis crisped into goose skin.--but, hist!--here comes the landlord, with tidings, i suppose, that the chaise is ready." it was no such thing--the tidings bore, that no chaise could be had that evening, for sir peter plyem had carried forward my landlord's two pairs of horses that morning to the ancient royal borough of bubbleburgh, to look after his interest there. but as bubbleburgh is only one of a set of five boroughs which club their shares for a member of parliament, sir peter's adversary had judiciously watched his departure, in order to commence a canvass in the no less royal borough of bitem, which, as all the world knows, lies at the very termination of sir peter's avenue, and has been held in leading-strings by him and his ancestors for time immemorial. now sir peter was thus placed in the situation of an ambitious monarch, who, after having commenced a daring inroad into his enemy's territories, is suddenly recalled by an invasion of his own hereditary dominions. he was obliged in consequence to return from the half-won borough of bubbleburgh, to look after the half-lost borough of bitem, and the two pairs of horses which had carried him that morning to bubbleburgh were now forcibly detained to transport him, his agent, his valet, his jester, and his hard-drinker, across the country to bitem. the cause of this detention, which to me was of as little consequence as it may be to the reader, was important enough to my companions to reconcile them to the delay. like eagles, they smelled the battle afar off, ordered a magnum of claret and beds at the wallace, and entered at full career into the bubbleburgh and bitem politics, with all the probable "petitions and complaints" to which they were likely to give rise. in the midst of an anxious, animated, and, to me, most unintelligible discussion, concerning provosts, bailies, deacons, sets of boroughs, leets, town-clerks, burgesses resident and non-resident, all of a sudden the lawyer recollected himself. "poor dunover, we must not forget him;" and the landlord was despatched in quest of the _pauvre honteux,_ with an earnestly civil invitation to him for the rest of the evening. i could not help asking the young gentlemen if they knew the history of this poor man; and the counsellor applied himself to his pocket to recover the memorial or brief from which he had stated his cause. "he has been a candidate for our _remedium miserabile,_" said mr. hardie, "commonly called a _cessio bonorum._ as there are divines who have doubted the eternity of future punishments, so the scotch lawyers seem to have thought that the crime of poverty might be atoned for by something short of perpetual imprisonment. after a month's confinement, you must know, a prisoner for debt is entitled, on a sufficient statement to our supreme court, setting forth the amount of his funds, and the nature of his misfortunes, and surrendering all his effects to his creditors, to claim to be discharged from prison." "i had heard," i replied, "of such a humane regulation." "yes," said halkit, "and the beauty of it is, as the foreign fellow said, you may get the _cessio,_ when the _bonorums_ are all spent--but what, are you puzzling in your pockets to seek your only memorial among old play-bills, letters requesting a meeting of the faculty, rules of the speculative society,* syllabus' of lectures--all the miscellaneous contents of a young advocate's pocket, which contains everything but briefs and bank-notes? * [a well-known debating club in edinburgh.] can you not state a case of _cessio_ without your memorial? why, it is done every saturday. the events follow each other as regularly as clock-work, and one form of condescendence might suit every one of them." "this is very unlike the variety of distress which this gentleman stated to fall under the consideration of your judges," said i. "true," replied halkit; "but hardie spoke of criminal jurisprudence, and this business is purely civil. i could plead a _cessio_ myself without the inspiring honours of a gown and three-tailed periwig--listen.--my client was bred a journeyman weaver--made some little money--took a farm--(for conducting a farm, like driving a gig, comes by nature)--late severe times--induced to sign bills with a friend, for which he received no value--landlord sequestrates--creditors accept a composition--pursuer sets up a public-house--fails a second time--is incarcerated for a debt of ten pounds seven shillings and sixpence--his debts amount to blank--his losses to blank--his funds to blank--leaving a balance of blank in his favour. there is no opposition; your lordships will please grant commission to take his oath." hardie now renounced this ineffectual search, in which there was perhaps a little affectation, and told us the tale of poor dunover's distresses, with a tone in which a degree of feeling, which he seemed ashamed of as unprofessional, mingled with his attempts at wit, and did him more honour. it was one of those tales which seem to argue a sort of ill-luck or fatality attached to the hero. a well-informed, industrious, and blameless, but poor and bashful man, had in vain essayed all the usual means by which others acquire independence, yet had never succeeded beyond the attainment of bare subsistence. during a brief gleam of hope, rather than of actual prosperity, he had added a wife and family to his cares, but the dawn was speedily overcast. everything retrograded with him towards the verge of the miry slough of despond, which yawns for insolvent debtors; and after catching at each twig, and experiencing the protracted agony of feeling them one by one elude his grasp, he actually sunk into the miry pit whence he had been extricated by the professional exertions of hardie. "and, i suppose, now you have dragged this poor devil ashore, you will leave him half naked on the beach to provide for himself?" said halkit. "hark ye,"--and he whispered something in his ear, of which the penetrating and insinuating words, "interest with my lord," alone reached mine. "it is _pessimi exempli,_" said hardie, laughing, "to provide for a ruined client; but i was thinking of what you mention, provided it can be managed--but hush! here he comes." the recent relation of the poor man's misfortunes had given him, i was pleased to observe, a claim to the attention and respect of the young men, who treated him with great civility, and gradually engaged him in a conversation, which, much to my satisfaction, again turned upon the _causes ce'le'bres_ of scotland. imboldened by the kindness with which he was treated, mr. dunover began to contribute his share to the amusement of the evening. jails, like other places, have their ancient traditions, known only to the inhabitants, and handed down from one set of the melancholy lodgers to the next who occupy their cells. some of these, which dunover mentioned, were interesting, and served to illustrate the narratives of remarkable trials, which hardie had at his finger-ends, and which his companion was also well skilled in. this sort of conversation passed away the evening till the early hour when mr. dunover chose to retire to rest, and i also retreated to take down memorandums of what i had learned, in order to add another narrative to those which it had been my chief amusement to collect, and to write out in detail. the two young men ordered a broiled bone, madeira negus, and a pack of cards, and commenced a game at picquet. next morning the travellers left gandercleugh. i afterwards learned from the papers that both have been since engaged in the great political cause of bubbleburgh and bitem, a summary case, and entitled to particular despatch; but which, it is thought, nevertheless, may outlast the duration of the parliament to which the contest refers. mr. halkit, as the newspapers informed me, acts as agent or solicitor; and mr. hardie opened for sir peter plyem with singular ability, and to such good purpose, that i understand he has since had fewer play-bills and more briefs in his pocket. and both the young gentlemen deserve their good fortune; for i learned from dunover, who called on me some weeks afterwards, and communicated the intelligence with tears in his eyes, that their interest had availed to obtain him a small office for the decent maintenance of his family; and that, after a train of constant and uninterrupted misfortune, he could trace a dawn of prosperity to his having the good fortune to be flung from the top of a mail-coach into the river gander, in company with an advocate and a writer to the signet. the reader will not perhaps deem himself equally obliged to the accident, since it brings upon him the following narrative, founded upon the conversation of the evening. the heart of midlothian chapter first. whoe'er's been at paris must needs know the gre've, the fatal retreat of the unfortunate brave, where honour and justice most oddly contribute, to ease heroes' pains by an halter and gibbet. there death breaks the shackles which force had put on, and the hangman completes what the judge but began; there the squire of the poet, and knight of the post, find their pains no more baulked, and their hopes no more crossed. prior. in former times, england had her tyburn, to which the devoted victims of justice were conducted in solemn procession up what is now called oxford street. in edinburgh, a large open street, or rather oblong square, surrounded by high houses, called the grassmarket, was used for the same melancholy purpose. it was not ill chosen for such a scene, being of considerable extent, and therefore fit to accommodate a great number of spectators, such as are usually assembled by this melancholy spectacle. on the other hand, few of the houses which surround it were, even in early times, inhabited by persons of fashion; so that those likely to be offended or over deeply affected by such unpleasant exhibitions were not in the way of having their quiet disturbed by them. the houses in the grassmarket are, generally speaking, of a mean description; yet the place is not without some features of grandeur, being overhung by the southern side of the huge rock on which the castle stands, and by the moss-grown battlements and turreted walls of that ancient fortress. it was the custom, until within these thirty years or thereabouts, to use this esplanade for the scene of public executions. the fatal day was announced to the public by the appearance of a huge black gallows-tree towards the eastern end of the grassmarket. this ill-omened apparition was of great height, with a scaffold surrounding it, and a double ladder placed against it, for the ascent of the unhappy criminal and executioner. as this apparatus was always arranged before dawn, it seemed as if the gallows had grown out of the earth in the course of one night, like the production of some foul demon; and i well remember the fright with which the schoolboys, when i was one of their number, used to regard these ominous signs of deadly preparation. on the night after the execution the gallows again disappeared, and was conveyed in silence and darkness to the place where it was usually deposited, which was one of the vaults under the parliament house, or courts of justice. this mode of execution is now exchanged for one similar to that in front of newgate,--with what beneficial effect is uncertain. the mental sufferings of the convict are indeed shortened. he no longer stalks between the attendant clergymen, dressed in his grave-clothes, through a considerable part of the city, looking like a moving and walking corpse, while yet an inhabitant of this world; but, as the ultimate purpose of punishment has in view the prevention of crimes, it may at least be doubted, whether, in abridging the melancholy ceremony, we have not in part diminished that appalling effect upon the spectators which is the useful end of all such inflictions, and in consideration of which alone, unless in very particular cases, capital sentences can be altogether justified. on the th day of september , these ominous preparations for execution were descried in the place we have described, and at an early hour the space around began to be occupied by several groups, who gazed on the scaffold and gibbet with a stern and vindictive show of satisfaction very seldom testified by the populace, whose good nature, in most cases, forgets the crime of the condemned person, and dwells only on his misery. but the act of which the expected culprit had been convicted was of a description calculated nearly and closely to awaken and irritate the resentful feelings of the multitude. the tale is well known; yet it is necessary to recapitulate its leading circumstances, for the better understanding what is to follow; and the narrative may prove long, but i trust not uninteresting even to those who have heard its general issue. at any rate, some detail is necessary, in order to render intelligible the subsequent events of our narrative. contraband trade, though it strikes at the root of legitimate government, by encroaching on its revenues,--though it injures the fair trader, and debauches the mind of those engaged in it,--is not usually looked upon, either by the vulgar or by their betters, in a very heinous point of view. on the contrary, in those countries where it prevails, the cleverest, boldest, and most intelligent of the peasantry, are uniformly engaged in illicit transactions, and very often with the sanction of the farmers and inferior gentry. smuggling was almost universal in scotland in the reigns of george i. and ii.; for the people, unaccustomed to imposts, and regarding them as an unjust aggression upon their ancient liberties, made no scruple to elude them whenever it was possible to do so. the county of fife, bounded by two firths on the south and north, and by the sea on the east, and having a number of small seaports, was long famed for maintaining successfully a contraband trade; and, as there were many seafaring men residing there, who had been pirates and buccaneers in their youth, there were not wanting a sufficient number of daring men to carry it on. among these, a fellow called andrew wilson, originally a baker in the village of pathhead, was particularly obnoxious to the revenue officers. he was possessed of great personal strength, courage, and cunning,--was perfectly acquainted with the coast, and capable of conducting the most desperate enterprises. on several occasions he succeeded in baffling the pursuit and researches of the king's officers; but he became so much the object of their suspicions and watchful attention, that at length he was totally ruined by repeated seizures. the man became desperate. he considered himself as robbed and plundered; and took it into his head that he had a right to make reprisals, as he could find opportunity. where the heart is prepared for evil, opportunity is seldom long wanting. this wilson learned that the collector of the customs at kirkcaldy had come to pittenweem, in the course of his official round of duty, with a considerable sum of public money in his custody. as the amount was greatly within the value of the goods which had been seized from him, wilson felt no scruple of conscience in resolving to reimburse himself for his losses, at the expense of the collector and the revenue. he associated with himself one robertson, and two other idle young men, whom, having been concerned in the same illicit trade, he persuaded to view the transaction in the same justifiable light in which he himself considered it. they watched the motions of the collector; they broke forcibly into the house where he lodged,--wilson, with two of his associates, entering the collector's apartment, while robertson, the fourth, kept watch at the door with a drawn cutlass in his hand. the officer of the customs, conceiving his life in danger, escaped out of his bedroom window, and fled in his shirt, so that the plunderers, with much ease, possessed themselves of about two hundred pounds of public money. the robbery was committed in a very audacious manner, for several persons were passing in the street at the time. but robertson, representing the noise they heard as a dispute or fray betwixt the collector and the people of the house, the worthy citizens of pittenweem felt themselves no way called on to interfere in behalf of the obnoxious revenue officer; so, satisfying themselves with this very superficial account of the matter, like the levite in the parable, they passed on the opposite side of the way. an alarm was at length given, military were called in, the depredators were pursued, the booty recovered, and wilson and robertson tried and condemned to death, chiefly on the evidence of an accomplice. many thought that, in consideration of the men's erroneous opinion of the nature of the action they had committed, justice might have been satisfied with a less forfeiture than that of two lives. on the other hand, from the audacity of the fact, a severe example was judged necessary; and such was the opinion of the government. when it became apparent that the sentence of death was to be executed, files, and other implements necessary for their escape, were transmitted secretly to the culprits by a friend from without. by these means they sawed a bar out of one of the prison-windows, and might have made their escape, but for the obstinacy of wilson, who, as he was daringly resolute, was doggedly pertinacious of his opinion. his comrade, robertson, a young and slender man, proposed to make the experiment of passing the foremost through the gap they had made, and enlarging it from the outside, if necessary, to allow wilson free passage. wilson, however, insisted on making the first experiment, and being a robust and lusty man, he not only found it impossible to get through betwixt the bars, but, by his struggles, he jammed himself so fast, that he was unable to draw his body back again. in these circumstances discovery became unavoidable, and sufficient precautions were taken by the jailor to prevent any repetition of the same attempt. robertson uttered not a word of reflection on his companion for the consequences of his obstinacy; but it appeared from the sequel, that wilson's mind was deeply impressed with the recollection that, but for him, his comrade, over whose mind he exercised considerable influence, would not have engaged in the criminal enterprise which had terminated thus fatally; and that now he had become his destroyer a second time, since, but for his obstinacy, robertson might have effected his escape. minds like wilson's, even when exercised in evil practices, sometimes retain the power of thinking and resolving with enthusiastic generosity. his whole thoughts were now bent on the possibility of saving robertson's life, without the least respect to his own. the resolution which he adopted, and the manner in which he carried it into effect, were striking and unusual. adjacent to the tolbooth or city jail of edinburgh, is one of three churches into which the cathedral of st. giles is now divided, called, from its vicinity, the tolbooth church. it was the custom that criminals under sentence of death were brought to this church, with a sufficient guard, to hear and join in public worship on the sabbath before execution. it was supposed that the hearts of these unfortunate persons, however hardened before against feelings of devotion, could not but be accessible to them upon uniting their thoughts and voices, for the last time, along with their fellow-mortals, in addressing their creator. and to the rest of the congregation, it was thought it could not but be impressive and affecting, to find their devotions mingling with those, who, sent by the doom of an earthly tribunal to appear where the whole earth is judged, might be considered as beings trembling on the verge of eternity. the practice, however edifying, has been discontinued, in consequence of the incident we are about to detail. the clergyman, whose duty it was to officiate in the tolbooth church, had concluded an affecting discourse, part of which was particularly directed to the unfortunate men, wilson and robertson, who were in the pew set apart for the persons in their unhappy situation, each secured betwixt two soldiers of the city guard. the clergyman had reminded them, that the next congregation they must join would be that of the just, or of the unjust; that the psalms they now heard must be exchanged, in the space of two brief days, for eternal hallelujahs, or eternal lamentations; and that this fearful alternative must depend upon the state to which they might be able to bring their minds before the moment of awful preparation: that they should not despair on account of the suddenness of the summons, but rather to feel this comfort in their misery, that, though all who now lifted the voice, or bent the knee in conjunction with them, lay under the same sentence of certain death, _they_ only had the advantage of knowing the precise moment at which it should be executed upon them. "therefore," urged the good man, his voice trembling with emotion, "redeem the time, my unhappy brethren, which is yet left; and remember, that, with the grace of him to whom space and time are but as nothing, salvation may yet be assured, even in the pittance of delay which the laws of your country afford you." robertson was observed to weep at these words; but wilson seemed as one whose brain had not entirely received their meaning, or whose thoughts were deeply impressed with some different subject;--an expression so natural to a person in his situation, that it excited neither suspicion nor surprise. the benediction was pronounced as usual, and the congregation was dismissed, many lingering to indulge their curiosity with a more fixed look at the two criminals, who now, as well as their guards, rose up, as if to depart when the crowd should permit them. a murmur of compassion was heard to pervade the spectators, the more general, perhaps, on account of the alleviating circumstances of the case; when all at once, wilson, who, as we have already noticed, was a very strong man, seized two of the soldiers, one with each hand, and calling at the same time to his companion, "run, geordie, run!" threw himself on a third, and fastened his teeth on the collar of his coat. robertson stood for a second as if thunderstruck, and unable to avail himself of the opportunity of escape; but the cry of "run, run!" being echoed from many around, whose feelings surprised them into a very natural interest in his behalf, he shook off the grasp of the remaining soldier, threw himself over the pew, mixed with the dispersing congregation, none of whom felt inclined to stop a poor wretch taking his last chance for his life, gained the door of the church, and was lost to all pursuit. the generous intrepidity which wilson had displayed on this occasion augmented the feeling of compassion which attended his fate. the public, where their own prejudices are not concerned, are easily engaged on the side of disinterestedness and humanity, admired wilson's behaviour, and rejoiced in robertson's escape. this general feeling was so great, that it excited a vague report that wilson would be rescued at the place of execution, either by the mob or by some of his old associates, or by some second extraordinary and unexpected exertion of strength and courage on his own part. the magistrates thought it their duty to provide against the possibility of disturbance. they ordered out, for protection of the execution of the sentence, the greater part of their own city guard, under the command of captain porteous, a man whose name became too memorable from the melancholy circumstances of the day, and subsequent events. it may be necessary to say a word about this person, and the corps which he commanded. but the subject is of importance sufficient to deserve another chapter. chapter second. and thou, great god of aquavitae! wha sways the empire of this city (when fou we're sometimes capernoity), be thou prepared, to save us frae that black banditti, the city guard! fergusson's _daft days._ captain john porteous, a name memorable in the traditions of edinburgh, as well as in the records of criminal jurisprudence, was the son of a citizen of edinburgh, who endeavoured to breed him up to his own mechanical trade of a tailor. the youth, however, had a wild and irreclaimable propensity to dissipation, which finally sent him to serve in the corps long maintained in the service of the states of holland, and called the scotch dutch. here he learned military discipline; and, returning afterwards, in the course of an idle and wandering life, to his native city, his services were required by the magistrates of edinburgh in the disturbed year , for disciplining their city guard, in which he shortly afterwards received a captain's commission. it was only by his military skill and an alert and resolute character as an officer of police, that he merited this promotion, for he is said to have been a man of profligate habits, an unnatural son, and a brutal husband. he was, however, useful in his station, and his harsh and fierce habits rendered him formidable to rioters or disturbers of the public peace. the corps in which he held his command is, or perhaps we should rather say _was,_ a body of about one hundred and twenty soldiers divided into three companies, and regularly armed, clothed, and embodied. they were chiefly veterans who enlisted in this cogs, having the benefit of working at their trades when they were off duty. these men had the charge of preserving public order, repressing riots and street robberies, acting, in short, as an armed police, and attending on all public occasions where confusion or popular disturbance might be expected.* * the lord provost was ex-officio commander and colonel of the corps, which might be increased to three hundred men when the times required it. no other drum but theirs was allowed to sound on the high street between the luckenbooths and the netherbow. poor fergusson, whose irregularities sometimes led him into unpleasant rencontres with these military conservators of public order, and who mentions them so often that he may be termed their poet laureate,* thus admonishes his readers, warned doubtless by his own experience:-- * [robert fergusson, the scottish poet, born , died .] "gude folk, as ye come frae the fair, bide yont frae this black squad: there's nae sic savages elsewhere allowed to wear cockad." in fact, the soldiers of the city guard, being, as we have said, in general discharged veterans, who had strength enough remaining for this municipal duty, and being, moreover, for the greater part, highlanders, were neither by birth, education, nor former habits, trained to endure with much patience the insults of the rabble, or the provoking petulance of truant schoolboys, and idle debauchees of all descriptions, with whom their occupation brought them into contact. on the contrary, the tempers of the poor old fellows were soured by the indignities with which the mob distinguished them on many occasions, and frequently might have required the soothing strains of the poet we have just quoted-- "o soldiers! for your ain dear sakes, for scotland's love, the land o' cakes, gie not her bairns sic deadly paiks, nor be sae rude, wi' firelock or lochaber-axe, as spill their bluid!" on all occasions when a holiday licensed some riot and irregularity, a skirmish with these veterans was a favourite recreation with the rabble of edinburgh. these pages may perhaps see the light when many have in fresh recollection such onsets as we allude to. but the venerable corps, with whom the contention was held, may now be considered as totally extinct. of late the gradual diminution of these civic soldiers reminds one of the abatement of king lear's hundred knights. the edicts of each succeeding set of magistrates have, like those of goneril and regan, diminished this venerable band with the similar question, "what need we five-and-twenty?--ten?--or five?" and it is now nearly come to, "what need one?" a spectre may indeed here and there still be seen, of an old grey-headed and grey-bearded highlander, with war-worn features, but bent double by age; dressed in an old fashioned cocked-hat, bound with white tape instead of silver lace; and in coat, waistcoat, and breeches, of a muddy-coloured red, bearing in his withered hand an ancient weapon, called a lochaber-axe; a long pole, namely, with an axe at the extremity, and a hook at the back of the hatchet.* * this hook was to enable the bearer of the lochaber-axe to scale a gateway, by grappling the top of the door, and swinging himself up by the staff of his weapon. such a phantom of former days still creeps, i have been informed, round the statue of charles the second, in the parliament square, as if the image of a stuart were the last refuge for any memorial of our ancient manners; and one or two others are supposed to glide around the door of the guardhouse assigned to them in the luckenbooths, when their ancient refuge in the high street was laid low.* * this ancient corps is now entirely disbanded. their last march to do duty at hallowfair had something in it affecting. their drums and fifes had been wont on better days to play, on this joyous occasion, the lively tune of "jockey to the fair;" but on his final occasion the afflicted veterans moved slowly to the dirge of "the last time i came ower the muir." but the fate of manuscripts bequeathed to friends and executors is so uncertain, that the narrative containing these frail memorials of the old town guard of edinburgh, who, with their grim and valiant corporal, john dhu (the fiercest-looking fellow i ever saw), were, in my boyhood, the alternate terror and derision of the petulant brood of the high school, may, perhaps, only come to light when all memory of the institution has faded away, and then serve as an illustration of kay's caricatures, who has preserved the features of some of their heroes. in the preceding generation, when there was a perpetual alarm for the plots and activity of the jacobites, some pains were taken by the magistrates of edinburgh to keep this corps, though composed always of such materials as we have noticed, in a more effective state than was afterwards judged necessary, when their most dangerous service was to skirmish with the rabble on the king's birthday. they were, therefore, more the objects of hatred, and less that of scorn, than they were afterwards accounted. to captain john porteous, the honour of his command and of his corps seems to have been a matter of high interest and importance. he was exceedingly incensed against wilson for the affront which he construed him to have put upon his soldiers, in the effort he made for the liberation of his companion, and expressed himself most ardently on the subject. he was no less indignant at the report, that there was an intention to rescue wilson himself from the gallows, and uttered many threats and imprecations upon that subject, which were afterwards remembered to his disadvantage. in fact, if a good deal of determination and promptitude rendered porteous, in one respect, fit to command guards designed to suppress popular commotion, he seems, on the other, to have been disqualified for a charge so delicate, by a hot and surly temper, always too ready to come to blows and violence; a character void of principle; and a disposition to regard the rabble, who seldom failed to regale him and his soldiers with some marks of their displeasure, as declared enemies, upon whom it was natural and justifiable that he should seek opportunities of vengeance. being, however, the most active and trustworthy among the captains of the city guard, he was the person to whom the magistrates confided the command of the soldiers appointed to keep the peace at the time of wilson's execution. he was ordered to guard the gallows and scaffold, with about eighty men, all the disposable force that could be spared for that duty. but the magistrates took farther precautions, which affected porteous's pride very deeply. they requested the assistance of part of a regular infantry regiment, not to attend upon the execution, but to remain drawn up on the principal street of the city, during the time that it went forward, in order to intimidate the multitude, in case they should be disposed to be unruly, with a display of force which could not be resisted without desperation. it may sound ridiculous in our ears, considering the fallen state of this ancient civic corps, that its officer should have felt punctiliously jealous of its honour. yet so it was. captain porteous resented, as an indignity, the introducing the welsh fusileers within the city, and drawing them up in the street where no drums but his own were allowed to be sounded without the special command or permission of the magistrates. as he could not show his ill-humour to his patrons the magistrates, it increased his indignation and his desire to be revenged on the unfortunate criminal wilson, and all who favoured him. these internal emotions of jealousy and rage wrought a change on the man's mien and bearing, visible to all who saw him on the fatal morning when wilson was appointed to suffer. porteous's ordinary appearance was rather favourable. he was about the middle size, stout, and well made, having a military air, and yet rather a gentle and mild countenance. his complexion was brown, his face somewhat fretted with the sears of the smallpox, his eyes rather languid than keen or fierce. on the present occasion, however, it seemed to those who saw him as if he were agitated by some evil demon. his step was irregular, his voice hollow and broken, his countenance pale, his eyes staring and wild, his speech imperfect and confused, and his whole appearance so disordered, that many remarked he seemed to be _fey,_ a scottish expression, meaning the state of those who are driven on to their impending fate by the strong impulse of some irresistible necessity. one part of his conduct was truly diabolical, if indeed it has not been exaggerated by the general prejudice entertained against his memory. when wilson, the unhappy criminal, was delivered to him by the keeper of the prison, in order that he might be conducted to the place of execution, porteous, not satisfied with the usual precautions to prevent escape, ordered him to be manacled. this might be justifiable from the character and bodily strength of the malefactor, as well as from the apprehensions so generally entertained of an expected rescue. but the handcuffs which were produced being found too small for the wrists of a man so big-boned as wilson, porteous proceeded with his own hands, and by great exertion of strength, to force them till they clasped together, to the exquisite torture of the unhappy criminal. wilson remonstrated against such barbarous usage, declaring that the pain distracted his thoughts from the subjects of meditation proper to his unhappy condition. "it signifies little," replied captain porteous; "your pain will soon be at an end." "your cruelty is great," answered the sufferer. "you know not how soon you yourself may have occasion to ask the mercy which you are now refusing to a fellow-creature. may god forgive you!" these words, long afterwards quoted and remembered, were all that passed between porteous and his prisoner; but as they took air, and became known to the people, they greatly increased the popular compassion for wilson, and excited a proportionate degree of indignation against porteous; against whom, as strict, and even violent in the discharge of his unpopular office, the common people had some real, and many imaginary causes of complaint. when the painful procession was completed, and wilson, with the escort, had arrived at the scaffold in the grassmarket, there appeared no signs of that attempt to rescue him which had occasioned such precautions. the multitude, in general, looked on with deeper interest than at ordinary executions; and there might be seen, on the countenances of many, a stern and indignant expression, like that with which the ancient cameronians might be supposed to witness the execution of their brethren, who glorified the covenant on the same occasion, and at the same spot. but there was no attempt at violence. wilson himself seemed disposed to hasten over the space that divided time from eternity. the devotions proper and usual on such occasions were no sooner finished than he submitted to his fate, and the sentence of the law was fulfilled. he had been suspended on the gibbet so long as to be totally deprived of life, when at once, as if occasioned by some newly received impulse, there arose a tumult among the multitude. many stones were thrown at porteous and his guards; some mischief was done; and the mob continued to press forward with whoops, shrieks, howls, and exclamations. a young fellow, with a sailor's cap slouched over his face, sprung on the scaffold, and cut the rope by which the criminal was suspended. others approached to carry off the body, either to secure for it a decent grave, or to try, perhaps, some means of resuscitation. captain porteous was wrought, by this appearance of insurrection against his authority, into a rage so headlong as made him forget, that, the sentence having been fully executed, it was his duty not to engage in hostilities with the misguided multitude, but to draw off his men as fast as possible. he sprung from the scaffold, snatched a musket from one of his soldiers, commanded the party to give fire, and, as several eye-witnesses concurred in swearing, set them the example, by discharging his piece, and shooting a man dead on the spot. several soldiers obeyed his command or followed his example; six or seven persons were slain, and a great many were hurt and wounded. after this act of violence, the captain proceeded to withdraw his men towards their guard-house in the high street. the mob were not so much intimidated as incensed by what had been done. they pursued the soldiers with execrations, accompanied by volleys of stones. as they pressed on them, the rearmost soldiers turned, and again fired with fatal aim and execution. it is not accurately known whether porteous commanded this second act of violence; but of course the odium of the whole transactions of the fatal day attached to him, and to him alone. he arrived at the guard-house, dismissed his soldiers, and went to make his report to the magistrates concerning the unfortunate events of the day. apparently by this time captain porteous had began to doubt the propriety of his own conduct, and the reception he met with from the magistrates was such as to make him still more anxious to gloss it over. he denied that he had given orders to fire; he denied he had fired with his own hand; he even produced the fusee which he carried as an officer for examination; it was found still loaded. of three cartridges which he was seen to put in his pouch that morning, two were still there; a white handkerchief was thrust into the muzzle of the piece, and re-turned unsoiled or blackened. to the defence founded on these circumstances it was answered, that porteous had not used his own piece, but had been seen to take one from a soldier. among the many who had been killed and wounded by the unhappy fire, there were several of better rank; for even the humanity of such soldiers as fired over the heads of the mere rabble around the scaffold, proved in some instances fatal to persons who were stationed in windows, or observed the melancholy scene from a distance. the voice of public indignation was loud and general; and, ere men's tempers had time to cool, the trial of captain porteous took place before the high court of justiciary. after a long and patient hearing, the jury had the difficult duty of balancing the positive evidence of many persons, and those of respectability, who deposed positively to the prisoner's commanding his soldiers to fire, and himself firing his piece, of which some swore that they saw the smoke and flash, and beheld a man drop at whom it was pointed, with the negative testimony of others, who, though well stationed for seeing what had passed, neither heard porteous give orders to fire, nor saw him fire himself; but, on the contrary, averred that the first shot was fired by a soldier who stood close by him. a great part of his defence was also founded on the turbulence of the mob, which witnesses, according to their feelings, their predilections, and their opportunities of observation, represented differently; some describing as a formidable riot, what others represented as a trifling disturbance such as always used to take place on the like occasions, when the executioner of the law, and the men commissioned to protect him in his task, were generally exposed to some indignities. the verdict of the jury sufficiently shows how the evidence preponderated in their minds. it declared that john porteous fired a gun among the people assembled at the execution; that he gave orders to his soldiers to fire, by which many persons were killed and wounded; but, at the same time, that the prisoner and his guard had been wounded and beaten, by stones thrown at them by the multitude. upon this verdict, the lords of justiciary passed sentence of death against captain john porteous, adjudging him, in the common form, to be hanged on a gibbet at the common place of execution, on wednesday, th september , and all his movable property to be forfeited to the king's use, according to the scottish law in cases of wilful murder.* * the signatures affixed to the death-warrant of captain porteous were-- andrew fletcher of milton, lord justice-clerk. sir james mackenzie, lord royston. david erskine, lord dun. sir walter pringle, lord newhall. sir gilbert elliot, lord minto. chapter third. "the hour's come, but not the man."* * there is a tradition, that while a little stream was swollen into a torrent by recent showers, the discontented voice of the water spirit was heard to pronounce these words. at the some moment a man, urged on by his fate, or, in scottish language, _fey,_ arrived at a gallop, and prepared to cross the water. no remonstrance from the bystanders was of power to stop him--he plunged into the stream, and perished. kelpie. on the day when the unhappy porteous was expected to suffer the sentence of the law, the place of execution, extensive as it is, was crowded almost to suffocation. there was not a window in all the lofty tenements around it, or in the steep and crooked street called the bow, by which the fatal procession was to descend from the high street, that was not absolutely filled with spectators. the uncommon height and antique appearance of these houses, some of which were formerly the property of the knights templars, and the knights of st. john, and still exhibit on their fronts and gables the iron cross of these orders, gave additional effect to a scene in itself so striking. the area of the grassmarket resembled a huge dark lake or sea of human heads, in the centre of which arose the fatal tree, tall, black, and ominous, from which dangled the deadly halter. every object takes interest from its uses and associations, and the erect beam and empty noose, things so simple in themselves, became, on such an occasion, objects of terror and of solemn interest. amid so numerous an assembly there was scarcely a word spoken, save in whispers. the thirst of vengeance was in some degree allayed by its supposed certainty; and even the populace, with deeper feeling than they are wont to entertain, suppressed all clamorous exultation, and prepared to enjoy the scene of retaliation in triumph, silent and decent, though stern and relentless. it seemed as if the depth of their hatred to the unfortunate criminal scorned to display itself in anything resembling the more noisy current of their ordinary feelings. had a stranger consulted only the evidence of his ears, he might have supposed that so vast a multitude were assembled for some purpose which affected them with the deepest sorrow, and stilled those noises which, on all ordinary occasions, arise from such a concourse; but if he had gazed upon their faces, he would have been instantly undeceived. the compressed lip, the bent brow, the stern and flashing eye of almost everyone on whom he looked, conveyed the expression of men come to glut their sight with triumphant revenge. it is probable that the appearance of the criminal might have somewhat changed the temper of the populace in his favour, and that they might in the moment of death have forgiven the man against whom their resentment had been so fiercely heated. it had, however, been destined, that the mutability of their sentiments was not to be exposed to this trial. the usual hour for producing the criminal had been past for many minutes, yet the spectators observed no symptom of his appearance. "would they venture to defraud public justice?" was the question which men began anxiously to ask at each other. the first answer in every case was bold and positive,--"they dare not." but when the point was further canvassed, other opinions were entertained, and various causes of doubt were suggested. porteous had been a favourite officer of the magistracy of the city, which, being a numerous and fluctuating body, requires for its support a degree of energy in its functionaries, which the individuals who compose it cannot at all times alike be supposed to possess in their own persons. it was remembered, that in the information for porteous (the paper, namely, in which his case was stated to the judges of the criminal court), he had been described by his counsel as the person on whom the magistrates chiefly relied in all emergencies of uncommon difficulty. it was argued, too, that his conduct, on the unhappy occasion of wilson's execution, was capable of being attributed to an imprudent excess of zeal in the execution of his duty, a motive for which those under whose authority he acted might be supposed to have great sympathy. and as these considerations might move the magistrates to make a favourable representation of porteous's case, there were not wanting others in the higher departments of government, which would make such suggestions favourably listened to. the mob of edinburgh, when thoroughly excited, had been at all times one of the fiercest which could be found in europe; and of late years they had risen repeatedly against the government, and sometimes not without temporary success. they were conscious, therefore, that they were no favourites with the rulers of the period, and that, if captain porteous's violence was not altogether regarded as good service, it might certainly be thought, that to visit it with a capital punishment would render it both delicate and dangerous for future officers, in the same circumstances, to act with effect in repressing tumults. there is also a natural feeling, on the part of all members of government, for the general maintenance of authority; and it seemed not unlikely, that what to the relatives of the sufferers appeared a wanton and unprovoked massacre, should be otherwise viewed in the cabinet of st. james's. it might be there supposed, that upon the whole matter, captain porteous was in the exercise of a trust delegated to him by the lawful civil authority; that he had been assaulted by the populace, and several of his men hurt; and that, in finally repelling force by force, his conduct could be fairly imputed to no other motive than self-defence in the discharge of his duty. these considerations, of themselves very powerful, induced the spectators to apprehend the possibility of a reprieve; and to the various causes which might interest the rulers in his favour, the lower part of the rabble added one which was peculiarly well adapted to their comprehension. it was averred, in order to increase the odium against porteous, that while he repressed with the utmost severity the slightest excesses of the poor, he not only overlooked the license of the young nobles and gentry, but was very willing to lend them the countenance of his official authority, in execution of such loose pranks as it was chiefly his duty to have restrained. this suspicion, which was perhaps much exaggerated, made a deep impression on the minds of the populace; and when several of the higher rank joined in a petition, recommending porteous to the mercy of the crown, it was generally supposed he owed their favour not to any conviction of the hardship of his case, but to the fear of losing a convenient accomplice in their debaucheries. it is scarcely necessary to say how much this suspicion augmented the people's detestation of this obnoxious criminal, as well as their fear of his escaping the sentence pronounced against him. while these arguments were stated and replied to, and canvassed and supported, the hitherto silent expectation of the people became changed into that deep and agitating murmur, which is sent forth by the ocean before the tempest begins to howl. the crowded populace, as if their motions had corresponded with the unsettled state of their minds, fluctuated to and fro without any visible cause of impulse, like the agitation of the waters, called by sailors the ground-swell. the news, which the magistrates had almost hesitated to communicate to them, were at length announced, and spread among the spectators with a rapidity like lightning. a reprieve from the secretary of state's office, under the hand of his grace the duke of newcastle, had arrived, intimating the pleasure of queen caroline (regent of the kingdom during the absence of george ii. on the continent), that the execution of the sentence of death pronounced against john porteous, late captain-lieutenant of the city guard of edinburgh, present prisoner in the tolbooth of that city, be respited for six weeks from the time appointed for his execution. the assembled spectators of almost all degrees, whose minds had been wound up to the pitch which we have described, uttered a groan, or rather a roar of indignation and disappointed revenge, similar to that of a tiger from whom his meal has been rent by his keeper when he was just about to devour it. this fierce exclamation seemed to forbode some immediate explosion of popular resentment, and, in fact, such had been expected by the magistrates, and the necessary measures had been taken to repress it. but the shout was not repeated, nor did any sudden tumult ensue, such as it appeared to announce. the populace seemed to be ashamed of having expressed their disappointment in a vain clamour, and the sound changed, not into the silence which had preceded the arrival of these stunning news, but into stifled mutterings, which each group maintained among themselves, and which were blended into one deep and hoarse murmur which floated above the assembly. yet still, though all expectation of the execution was over, the mob remained assembled, stationary, as it were, through very resentment, gazing on the preparations for death, which had now been made in vain, and stimulating their feelings, by recalling the various claims which wilson might have had on royal mercy, from the mistaken motives on which he acted, as well as from the generosity he had displayed towards his accomplice. "this man," they said,--"the brave, the resolute, the generous, was executed to death without mercy for stealing a purse of gold, which in some sense he might consider as a fair reprisal; while the profligate satellite, who took advantage of a trifling tumult, inseparable from such occasions, to shed the blood of twenty of his fellow-citizens, is deemed a fitting object for the exercise of the royal prerogative of mercy. is this to be borne?--would our fathers have borne it? are not we, like them, scotsmen and burghers of edinburgh?" the officers of justice began now to remove the scaffold, and other preparations which had been made for the execution, in hopes, by doing so, to accelerate the dispersion of the multitude. the measure had the desired effect; for no sooner had the fatal tree been unfixed from the large stone pedestal or socket in which it was secured, and sunk slowly down upon the wain intended to remove it to the place where it was usually deposited, than the populace, after giving vent to their feelings in a second shout of rage and mortification, began slowly to disperse to their usual abodes and occupations. the windows were in like manner gradually deserted, and groups of the more decent class of citizens formed themselves, as if waiting to return homewards when the streets should be cleared of the rabble. contrary to what is frequently the case, this description of persons agreed in general with the sentiments of their inferiors, and considered the cause as common to all ranks. indeed, as we have already noticed, it was by no means amongst the lowest class of the spectators, or those most likely to be engaged in the riot at wilson's execution, that the fatal fire of porteous's soldiers had taken effect. several persons were killed who were looking out at windows at the scene, who could not of course belong to the rioters, and were persons of decent rank and condition. the burghers, therefore, resenting the loss which had fallen on their own body, and proud and tenacious of their rights, as the citizens of edinburgh have at all times been, were greatly exasperated at the unexpected respite of captain porteous. it was noticed at the time, and afterwards more particularly remembered, that, while the mob were in the act of dispersing, several individuals were seen busily passing from one place and one group of people to another, remaining long with none, but whispering for a little time with those who appeared to be declaiming most violently against the conduct of government. these active agents had the appearance of men from the country, and were generally supposed to be old friends and confederates of wilson, whose minds were of course highly excited against porteous. if, however, it was the intention of these men to stir the multitude to any sudden act of mutiny, it seemed for the time to be fruitless. the rabble, as well as the more decent part of the assembly, dispersed, and went home peaceably; and it was only by observing the moody discontent on their brows, or catching the tenor of the conversation they held with each other, that a stranger could estimate the state of their minds. we will give the reader this advantage, by associating ourselves with one of the numerous groups who were painfully ascending the steep declivity of the west bow, to return to their dwellings in the lawnmarket. "an unco thing this, mrs. howden," said old peter plumdamas to his neighbour the rouping-wife, or saleswoman, as he offered her his arm to assist her in the toilsome ascent, "to see the grit folk at lunnon set their face against law and gospel, and let loose sic a reprobate as porteous upon a peaceable town!" "and to think o' the weary walk they hae gien us," answered mrs. howden, with a groan; "and sic a comfortable window as i had gotten, too, just within a penny-stane-cast of the scaffold--i could hae heard every word the minister said--and to pay twalpennies for my stand, and a' for naething!" "i am judging," said mr. plumdamas, "that this reprieve wadna stand gude in the auld scots law, when the kingdom was a kingdom." "i dinna ken muckle about the law," answered mrs. howden; "but i ken, when we had a king, and a chancellor, and parliament men o' our ain, we could aye peeble them wi' stanes when they werena gude bairns--but naebody's nails can reach the length o' lunnon." "weary on lunnon, and a' that e'er came out o't!" said miss grizel damahoy, an ancient seamstress; "they hae taen away our parliament, and they hae oppressed our trade. our gentles will hardly allow that a scots needle can sew ruffles on a sark, or lace on an owerlay." "ye may say that--miss damahoy, and i ken o' them that hae gotten raisins frae lunnon by forpits at ance," responded plumdamas; "and then sic an host of idle english gaugers and excisemen as hae come down to vex and torment us, that an honest man canna fetch sae muckle as a bit anker o' brandy frae leith to the lawnmarket, but he's like to be rubbit o' the very gudes he's bought and paid for.--weel, i winna justify andrew wilson for pitting hands on what wasna his; but if he took nae mair than his ain, there's an awfu' difference between that and the fact this man stands for." "if ye speak about the law," said mrs. howden, "here comes mr. saddletree, that can settle it as weel as ony on the bench." the party she mentioned, a grave elderly person, with a superb periwig, dressed in a decent suit of sad-coloured clothes, came up as she spoke, and courteously gave his arm to miss grizel damahoy. it may be necessary to mention, that mr. bartoline saddletree kept an excellent and highly-esteemed shop for harness, saddles, &c. &c., at the sign of the golden nag, at the head of bess wynd.* * [maitland calls it best's wynd, and later writers beth's wynd. as the name implies, it was an open thoroughfare or alley leading from the lawnmarket, and extended in a direct line between the old tolbooth to near the head of the cowgate. it was partly destroyed by fire in , and was totally removed in , preparatory to the building of the new libraries of the faculty of advocates and writers to the signet.] his genius, however (as he himself and most of his neighbours conceived), lay towards the weightier matters of the law, and he failed not to give frequent attendance upon the pleadings and arguments of the lawyers and judges in the neighbouring square, where, to say the truth, he was oftener to be found than would have consisted with his own emolument; but that his wife, an active painstaking person, could, in his absence, make an admirable shift to please the customers and scold the journeymen. this good lady was in the habit of letting her husband take his way, and go on improving his stock of legal knowledge without interruption; but, as if in requital, she insisted upon having her own will in the domestic and commercial departments which he abandoned to her. now, as bartoline saddletree had a considerable gift of words, which he mistook for eloquence, and conferred more liberally upon the society in which he lived than was at all times gracious and acceptable, there went forth a saying, with which wags used sometimes to interrupt his rhetoric, that, as he had a golden nag at his door, so he had a grey mare in his shop. this reproach induced mr. saddletree, on all occasions, to assume rather a haughty and stately tone towards his good woman, a circumstance by which she seemed very little affected, unless he attempted to exercise any real authority, when she never failed to fly into open rebellion. but such extremes bartoline seldom provoked; for, like the gentle king jamie, he was fonder of talking of authority than really exercising it. this turn of mind was, on the whole, lucky for him; since his substance was increased without any trouble on his part, or any interruption of his favourite studies. this word in explanation has been thrown in to the reader, while saddletree was laying down, with great precision, the law upon porteous's case, by which he arrived at this conclusion, that, if porteous had fired five minutes sooner, before wilson was cut down, he would have been _versans in licito;_ engaged, that is, in a lawful act, and only liable to be punished _propter excessum,_ or for lack of discretion, which might have mitigated the punishment to _poena ordinaria._ "discretion!" echoed mrs. howden, on whom, it may well be supposed, the fineness of this distinction was entirely thrown away,--"whan had jock porteous either grace, discretion, or gude manners?--i mind when his father" "but, mrs. howden," said saddletree-- "and i," said miss damahoy, "mind when his mother" "miss damahoy," entreated the interrupted orator "and i," said plumdamas, "mind when his wife" "mr. plumdamas--mrs. howden--miss damahoy," again implored the orator,--"mind the distinction, as counsellor crossmyloof says--'i,' says he, 'take a distinction.' now, the body of the criminal being cut down, and the execution ended, porteous was no longer official; the act which he came to protect and guard, being done and ended, he was no better than _cuivis ex populo._" "_quivis--quivis,_ mr. saddletree, craving your pardon," said (with a prolonged emphasis on the first syllable) mr. butler, the deputy-schoolmaster of a parish near edinburgh, who at that moment came up behind them as the false latin was uttered. "what signifies interrupting me, mr. butler?--but i am glad to see ye notwithstanding--i speak after counsellor crossmyloof, and he said _cuivis._" "if counsellor crossmyloof used the dative for the nominative, i would have crossed his loof with a tight leathern strap, mr. saddletree; there is not a boy on the booby form but should have been scourged for such a solecism in grammar." "i speak latin like a lawyer, mr. butler, and not like a schoolmaster," retorted saddletree. "scarce like a schoolboy, i think," rejoined butler. "it matters little," said bartoline; "all i mean to say is, that porteous has become liable to the _poena extra ordinem,_ or capital punishment--which is to say, in plain scotch, the gallows--simply because he did not fire when he was in office, but waited till the body was cut down, the execution whilk he had in charge to guard implemented, and he himself exonered of the public trust imposed on him." "but, mr. saddletree," said plumdamas, "do ye really think john porteous's case wad hae been better if he had begun firing before ony stanes were flung at a'?" "indeed do i, neighbour plumdamas," replied bartoline, confidently, "he being then in point of trust and in point of power, the execution being but inchoat, or, at least, not implemented, or finally ended; but after wilson was cut down it was a' ower--he was clean exauctorate, and had nae mair ado but to get awa wi' his guard up this west bow as fast as if there had been a caption after him--and this is law, for i heard it laid down by lord vincovincentem." "vincovincentem?--is he a lord of state, or a lord of seat?" inquired mrs. howden.* * a nobleman was called a lord of state. the senators of the college * of justice were termed lords of seat, or of the session. "a lord of seat--a lord of session.--i fash mysell little wi' lords o' state; they vex me wi' a wheen idle questions about their saddles, and curpels, and holsters and horse-furniture, and what they'll cost, and whan they'll be ready--a wheen galloping geese--my wife may serve the like o' them." "and so might she, in her day, hae served the best lord in the land, for as little as ye think o' her, mr. saddletree," said mrs. howden, somewhat indignant at the contemptuous way in which her gossip was mentioned; "when she and i were twa gilpies, we little thought to hae sitten doun wi' the like o' my auld davie howden, or you either, mr. saddletree." while saddletree, who was not bright at a reply, was cudgelling his brains for an answer to this homethrust, miss damahoy broke in on him. "and as for the lords of state," said miss damahoy, "ye suld mind the riding o' the parliament, mr. saddletree, in the gude auld time before the union,--a year's rent o' mony a gude estate gaed for horse-graith and harnessing, forby broidered robes and foot-mantles, that wad hae stude by their lane wi' gold brocade, and that were muckle in my ain line." "ay, and then the lusty banqueting, with sweetmeats and comfits wet and dry, and dried fruits of divers sorts," said plumdamas. "but scotland was scotland in these days." "i'll tell ye what it is, neighbours," said mrs. howden, "i'll ne'er believe scotland is scotland ony mair, if our kindly scots sit doun with the affront they hae gien us this day. it's not only the blude that _is_ shed, but the blude that might hae been shed, that's required at our hands; there was my daughter's wean, little eppie daidle--my oe, ye ken, miss grizel--had played the truant frae the school, as bairns will do, ye ken, mr. butler" "and for which," interjected mr. butler, "they should be soundly scourged by their well-wishers." "and had just cruppen to the gallows' foot to see the hanging, as was natural for a wean; and what for mightna she hae been shot as weel as the rest o' them, and where wad we a' hae been then? i wonder how queen carline (if her name be carline) wad hae liked to hae had ane o' her ain bairns in sic a venture?" "report says," answered butler, "that such a circumstance would not have distressed her majesty beyond endurance." "aweel," said mrs. howden, "the sum o' the matter is, that, were i a man, i wad hae amends o' jock porteous, be the upshot what like o't, if a' the carles and carlines in england had sworn to the nay-say." "i would claw down the tolbooth door wi' my nails," said miss grizel, "but i wad be at him." "ye may be very right, ladies," said butler, "but i would not advise you to speak so loud." "speak!" exclaimed both the ladies together, "there will be naething else spoken about frae the weigh-house to the water-gate, till this is either ended or mended." the females now departed to their respective places of abode. plumdamas joined the other two gentlemen in drinking their _meridian_ (a bumper-dram of brandy), as they passed the well-known low-browed shop in the lawnmarket, where they were wont to take that refreshment. mr. plumdamas then departed towards his shop, and mr. butler, who happened to have some particular occasion for the rein of an old bridle (the truants of that busy day could have anticipated its application), walked down the lawnmarket with mr. saddletree, each talking as he could get a word thrust in, the one on the laws of scotland, the other on those of syntax, and neither listening to a word which his companion uttered. chapter fourth. elswhair he colde right weel lay down the law, but in his house was meek as is a daw. davie lindsay. "there has been jock driver the carrier here, speering about his new graith," said mrs. saddletree to her husband, as he crossed his threshold, not with the purpose, by any means, of consulting him upon his own affairs, but merely to intimate, by a gentle recapitulation, how much duty she had gone through in his absence. "weel," replied bartoline, and deigned not a word more. "and the laird of girdingburst has had his running footman here, and ca'd himsell (he's a civil pleasant young gentleman), to see when the broidered saddle-cloth for his sorrel horse will be ready, for he wants it agane the kelso races." "weel, aweel," replied bartoline, as laconically as before. "and his lordship, the earl of blazonbury, lord flash and flame, is like to be clean daft, that the harness for the six flanders mears, wi' the crests, coronets, housings, and mountings conform, are no sent hame according to promise gien." "weel, weel, weel--weel, weel, gudewife," said saddletree, "if he gangs daft, we'll hae him cognosced--it's a' very weel." "it's weel that ye think sae, mr. saddletree," answered his helpmate, rather nettled at the indifference with which her report was received; "there's mony ane wad hae thought themselves affronted, if sae mony customers had ca'd and naebody to answer them but women-folk; for a' the lads were aff, as soon as your back was turned, to see porteous hanged, that might be counted upon; and sae, you no being at hame" "houts, mrs. saddletree," said bartoline, with an air of consequence, "dinna deave me wi' your nonsense; i was under the necessity of being elsewhere--_non omnia_--as mr. crossmyloof said, when he was called by two macers at once--_non omnia possumus--pessimus--possimis_--i ken our law-latin offends mr. butler's ears, but it means, naebody, an it were the lord president himsell, can do twa turns at ance." "very right, mr. saddletree," answered his careful helpmate, with a sarcastic smile; "and nae doubt it's a decent thing to leave your wife to look after young gentlemen's saddles and bridles, when ye gang to see a man, that never did ye nae ill, raxing a halter." "woman," said saddletree, assuming an elevated tone, to which the _meridian_ had somewhat contributed, "desist,--i say forbear, from intromitting with affairs thou canst not understand. d'ye think i was born to sit here brogging an elshin through bend-leather, when sic men as duncan forbes, and that other arniston chield there, without muckle greater parts, if the close-head speak true, than mysell maun be presidents and king's advocates, nae doubt, and wha but they? whereas, were favour equally distribute, as in the days of the wight wallace" "i ken naething we wad hae gotten by the wight wallace," said mrs. saddletree, "unless, as i hae heard the auld folk tell, they fought in thae days wi' bend-leather guns, and then it's a chance but what, if he had bought them, he might have forgot to pay for them. and as for the greatness of your parts, bartley, the folk in the close-head* maun ken mair about them than i do, if they make sic a report of them." * [_close-head,_ the entrance of a blind alley.] "i tell ye, woman," said saddletree, in high dudgeon, "that ye ken naething about these matters. in sir william wallace's days there was nae man pinned down to sic a slavish wark as a saddler's, for they got ony leather graith that they had use for ready-made out of holland." "well," said butler, who was, like many of his profession, something of a humorist and dry joker, "if that be the case, mr. saddletree, i think we have changed for the better; since we make our own harness, and only import our lawyers from holland." "it's ower true, mr. butler," answered bartoline, with a sigh; "if i had had the luck--or rather, if my father had had the sense to send me to leyden and utrecht to learn the substitutes and pandex" "you mean the institutes--justinian's institutes, mr. saddletree?" said butler. "institutes and substitutes are synonymous words, mr. butler, and used indifferently as such in deeds of tailzie, as you may see in balfour's practiques, or dallas of st. martin's styles. i understand these things pretty weel, i thank god but i own i should have studied in holland." "to comfort you, you might not have been farther forward than you are now, mr. saddletree," replied mr. butler; "for our scottish advocates are an aristocratic race. their brass is of the right corinthian quality, and _non cuivis contigit adire corinthum_--aha, mr. saddletree?" "and aha, mr. butler," rejoined bartoline, upon whom, as may be well supposed, the jest was lost, and all but the sound of the words, "ye said a gliff syne it was _quivis,_ and now i heard ye say _cuivis_ with my ain ears, as plain as ever i heard a word at the fore-bar." "give me your patience, mr. saddletree, and i'll explain the discrepancy in three words," said butler, as pedantic in his own department, though with infinitely more judgment and learning, as bartoline was in his self-assumed profession of the law--"give me your patience for a moment--you'll grant that the nominative case is that by which a person or thing is nominated or designed, and which may be called the primary case, all others being formed from it by alterations of the termination in the learned languages, and by prepositions in our modern babylonian jargons--you'll grant me that, i suppose, mr. saddletree?" "i dinna ken whether i will or no--_ad avisandum,_ ye ken--naebody should be in a hurry to make admissions, either in point of law, or in point of fact," said saddletree, looking, or endeavouring to look, as if he understood what was said. "and the dative case," continued butler "i ken what a tutor dative is," said saddletree, "readily enough." "the dative case," resumed the grammarian, "is that in which anything is given or assigned as properly belonging to a person or thing--you cannot deny that, i am sure." "i am sure i'll no grant it, though," said saddletree. "then, what the _deevil_ d'ye take the nominative and the dative cases to be?" said butler, hastily, and surprised at once out of his decency of expression and accuracy of pronunciation. "i'll tell you that at leisure, mr. butler," said saddletree, with a very knowing look; "i'll take a day to see and answer every article of your condescendence, and then i'll hold you to confess or deny as accords." "come, come, mr. saddletree," said his wife, "we'll hae nae confessions and condescendences here; let them deal in thae sort o' wares that are paid for them--they suit the like o' us as all as a demipique saddle would suit a draught ox." "aha!" said mr. butler, "_optat ephippia bos piger,_ nothing new under the sun--but it was a fair hit of mrs. saddletree, however." "and it wad far better become ye, mr. saddletree," continued his helpmate, "since ye say ye hae skeel o' the law, to try if ye can do onything for effie deans, puir thing, that's lying up in the tolbooth yonder, cauld, and hungry, and comfortless--a servant lass of ours, mr. butler, and as innocent a lass, to my thinking, and as usefu' in the shop--when mr. saddletree gangs out,--and ye're aware he's seldom at hame when there's ony o' the plea-houses open,--poor effie used to help me to tumble the bundles o' barkened leather up and down, and range out the gudes, and suit a' body's humours--and troth, she could aye please the customers wi' her answers, for she was aye civil, and a bonnier lass wasna in auld reekie. and when folk were hasty and unreasonable, she could serve them better than me, that am no sae young as i hae been, mr. butler, and a wee bit short in the temper into the bargain. for when there's ower mony folks crying on me at anes, and nane but ae tongue to answer them, folk maun speak hastily, or they'll ne'er get through their wark--sae i miss effie daily." "_de die in diem,_" added saddletree. "i think," said butler, after a good deal of hesitation, "i have seen the girl in the shop--a modest-looking, fair-haired girl?" "ay, ay, that's just puir effie," said her mistress. "how she was abandoned to hersell, or whether she was sackless o' the sinful deed, god in heaven knows; but if she's been guilty, she's been sair tempted, and i wad amaist take my bible-aith she hasna been hersell at the time." butler had by this time become much agitated; he fidgeted up and down the shop, and showed the greatest agitation that a person of such strict decorum could be supposed to give way to. "was not this girl," he said, "the daughter of david deans, that had the parks at st. leonard's taken? and has she not a sister?" "in troth has she,--puir jeanie deans, ten years aulder than hersell; she was here greeting a wee while syne about her tittie. and what could i say to her, but that she behoved to come and speak to mr. saddletree when he was at hame? it wasna that i thought mr. saddletree could do her or ony ither body muckle good or ill, but it wad aye serve to keep the puir thing's heart up for a wee while; and let sorrow come when sorrow maun." "ye're mistaen though, gudewife," said saddletree scornfully, "for i could hae gien her great satisfaction; i could hae proved to her that her sister was indicted upon the statute saxteen hundred and ninety, chapter one--for the mair ready prevention of child-murder--for concealing her pregnancy, and giving no account of the child which she had borne." "i hope," said butler,--"i trust in a gracious god, that she can clear herself." "and sae do i, mr. butler," replied mrs. saddletree. "i am sure i wad hae answered for her as my ain daughter; but wae's my heart, i had been tender a' the simmer, and scarce ower the door o' my room for twal weeks. and as for mr. saddletree, he might be in a lying-in hospital, and ne'er find out what the women cam there for. sae i could see little or naething o' her, or i wad hae had the truth o' her situation out o' her, i'se warrant ye--but we a' think her sister maun be able to speak something to clear her." "the haill parliament house," said saddletree, "was speaking o' naething else, till this job o' porteous's put it out o' head--it's a beautiful point of presumptive murder, and there's been nane like it in the justiciar court since the case of luckie smith the howdie, that suffered in the year saxteen hundred and seventy-nine." "but what's the matter wi' you, mr. butler?" said the good woman; "ye are looking as white as a sheet; will ye tak a dram?" "by no means," said butler, compelling himself to speak. "i walked in from dumfries yesterday, and this is a warm day." "sit down," said mrs. saddletree, laying hands on him kindly, "and rest ye--yell kill yoursell, man, at that rate.--and are we to wish you joy o' getting the scule, mr. butler?" "yes--no--i do not know," answered the young man vaguely. but mrs. saddletree kept him to point, partly out of real interest, partly from curiosity. "ye dinna ken whether ye are to get the free scule o' dumfries or no, after hinging on and teaching it a' the simmer?" "no, mrs. saddletree--i am not to have it," replied butler, more collectedly. "the laird of black-at-the-bane had a natural son bred to the kirk, that the presbytery could not be prevailed upon to license; and so" "ay, ye need say nae mair about it; if there was a laird that had a puir kinsman or a bastard that it wad suit, there's enough said.--and ye're e'en come back to liberton to wait for dead men's shoon?--and for as frail as mr. whackbairn is, he may live as lang as you, that are his assistant and successor." "very like," replied butler, with a sigh; "i do not know if i should wish it otherwise." "nae doubt, it's a very vexing thing," continued the good lady, "to be in that dependent station; and you that hae right and title to sae muckle better, i wonder how ye bear these crosses." "_quos diligit castigat,_" answered butler; "even the pagan seneca could see an advantage in affliction, the heathens had their philosophy, and the jews their revelation, mrs. saddletree, and they endured their distresses in their day. christians have a better dispensation than either--but doubtless" he stopped and sighed. "i ken what ye mean," said mrs. saddletree, looking toward her husband; "there's whiles we lose patience in spite of baith book and bible--but ye are no gaun awa, and looking sae poorly--ye'll stay and take some kale wi' us?" mr. saddletree laid aside balfour's practiques (his favourite study, and much good may it do him), to join in his wife's hospitable importunity. but the teacher declined all entreaty, and took his leave upon the spot. "there's something in a' this," said mrs. saddletree, looking after him as he walked up the street; "i wonder what makes mr. butler sae distressed about effie's misfortune--there was nae acquaintance atween them that ever i saw or heard of; but they were neighbours when david deans was on the laird o' dumbiedikes' land. mr. butler wad ken her father, or some o' her folk.--get up, mr. saddletree--ye have set yoursell down on the very brecham that wants stitching--and here's little willie, the prentice.--ye little rin-there-out deil that ye are, what takes you raking through the gutters to see folk hangit?--how wad ye like when it comes to be your ain chance, as i winna ensure ye, if ye dinna mend your manners?--and what are ye maundering and greeting for, as if a word were breaking your banes?--gang in by, and be a better bairn another time, and tell peggy to gie ye a bicker o' broth, for ye'll be as gleg as a gled, i'se warrant ye.--it's a fatherless bairn, mr. saddletree, and motherless, whilk in some cases may be waur, and ane would take care o' him if they could--it's a christian duty." "very true, gudewife," said saddletree in reply, "we are _in loco parentis_ to him during his years of pupillarity, and i hae had thoughts of applying to the court for a commission as factor _loco tutoris,_ seeing there is nae tutor nominate, and the tutor-at-law declines to act; but only i fear the expense of the procedure wad not be _in rem versam,_ for i am not aware if willie has ony effects whereof to assume the administration." he concluded this sentence with a self-important cough, as one who has laid down the law in an indisputable manner. "effects!" said mrs. saddletree, "what effects has the puir wean?--he was in rags when his mother died; and the blue polonie that effie made for him out of an auld mantle of my ain, was the first decent dress the bairn ever had on. poor effie! can ye tell me now really, wi' a' your law, will her life be in danger, mr. saddletree, when they arena able to prove that ever there was a bairn ava?" "whoy," said mr. saddletree, delighted at having for once in his life seen his wife's attention arrested by a topic of legal discussion--"whoy, there are two sorts of _murdrum_ or _murdragium,_ or what you _populariter et vulgariser_ call murther. i mean there are many sorts; for there's your _murthrum per vigilias et insidias,_ and your _murthrum_ under trust." "i am sure," replied his moiety, "that murther by trust is the way that the gentry murther us merchants, and whiles make us shut the booth up--but that has naething to do wi' effie's misfortune." "the case of effie (or euphemia) deans," resumed saddletree, "is one of those cases of murder presumptive, that is, a murder of the law's inferring or construction, being derived from certain _indicia_ or grounds of suspicion." "so that," said the good woman, "unless poor effie has communicated her situation, she'll be hanged by the neck, if the bairn was still-born, or if it be alive at this moment?" "assuredly," said saddletree, "it being a statute made by our sovereign lord and lady, to prevent the horrid delict of bringing forth children in secret--the crime is rather a favourite of the law, this species of murther being one of its ain creation." "then, if the law makes murders," said mrs. saddletree, "the law should be hanged for them; or if they wad hang a lawyer instead, the country wad find nae faut." a summons to their frugal dinner interrupted the farther progress of the conversation, which was otherwise like to take a turn much less favourable to the science of jurisprudence and its professors, than mr. bartoline saddletree, the fond admirer of both, had at its opening anticipated. chapter fifth. but up then raise all edinburgh. they all rose up by thousands three. johnnie armstrang's _goodnight._ butler, on his departure from the sign of the golden nag, went in quest of a friend of his connected with the law, of whom he wished to make particular inquiries concerning the circumstances in which the unfortunate young woman mentioned in the last chapter was placed, having, as the reader has probably already conjectured, reasons much deeper than those dictated by mere humanity for interesting himself in her fate. he found the person he sought absent from home, and was equally unfortunate in one or two other calls which he made upon acquaintances whom he hoped to interest in her story. but everybody was, for the moment, stark-mad on the subject of porteous, and engaged busily in attacking or defending the measures of government in reprieving him; and the ardour of dispute had excited such universal thirst, that half the young lawyers and writers, together with their very clerks, the class whom butler was looking after, had adjourned the debate to some favourite tavern. it was computed by an experienced arithmetician, that there was as much twopenny ale consumed on the discussion as would have floated a first-rate man-of-war. butler wandered about until it was dusk, resolving to take that opportunity of visiting the unfortunate young woman, when his doing so might be least observed; for he had his own reasons for avoiding the remarks of mrs. saddletree, whose shop-door opened at no great distance from that of the jail, though on the opposite or south side of the street, and a little higher up. he passed, therefore, through the narrow and partly covered passage leading from the north-west end of the parliament square. he stood now before the gothic entrance of the ancient prison, which, as is well known to all men, rears its ancient front in the very middle of the high street, forming, as it were, the termination to a huge pile of buildings called the luckenbooths, which, for some inconceivable reason, our ancestors had jammed into the midst of the principal street of the town, leaving for passage a narrow street on the north; and on the south, into which the prison opens, a narrow crooked lane, winding betwixt the high and sombre walls of the tolbooth and the adjacent houses on the one side, and the butresses and projections of the old cathedral upon the other. to give some gaiety to this sombre passage (well known by the name of the krames), a number of little booths, or shops, after the fashion of cobblers' stalls, are plastered, as it were, against the gothic projections and abutments, so that it seemed as if the traders had occupied with nests, bearing the same proportion to the building, every buttress and coign of vantage, as the martlett did in macbeth's castle. of later years these booths have degenerated into mere toy-shops, where the little loiterers chiefly interested in such wares are tempted to linger, enchanted by the rich display of hobby-horses, babies, and dutch toys, arranged in artful and gay confusion; yet half-scared by the cross looks of the withered pantaloon, or spectacled old lady, by whom these tempting stores are watched and superintended. but, in the times we write of, the hosiers, the glovers, the hatters, the mercers, the milliners, and all who dealt in the miscellaneous wares now termed haberdasher's goods, were to be found in this narrow alley. to return from our digression. butler found the outer turnkey, a tall thin old man, with long silver hair, in the act of locking the outward door of the jail. he addressed himself to this person, and asked admittance to effie deans, confined upon accusation of child-murder. the turnkey looked at him earnestly, and, civilly touching his hat out of respect to butler's black coat and clerical appearance, replied, "it was impossible any one could be admitted at present." "you shut up earlier than usual, probably on account of captain porteous's affair?" said butler. the turnkey, with the true mystery of a person in office, gave two grave nods, and withdrawing from the wards a ponderous key of about two feet in length, he proceeded to shut a strong plate of steel, which folded down above the keyhole, and was secured by a steel spring and catch. butler stood still instinctively while the door was made fast, and then looking at his watch, walked briskly up the street, muttering to himself, almost unconsciously-- porta adversa, ingens, solidoque adamante columnae; vis ut nulla virum, non ipsi exscindere ferro coelicolae valeant--stat ferrea turris ad auras--etc.* dryden's _virgil,_ book vi. * wide is the fronting gate, and, raised on high, with adamantine columns threats the sky; vain is the force of man, and heaven's as vain, to crush the pillars which the pile sustain: sublime on these a tower of steel is reard. having wasted half-an-hour more in a second fruitless attempt to find his legal friend and adviser, he thought it time to leave the city and return to his place of residence, in a small village about two miles and a half to the southward of edinburgh. the metropolis was at this time surrounded by a high wall, with battlements and flanking projections at some intervals, and the access was through gates, called in the scottish language _ports,_ which were regularly shut at night. a small fee to the keepers would indeed procure egress and ingress at any time, through a wicket left for that purpose in the large gate; but it was of some importance, to a man so poor as butler, to avoid even this slight pecuniary mulct; and fearing the hour of shutting the gates might be near, he made for that to which he found himself nearest, although, by doing so, he somewhat lengthened his walk homewards. bristo port was that by which his direct road lay, but the west port, which leads out of the grassmarket, was the nearest of the city gates to the place where he found himself, and to that, therefore, he directed his course. he reached the port in ample time to pass the circuit of the walls, and entered a suburb called portsburgh, chiefly inhabited by the lower order of citizens and mechanics. here he was unexpectedly interrupted. he had not gone far from the gate before he heard the sound of a drum, and, to his great surprise, met a number of persons, sufficient to occupy the whole front of the street, and form a considerable mass behind, moving with great speed towards the gate he had just come from, and having in front of them a drum beating to arms. while he considered how he should escape a party, assembled, as it might be presumed, for no lawful purpose, they came full on him and stopped him. "are you a clergyman?" one questioned him. butler replied that "he was in orders, but was not a placed minister." "it's mr. butler from liberton," said a voice from behind, "he'll discharge the duty as weel as ony man." "you must turn back with us, sir," said the first speaker, in a tone civil but peremptory. "for what purpose, gentlemen?" said mr. butler. "i live at some distance from town--the roads are unsafe by night--you will do me a serious injury by stopping me." "you shall be sent safely home--no man shall touch a hair of your head--but you must and shall come along with us." "but to what purpose or end, gentlemen?" said butler. "i hope you will be so civil as to explain that to me." "you shall know that in good time. come along--for come you must, by force or fair means; and i warn you to look neither to the right hand nor the left, and to take no notice of any man's face, but consider all that is passing before you as a dream." "i would it were a dream i could awaken from," said butler to himself; but having no means to oppose the violence with which he was threatened, he was compelled to turn round and march in front of the rioters, two men partly supporting and partly holding him. during this parley the insurgents had made themselves masters of the west port, rushing upon the waiters (so the people were called who had the charge of the gates), and possessing themselves of the keys. they bolted and barred the folding doors, and commanded the person, whose duty it usually was, to secure the wicket, of which they did not understand the fastenings. the man, terrified at an incident so totally unexpected, was unable to perform his usual office, and gave the matter up, after several attempts. the rioters, who seemed to have come prepared for every emergency, called for torches, by the light of which they nailed up the wicket with long nails, which, it seemed probable, they had provided on purpose. while this was going on, butler could not, even if he had been willing, avoid making remarks on the individuals who seemed to lead this singular mob. the torch-light, while it fell on their forms and left him in the shade, gave him an opportunity to do so without their observing him. several of those who seemed most active were dressed in sailors' jackets, trousers, and sea-caps; others in large loose-bodied greatcoats, and slouched hats; and there were several who, judging from their dress, should have been called women, whose rough deep voices, uncommon size, and masculine, deportment and mode of walking, forbade them being so interpreted. they moved as if by some well-concerted plan of arrangement. they had signals by which they knew, and nicknames by which they distinguished each other. butler remarked, that the name of wildfire was used among them, to which one stout amazon seemed to reply. the rioters left a small party to observe the west port, and directed the waiters, as they valued their lives, to remain within their lodge, and make no attempt for that night to repossess themselves of the gate. they then moved with rapidity along the low street called the cowgate, the mob of the city everywhere rising at the sound of their drum, and joining them. when the multitude arrived at the cowgate port, they secured it with as little opposition as the former, made it fast, and left a small party to observe it. it was afterwards remarked, as a striking instance of prudence and precaution, singularly combined with audacity, that the parties left to guard those gates did not remain stationary on their posts, but flitted to and fro, keeping so near the gates as to see that no efforts were made to open them, yet not remaining so long as to have their persons closely observed. the mob, at first only about one hundred strong, now amounted to thousands, and were increasing every moment. they divided themselves so as to ascend with more speed the various narrow lanes which lead up from the cowgate to the high street; and still beating to arms as they went, an calling on all true scotsmen to join them, they now filled the principal street of the city. the netherbow port might be called the temple bar of edinburgh, as, intersecting the high street at its termination, it divided edinburgh, properly so called, from the suburb named the canongate, as temple bar separates london from westminster. it was of the utmost importance to the rioters to possess themselves of this pass, because there was quartered in the canongate at that time a regiment of infantry, commanded by colonel moyle, which might have occupied the city by advancing through this gate, and would possess the power of totally defeating their purpose. the leaders therefore hastened to the netherbow port, which they secured in the same manner, and with as little trouble, as the other gates, leaving a party to watch it, strong in proportion to the importance of the post. the next object of these hardy insurgents was at once to disarm the city guard, and to procure arms for themselves; for scarce any weapons but staves and bludgeons had been yet seen among them. the guard-house was a long, low, ugly building (removed in ), which to a fanciful imagination might have suggested the idea of a long black snail crawling up the middle of the high street, and deforming its beautiful esplanade. this formidable insurrection had been so unexpected, that there were no more than the ordinary sergeant's guard of the city-corps upon duty; even these were without any supply of powder and ball; and sensible enough what had raised the storm, and which way it was rolling, could hardly be supposed very desirous to expose themselves by a valiant defence to the animosity of so numerous and desperate a mob, to whom they were on the present occasion much more than usually obnoxious. there was a sentinel upon guard, who (that one town-guard soldier might do his duty on that eventful evening) presented his piece, and desired the foremost of the rioters to stand off. the young amazon, whom butler had observed particularly active, sprung upon the soldier, seized his musket, and after a struggle succeeded in wrenching it from him, and throwing him down on the causeway. one or two soldiers, who endeavoured to turn out to the support of their sentinel, were in the same manner seized and disarmed, and the mob without difficulty possessed themselves of the guard-house, disarming and turning out of doors the rest of the men on duty. it was remarked, that, notwithstanding the city soldiers had been the instruments of the slaughter which this riot was designed to revenge, no ill usage or even insult was offered to them. it seemed as if the vengeance of the people disdained to stoop at any head meaner than that which they considered as the source and origin of their injuries. on possessing themselves of the guard, the first act of the multitude was to destroy the drums, by which they supposed an alarm might be conveyed to the garrison in the castle; for the same reason they now silenced their own, which was beaten by a young fellow, son to the drummer of portsburgh, whom they had forced upon that service. their next business was to distribute among the boldest of the rioters the guns, bayonets, partisans, halberts, and battle or lochaber axes. until this period the principal rioters had preserved silence on the ultimate object of their rising, as being that which all knew, but none expressed. now, however, having accomplished all the preliminary parts of their design, they raised a tremendous shout of "porteous! porteous! to the tolbooth! to the tolbooth!" [illustration: tolbooth, cannongate] they proceeded with the same prudence when the object seemed to be nearly in their grasp, as they had done hitherto when success was more dubious. a strong party of the rioters, drawn up in front of the luckenbooths, and facing down the street, prevented all access from the eastward, and the west end of the defile formed by the luckenbooths was secured in the same manner; so that the tolbooth was completely surrounded, and those who undertook the task of breaking it open effectually secured against the risk of interruption. the magistrates, in the meanwhile, had taken the alarm, and assembled in a tavern, with the purpose of raising some strength to subdue the rioters. the deacons, or presidents of the trades, were applied to, but declared there was little chance of their authority being respected by the craftsmen, where it was the object to save a man so obnoxious. mr. lindsay, member of parliament for the city, volunteered the perilous task of carrying a verbal message, from the lord provost to colonel moyle, the commander of the regiment lying in the canongate, requesting him to force the netherbow port, and enter the city to put down the tumult. but mr. lindsay declined to charge himself with any written order, which, if found on his person by an enraged mob, might have cost him his life; and the issue, of the application was, that colonel moyle having no written requisition from the civil authorities, and having the fate of porteous before his eyes as an example of the severe construction put by a jury on the proceedings of military men acting on their own responsibility, declined to encounter the risk to which the provost's verbal communication invited him. more than one messenger was despatched by different ways to the castle, to require the commanding officer to march down his troops, to fire a few cannon-shot, or even to throw a shell among the mob, for the purpose of clearing the streets. but so strict and watchful were the various patrols whom the rioters had established in different parts of the streets, that none of the emissaries of the magistrates could reach the gate of the castle. they were, however, turned back without either injury or insult, and with nothing more of menace than was necessary to deter them from again attempting to accomplish their errand. the same vigilance was used to prevent everybody of the higher, and those which, in this case, might be deemed the more suspicious orders of society, from appearing in the street, and observing the movements, or distinguishing the persons, of the rioters. every person in the garb of a gentleman was stopped by small parties of two or three of the mob, who partly exhorted, partly required of them, that they should return to the place from whence they came. many a quadrille table was spoilt that memorable evening; for the sedan chairs of ladies; even of the highest rank, were interrupted in their passage from one point to another, in spite of the laced footmen and blazing flambeaux. this was uniformly done with a deference and attention to the feelings of the terrified females, which could hardly have been expected from the videttes of a mob so desperate. those who stopped the chair usually made the excuse, that there was much disturbance on the streets, and that it was absolutely necessary for the lady's safety that the chair should turn back. they offered themselves to escort the vehicles which they had thus interrupted in their progress, from the apprehension, probably, that some of those who had casually united themselves to the riot might disgrace their systematic and determined plan of vengeance, by those acts of general insult and license which are common on similar occasions. persons are yet living who remember to have heard from the mouths of ladies thus interrupted on their journey in the manner we have described, that they were escorted to their lodgings by the young men who stopped them, and even handed out of their chairs, with a polite attention far beyond what was consistent with their dress, which was apparently that of journeymen mechanics.* * a near relation of the author's used to tell of having been stopped by the rioters, and escorted home in the manner described. on reaching her own home one of her attendants, in the appearance a _baxter_, a baker's lad, handed her out of her chair, and took leave with a bow, which, in the lady's opinion, argued breeding that could hardly be learned at the oven's mouth. it seemed as if the conspirators, like those who assassinated cardinal beatoun in former days, had entertained the opinion, that the work about which they went was a judgment of heaven, which, though unsanctioned by the usual authorities, ought to be proceeded in with order and gravity. while their outposts continued thus vigilant, and suffered themselves neither from fear nor curiosity to neglect that part of the duty assigned to them, and while the main guards to the east and west secured them against interruption, a select body of the rioters thundered at the door of the jail, and demanded instant admission. no one answered, for the outer keeper had prudently made his escape with the keys at the commencement of the riot, and was nowhere to be found. the door was instantly assailed with sledge-hammers, iron crows, and the coulters of ploughs, ready provided for the purpose, with which they prized, heaved, and battered for some time with little effect; for the door, besides being of double oak planks, clenched, both endlong and athwart, with broad-headed nails, was so hung and secured as to yield to no means of forcing, without the expenditure of much time. the rioters, however, appeared determined to gain admittance. gang after gang relieved each other at the exercise, for, of course, only a few could work at once; but gang after gang retired, exhausted with their violent exertions, without making much progress in forcing the prison door. butler had been led up near to this the principal scene of action; so near, indeed, that he was almost deafened by the unceasing clang of the heavy fore-hammers against the iron-bound portal of the prison. he began to entertain hopes, as the task seemed protracted, that the populace might give it over in despair, or that some rescue might arrive to disperse them. there was a moment at which the latter seemed probable. the magistrates, having assembled their officers, and some of the citizens who were willing to hazard themselves for the public tranquillity, now sallied forth from the tavern where they held their sitting, and approached the point of danger. their officers went before them with links and torches, with a herald to read the riot-act, if necessary. they easily drove before them the outposts and videttes of the rioters; but when they approached the line of guard which the mob, or rather, we should say, the conspirators, had drawn across the street in the front of the luckenbooths, they were received with an unintermitted volley of stones, and, on their nearer approach, the pikes, bayonets, and lochaber-axes, of which the populace had possessed themselves, were presented against them. one of their ordinary officers, a strong resolute fellow, went forward, seized a rioter, and took from him a musket; but, being unsupported, he was instantly thrown on his back in the street, and disarmed in his turn. the officer was too happy to be permitted to rise and run away without receiving any farther injury; which afforded another remarkable instance of the mode in which these men had united a sort of moderation towards all others, with the most inflexible inveteracy against the object of their resentment. the magistrates, after vain attempts to make themselves heard and obeyed, possessing no means of enforcing their authority, were constrained to abandon the field to the rioters, and retreat in all speed from the showers of missiles that whistled around their ears. the passive resistance of the tolbooth gate promised to do more to baffle the purpose of the mob than the active interference of the magistrates. the heavy sledge-hammers continued to din against it without intermission, and with a noise which, echoed from the lofty buildings around the spot, seemed enough to have alarmed the garrison in the castle. it was circulated among the rioters, that the troops would march down to disperse them, unless they could execute their purpose without loss of time; or that, even without quitting the fortress, the garrison might obtain the same end by throwing a bomb or two upon the street. urged by such motives for apprehension, they eagerly relieved each other at the labour of assailing the tolbooth door: yet such was its strength, that it still defied their efforts. at length, a voice was heard to pronounce the words, "try it with fire." the rioters, with an unanimous shout, called for combustibles, and as all their wishes seemed to be instantly supplied, they were soon in possession of two or three empty tar-barrels. a huge red glaring bonfire speedily arose close to the door of the prison, sending up a tall column of smoke and flame against its antique turrets and strongly-grated windows, and illuminating the ferocious and wild gestures of the rioters, who surrounded the place, as well as the pale and anxious groups of those, who, from windows in the vicinage, watched the progress of this alarming scene. the mob fed the fire with whatever they could find fit for the purpose. the flames roared and crackled among the heaps of nourishment piled on the fire, and a terrible shout soon announced that the door had kindled, and was in the act of being destroyed. the fire was suffered to decay, but, long ere it was quite extinguished, the most forward of the rioters rushed, in their impatience, one after another, over its yet smouldering remains. thick showers of sparkles rose high in the air, as man after man bounded over the glowing embers, and disturbed them in their passage. it was now obvious to butler, and all others who were present, that the rioters would be instantly in possession of their victim, and have it in their power to work their pleasure upon him, whatever that might be.* * note c. the old tolbooth. chapter sixth. the evil you teach us, we will execute; and it shall go hard, but we will better the instruction. merchant of venice. the unhappy object of this remarkable disturbance had been that day delivered from the apprehension of public execution, and his joy was the greater, as he had some reason to question whether government would have run the risk of unpopularity by interfering in his favour, after he had been legally convicted by the verdict of a jury, of a crime so very obnoxious. relieved from this doubtful state of mind, his heart was merry within him, and he thought, in the emphatic words of scripture on a similar occasion, that surely the bitterness of death was past. some of his friends, however, who had watched the manner and behaviour of the crowd when they were made acquainted with the reprieve, were of a different opinion. they augured, from the unusual sternness and silence with which they bore their disappointment, that the populace nourished some scheme of sudden and desperate vengeance; and they advised porteous to lose no time in petitioning the proper authorities, that he might be conveyed to the castle under a sufficient guard, to remain there in security until his ultimate fate should be determined. habituated, however, by his office, to overawe the rabble of the city, porteous could not suspect them of an attempt so audacious as to storm a strong and defensible prison; and, despising the advice by which he might have been saved, he spent the afternoon of the eventful day in giving an entertainment to some friends who visited him in jail, several of whom, by the indulgence of the captain of the tolbooth, with whom he had an old intimacy, arising from their official connection, were even permitted to remain to supper with him, though contrary to the rules of the jail. it was, therefore, in the hour of unalloyed mirth, when this unfortunate wretch was "full of bread," hot with wine, and high in mistimed and ill-grounded confidence, and alas! with all his sins full blown, when the first distant' shouts of the rioters mingled with the song of merriment and intemperance. the hurried call of the jailor to the guests, requiring them instantly to depart, and his yet more hasty intimation that a dreadful and determined mob had possessed themselves of the city gates and guard-house, were the first explanation of these fearful clamours. porteous might, however, have eluded the fury from which the force of authority could not protect him, had he thought of slipping on some disguise, and leaving the prison along with his guests. it is probable that the jailor might have connived at his escape, or even that in the hurry of this alarming contingency, he might not have observed it. but porteous and his friends alike wanted presence of mind to suggest or execute such a plan of escape. the former hastily fled from a place where their own safety seemed compromised, and the latter, in a state resembling stupefaction, awaited in his apartment the termination of the enterprise of the rioters. the cessation of the clang of the instruments with which they had at first attempted to force the door, gave him momentary relief. the flattering hopes, that the military had marched into the city, either from the castle or from the suburbs, and that the rioters were intimidated, and dispersing, were soon destroyed by the broad and glaring light of the flames, which, illuminating through the grated window every corner of his apartment, plainly showed that the mob, determined on their fatal purpose, had adopted a means of forcing entrance equally desperate and certain. the sudden glare of light suggested to the stupified and astonished object of popular hatred the possibility of concealment or escape. to rush to the chimney, to ascend it at the risk of suffocation, were the only means which seemed to have occurred to him; but his progress was speedily stopped by one of those iron gratings, which are, for the sake of security, usually placed across the vents of buildings designed for imprisonment. the bars, however, which impeded his farther progress, served to support him in the situation which he had gained, and he seized them with the tenacious grasp of one who esteemed himself clinging to his last hope of existence. the lurid light which had filled the apartment, lowered and died away; the sound of shouts was heard within the walls, and on the narrow and winding stair, which, eased within one of the turrets, gave access to the upper apartments of the prison. the huzza of the rioters was answered by a shout wild and desperate as their own, the cry, namely, of the imprisoned felons, who, expecting to be liberated in the general confusion, welcomed the mob as their deliverers. by some of these the apartment of porteous was pointed out to his enemies. the obstacle of the lock and bolts was soon overcome, and from his hiding place the unfortunate man heard his enemies search every corner of the apartment, with oaths and maledictions, which would but shock the reader if we recorded them, but which served to prove, could it have admitted of doubt, the settled purpose of soul with which they sought his destruction. a place of concealment so obvious to suspicion and scrutiny as that which porteous had chosen, could not long screen him from detection. he was dragged from his lurking-place, with a violence which seemed to argue an intention to put him to death on the spot. more than one weapon was directed towards him, when one of the rioters, the same whose female disguise had been particularly noticed by butler, interfered in an authoritative tone. "are ye mad?" he said, "or would ye execute an act of justice as if it were a crime and a cruelty? this sacrifice will lose half its savour if we do not offer it at the very horns of the altar. we will have him die where a murderer should die, on the common gibbet--we will have him die where he spilled the blood of so many innocents!" a loud shout of applause followed the proposal, and the cry, "to the gallows with the murderer!--to the grassmarket with him!" echoed on all hands. "let no man hurt him," continued the speaker; "let him make his peace with god, if he can; we will not kill both his soul and body." "what time did he give better folk for preparing their account?" answered several voices. "let us mete to him with the same measure he measured to them." but the opinion of the spokesman better suited the temper of those he addressed, a temper rather stubborn than impetuous, sedate though ferocious, and desirous of colouring their cruel and revengeful action with a show of justice and moderation. for an instant this man quitted the prisoner, whom he consigned to a selected guard, with instructions to permit him to give his money and property to whomsoever he pleased. a person confined in the jail for debt received this last deposit from the trembling hand of the victim, who was at the same time permitted to make some other brief arrangements to meet his approaching fate. the felons, and all others who, wished to leave the jail, were now at full liberty to do so; not that their liberation made any part of the settled purpose of the rioters, but it followed as almost a necessary consequence of forcing the jail doors. with wild cries of jubilee they joined the mob, or disappeared among the narrow lanes to seek out the hidden receptacles of vice and infamy, where they were accustomed to lurk and conceal themselves from justice. two persons, a man about fifty years old and a girl about eighteen, were all who continued within the fatal walls, excepting two or three debtors, who probably saw no advantage in attempting their escape. the persons we have mentioned remained in the strong room of the prison, now deserted by all others. one of their late companions in misfortune called out to the man to make his escape, in the tone of an acquaintance. "rin for it, ratcliffe--the road's clear." "it may be sae, willie," answered ratcliffe, composedly, "but i have taen a fancy to leave aff trade, and set up for an honest man." "stay there, and be hanged, then, for a donnard auld deevil!" said the other, and ran down the prison stair. the person in female attire whom we have distinguished as one of the most active rioters, was about the same time at the ear of the young woman. "flee, effie, flee!" was all he had time to whisper. she turned towards him an eye of mingled fear, affection, and upbraiding, all contending with a sort of stupified surprise. he again repeated, "flee, effie, flee! for the sake of all that's good and dear to you!" again she gazed on him, but was unable to answer. a loud noise was now heard, and the name of madge wildfire was repeatedly called from the bottom of the staircase. "i am coming,--i am coming," said the person who answered to that appellative; and then reiterating hastily, "for god's sake--for your own sake--for my sake, flee, or they'll take your life!" he left the strong room. the girl gazed after him for a moment, and then, faintly muttering, "better tyne life, since tint is gude fame," she sunk her head upon her hand, and remained, seemingly, unconscious as a statue of the noise and tumult which passed around her. that tumult was now transferred from the inside to the outside of the tolbooth. the mob had brought their destined victim forth, and were about to conduct him to the common place of execution, which they had fixed as the scene of his death. the leader, whom they distinguished by the name of madge wildfire, had been summoned to assist at the procession by the impatient shouts of his confederates. "i will insure you five hundred pounds," said the unhappy man, grasping wildfire's hand,--"five hundred pounds for to save my life." the other answered in the same undertone, and returning his grasp with one equally convulsive, "five hundredweight of coined gold should not save you.--remember wilson!" a deep pause of a minute ensued, when wildfire added, in a more composed tone, "make your peace with heaven.--where is the clergyman?" butler, who in great terror and anxiety, had been detained within a few yards of the tolbooth door, to wait the event of the search after porteous, was now brought forward, and commanded to walk by the prisoner's side, and to prepare him for immediate death. his answer was a supplication that the rioters would consider what they did. "you are neither judges nor jury," said he. "you cannot have, by the laws of god or man, power to take away the life of a human creature, however deserving he may be of death. if it is murder even in a lawful magistrate to execute an offender otherwise than in the place, time, and manner which the judges' sentence prescribes, what must it be in you, who have no warrant for interference but your own wills? in the name of him who is all mercy, show mercy to this unhappy man, and do not dip your hands in his blood, nor rush into the very crime which you are desirous of avenging!" "cut your sermon short--you are not in your pulpit," answered one of the rioters. "if we hear more of your clavers," said another, "we are like to hang you up beside him." "peace--hush!" said wildfire. "do the good man no harm--he discharges his conscience, and i like him the better." he then addressed butler. "now, sir, we have patiently heard you, and we just wish you to understand, in the way of answer, that you may as well argue to the ashlar-work and iron stanchels of the tolbooth as think to change our purpose--blood must have blood. we have sworn to each other by the deepest oaths ever were pledged, that porteous shall die the death he deserves so richly; therefore, speak no more to us, but prepare him for death as well as the briefness of his change will permit." they had suffered the unfortunate porteous to put on his night-gown and slippers, as he had thrown off his coat and shoes, in order to facilitate his attempted escape up the chimney. in this garb he was now mounted on the hands of two of the rioters, clasped together, so as to form what is called in scotland, "the king's cushion." butler was placed close to his side, and repeatedly urged to perform a duty always the most painful which can be imposed on a clergyman deserving of the name, and now rendered more so by the peculiar and horrid circumstances of the criminal's case. porteous at first uttered some supplications for mercy, but when he found that there was no chance that these would be attended to, his military education, and the natural stubbornness of his disposition, combined to support his spirits. "are you prepared for this dreadful end?" said butler, in a faltering voice. "o turn to him, in whose eyes time and space have no existence, and to whom a few minutes are as a lifetime, and a lifetime as a minute." "i believe i know what you would say," answered porteous sullenly. "i was bred a soldier; if they will murder me without time, let my sins as well as my blood lie at their door." "who was it," said the stern voice of wildfire, "that said to wilson at this very spot, when he could not pray, owing to the galling agony of his fetters, that his pains would soon be over?--i say to you to take your own tale home; and if you cannot profit by the good man's lessons, blame not them that are still more merciful to you than you were to others." [illustration: the porteous mob-- ] the procession now moved forward with a slow and determined pace. it was enlightened by many blazing, links and torches; for the actors of this work were so far from affecting any secrecy on the occasion, that they seemed even to court observation. their principal leaders kept close to the person of the prisoner, whose pallid yet stubborn features were seen distinctly by the torch-light, as his person was raised considerably above the concourse which thronged around him. those who bore swords, muskets, and battle-axes, marched on each side, as if forming a regular guard to the procession. the windows, as they went along, were filled with the inhabitants, whose slumbers had been broken by this unusual disturbance. some of the spectators muttered accents of encouragement; but in general they were so much appalled by a sight so strange and audacious, that they looked on with a sort of stupified astonishment. no one offered, by act or word, the slightest interruption. the rioters, on their part, continued to act with the same air of deliberate confidence and security which had marked all their proceedings. when the object of their resentment dropped one of his slippers, they stopped, sought for it, and replaced it upon his foot with great deliberation.* * this little incident, characteristic of the extreme composure of this extraordinary mob, was witnessed by a lady, who, disturbed like others from her slumbers, had gone to the window. it was told to the author by the lady's daughter. as they descended the bow towards the fatal spot where they designed to complete their purpose, it was suggested that there should be a rope kept in readiness. for this purpose the booth of a man who dealt in cordage was forced open, a coil of rope fit for their purpose was selected to serve as a halter, and the dealer next morning found that a guinea had been left on his counter in exchange; so anxious were the perpetrators of this daring action to show that they meditated not the slightest wrong or infraction of law, excepting so far as porteous was himself concerned. leading, or carrying along with them, in this determined and regular manner, the object of their vengeance, they at length reached the place of common execution, the scene of his crime, and destined spot of his sufferings. several of the rioters (if they should not rather be described as conspirators) endeavoured to remove the stone which filled up the socket in which the end of the fatal tree was sunk when it was erected for its fatal purpose; others sought for the means of constructing a temporary gibbet, the place in which the gallows itself was deposited being reported too secure to be forced, without much loss of time. butler endeavoured to avail himself of the delay afforded by these circumstances, to turn the people from their desperate design. "for god's sake," he exclaimed, "remember it is the image of your creator which you are about to deface in the person of this unfortunate man! wretched as he is, and wicked as he may be, he has a share in every promise of scripture, and you cannot destroy him in impenitence without blotting his name from the book of life--do not destroy soul and body; give time for preparation." "what time had they," returned a stern voice, "whom he murdered on this very spot?--the laws both of god and man call for his death." "but what, my friends," insisted butler, with a generous disregard to his own safety--"what hath constituted you his judges?" "we are not his judges," replied the same person; "he has been already judged and condemned by lawful authority. we are those whom heaven, and our righteous anger, have stirred up to execute judgment, when a corrupt government would have protected a murderer." "i am none," said the unfortunate porteous; "that which you charge upon me fell out in self-defence, in the lawful exercise of my duty." "away with him--away with him!" was the general cry. "why do you trifle away time in making a gallows?--that dyester's pole is good enough for the homicide." the unhappy man was forced to his fate with remorseless rapidity. butler, separated from him by the press, escaped the last horrors of his struggles. unnoticed by those who had hitherto detained him as a prisoner,--he fled from the fatal spot, without much caring in what direction his course lay. a loud shout proclaimed the stern delight with which the agents of this deed regarded its completion. butler, then, at the opening into the low street called the cowgate, cast back a terrified glance, and, by the red and dusky light of the torches, he could discern a figure wavering and struggling as it hung suspended above the heads of the multitude, and could even observe men striking at it with their lochaber-axes and partisans. the sight was of a nature to double his horror, and to add wings to his flight. the street down which the fugitive ran opens to one of the eastern ports or gates of the city. butler did not stop till he reached it, but found it still shut. he waited nearly an hour, walking up and down in inexpressible perturbation of mind. at length he ventured to call out, and rouse the attention of the terrified keepers of the gate, who now found themselves at liberty to resume their office without interruption. butler requested them to open the gate. they hesitated. he told them his name and occupation. "he is a preacher," said one; "i have heard him preach in haddo's-hole." "a fine preaching has he been at the night," said another "but maybe least said is sunest mended." opening then the wicket of the main gate, the keepers suffered butler to depart, who hastened to carry his horror and fear beyond the walls of edinburgh. his first purpose was instantly to take the road homeward; but other fears and cares, connected with the news he had learned in that remarkable day, induced him to linger in the neighbourhood of edinburgh until daybreak. more than one group of persons passed him as he was whiling away the hours of darkness that yet remained, whom, from the stifled tones of their discourse, the unwonted hour when they travelled, and the hasty pace at which they walked, he conjectured to have been engaged in the late fatal transaction. certain it was, that the sudden and total dispersion of the rioters, when their vindictive purpose was accomplished, seemed not the least remarkable feature of this singular affair. in general, whatever may be the impelling motive by which a mob is at first raised, the attainment of their object has usually been only found to lead the way to farther excesses. but not so in the present case. they seemed completely satiated with the vengeance they had prosecuted with such stanch and sagacious activity. when they were fully satisfied that life had abandoned their victim, they dispersed in every direction, throwing down the weapons which they had only assumed to enable them to carry through their purpose. at daybreak there remained not the least token of the events of the night, excepting the corpse of porteous, which still hung suspended in the place where he had suffered, and the arms of various kinds which the rioters had taken from the city guard-house, which were found scattered about the streets as they had thrown them from their hands when the purpose for which they had seized them was accomplished. the ordinary magistrates of the city resumed their power, not without trembling at the late experience of the fragility of its tenure. to march troops into the city, and commence a severe inquiry into the transactions of the preceding night, were the first marks of returning energy which they displayed. but these events had been conducted on so secure and well-calculated a plan of safety and secrecy, that there was little or nothing learned to throw light upon the authors or principal actors in a scheme so audacious. an express was despatched to london with the tidings, where they excited great indignation and surprise in the council of regency, and particularly in the bosom of queen caroline, who considered her own authority as exposed to contempt by the success of this singular conspiracy. nothing was spoke of for some time save the measure of vengeance which should be taken, not only on the actors of this tragedy, so soon as they should be discovered, but upon the magistrates who had suffered it to take place, and upon the city which had been the scene where it was exhibited. on this occasion, it is still recorded in popular tradition, that her majesty, in the height of her displeasure, told the celebrated john duke of argyle, that, sooner than submit to such an insult, she would make scotland a hunting-field. "in that case, madam," answered that high-spirited nobleman, with a profound bow, "i will take leave of your majesty, and go down to my own country to get my hounds ready." the import of the reply had more than met the ear; and as most of the scottish nobility and gentry seemed actuated by the same national spirit, the royal displeasure was necessarily checked in mid-volley, and milder courses were recommended and adopted, to some of which we may hereafter have occasion to advert.* * note d. memorial concerning the murder of captain porteous. chapter seventh arthur's seat shall be my bed, the sheets shall ne'er be pressed by me, st. anton's well shall be my drink, sin' my true-love's forsaken me. old song. if i were to choose a spot from which the rising or setting sun could be seen to the greatest possible advantage, it would be that wild path winding around the foot of the high belt of semicircular rocks, called salisbury crags, and marking the verge of the steep descent which slopes down into the glen on the south-eastern side of the city of edinburgh. the prospect, in its general outline, commands a close-built, high-piled city, stretching itself out beneath in a form, which, to a romantic imagination, may be supposed to represent that of a dragon; now, a noble arm of the sea, with its rocks, isles, distant shores, and boundary of mountains; and now, a fair and fertile champaign country, varied with hill, dale, and rock, and skirted by the picturesque ridge of the pentland mountains. but as the path gently circles around the base of the cliffs, the prospect, composed as it is of these enchanting and sublime objects, changes at every step, and presents them blended with, or divided from, each other, in every possible variety which can gratify the eye and the imagination. when a piece of scenery so beautiful, yet so varied,--so exciting by its intricacy, and yet so sublime,--is lighted up by the tints of morning or of evening, and displays all that variety of shadowy depth, exchanged with partial brilliancy, which gives character even to the tamest of landscapes, the effect approaches near to enchantment. this path used to be my favourite evening and morning resort, when engaged with a favourite author, or new subject of study. it is, i am informed, now become totally impassable; a circumstance which, if true, reflects little credit on the taste of the good town or its leaders.* * a beautiful and solid pathway has, within a few years, been formed around these romantic rocks; and the author has the pleasure to think, that the passage in the text gave rise to the undertaking. it was from this fascinating path--the scene to me of so much delicious musing, when life was young and promised to be happy, that i have been unable to pass it over without an episodical description--it was, i say, from this romantic path that butler saw the morning arise the day after the murder of porteous. it was possible for him with ease to have found a much shorter road to the house to which he was directing his course, and, in fact, that which he chose was extremely circuitous. but to compose his own spirits, as well as to while away the time, until a proper hour for visiting the family without surprise or disturbance, he was induced to extend his circuit by the foot of the rocks, and to linger upon his way until the morning should be considerably advanced. while, now standing with his arms across, and waiting the slow progress of the sun above the horizon, now sitting upon one of the numerous fragments which storms had detached from the rocks above him, he is meditating, alternately upon the horrible catastrophe which he had witnessed, and upon the melancholy, and to him most interesting, news which he had learned at saddletree's, we will give the reader to understand who butler was, and how his fate was connected with that of effie deans, the unfortunate handmaiden of the careful mrs. saddletree. reuben butler was of english extraction, though born in scotland. his grandfather was a trooper in monk's army, and one of the party of dismounted dragoons which formed the forlorn hope at the storming of dundee in . stephen butler (called from his talents in reading and expounding, scripture stephen, and bible butler) was a stanch independent, and received in its fullest comprehension the promise that the saints should inherit the earth. as hard knocks were what had chiefly fallen to his share hitherto in the division of this common property, he lost not the opportunity which the storm and plunder of a commercial place afforded him, to appropriate as large a share of the better things of this world as he could possibly compass. it would seem that he had succeeded indifferently well, for his exterior circumstances appeared, in consequence of this event, to have been much mended. the troop to which he belonged was quartered at the village of dalkeith, as forming the bodyguard of monk, who, in the capacity of general for the commonwealth, resided in the neighbouring castle. when, on the eve of the restoration, the general commenced his march from scotland, a measure pregnant with such important consequences, he new-modelled his troops, and more especially those immediately about his person, in order that they might consist entirely of individuals devoted to himself. on this occasion scripture stephen was weighed in the balance, and found wanting. it was supposed he felt no call to any expedition which might endanger the reign of the military sainthood, and that he did not consider himself as free in conscience to join with any party which might be likely ultimately to acknowledge the interest of charles stuart, the son of "the last man," as charles i. was familiarly and irreverently termed by them in their common discourse, as well as in their more elaborate predications and harangues. as the time did not admit of cashiering such dissidents, stephen butler was only advised in a friendly way to give up his horse and accoutrements to one of middleton's old troopers who possessed an accommodating conscience of a military stamp, and which squared itself chiefly upon those of the colonel and paymaster. as this hint came recommended by a certain sum of arrears presently payable, stephen had carnal wisdom enough to embrace the proposal, and with great indifference saw his old corps depart for coldstream, on their route for the south, to establish the tottering government of england on a new basis. the _zone_ of the ex-trooper, to use horace's phrase, was weighty enough to purchase a cottage and two or three fields (still known by the name of beersheba), within about a scottish mile of dalkeith; and there did stephen establish himself with a youthful helpmate, chosen out of the said village, whose disposition to a comfortable settlement on this side of the grave reconciled her to the gruff manners, serious temper, and weather-beaten features of the martial enthusiast. stephen did not long survive the falling on "evil days and evil tongues," of which milton, in the same predicament, so mournfully complains. at his death his consort remained an early widow, with a male child of three years old, which, in the sobriety wherewith it demeaned itself, in the old-fashioned and even grim cast of its features, and in its sententious mode of expressing itself, would sufficiently have vindicated the honour of the widow of beersheba, had any one thought proper to challenge the babe's descent from bible butler. butler's principles had not descended to his family, or extended themselves among his neighbours. the air of scotland was alien to the growth of independency, however favourable to fanaticism under other colours. but, nevertheless, they were not forgotten; and a certain neighbouring laird, who piqued himself upon the loyalty of his principles "in the worst of times" (though i never heard they exposed him to more peril than that of a broken head, or a night's lodging in the main guard, when wine and cavalierism predominated in his upper storey), had found it a convenient thing to rake up all matter of accusation against the deceased stephen. in this enumeration his religious principles made no small figure, as, indeed, they must have seemed of the most exaggerated enormity to one whose own were so small and so faintly traced, as to be well nigh imperceptible. in these circumstances, poor widow butler was supplied with her full proportion of fines for nonconformity, and all the other oppressions of the time, until beersheba was fairly wrenched out of her hands, and became the property of the laird who had so wantonly, as it had hitherto appeared, persecuted this poor forlorn woman. when his purpose was fairly achieved, he showed some remorse or moderation, of whatever the reader may please to term it, in permitting her to occupy her husband's cottage, and cultivate, on no very heavy terms, a croft of land adjacent. her son, benjamin, in the meanwhile, grew up to mass estate, and, moved by that impulse which makes men seek marriage, even when its end can only be the perpetuation of misery, he wedded and brought a wife, and, eventually, a son, reuben, to share the poverty of beersheba. the laird of dumbiedikes* had hitherto been moderate in his exactions, perhaps because he was ashamed to tax too highly the miserable means of support which remained to the widow butler. * dumbiedikes, selected as descriptive of the taciturn character of the imaginary owner, is really the name of a house bordering on the king's park, so called because the late mr. braidwood, an instructor of the deaf and dumb, resided there with his pupils. the situation of the real house is different from that assigned to the ideal mansion. but when a stout active young fellow appeared as the labourer of the croft in question, dumbiedikes began to think so broad a pair of shoulders might bear an additional burden. he regulated, indeed, his management of his dependants (who fortunately were but few in number) much upon the principle of the carters whom he observed loading their carts at a neighbouring coal-hill, and who never failed to clap an additional brace of hundredweights on their burden, so soon as by any means they had compassed a new horse of somewhat superior strength to that which had broken down the day before. however reasonable this practice appeared to the laird of dumbiedikes, he ought to have observed, that it may be overdone, and that it infers, as a matter of course, the destruction and loss of both horse, and cart, and loading. even so it befell when the additional "prestations" came to be demanded of benjamin butler. a man of few words, and few ideas, but attached to beersheba with a feeling like that which a vegetable entertains to the spot in which it chances to be planted, he neither remonstrated with the laird, nor endeavoured to escape from him, but, toiling night and day to accomplish the terms of his taskmaster, fell into a burning fever and died. his wife did not long survive him; and, as if it had been the fate of this family to be left orphans, our reuben butler was, about the year - , left in the same circumstances in which his father had been placed, and under the same guardianship, being that of his grandmother, the widow of monk's old trooper. the same prospect of misery hung over the head of another tenant of this hardhearted lord of the soil. this was a tough true-blue presbyterian, called deans, who, though most obnoxious to the laird on account of principles in church and state, contrived to maintain his ground upon the estate by regular payment of mail-duties, kain, arriage, carriage, dry multure, lock, gowpen, and knaveship, and all the various exactions now commuted for money, and summed up in the emphatic word rent. but the years and , long remembered in scotland for dearth and general distress, subdued the stout heart of the agricultural whig. citations by the ground-officer, decreets of the baron court, sequestrations, poindings of outside and inside plenishing, flew about his ears as fast as the tory bullets whistled around those of the covenanters at pentland, bothwell brigg, or airsmoss. struggle as he might, and he struggled gallantly, "douce david deans" was routed horse and foot, and lay at the mercy of his grasping landlord just at the time that benjamin butler died. the fate of each family was anticipated; but they who prophesied their expulsion to beggary and ruin were disappointed by an accidental circumstance. on the very term-day when their ejection should have taken place, when all their neighbours were prepared to pity, and not one to assist them, the minister of the parish, as well as a doctor from edinburgh, received a hasty summons to attend the laird of dumbiedikes. both were surprised, for his contempt for both faculties had been pretty commonly his theme over an extra bottle, that is to say, at least once every day. the leech for the soul, and he for the body, alighted in the court of the little old manor-house at almost the same time; and when they had gazed a moment at each other with some surprise, they in the same breath expressed their conviction that dumbiedikes must needs be very ill indeed, since he summoned them both to his presence at once. ere the servant could usher them to his apartment, the party was augmented by a man of law, nichil novit, writing himself procurator before the sheriff-court, for in those days there were no solicitors. this latter personage was first summoned to the apartment of the laird, where, after some short space, the soul-curer and the body-curer were invited to join him. dumbiedikes had been by this time transported into the best bedroom, used only upon occasions of death and marriage, and called, from the former of these occupations, the dead-room. there were in this apartment, besides the sick person himself and mr. novit, the son and heir of the patient, a tall gawky silly-looking boy of fourteen or fifteen, and a housekeeper, a good buxom figure of a woman, betwixt forty and fifty, who had kept the keys and managed matters at dumbiedikes since the lady's death. it was to these attendants that dumbiedikes addressed himself pretty nearly in the following words; temporal and spiritual matters, the care of his health and his affairs, being strangely jumbled in a head which was never one of the clearest. "these are sair times wi' me, gentlemen and neighbours! amaist as ill as at the aughty-nine, when i was rabbled by the collegeaners.* * immediately previous to the revolution, the students at the edinburgh college were violent anti-catholics. they were strongly suspected of burning the house of prestonfield, belonging to sir james dick, the lord provost; and certainly were guilty of creating considerable riots in - . --they mistook me muckle--they ca'd me a papist, but there was never a papist bit about me, minister.--jock, ye'll take warning--it's a debt we maun a' pay, and there stands nichil novit that will tell ye i was never gude at paying debts in my life.--mr. novit, ye'll no forget to draw the annual rent that's due on the yerl's band--if i pay debt to other folk, i think they suld pay it to me--that equals aquals.--jock, when ye hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing, jock, when ye're sleeping.* * the author has been flattered by the assurance, that this _naive_ mode of recommending arboriculture (which was actually delivered in these very words by a highland laird, while on his death-bed, to his son) had so much weight with a scottish earl as to lead to his planting a large tract of country. "my father tauld me sae forty years sin', but i ne'er fand time to mind him--jock, ne'er drink brandy in the morning, it files the stamach sair; gin ye take a morning's draught, let it be aqua mirabilis; jenny there makes it weel--doctor, my breath is growing as scant as a broken-winded piper's, when he has played for four-and-twenty hours at a penny wedding--jenny, pit the cod aneath my head--but it's a' needless!--mass john, could ye think o' rattling ower some bit short prayer, it wad do me gude maybe, and keep some queer thoughts out o' my head, say something, man." "i cannot use a prayer like a rat-rhyme," answered the honest clergyman; "and if you would have your soul redeemed like a prey from the fowler, laird, you must needs show me your state of mind." "and shouldna ye ken that without my telling you?" answered the patient. "what have i been paying stipend and teind, parsonage and vicarage, for, ever sin' the aughty-nine, and i canna get a spell of a prayer for't, the only time i ever asked for ane in my life?--gang awa wi' your whiggery, if that's a' ye can do; auld curate kilstoup wad hae read half the prayer-book to me by this time--awa wi' ye!--doctor, let's see if ye can do onything better for me." the doctor, who had obtained some information in the meanwhile from the housekeeper on the state of his complaints, assured him the medical art could not prolong his life many hours. "then damn mass john and you baith!" cried the furious and intractable patient. "did ye come here for naething but to tell me that ye canna help me at the pinch? out wi' them, jenny--out o' the house! and, jock, my curse, and the curse of cromwell, go wi' ye, if ye gie them either fee or bountith, or sae muckle as a black pair o' cheverons!"* *_cheverons_--gloves. the clergyman and doctor made a speedy retreat out of the apartment, while dumbiedikes fell into one of those transports of violent and profane language, which had procured him the surname of damn-me-dikes. "bring me the brandy bottle, jenny, ye b--," he cried, with a voice in which passion contended with pain. "i can die as i have lived, without fashing ony o' them. but there's ae thing," he said, sinking his voice--"there's ae fearful thing hings about my heart, and an anker of brandy winna wash it away.--the deanses at woodend!--i sequestrated them in the dear years, and now they are to flit, they'll starve--and that beersheba, and that auld trooper's wife and her oe, they'll starve--they'll starve! --look out, jock; what kind o' night is't?" "on-ding o' snaw, father," answered jock, after having opened the window, and looked out with great composure. "they'll perish in the drifts!" said the expiring sinner--"they'll perish wi' cauld!--but i'll be het eneugh, gin a' tales be true." this last observation was made under breath, and in a tone which made the very attorney shudder. he tried his hand at ghostly advice, probably for the first time in his life, and recommended as an opiate for the agonised conscience of the laird, reparation of the injuries he had done to these distressed families, which, he observed by the way, the civil law called _restitutio in integrum._ but mammon was struggling with remorse for retaining his place in a bosom he had so long possessed; and he partly succeeded, as an old tyrant proves often too strong for his insurgent rebels. "i canna do't," he answered, with a voice of despair. "it would kill me to do't--how can ye bid me pay back siller, when ye ken how i want it? or dispone beersheba, when it lies sae weel into my ain plaid-nuik? nature made dumbiedikes and beersheba to be ae man's land--she did, by nichil, it wad kill me to part them." "but ye maun die whether or no, laird," said mr. novit; "and maybe ye wad die easier--it's but trying. i'll scroll the disposition in nae time." "dinna speak o't, sir," replied dumbiedikes, "or i'll fling the stoup at your head.--but, jock, lad, ye see how the warld warstles wi' me on my deathbed--be kind to the puir creatures, the deanses and the butlers--be kind to them, jock. dinna let the warld get a grip o' ye, jock--but keep the gear thegither! and whate'er ye do, dispone beersheba at no rate. let the creatures stay at a moderate mailing, and hae bite and soup; it will maybe be the better wi' your father whare he's gaun, lad." after these contradictory instructions, the laird felt his mind so much at ease, that he drank three bumpers of brandy continuously, and "soughed awa," as jenny expressed it, in an attempt to sing "deil stick the minister." his death made a revolution in favour of the distressed families. john dumbie, now of dumbiedikes, in his own right, seemed to be close and selfish enough, but wanted the grasping spirit and active mind of his father; and his guardian happened to agree with him in opinion, that his father's dying recommendation should be attended to. the tenants, therefore, were not actually turned out of doors among the snow-wreaths, and were allowed wherewith to procure butter-milk and peas-bannocks, which they ate under the full force of the original malediction. the cottage of deans, called woodend, was not very distant from that at beersheba. formerly there had been but little intercourse between the families. deans was a sturdy scotsman, with all sort of prejudices against the southern, and the spawn of the southern. moreover, deans was, as we have said, a stanch presbyterian, of the most rigid and unbending adherence to what he conceived to be the only possible straight line, as he was wont to express himself, between right-hand heats and extremes and left-hand defections; and, therefore, he held in high dread and horror all independents, and whomsoever he supposed allied to them. but, notwithstanding these national prejudices and religious professions, deans and the widow butler were placed in such a situation, as naturally and at length created some intimacy between the families. they had shared a common danger and a mutual deliverance. they needed each other's assistance, like a company, who, crossing a mountain stream, are compelled to cling close together, lest the current should be too powerful for any who are not thus supported. on nearer acquaintance, too, deans abated some of his prejudices. he found old mrs. butler, though not thoroughly grounded in the extent and bearing of the real testimony against the defections of the times, had no opinions in favour of the independent party; neither was she an englishwoman. therefore, it was to be hoped, that, though she was the widow of an enthusiastic corporal of cromwell's dragoons, her grandson might be neither schismatic nor anti-national, two qualities concerning which goodman deans had as wholesome a terror as against papists and malignants, above all (for douce davie deans had his weak side), he perceived that widow butler looked up to him with reverence, listened to his advice, and compounded for an occasional fling at the doctrines of her deceased husbands to which, as we have seen, she was by no means warmly attached, in consideration of the valuable counsels which the presbyterian afforded her for the management of her little farm. these usually concluded with "they may do otherwise in england, neighbour butler, for aught i ken;" or, "it may be different in foreign parts;" or, "they wha think differently on the great foundation of our covenanted reformation, overturning and mishguggling the government and discipline of the kirk, and breaking down the carved work of our zion, might be for sawing the craft wi' aits; but i say peace, peace." and as his advice was shrewd and sensible, though conceitedly given, it was received with gratitude, and followed with respect. the intercourse which took place betwixt the families at beersheba and woodend became strict and intimate, at a very early period, betwixt reuben butler, with whom the reader is already in some degree acquainted, and jeanie deans, the only child of douce davie deans by his first wife, "that singular christian woman," as he was wont to express himself, "whose name was savoury to all that knew her for a desirable professor, christian menzies in hochmagirdle." the manner of which intimacy, and the consequences thereof, we now proceed to relate. chapter eighth. reuben and rachel, though as fond as doves, were yet discreet and cautious in their loves, nor would attend to cupid's wild commands, till cool reflection bade them join their hands; when both were poor, they thought it argued ill of hasty love to make them poorer still. crabbe's _parish register._ while widow butler and widower deans struggled with poverty, and the hard and sterile soil of "those parts and portions" of the lands of dumbiedikes which it was their lot to occupy, it became gradually apparent that deans was to gain the strife, and his ally in the conflict was to lose it. the former was a man, and not much past the prime of life--mrs. butler a woman, and declined into the vale of years, this, indeed, ought in time to have been balanced by the circumstance, that reuben was growing up to assist his grandmothers labours, and that jeanie deans, as a girl, could be only supposed to add to her father's burdens. but douce davie deans know better things, and so schooled and trained the young minion, as he called her, that from the time she could walk, upwards, she was daily employed in some task or other, suitable to her age and capacity; a circumstance which, added to her father's daily instructions and lectures, tended to give her mind, even when a child, a grave, serious, firm, and reflecting cast. an uncommonly strong and healthy temperament, free from all nervous affection and every other irregularity, which, attacking the body in its more noble functions, so often influences the mind, tended greatly to establish this fortitude, simplicity, and decision of character. on the other hand, reuben was weak in constitution, and, though not timid in temper might be safely pronounced anxious, doubtful, and apprehensive. he partook of the temperament of his mother, who had died of a consumption in early age. he was a pale, thin, feeble, sickly boy, and somewhat lame, from an accident in early youth. he was, besides, the child of a doting grandmother, whose too solicitous attention to him soon taught him a sort of diffidence in himself, with a disposition to overrate his own importance, which is one of the very worst consequences that children deduce from over-indulgence. still, however, the two children clung to each other's society, not more from habit than from taste. they herded together the handful of sheep, with the two or three cows, which their parents turned out rather to seek food than actually to feed upon the unenclosed common of dumbiedikes. it was there that the two urchins might be seen seated beneath a blooming bush of whin, their little faces laid close together under the shadow of the same plaid drawn over both their heads, while the landscape around was embrowned by an overshadowing cloud, big with the shower which had driven the children to shelter. on other occasions they went together to school, the boy receiving that encouragement and example from his companion, in crossing the little brooks which intersected their path, and encountering cattle, dogs, and other perils, upon their journey, which the male sex in such cases usually consider it as their prerogative to extend to the weaker. but when, seated on the benches of the school-house, they began to con their lessons together, reuben, who was as much superior to jeanie deans in acuteness of intellect, as inferior to her in firmness of constitution, and in that insensibility to fatigue and danger which depends on the conformation of the nerves, was able fully to requite the kindness and countenance with which, in other circumstances, she used to regard him. he was decidedly the best scholar at the little parish school; and so gentle was his temper and disposition, that he was rather admired than envied by the little mob who occupied the noisy mansion, although he was the declared favourite of the master. several girls, in particular (for in scotland they are taught with the boys), longed to be kind to and comfort the sickly lad, who was so much cleverer than his companions. the character of reuben butler was so calculated as to offer scope both for their sympathy and their admiration, the feelings, perhaps, through which the female sex (the more deserving part of them at least) is more easily attached. but reuben, naturally reserved and distant, improved none of these advantages; and only became more attached to jeanie deans, as the enthusiastic approbation of his master assured him of fair prospects in future life, and awakened his ambition. in the meantime, every advance that reuben made in learning (and, considering his opportunities, they were uncommonly great) rendered him less capable of attending to the domestic duties of his grandmother's farm. while studying the _pons asinorum_ in euclid, he suffered every _cuddie_ upon the common to trespass upon a large field of peas belonging to the laird, and nothing but the active exertions of jeanie deans, with her little dog dustiefoot, could have saved great loss and consequent punishment. similar miscarriages marked his progress in his classical studies. he read virgil's georgics till he did not know bere from barley; and had nearly destroyed the crofts of beersheba while attempting to cultivate them according to the practice of columella and cato the censor. these blunders occasioned grief to his grand-dame, and disconcerted the good opinion which her neighbour, davie deans, had for some time entertained of reuben. "i see naething ye can make of that silly callant, neighbour butler," said he to the old lady, "unless ye train him to the wark o' the ministry. and ne'er was there mair need of poorfu' preachers than e'en now in these cauld gallio days, when men's hearts are hardened like the nether mill-stone, till they come to regard none of these things. it's evident this puir callant of yours will never be able to do an usefu' day's wark, unless it be as an ambassador from our master; and i will make it my business to procure a license when he is fit for the same, trusting he will be a shaft cleanly polished, and meet to be used in the body of the kirk; and that he shall not turn again, like the sow, to wallow in the mire of heretical extremes and defections, but shall have the wings of a dove, though he hath lain among the pots." the poor widow gulped down the affront to her husband's principles, implied in this caution, and hastened to take butler from the high school, and encourage him in the pursuit of mathematics and divinity, the only physics and ethics that chanced to be in fashion at the time. jeanie deans was now compelled to part from the companion of her labour, her study, and her pastime, and it was with more than childish feeling that both children regarded the separation. but they were young, and hope was high, and they separated like those who hope to meet again at a more auspicious hour. while reuben butler was acquiring at the university of st. andrews the knowledge necessary for a clergyman, and macerating his body with the privations which were necessary in seeking food for his mind, his grand-dame became daily less able to struggle with her little farm, and was at length obliged to throw it up to the new laird of dumbiedikes. that great personage was no absolute jew, and did not cheat her in making the bargain more than was tolerable. he even gave her permission to tenant the house in which she had lived with her husband, as long as it should be "tenantable;" only he protested against paying for a farthing of repairs, any benevolence which he possessed being of the passive, but by no means of the active mood. in the meanwhile, from superior shrewdness, skill, and other circumstances, some of them purely accidental, davie deans gained a footing in the world, the possession of some wealth, the reputation of more, and a growing disposition to preserve and increase his store; for which, when he thought upon it seriously, he was inclined to blame himself. from his knowledge in agriculture, as it was then practised, he became a sort of favourite with the laird, who had no great pleasure either in active sports or in society, and was wont to end his daily saunter by calling at the cottage of woodend. being himself a man of slow ideas and confused utterance, dumbiedikes used to sit or stand for half-an-hour with an old laced hat of his father's upon his head, and an empty tobacco-pipe in his mouth, with his eyes following jeanie deans, or "the lassie" as he called her, through the course of her daily domestic labour; while her father, after exhausting the subject of bestial, of ploughs, and of harrows, often took an opportunity of going full-sail into controversial subjects, to which discussions the dignitary listened with much seeming patience, but without making any reply, or, indeed, as most people thought, without understanding a single word of what the orator was saying. deans, indeed, denied this stoutly, as an insult at once to his own talents for expounding hidden truths, of which he was a little vain, and to the laird's capacity of understanding them. he said, "dumbiedikes was nane of these flashy gentles, wi' lace on their skirts and swords at their tails, that were rather for riding on horseback to hell than gauging barefooted to heaven. he wasna like his father--nae profane company-keeper--nae swearer--nae drinker--nae frequenter of play-house, or music-house, or dancing-house--nae sabbath-breaker--nae imposer of aiths, or bonds, or denier of liberty to the flock.--he clave to the warld, and the warld's gear, a wee ower muckle, but then there was some breathing of a gale upon his spirit," etc. etc. all this honest davie said and believed. it is not to be supposed, that, by a father and a man of sense and observation, the constant direction of the laird's eyes towards jeanie was altogether unnoticed. this circumstance, however, made a much greater impression upon another member of his family, a second helpmate, to wit, whom he had chosen to take to his bosom ten years after the death of his first. some people were of opinion, that douce davie had been rather surprised into this step, for, in general, he was no friend to marriages or giving in marriage, and seemed rather to regard that state of society as a necessary evil,--a thing lawful, and to be tolerated in the imperfect state of our nature, but which clipped the wings with which we ought to soar upwards, and tethered the soul to its mansion of clay, and the creature-comforts of wife and bairns. his own practice, however, had in this material point varied from his principles, since, as we have seen, he twice knitted for himself this dangerous and ensnaring entanglement. rebecca, his spouse, had by no means the same horror of matrimony, and as she made marriages in imagination for every neighbour round, she failed not to indicate a match betwixt dumbiedikes and her step-daughter jeanie. the goodman used regularly to frown and pshaw whenever this topic was touched upon, but usually ended by taking his bonnet and walking out of the house, to conceal a certain gleam of satisfaction, which, at such a suggestion, involuntarily diffused itself over his austere features. the more youthful part of my readers may naturally ask, whether jeanie deans was deserving of this mute attention of the laird of dumbiedikes; and the historian, with due regard to veracity, is compelled to answer, that her personal attractions were of no uncommon description. she was short, and rather too stoutly made for her size, had grey eyes, light coloured hair, a round good-humoured face, much tanned with the sun, and her only peculiar charm was an air of inexpressible serenity, which a good conscience, kind feelings, contented temper, and the regular discharge of all her duties, spread over her features. there was nothing, it may be supposed, very appalling in the form or manners of this rustic heroine; yet, whether from sheepish bashfulness, or from want of decision and imperfect knowledge of his own mind on the subject, the laird of dumbiedikes, with his old laced hat and empty tobacco-pipe, came and enjoyed the beatific vision of jeanie deans day after day, week after week, year after year, without proposing to accomplish any of the prophecies of the stepmother. this good lady began to grow doubly impatient on the subject, when, after having been some years married, she herself presented douce davie with another daughter, who was named euphemia, by corruption, effie. it was then that rebecca began to turn impatient with the slow pace at which the laird's wooing proceeded, judiciously arguing, that, as lady dumbiedikes would have but little occasion for tocher, the principal part of her gudeman's substance would naturally descend to the child by the second marriage. other step-dames have tried less laudable means for clearing the way to the succession of their own children; but rebecca, to do her justice, only sought little effie's advantage through the promotion, or which must have generally been accounted such, of her elder sister. she therefore tried every female art within the compass of her simple skill, to bring the laird to a point; but had the mortification to perceive that her efforts, like those of an unskilful angler, only scared the trout she meant to catch. upon one occasion, in particular, when she joked with the laird on the propriety of giving a mistress to the house of dumbiedikes, he was so effectually startled, that neither laced hat, tobacco-pipe, nor the intelligent proprietor of these movables, visited woodend for a fortnight. rebecca was therefore compelled to leave the laird to proceed at his own snail's pace, convinced, by experience, of the grave-digger's aphorism, that your dull ass will not mend his pace for beating. reuben, in the meantime, pursued his studies at the university, supplying his wants by teaching the younger lads the knowledge he himself acquired, and thus at once gaining the means of maintaining himself at the seat of learning, and fixing in his mind the elements of what he had already obtained. in this manner, as is usual among the poorer students of divinity at scottish universities, he contrived not only to maintain himself according to his simple wants, but even to send considerable assistance to his sole remaining parent, a sacred duty, of which the scotch are seldom negligent. his progress in knowledge of a general kind, as well as in the studies proper to his profession, was very considerable, but was little remarked, owing to the retired modesty of his disposition, which in no respect qualified him to set off his learning to the best advantage. and thus, had butler been a man given to make complaints, he had his tale to tell, like others, of unjust preferences, bad luck, and hard usage. on these subjects, however, he was habitually silent, perhaps from modesty, perhaps from a touch of pride, or perhaps from a conjunction of both. he obtained his license as a preacher of the gospel, with some compliments from the presbytery by whom it was bestowed; but this did not lead to any preferment, and he found it necessary to make the cottage at beersheba his residence for some months, with no other income than was afforded by the precarious occupation of teaching in one or other of the neighbouring families. after having greeted his aged grandmother, his first visit was to woodend, where he was received by jeanie with warm cordiality, arising from recollections which had never been dismissed from her mind, by rebecca with good-humoured hospitality, and by old deans in a mode peculiar to himself. highly as douce davie honoured the clergy, it was not upon each individual of the cloth that he bestowed his approbation; and, a little jealous, perhaps, at seeing his youthful acquaintance erected into the dignity of a teacher and preacher, he instantly attacked him upon various points of controversy, in order to discover whether he might not have fallen into some of the snares, defections, and desertions of the time. butler was not only a man of stanch presbyterian principles, but was also willing to avoid giving pain to his old friend by disputing upon points of little importance; and therefore he might have hoped to have come like fine gold out of the furnace of davie's interrogatories. but the result on the mind of that strict investigator was not altogether so favourable as might have been hoped and anticipated. old judith butler, who had hobbled that evening as far as woodend, in order to enjoy the congratulations of her neighbours upon reuben's return, and upon his high attainments, of which she was herself not a little proud, was somewhat mortified to find that her old friend deans did not enter into the subject with the warmth she expected. at first, in he seemed rather silent than dissatisfied; and it was not till judith had essayed the subject more than once that it led to the following dialogue. "aweel, neibor deans, i thought ye wad hae been glad to see reuben amang us again, poor fellow." "i _am_ glad, mrs. butler," was the neighbour's concise answer. "since he has lost his grandfather and his father (praised be him that giveth and taketh!), i ken nae friend he has in the world that's been sae like a father to him as the sell o'ye, neibor deans." "god is the only father of the fatherless," said deans, touching his bonnet and looking upwards. "give honour where it is due, gudewife, and not to an unworthy instrument." "aweel, that's your way o' turning it, and nae doubt ye ken best; but i hae ken'd ye, davie, send a forpit o' meal to beersheba when there wasna a bow left in the meal-ark at woodend; ay, and i hae ken'd ye" "gudewife," said davie, interrupting her, "these are but idle tales to tell me; fit for naething but to puff up our inward man wi' our ain vain acts. i stude beside blessed alexander peden, when i heard him call the death and testimony of our happy martyrs but draps of blude and scarts of ink in respect of fitting discharge of our duty; and what suld i think of ony thing the like of me can do?" "weel, neibor deans, ye ken best; but i maun say that, i am sure you are glad to see my bairn again--the halt's gane now, unless he has to walk ower mony miles at a stretch; and he has a wee bit colour in his cheek, that glads my auld een to see it; and he has as decent a black coat as the minister; and" "i am very heartily glad he is weel and thriving," said mr. deans, with a gravity that seemed intended to cut short the subject; but a woman who is bent upon a point is not easily pushed aside from it. "and," continued mrs. butler, "he can wag his head in a pulpit now, neibor deans, think but of that--my ain oe--and a'body maun sit still and listen to him, as if he were the paip of rome." "the what?--the who?--woman!" said deans, with a sternness far beyond his usual gravity, as soon as these offensive words had struck upon the tympanum of his ear. "eh, guide us!" said the poor woman; "i had forgot what an ill will ye had aye at the paip, and sae had my puir gudeman, stephen butler. mony an afternoon he wad sit and take up his testimony again the paip, and again baptizing of bairns, and the like." "woman!" reiterated deans, "either speak about what ye ken something o', or be silent; i say that independency is a foul heresy, and anabaptism a damnable and deceiving error, whilk suld be rooted out of the land wi' the fire o' the spiritual, and the sword o' the civil magistrate." "weel, weel, neibor, i'll no say that ye mayna be right," answered the submissive judith. "i am sure ye are right about the sawing and the mawing, the shearing and the leading, and what for suld ye no be right about kirkwark, too?--but concerning my oe, reuben butler" "reuben butler, gudewife," said david, with solemnity, "is a lad i wish heartily weel to, even as if he were mine ain son--but i doubt there will be outs and ins in the track of his walk. i muckle fear his gifts will get the heels of his grace. he has ower muckle human wit and learning, and thinks as muckle about the form of the bicker as he does about the healsomeness of the food--he maun broider the marriage-garment with lace and passments, or it's no gude eneugh for him. and it's like he's something proud o' his human gifts and learning, whilk enables him to dress up his doctrine in that fine airy dress. but," added he, at seeing the old woman's uneasiness at his discourse, "affliction may gie him a jagg, and let the wind out o' him, as out o' a cow that's eaten wet clover, and the lad may do weel, and be a burning and a shining light; and i trust it will be yours to see, and his to feel it, and that soon." widow butler was obliged to retire, unable to make anything more of her neighbour, whose discourse, though she did not comprehend it, filled her with undefined apprehensions on her grandson's account, and greatly depressed the joy with which she had welcomed him on his return. and it must not be concealed, in justice to mr. deans's discernment, that butler, in their conference, had made a greater display of his learning than the occasion called for, or than was likely to be acceptable to the old man, who, accustomed to consider himself as a person preeminently entitled to dictate upon theological subjects of controversy, felt rather humbled and mortified when learned authorities were placed in array against him. in fact, butler had not escaped the tinge of pedantry which naturally flowed from his education, and was apt, on many occasions, to make parade of his knowledge, when there was no need of such vanity. jeanie deans, however, found no fault with this display of learning, but, on the contrary, admired it; perhaps on the same score that her sex are said to admire men of courage, on account of their own deficiency in that qualification. the circumstances of their families threw the young people constantly together; their old intimacy was renewed, though upon a footing better adapted to their age; and it became at length understood betwixt them, that their union should be deferred no longer than until butler should obtain some steady means of support, however humble. this, however, was not a matter speedily to be accomplished. plan after plan was formed, and plan after plan failed. the good-humoured cheek of jeanie lost the first flush of juvenile freshness; reuben's brow assumed the gravity of manhood, yet the means of obtaining a settlement seemed remote as ever. fortunately for the lovers, their passion was of no ardent or enthusiastic cast; and a sense of duty on both sides induced them to bear, with patient fortitude, the protracted interval which divided them from each other. in the meanwhile, time did not roll on without effecting his usual changes. the widow of stephen butler, so long the prop of the family of beersheba, was gathered to her fathers; and rebecca, the careful spouse of our friend davie deans, wa's also summoned from her plans of matrimonial and domestic economy. the morning after her death, reuben butler went to offer his mite of consolation to his old friend and benefactor. he witnessed, on this occasion, a remarkable struggle betwixt the force of natural affection and the religious stoicism which the sufferer thought it was incumbent upon him to maintain under each earthly dispensation, whether of weal or woe. on his arrival at the cottage, jeanie, with her eyes overflowing with tears, pointed to the little orchard, "in which," she whispered with broken accents, "my poor father has been since his misfortune." somewhat alarmed at this account, butler entered the orchard, and advanced slowly towards his old friend, who, seated in a small rude arbour, appeared to be sunk in the extremity of his affliction. he lifted his eyes somewhat sternly as butler approached, as if offended at the interruption; but as the young man hesitated whether he ought to retreat or advance, he arose, and came forward to meet him with a self-possessed, and even dignified air. "young man," said the sufferer, "lay it not to heart, though the righteous perish, and the merciful are removed, seeing, it may well be said, that they are taken away from the evils to come. woe to me were i to shed a tear for the wife of my bosom, when i might weep rivers of water for this afflicted church, cursed as it is with carnal seekers, and with the dead of heart." "i am happy," said butler, "that you can forget your private affliction in your regard for public duty." "forget, reuben?" said poor deans, putting his handkerchief to his eyes--"she's not to be forgotten on this side of time; but he that gives the wound can send the ointment. i declare there have been times during this night when my meditation hae been so rapt, that i knew not of my heavy loss. it has been with me as with the worthy john semple, called carspharn john,* upon a like trial--i have been this night on the banks of ulai, plucking an apple here and there!" * note e. carspharn john. notwithstanding the assumed fortitude of deans, which he conceived to be the discharge of a great christian duty, he had too good a heart not to suffer deeply under this heavy loss. woodend became altogether distasteful to him; and as he had obtained both substance and experience by his management of that little farm, he resolved to employ them as a dairy-farmer, or cowfeeder, as they are called in scotland. the situation he chose for his new settlement was at a place called saint leonard's crags, lying betwixt edinburgh and the mountain called arthur's seat, and adjoining to the extensive sheep pasture still named the king's park, from its having been formerly dedicated to the preservation of the royal game. here he rented a small lonely house, about half-a-mile distant from the nearest point of the city, but the site of which, with all the adjacent ground, is now occupied by the buildings which form the southeastern suburb. an extensive pasture-ground adjoining, which deans rented from the keeper of the royal park, enabled him to feed his milk-cows; and the unceasing industry and activity of jeanie, his oldest daughter, were exerted in making the most of their produce. she had now less frequent opportunities of seeing reuben, who had been obliged, after various disappointments, to accept the subordinate situation of assistant in a parochial school of some eminence, at three or four miles' distance from the city. here he distinguished himself, and became acquainted with several respectable burgesses, who, on account of health, or other reasons, chose that their children should commence their education in this little village. his prospects were thus gradually brightening, and upon each visit which he paid at saint leonard's he had an opportunity of gliding a hint to this purpose into jeanie's ear. these visits were necessarily very rare, on account of the demands which the duties of the school made upon butler's time. nor did he dare to make them even altogether so frequent as these avocations would permit. deans received him with civility indeed, and even with kindness; but reuben, as is usual in such cases, imagined that he read his purpose in his eyes, and was afraid too premature an explanation on the subject would draw down his positive disapproval. upon the whole, therefore, he judged it prudent to call at saint leonard's just so frequently as old acquaintance and neighbourhood seemed to authorise, and no oftener. there was another person who was more regular in his visits. [illustration: the laird in jeanie's cottage-- ] when davie deans intimated to the laird of dumbiedikes his purpose of "quitting wi' the land and house at woodend," the laird stared and said nothing. he made his usual visits at the usual hour without remark, until the day before the term, when, observing the bustle of moving furniture already commenced, the great east-country _awmrie_ dragged out of its nook, and standing with its shoulder to the company, like an awkward booby about to leave the room, the laird again stared mightily, and was heard to ejaculate,--"hegh, sirs!" even after the day of departure was past and gone, the laird of dumbiedikes, at his usual hour, which was that at which david deans was wont to "loose the pleugh," presented himself before the closed door of the cottage at woodend, and seemed as much astonished at finding it shut against his approach as if it was not exactly what he had to expect. on this occasion he was heard to ejaculate, "gude guide us!" which, by those who knew him, was considered as a very unusual mark of emotion. from that moment forward dumbiedikes became an altered man, and the regularity of his movements, hitherto so exemplary, was as totally disconcerted as those of a boy's watch when he has broken the main-spring. like the index of the said watch did dumbiedikes spin round the whole bounds of his little property, which may be likened unto the dial of the timepiece, with unwonted velocity. there was not a cottage into which he did not enter, nor scarce a maiden on whom he did not stare. but so it was, that although there were better farm-houses on the land than woodend, and certainly much prettier girls than jeanie deans, yet it did somehow befall that the blank in the laird's time was not so pleasantly filled up as it had been. there was no seat accommodated him so well as the "bunker" at woodend, and no face he loved so much to gaze on as jeanie deans's. so, after spinning round and round his little orbit, and then remaining stationary for a week, it seems to have occurred to him that he was not pinned down to circulate on a pivot, like the hands of the watch, but possessed the power of shifting his central point, and extending his circle if he thought proper. to realise which privilege of change of place, he bought a pony from a highland drover, and with its assistance and company stepped, or rather stumbled, as far as saint leonard's crags. jeanie deans, though so much accustomed to the laird's staring that she was sometimes scarce conscious of his presence, had nevertheless some occasional fears lest he should call in the organ of speech to back those expressions of admiration which he bestowed on her through his eyes. should this happen, farewell, she thought, to all chance of a union with butler. for her father, however stouthearted and independent in civil and religious principles, was not without that respect for the laird of the land, so deeply imprinted on the scottish tenantry of the period. moreover, if he did not positively dislike butler, yet his fund of carnal learning was often the object of sarcasms on david's part, which were perhaps founded in jealousy, and which certainly indicated no partiality for the party against whom they were launched. and lastly, the match with dumbiedikes would have presented irresistible charms to one who used to complain that he felt himself apt to take "ower grit an armfu' o' the warld." so that, upon the whole, the laird's diurnal visits were disagreeable to jeanie from apprehension of future consequences, and it served much to console her, upon removing from the spot where she was bred and born, that she had seen the last of dumbiedikes, his laced hat, and tobacco-pipe. the poor girl no more expected he could muster courage to follow her to saint leonard's crags than that any of her apple-trees or cabbages which she had left rooted in the "yard" at woodend, would spontaneously, and unaided, have undertaken the same journey. it was therefore with much more surprise than pleasure that, on the sixth day after their removal to saint leonard's, she beheld dumbiedikes arrive, laced hat, tobacco-pipe, and all, and, with the self-same greeting of "how's a' wi' ye, jeanie?--whare's the gudeman?" assume as nearly as he could the same position in the cottage at saint leonard's which he had so long and so regularly occupied at woodend. he was no sooner, however, seated, than with an unusual exertion of his powers of conversation, he added, "jeanie--i say, jeanie, woman"--here he extended his hand towards her shoulder with all the fingers spread out as if to clutch it, but in so bashful and awkward a manner, that when she whisked herself beyond its reach, the paw remained suspended in the air with the palm open, like the claw of a heraldic griffin--"jeanie," continued the swain in this moment of inspiration--"i say, jeanie, it's a braw day out-by, and the roads are no that ill for boot-hose." [illustration: jeanie--i say, jeanie, woman-- "the deil's in the daidling body," muttered jeanie between her teeth; "wha wad hae thought o' his daikering out this length?" and she afterwards confessed that she threw a little of this ungracious sentiment into her accent and manner; for her father being abroad, and the "body," as she irreverently termed the landed proprietor, "looking unco gleg and canty, she didna ken what he might be coming out wi' next." her frowns, however, acted as a complete sedative, and the laird relapsed from that day into his former taciturn habits, visiting the cowfeeder's cottage three or four times every week, when the weather permitted, with apparently no other purpose than to stare at jeanie deans, while douce davie poured forth his eloquence upon the controversies and testimonies of the day. chapter ninth. her air, her manners, all who saw admired, courteous, though coy, and gentle, though retired; the joy of youth and health her eyes displayed; and ease of heart her every look conveyed. crabbe. the visits of the laird thus again sunk into matters of ordinary course, from which nothing was to be expected or apprehended. if a lover could have gained a fair one as a snake is said to fascinate a bird, by pertinaciously gazing on her with great stupid greenish eyes, which began now to be occasionally aided by spectacles, unquestionably dumbiedikes would have been the person to perform the feat. but the art of fascination seems among the _artes perditae,_ and i cannot learn that this most pertinacious of starers produced any effect by his attentions beyond an occasional yawn. in the meanwhile, the object of his gaze was gradually attaining the verge of youth, and approaching to what is called in females the middle age, which is impolitely held to begin a few years earlier with their more fragile sex than with men. many people would have been of opinion, that the laird would have done better to have transferred his glances to an object possessed of far superior charms to jeanie's, even when jeanie's were in their bloom, who began now to be distinguished by all who visited the cottage at st. leonard's crags. effie deans, under the tender and affectionate care of her sister, had now shot up into a beautiful and blooming girl. her grecian shaped head was profusely rich in waving ringlets of brown hair, which, confined by a blue snood of silk, and shading a laughing hebe countenance, seemed the picture of health, pleasure, and contentment. her brown russet short-gown set off a shape, which time, perhaps, might be expected to render too robust, the frequent objection to scottish beauty, but which, in her present early age, was slender and taper, with that graceful and easy sweep of outline which at once indicates health and beautiful proportion of parts. these growing charms, in all their juvenile profusion, had no power to shake the steadfast mind, or divert the fixed gaze of the constant laird of dumbiedikes. but there was scarce another eye that could behold this living picture of health and beauty, without pausing on it with pleasure. the traveller stopped his weary horse on the eve of entering the city which was the end of his journey, to gaze at the sylph-like form that tripped by him, with her milk-pail poised on her head, bearing herself so erect, and stepping so light and free under her burden, that it seemed rather an ornament than an encumbrance. the lads of the neighbouring suburb, who held their evening rendezvous for putting the stone, casting the hammer, playing at long bowls, and other athletic exercises, watched the motions of effie deans, and contended with each other which should have the good fortune to attract her attention. even the rigid presbyterians of her father's persuasion, who held each indulgence of the eye and sense to be a snare at least if not a crime, were surprised into a moment's delight while gazing on a creature so exquisite,--instantly checked by a sigh, reproaching at once their own weakness, and mourning that a creature so fair should share in the common and hereditary guilt and imperfection of our nature, which she deserved as much by her guileless purity of thought, speech, and action, as by her uncommon loveliness of face and person. yet there were points in effie's character which gave rise not only to strange doubt and anxiety on the part of douce david deans, whose ideas were rigid, as may easily be supposed, upon the subject of youthful amusements, but even of serious apprehension to her more indulgent sister. the children of the scotch of the inferior classes are usually spoiled by the early indulgence of their parents; how, wherefore, and to what degree, the lively and instructive narrative of the amiable and accomplished authoress of "glenburnie"* has saved me and all future scribblers the trouble of recording. * [the late mrs. elizabeth hamilton.] effie had had a double share of this inconsiderate and misjudged kindness. even the strictness of her father's principles could not condemn the sports of infancy and childhood; and to the good old man, his younger daughter, the child of his old age, seemed a child for some years after she attained the years of womanhood, was still called the "bit lassie," and "little effie," and was permitted to run up and down uncontrolled, unless upon the sabbath, or at the times of family worship. her sister, with all the love and care of a mother, could not be supposed to possess the same authoritative influence; and that which she had hitherto exercised became gradually limited and diminished as effie's advancing years entitled her, in her own conceit at least, to the right of independence and free agency. with all the innocence and goodness of disposition, therefore, which we have described, the lily of st. leonard's possessed a little fund of self-conceit and obstinacy, and some warmth and irritability of temper, partly natural perhaps, but certainly much increased by the unrestrained freedom of her childhood. her character will be best illustrated by a cottage evening scene. the careful father was absent in his well-stocked byre, foddering those useful and patient animals on whose produce his living depended, and the summer evening was beginning to close in, when jeanie deans began to be very anxious for the appearance of her sister, and to fear that she would not reach home before her father returned from the labour of the evening, when it was his custom to have "family exercise," and when she knew that effie's absence would give him the most serious displeasure. these apprehensions hung heavier upon her mind, because, for several preceding evenings, effie had disappeared about the same time, and her stay, at first so brief as scarce to be noticed, had been gradually protracted to half-an-hour, and an hour, and on the present occasion had considerably exceeded even this last limit. and now, jeanie stood at the door, with her hand before her eyes to avoid the rays of the level sun, and looked alternately along the various tracks which led towards their dwelling, to see if she could descry the nymph-like form of her sister. there was a wall and a stile which separated the royal domain, or king's park, as it is called, from the public road; to this pass she frequently directed her attention, when she saw two persons appear there somewhat suddenly, as if they had walked close by the side of the wall to screen themselves from observation. one of them, a man, drew back hastily; the other, a female, crossed the stile, and advanced towards her--it was effie. she met her sister with that affected liveliness of manner, which, in her rank, and sometimes in those above it, females occasionally assume to hide surprise or confusion; and she carolled as she came-- "the elfin knight sate on the brae, the broom grows bonny, the broom grows fair; and by there came lilting a lady so gay, and we daurna gang down to the broom nae mair." "whisht, effie," said her sister; "our father's coming out o' the byre." --the damsel stinted in her song.--"whare hae ye been sae late at e'en?" "it's no late, lass," answered effie. "it's chappit eight on every clock o' the town, and the sun's gaun down ahint the corstorphine hills--whare can ye hae been sae late?" "nae gate," answered effie. "and wha was that parted wi' you at the stile?" "naebody," replied effie once more. "nae gate?--naebody?--i wish it may be a right gate, and a right body, that keeps folk out sae late at e'en, effie." "what needs ye be aye speering then at folk?" retorted effie. "i'm sure, if ye'll ask nae questions, i'll tell ye nae lees. i never ask what brings the laird of dumbiedikes glowering here like a wull-cat (only his een's greener, and no sae gleg), day after day, till we are a' like to gaunt our charts aft." "because ye ken very weel he comes to see our father," said jeanie, in answer to this pert remark. "and dominie butler--does he come to see our father, that's sae taen wi' his latin words?" said effie, delighted to find that by carrying the war into the enemy's country, she could divert the threatened attack upon herself, and with the petulance of youth she pursued her triumph over her prudent elder sister. she looked at her with a sly air, in which there was something like irony, as she chanted, in a low but marked tone, a scrap of an old scotch song-- "through the kirkyard i met wi' the laird, the silly puir body he said me nae harm; but just ere 'twas dark, i met wi' the clerk" here the songstress stopped, looked full at her sister, and, observing the tears gather in her eyes, she suddenly flung her arms round her neck, and kissed them away. jeanie, though hurt and displeased, was unable to resist the caresses of this untaught child of nature, whose good and evil seemed to flow rather from impulse than from reflection. but as she returned the sisterly kiss, in token of perfect reconciliation, she could not suppress the gentle reproof--"effie, if ye will learn fule sangs, ye might make a kinder use of them." "and so i might, jeanie," continued the girl, clinging to her sister's neck; "and i wish i had never learned ane o' them--and i wish we had never come here--and i wish my tongue had been blistered or i had vexed ye." "never mind that, effie," replied the affectionate sister; "i canna be muckle vexed wi' ony thing ye say to me--but o, dinna vex our father!" "i will not--i will not," replied effie; "and if there were as mony dances the morn's night as there are merry dancers in the north firmament on a frosty e'en, i winna budge an inch to gang near ane o' them." "dance!" echoed jeanie deans in astonishment. "o effie, what could take ye to a dance?" it is very possible, that, in the communicative mood into which the lily of st. leonard's was now surprised, she might have given her sister her unreserved confidence, and saved me the pain of telling a melancholy tale; but at the moment the word dance was uttered, it reached the ear of old david deans, who had turned the corner of the house, and came upon his daughters ere they were aware of his presence. the word _prelate,_ or even the word _pope,_ could hardly have produced so appalling an effect upon david's ear; for, of all exercises, that of dancing, which he termed a voluntary and regular fit of distraction, he deemed most destructive of serious thoughts, and the readiest inlet to all sorts of licentiousness; and he accounted the encouraging, and even permitting, assemblies or meetings, whether among those of high or low degree, for this fantastic and absurd purpose, or for that of dramatic representations, as one of the most flagrant proofs of defection and causes of wrath. the pronouncing of the word _dance_ by his own daughters, and at his own door, now drove him beyond the verge of patience. "dance!" he exclaimed. "dance!--dance, said ye? i daur ye, limmers that ye are, to name sic a word at my door-cheek! it's a dissolute profane pastime, practised by the israelites only at their base and brutal worship of the golden calf at bethel, and by the unhappy lass wha danced aff the head of john the baptist, upon whilk chapter i will exercise this night for your farther instruction, since ye need it sae muckle, nothing doubting that she has cause to rue the day, lang or this time, that e'er she suld hae shook a limb on sic an errand. better for her to hae been born a cripple, and carried frae door to door, like auld bessie bowie, begging bawbees, than to be a king's daughter, fiddling and flinging the gate she did. i hae often wondered that ony ane that ever bent a knee for the right purpose, should ever daur to crook a hough to fyke and fling at piper's wind and fiddler's squealing. and i bless god (with that singular worthy, peter walker the packman at bristo-port),* that ordered my lot in my dancing days, so that fear of my head and throat, dread of bloody rope and swift bullet, and trenchant swords and pain of boots and thumkins, cauld and hunger, wetness and weariness, stopped the lightness of my head, and the wantonness of my feet. * note f. peter walker. and now, if i hear ye, quean lassies, sae muckle as name dancing, or think there's sic a thing in this warld as flinging to fiddler's sounds, and piper's springs, as sure as my father's spirit is with the just, ye shall be no more either charge or concern of mine! gang in, then--gang in, then, hinnies," he added, in a softer tone, for the tears of both daughters, but especially those of effie, began to flow very fast,--"gang in, dears, and we'll seek grace to preserve us frae all, manner of profane folly, whilk causeth to sin, and promoteth the kingdom of darkness, warring with the kingdom of light." the objurgation of david deans, however well meant, was unhappily timed. it created a division of feelings in effie's bosom, and deterred her from her intended confidence in her sister. "she wad hand me nae better than the dirt below her feet," said effie to herself, "were i to confess i hae danced wi' him four times on the green down by, and ance at maggie macqueens's; and she'll maybe hing it ower my head that she'll tell my father, and then she wad be mistress and mair. but i'll no gang back there again. i'm resolved i'll no gang back. i'll lay in a leaf of my bible,* and that's very near as if i had made an aith, that i winna gang back." * this custom of making a mark by folding a leaf in the party's bible, when a solemn resolution is formed, is still held to be, in some sense, an appeal to heaven for his or her sincerity. and she kept her vow for a week, during which she was unusually cross and fretful, blemishes which had never before been observed in her temper, except during a moment of contradiction. there was something in all this so mysterious as considerably to alarm the prudent and affectionate jeanie, the more so as she judged it unkind to her sister to mention to their father grounds of anxiety which might arise from her own imagination. besides, her respect for the good old man did not prevent her from being aware that he was both hot-tempered and positive, and she sometimes suspected that he carried his dislike to youthful amusements beyond the verge that religion and reason demanded. jeanie had sense enough to see that a sudden and severe curb upon her sister's hitherto unrestrained freedom might be rather productive of harm than good, and that effie, in the headstrong wilfulness of youth, was likely to make what might be overstrained in her father's precepts an excuse to herself for neglecting them altogether. in the higher classes, a damsel, however giddy, is still under the dominion of etiquette, and subject to the surveillance of mammas and chaperons; but the country girl, who snatches her moment of gaiety during the intervals of labour, is under no such guardianship or restraint, and her amusement becomes so much the more hazardous. jeanie saw all this with much distress of mind, when a circumstance occurred which appeared calculated to relieve her anxiety. mrs. saddletree, with whom our readers have already been made acquainted, chanced to be a distant relation of douce david deans, and as she was a woman orderly in her life and conversation, and, moreover, of good substance, a sort of acquaintance was formally kept up between the families. now, this careful dame, about a year and a half before our story commences, chanced to need, in the line of her profession, a better sort of servant, or rather shop-woman. "mr. saddletree," she said, "was never in the shop when he could get his nose within the parliament house, and it was an awkward thing for a woman-body to be standing among bundles o' barkened leather her lane, selling saddles and bridles; and she had cast her eyes upon her far-awa cousin effie deans, as just the very sort of lassie she would want to keep her in countenance on such occasions." in this proposal there was much that pleased old david,--there was bed, board, and bountith--it was a decent situation--the lassie would be under mrs. saddletree's eye, who had an upright walk, and lived close by the tolbooth kirk, in which might still be heard the comforting doctrines of one of those few ministers of the kirk of scotland who had not bent the knee unto baal, according to david's expression, or become accessory to the course of national defections,--union, toleration, patronages, and a bundle of prelatical erastian oaths which had been imposed on the church since the revolution, and particularly in the reign of "the late woman" (as he called queen anne), the last of that unhappy race of stuarts. in the good man's security concerning the soundness of the theological doctrine which his daughter was to hear, he was nothing disturbed on account of the snares of a different kind, to which a creature so beautiful, young, and wilful, might be exposed in the centre of a populous and corrupted city. the fact is, that he thought with so much horror on all approaches to irregularities of the nature most to be dreaded in such cases, that he would as soon have suspected and guarded against effie's being induced to become guilty of the crime of murder. he only regretted that she should live under the same roof with such a worldly-wise man as bartoline saddletree, whom david never suspected of being an ass as he was, but considered as one really endowed with all the legal knowledge to which he made pretension, and only liked him the worse for possessing it. the lawyers, especially those amongst them who sate as ruling elders in the general assembly of the kirk, had been forward in promoting the measures of patronage, of the abjuration oath, and others, which, in the opinion of david deans, were a breaking down of the carved work of the sanctuary, and an intrusion upon the liberties of the kirk. upon the dangers of listening to the doctrines of a legalised formalist, such as saddletree, david gave his daughter many lectures; so much so, that he had time to touch but slightly on the dangers of chambering, company-keeping, and promiscuous dancing, to which, at her time of life, most people would have thought effie more exposed, than to the risk of theoretical error in her religious faith. jeanie parted from her sister with a mixed feeling of regret, and apprehension, and hope. she could not be so confident concerning effie's prudence as her father, for she had observed her more narrowly, had more sympathy with her feelings, and could better estimate the temptations to which she was exposed. on the other hand, mrs. saddletree was an observing, shrewd, notable woman, entitled to exercise over effie the full authority of a mistress, and likely to do so strictly, yet with kindness. her removal to saddletree's, it was most probable, would also serve to break off some idle acquaintances, which jeanie suspected her sister to have formed in the neighbouring suburb. upon the whole, then, she viewed her departure from saint leonard's with pleasure, and it was not until the very moment of their parting for the first time in their lives, that she felt the full force of sisterly sorrow. while they repeatedly kissed each other's cheeks, and wrung each other's hands, jeanie took that moment of affectionate sympathy, to press upon her sister the necessity of the utmost caution in her conduct while residing in edinburgh. effie listened, without once raising her large dark eyelashes, from which the drops fell so fast as almost to resemble a fountain. at the conclusion she sobbed again, kissed her sister, promised to recollect all the good counsel she had given her, and they parted. during the first weeks, effie was all that her kinswoman expected, and even more. but with time there came a relaxation of that early zeal which she manifested in mrs. saddletree's service. to borrow once again from the poet, who so correctly and beautifully describes living manners:-- something there was,--what, none presumed to say,-- clouds lightly passing on a summer's day; whispers and hints, which went from ear to ear, and mixed reports no judge on earth could clear. during this interval, mrs. saddletree was sometimes displeased by effie's lingering when she was sent upon errands about the shop business, and sometimes by a little degree of impatience which she manifested at being rebuked on such occasions. but she good-naturedly allowed, that the first was very natural to a girl to whom everything in edinburgh was new and the other was only the petulance of a spoiled child, when subjected to the yoke of domestic discipline for the first time. attention and submission could not be learned at once--holyrood was not built in a day--use would make perfect. it seemed as if the considerate old lady had presaged truly. ere many months had passed, effie became almost wedded to her duties, though she no longer discharged them with the laughing cheek and light step, which had at first attracted every customer. her mistress sometimes observed her in tears, but they were signs of secret sorrow, which she concealed as often as she saw them attract notice. time wore on, her cheek grew pale, and her step heavy. the cause of these changes could not have escaped the matronly eye of mrs. saddletree, but she was chiefly confined by indisposition to her bedroom for a considerable time during the latter part of effie's service. this interval was marked by symptoms of anguish almost amounting to despair. the utmost efforts of the poor girl to command her fits of hysterical agony were, often totally unavailing, and the mistakes which she made in the shop the while, were so numerous and so provoking that bartoline saddletree, who, during his wife's illness, was obliged to take closer charge of the business than consisted with his study of the weightier matters of the law, lost all patience with the girl, who, in his law latin, and without much respect to gender, he declared ought to be cognosced by inquest of a jury, as _fatuus, furiosus,_ and _naturaliter idiota._ neighbours, also, and fellow-servants, remarked with malicious curiosity or degrading pity, the disfigured shape, loose dress, and pale cheeks, of the once beautiful and still interesting girl. but to no one would she grant her confidence, answering all taunts with bitter sarcasm, and all serious expostulation with sullen denial, or with floods of tears. at length, when mrs. saddletree's recovery was likely to permit her wonted attention to the regulation of her household, effie deans, as if unwilling to face an investigation made by the authority of her mistress, asked permission of bartoline to go home for a week or two, assigning indisposition, and the wish of trying the benefit of repose and the change of air, as the motives of her request. sharp-eyed as a lynx (or conceiving himself to be so) in the nice sharp quillits of legal discussion, bartoline was as dull at drawing inferences from the occurrences of common life as any dutch professor of mathematics. he suffered effie to depart without much suspicion, and without any inquiry. it was afterwards found that a period of a week intervened betwixt her leaving her master's house and arriving at st. leonard's. she made her appearance before her sister in a state rather resembling the spectre than the living substance of the gay and beautiful girl, who had left her father's cottage for the first time scarce seventeen months before. the lingering illness of her mistress had, for the last few months, given her a plea for confining herself entirely to the dusky precincts of the shop in the lawnmarket, and jeanie was so much occupied, during the same period, with the concerns of her father's household, that she had rarely found leisure for a walk in the city, and a brief and hurried visit to her sister. the young women, therefore, had scarcely seen each other for several months, nor had a single scandalous surmise reached the ears of the secluded inhabitants of the cottage at st. leonard's. jeanie, therefore, terrified to death at her sister's appearance, at first overwhelmed her with inquiries, to which the unfortunate young woman returned for a time incoherent and rambling answers, and finally fell into a hysterical fit. rendered too certain of her sister's misfortune, jeanie had now the dreadful alternative of communicating her ruin to her father, or of endeavouring to conceal it from him. to all questions concerning the name or rank of her seducer, and the fate of the being to whom her fall had given birth, effie remained as mute as the grave, to which she seemed hastening; and indeed the least allusion to either seemed to drive her to distraction. her sister, in distress and in despair, was about to repair to mrs. saddletree to consult her experience, and at the same time to obtain what lights she could upon this most unhappy affair, when she was saved that trouble by a new stroke of fate, which seemed to carry misfortune to the uttermost. david deans had been alarmed at the state of health in which his daughter had returned to her paternal residence; but jeanie had contrived to divert him from particular and specific inquiry. it was therefore like a clap of thunder to the poor old man, when, just as the hour of noon had brought the visit of the laird of dumbiedikes as usual, other and sterner, as well as most unexpected guests, arrived at the cottage of st. leonard's. these were the officers of justice, with a warrant of justiciary to search for and apprehend euphemia, or effie deans, accused of the crime of child-murder. the stunning weight of a blow so totally unexpected bore down the old man, who had in his early youth resisted the brow of military and civil tyranny, though backed with swords and guns, tortures and gibbets. he fell extended and senseless upon his own hearth; and the men, happy to escape from the scene of his awakening, raised, with rude humanity, the object of their warrant from her bed, and placed her in a coach, which they had brought with them. the hasty remedies which jeanie had applied to bring back her father's senses were scarce begun to operate, when the noise of the wheels in motion recalled her attention to her miserable sister. to ran shrieking after the carriage was the first vain effort of her distraction, but she was stopped by one or two female neighbours, assembled by the extraordinary appearance of a coach in that sequestered place, who almost forced her back to her father's house. the deep and sympathetic affliction of these poor people, by whom the little family at st. leonard's were held in high regard, filled the house with lamentation. even dumbiedikes was moved from his wonted apathy, and, groping for his purse as he spoke, ejaculated, "jeanie, woman!--jeanie, woman! dinna greet--it's sad wark, but siller will help it;" and he drew out his purse as he spoke. the old man had now raised himself from the ground, and, looking about him as if he missed something, seemed gradually to recover the sense of his wretchedness. "where," he said, with a voice that made the roof ring, "where is the vile harlot, that has disgraced the blood of an honest man?--where is she, that has no place among us, but has come foul with her sins, like the evil one, among the children of god?--where is she, jeanie?--bring her before me, that i may kill her with a word and a look!" all hastened around him with their appropriate sources of consolation--the laird with his purse, jeanie with burnt feathers and strong waters, and the women with their exhortations. "o neighbour--o mr. deans, it's a sair trial, doubtless--but think of the rock of ages, neighbour--think of the promise!" "and i do think of it, neighbours--and i bless god that i can think of it, even in the wrack and ruin of a' that's nearest and dearest to me--but to be the father of a castaway--a profligate--a bloody zipporah--a mere murderess!--o, how will the wicked exult in the high places of their wickedness!--the prelatists, and the latitudinarians, and the hand-waled murderers, whose hands are hard as horn wi' handing the slaughter-weapons--they will push out the lip, and say that we are even such as themselves. sair, sair i am grieved, neighbours, for the poor castaway--for the child of mine old age--but sairer for the stumbling-block and scandal it will be to all tender and honest souls!" "davie--winna siller do't?" insinuated the laird, still proffering his green purse, which was full of guineas. "i tell ye, dumbiedikes," said deans, "that if telling down my haill substance could hae saved her frae this black snare, i wad hae walked out wi' naething but my bonnet and my staff to beg an awmous for god's sake, and ca'd mysell an happy man--but if a dollar, or a plack, or the nineteenth part of a boddle, wad save her open guilt and open shame frae open punishment, that purchase wad david deans never make!--na, na; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, life for life, blood for blood--it's the law of man, and it's the law of god.--leave me, sirs--leave me--i maun warstle wi' this trial in privacy and on my knees." jeanie, now in some degree restored to the power of thought, joined in the same request. the next day found the father and daughter still in the depth of affliction, but the father sternly supporting his load of ill through a proud sense of religious duty, and the daughter anxiously suppressing her own feelings to avoid again awakening his. thus was it with the afflicted family until the morning after porteous's death, a period at which we are now arrived. chapter tenth. is all the counsel that we two have shared, the sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent when we have chid the hasty-footed time for parting us--oh!--and is all forgot? midsummer night's dream. we have been a long while in conducting butler to the door of the cottage at st. leonard's; yet the space which we have occupied in the preceding narrative does not exceed in length that which he actually spent on salisbury crags on the morning which succeeded the execution done upon porteous by the rioters. for this delay he had his own motives. he wished to collect his thoughts, strangely agitated as they were, first by the melancholy news of effie deans's situation, and afterwards by the frightful scene which he had witnessed. in the situation also in which he stood with respect to jeanie and her father, some ceremony, at least some choice of fitting time and season, was necessary to wait upon them. eight in the morning was then the ordinary hour for breakfast, and he resolved that it should arrive before he made his appearance in their cottage. never did hours pass so heavily. butler shifted his place and enlarged his circle to while away the time, and heard the huge bell of st. giles's toll each successive hour in swelling tones, which were instantly attested by those of the other steeples in succession. he had heard seven struck in this manner, when he began to think he might venture to approach nearer to st. leonard's, from which he was still a mile distant. accordingly he descended from his lofty station as low as the bottom of the valley, which divides salisbury crags from those small rocks which take their name from saint leonard. it is, as many of my readers may know, a deep, wild, grassy valley, scattered with huge rocks and fragments which have descended from the cliffs and steep ascent to the east. this sequestered dell, as well as other places of the open pasturage of the king's park, was, about this time, often the resort of the gallants of the time who had affairs of honour to discuss with the sword. duels were then very common in scotland, for the gentry were at once idle, haughty, fierce, divided by faction, and addicted to intemperance, so that there lacked neither provocation, nor inclination to resent it when given; and the sword, which was part of every gentleman's dress, was the only weapon used for the decision of such differences. when, therefore, butler observed a young man, skulking, apparently to avoid observation, among the scattered rocks at some distance from the footpath, he was naturally led to suppose that he had sought this lonely spot upon that evil errand. he was so strongly impressed with this, that, notwithstanding his own distress of mind, he could not, according to his sense of duty as a clergyman, pass this person without speaking to him. there are times, thought he to himself, when the slightest interference may avert a great calamity--when a word spoken in season may do more for prevention than the eloquence of tully could do for remedying evil--and for my own griefs, be they as they may, i shall feel them the lighter, if they divert me not from the prosecution of my duty. thus thinking and feeling, he quitted the ordinary path, and advanced nearer the object he had noticed. the man at first directed his course towards the hill, in order, as it appeared, to avoid him; but when he saw that butler seemed disposed to follow him, he adjusted his hat fiercely, turned round, and came forward, as if to meet and defy scrutiny. butler had an opportunity of accurately studying his features as they advanced slowly to meet each other. the stranger seemed about twenty-five years old. his dress was of a kind which could hardly be said to indicate his rank with certainty, for it was such as young gentlemen sometimes wore while on active exercise in the morning, and which, therefore, was imitated by those of the inferior ranks, as young clerks and tradesmen, because its cheapness rendered it attainable, while it approached more nearly to the apparel of youths of fashion than any other which the manners of the times permitted them to wear. if his air and manner could be trusted, however, this person seemed rather to be dressed under than above his rank; for his carriage was bold and somewhat supercilious, his step easy and free, his manner daring and unconstrained. his stature was of the middle size, or rather above it, his limbs well-proportioned, yet not so strong as to infer the reproach of clumsiness. his features were uncommonly handsome, and all about him would have been interesting and prepossessing but for that indescribable expression which habitual dissipation gives to the countenance, joined with a certain audacity in look and manner, of that kind which is often assumed as a mask for confusion and apprehension. butler and the stranger met--surveyed each other--when, as the latter, slightly touching his hat, was about to pass by him, butler, while he returned the salutation, observed, "a fine morning, sir--you are on the hill early." "i have business here," said the young man, in a tone meant to repress farther inquiry. "i do not doubt it, sir," said butler. "i trust you will forgive my hoping that it is of a lawful kind?" "sir," said the other, with marked surprise, "i never forgive impertinence, nor can i conceive what title you have to hope anything about what no way concerns you." "i am a soldier, sir," said butler, "and have a charge to arrest evil-doers in the name of my master." "a soldier!" said the young man, stepping back, and fiercely laying his hand on his sword--"a soldier, and arrest me! did you reckon what your life was worth, before you took the commission upon you?" "you mistake me, sir," said butler, gravely; "neither my warfare nor my warrant are of this world. i am a preacher of the gospel, and have power, in my master's name, to command the peace upon earth and good-will towards men, which was proclaimed with the gospel." "a minister!" said the stranger, carelessly, and with an expression approaching to scorn. "i know the gentlemen of your cloth in scotland claim a strange right of intermeddling with men's private affairs. but i have been abroad, and know better than to be priest-ridden." "sir, if it be true that any of my cloth, or, it might be more decently said, of my calling, interfere with men's private affairs, for the gratification either of idle curiosity, or for worse motives, you cannot have learned a better lesson abroad than to contemn such practices. but in my master's work, i am called to be busy in season and out of season; and, conscious as i am of a pure motive, it were better for me to incur your contempt for speaking, than the correction of my own conscience for being silent." "in the name of the devil!" said the young man impatiently, "say what you have to say, then; though whom you take me for, or what earthly concern you have with me, a stranger to you, or with my actions and motives, of which you can know nothing, i cannot conjecture for an instant." "you are about," said butler, "to violate one of your country's wisest laws--you are about, which is much more dreadful, to violate a law, which god himself has implanted within our nature, and written as it were, in the table of our hearts, to which every thrill of our nerves is responsive." "and what is the law you speak of?" said the stranger, in a hollow and somewhat disturbed accent. "thou shalt do no murder," said butler, with a deep and solemn voice. the young man visibly started, and looked considerably appalled. butler perceived he had made a favourable impression, and resolved to follow it up. "think," he said, "young man," laying his hand kindly upon the stranger's shoulder, "what an awful alternative you voluntarily choose for yourself, to kill or be killed. think what it is to rush uncalled into the presence of an offended deity, your heart fermenting with evil passions, your hand hot from the steel you had been urging, with your best skill and malice, against the breast of a fellow-creature. or, suppose yourself the scarce less wretched survivor, with the guilt of cain, the first murderer, in your heart, with the stamp upon your brow--that stamp which struck all who gazed on him with unutterable horror, and by which the murderer is made manifest to all who look upon him. think" the stranger gradually withdrew himself from under the hand of his monitor; and, pulling his hat over his brows, thus interrupted him. "your meaning, sir, i dare say, is excellent, but you are throwing your advice away. i am not in this place with violent intentions against any one. i may be bad enough--you priests say all men are so--but i am here for the purpose of saving life, not of taking it away. if you wish to spend your time rather in doing a good action than in talking about you know not what, i will give you an opportunity. do you see yonder crag to the right, over which appears the chimney of a lone house? go thither, inquire for one jeanie deans, the daughter of the goodman; let her know that he she wots of remained here from daybreak till this hour, expecting to see her, and that he can abide no longer. tell her, she _must_ meet me at the hunter's bog to-night, as the moon rises behind st. anthony's hill, or that she will make a desperate man of me." "who or what are you," replied butler, exceedingly and most unpleasantly surprised, "who charge me with such an errand?" "i am the devil!"--answered the young man hastily. butler stepped instinctively back, and commanded himself internally to heaven; for, though a wise and strong-minded man, he was neither wiser nor more strong-minded than those of his age and education, with whom, to disbelieve witchcraft or spectres, was held an undeniable proof of atheism. the stranger went on without observing his emotion. "yes! call me apollyon, abaddon, whatever name you shall choose, as a clergyman acquainted with the upper and lower circles of spiritual denomination, to call me by, you shall not find an appellation more odious to him that bears it, than is mine own." this sentence was spoken with the bitterness of self-upbraiding, and a contortion of visage absolutely demoniacal. butler, though a man brave by principle, if not by constitution, was overawed; for intensity of mental distress has in it a sort of sublimity which repels and overawes all men, but especially those of kind and sympathetic dispositions. the stranger turned abruptly from butler as he spoke, but instantly returned, and, coming up to him closely and boldly, said, in a fierce, determined tone, "i have told you who and what i am--who and what are you? what is your name?" "butler," answered the person to whom this abrupt question was addressed, surprised into answering it by the sudden and fierce manner of the querist--"reuben butler, a preacher of the gospel." at this answer, the stranger again plucked more deep over his brows the hat which he had thrown back in his former agitation. "butler!" he repeated--"the assistant of the schoolmaster at liberton?" "the same," answered butler composedly. the stranger covered his face with his hand, as if on sudden reflection, and then turned away, but stopped when he had walked a few paces; and seeing butler follow him with his eyes, called out in a stern yet suppressed tone, just as if he had exactly calculated that his accents should not be heard a yard beyond the spot on which butler stood. "go your way, and do mine errand. do not look after me. i will neither descend through the bowels of these rocks, nor vanish in a flash of fire; and yet the eye that seeks to trace my motions shall have reason to curse it was ever shrouded by eyelid or eyelash. begone, and look not behind you. tell jeanie deans, that when the moon rises i shall expect to meet her at nicol muschat's cairn, beneath saint anthony's chapel." [illustration: st. anthony's chapel-- ] as he uttered these words, he turned and took the road against the hill, with a haste that seemed as peremptory as his tone of authority. dreading he knew not what of additional misery to a lot which seemed little capable of receiving augmentation, and desperate at the idea that any living man should dare to send so extraordinary a request, couched in terms so imperious, to the half-betrothed object of his early and only affection, butler strode hastily towards the cottage, in order to ascertain how far this daring and rude gallant was actually entitled to press on jeanie deans a request, which no prudent, and scarce any modest young woman, was likely to comply with. butler was by nature neither jealous nor superstitious; yet the feelings which lead to those moods of the mind were rooted in his heart, as a portion derived from the common stock of humanity. it was maddening to think that a profligate gallant, such as the manner and tone of the stranger evinced him to be, should have it in his power to command forth his future bride and plighted true love, at a place so improper, and an hour so unseasonable. yet the tone in which the stranger spoke had nothing of the soft half-breathed voice proper to the seducer who solicits an assignation; it was bold, fierce, and imperative, and had less of love in it than of menace and intimidation. the suggestions of superstition seemed more plausible, had butler's mind been very accessible to them. was this indeed the roaring lion, who goeth about seeking whom he may devour? this was a question which pressed itself on butler's mind with an earnestness that cannot be conceived by those who live in the present day. the fiery eye, the abrupt demeanour, the occasionally harsh, yet studiously subdued tone of voice,--the features, handsome, but now clouded with pride, now disturbed by suspicion, now inflamed with passion--those dark hazel eyes which he sometimes shaded with his cap, as if he were averse to have them seen while they were occupied with keenly observing the motions and bearing of others--those eyes that were now turbid with melancholy, now gleaming with scorn, and now sparkling with fury--was it the passions of a mere mortal they expressed, or the emotions of a fiend, who seeks, and seeks in vain, to conceal his fiendish designs under the borrowed mask of manly beauty? the whole partook of the mien, language, and port of the ruined archangel; and, imperfectly as we have been able to describe it, the effect of the interview upon butler's nerves, shaken as they were at the time by the horrors of the preceding night, were greater than his understanding warranted, or his pride cared to submit to. the very place where he had met this singular person was desecrated, as it were, and unhallowed, owing to many violent deaths, both in duels and by suicide, which had in former times taken place there; and the place which he had named as a rendezvous at so late an hour, was held in general to be accursed, from a frightful and cruel murder which had been there committed by the wretch from whom the place took its name, upon the person of his own wife.* * note g. muschat's cairn. it was in such places, according to the belief of that period (when the laws against witchcraft were still in fresh observance, and had even lately been acted upon), that evil spirits had power to make themselves visible to human eyes, and to practise upon the feelings and senses of mankind. suspicions, founded on such circumstances, rushed on butler's mind, unprepared as it was by any previous course of reasoning, to deny that which all of his time, country, and profession believed; but common sense rejected these vain ideas as inconsistent, if not with possibility, at least with the general rules by which the universe is governed,--a deviation from which, as butler well argued with himself, ought not to be admitted as probable, upon any but the plainest and most incontrovertible evidence. an earthly lover, however, or a young man, who, from whatever cause, had the right of exercising such summary and unceremonious authority over the object of his long-settled, and apparently sincerely returned affection, was an object scarce less appalling to his mind, than those which superstition suggested. his limbs exhausted with fatigue, his mind harassed with anxiety, and with painful doubts and recollections, butler dragged himself up the ascent from the valley to st. leonard's crags, and presented himself at the door of deans's habitation, with feelings much akin to the miserable reflections and fears of its inhabitants. chapter eleventh. then she stretched out her lily hand, and for to do her best; "hae back thy faith and troth, willie, god gie thy soul good rest!" old ballad. "come in," answered the low and sweet-toned voice he loved best to hear, as butler tapped at the door of the cottage. he lifted the latch, and found himself under the roof of affliction. jeanie was unable to trust herself with more than one glance towards her lover, whom she now met under circumstances so agonising to her feelings, and at the same time so humbling to her honest pride. it is well known, that much, both of what is good and bad in the scottish national character, arises out of the intimacy of their family connections. "to be come of honest folk," that is, of people who have borne a fair and unstained reputation, is an advantage as highly prized among the lower scotch, as the emphatic counterpart, "to be of a good family," is valued among their gentry. the worth and respectability of one member of a peasant's family is always accounted by themselves and others, not only a matter of honest pride, but a guarantee for the good conduct of the whole. on the contrary, such a melancholy stain as was now flung on one of the children of deans, extended its disgrace to all connected with him, and jeanie felt herself lowered at once, in her own eyes, and in those of her lover. it was in vain that she repressed this feeling, as far subordinate and too selfish to be mingled with her sorrow for her sister's calamity. nature prevailed; and while she shed tears for her sister's distress and danger, there mingled with them bitter drops of grief for her own degradation. as butler entered, the old man was seated by the fire with his well-worn pocket bible in his hands, the companion of the wanderings and dangers of his youth, and bequeathed to him on the scaffold by one of those, who, in the year , sealed their enthusiastic principles with their blood. the sun sent its rays through a small window at the old man's back, and, "shining motty through the reek," to use the expression of a bard of that time and country, illumined the grey hairs of the old man, and the sacred page which he studied. his features, far from handsome, and rather harsh and severe, had yet from their expression of habitual gravity, and contempt for earthly things, an expression of stoical dignity amidst their sternness. he boasted, in no small degree, the attributes which southey ascribes to the ancient scandinavians, whom he terms "firm to inflict, and stubborn to endure." the whole formed a picture, of which the lights might have been given by rembrandt, but the outline would have required the force and vigour of michael angelo. deans lifted his eye as butler entered, and instantly withdrew it, as from an object which gave him at once surprise and sudden pain. he had assumed such high ground with this carnal-witted scholar, as he had in his pride termed butler, that to meet him, of all men, under feelings of humiliation, aggravated his misfortune, and was a consummation like that of the dying chief in the old ballad--"earl percy sees my fall!" deans raised the bible with his left hand, so as partly to screen his face, and putting back his right as far as he could, held it towards butler in that position, at the same time turning his body from, him, as if to prevent his seeing the working of his countenance. butler clasped the extended hand which had supported his orphan infancy, wept over it, and in vain endeavoured to say more than the words--"god comfort you--god comfort you!" "he will--he doth, my friend," said deans, assuming firmness as he discovered the agitation of his guest; "he doth now, and he will yet more in his own gude time. i have been ower proud of my sufferings in a gude cause, reuben, and now i am to be tried with those whilk will turn my pride and glory into a reproach and a hissing. how muckle better i hae thought mysell than them that lay saft, fed sweet, and drank deep, when i was in the moss-haggs and moors, wi' precious donald cameron, and worthy mr. blackadder, called guess-again; and how proud i was o' being made a spectacle to men and angels, having stood on their pillory at the canongate afore i was fifteen years old, for the cause of a national covenant! to think, reuben, that i, wha hae been sae honoured and exalted in my youth, nay, when i was but a hafflins callant, and that hae borne testimony again the defections o' the times yearly, monthly, daily, hourly, minutely, striving and testifying with uplifted hand and voice, crying aloud, and sparing not, against all great national snares, as the nation-wasting and church-sinking abomination of union, toleration, and patronage, imposed by the last woman of that unhappy race of stuarts; also against the infringements and invasions of the just powers of eldership, whereanent, i uttered my paper, called a 'cry of an howl in the desert,' printed at the bow-head, and sold by all flying stationers in town and country--and _now_" here he paused. it may well be supposed that butler, though not absolutely coinciding in all the good old man's ideas about church government, had too much consideration and humanity to interrupt him, while he reckoned up with conscious pride his sufferings, and the constancy of his testimony. on the contrary, when he paused under the influence of the bitter recollections of the moment, butler instantly threw in his mite of encouragement. "you have been well known, my old and revered friend, a true and tried follower of the cross; one who, as saint jerome hath it, '_per infamiam et bonam famam grassari ad immortalitatem,_' which may be freely rendered, 'who rusheth on to immortal life, through bad report and good report.' you have been one of those to whom the tender and fearful souls cry during the midnight solitude--'watchman, what of the night?--watchman, what of the night?'--and, assuredly, this heavy dispensation, as it comes not without divine permission, so it comes not without its special commission and use." "i do receive it as such," said poor deans, returning the grasp of butler's hand; "and if i have not been taught to read the scripture in any other tongue but my native scottish" (even in his distress butler's latin quotation had not escaped his notice), "i have nevertheless so learned them, that i trust to bear even this crook in my lot with submission. but, oh! reuben butler, the kirk, of whilk, though unworthy, i have yet been thought a polished shaft, and meet to be a pillar, holding, from my youth upward, the place of ruling elder--what will the lightsome and profane think of the guide that cannot keep his own family from stumbling? how will they take up their song and their reproach, when they see that the children of professors are liable to as foul backsliding as the offspring of belial! but i will bear my cross with the comfort, that whatever showed like goodness in me or mine, was but like the light that shines frae creeping insects, on the brae-side, in a dark night--it kythes bright to the ee, because all is dark around it; but when the morn comes on the mountains, it is, but a puir crawling kail-worm after a'. and sae it shows, wi' ony rag of human righteousness, or formal law-work, that we may pit round us to cover our shame." as he pronounced these words, the door again opened, and mr. bartoline saddletree entered, his three-pointed hat set far back on his head, with a silk handkerchief beneath it to keep it in that cool position, his gold-headed cane in his hand, and his whole deportment that of a wealthy burgher, who might one day look to have a share in the magistracy, if not actually to hold the curule chair itself. rochefoucault, who has torn the veil from so many foul gangrenes of the human heart, says, we find something not altogether unpleasant to us in the misfortunes of our best friends. mr. saddletree would have been very angry had any one told him that he felt pleasure in the disaster of poor effie deans, and the disgrace of her family; and yet there is great question whether the gratification of playing the person of importance, inquiring, investigating, and laying down the law on the whole affair, did not offer, to say the least, full consolation for the pain which pure sympathy gave him on account of his wife's kinswoman. he had now got a piece of real judicial business by the end, instead of being obliged, as was his common case, to intrude his opinion where it was neither wished nor wanted; and felt as happy in the exchange as a boy when he gets his first new watch, which actually goes when wound up, and has real hands and a true dial-plate. but besides this subject for legal disquisition, bartoline's brains were also overloaded with the affair of porteous, his violent death, and all its probable consequences to the city and community. it was what the french call _l'embarras des richesses,_ the confusion arising from too much mental wealth. he walked in with a consciousness of double importance, full fraught with the superiority of one who possesses more information than the company into which he enters, and who feels a right to discharge his learning on them without mercy. "good morning, mr. deans,--good-morrow to you, mr. butler,--i was not aware that you were acquainted with mr. deans." butler made some slight answer; his reasons may be readily imagined for not making his connection with the family, which, in his eyes, had something of tender mystery, a frequent subject of conversation with indifferent persons, such as saddletree. the worthy burgher, in the plenitude of self-importance, now sate down upon a chair, wiped his brow, collected his breath, and made the first experiment of the resolved pith of his lungs, in a deep and dignified sigh, resembling a groan in sound and intonation--"awfu' times these, neighbour deans, awfu' times!" "sinfu', shamefu', heaven-daring times!" answered deans, in a lower and more subdued tone. "for my part," continued saddletree, swelling with importance, "what between the distress of my friends, and my poor auld country, ony wit that ever i had may be said to have abandoned me, sae that i sometimes think myself as ignorant as if i were _inter rusticos._ here when i arise in the morning, wi' my mind just arranged touching what's to be done in puir effie's misfortune, and hae gotten the haill statute at my finger-ends, the mob maun get up and string jock porteous to a dyester's beam, and ding a' thing out of my head again." deeply as he was distressed with his own domestic calamity, deans could not help expressing some interest in the news. saddletree immediately entered on details of the insurrection and its consequences, while butler took the occasion to seek some private conversation with jeanie deans. she gave him the opportunity he sought, by leaving the room, as if in prosecution of some part of her morning labour. butler followed her in a few minutes, leaving deans so closely engaged by his busy visitor, that there was little chance of his observing their absence. the scene of their interview was an outer apartment, where jeanie was used to busy herself in arranging the productions of her dairy. when butler found an opportunity of stealing after her into this place, he found her silent, dejected, and ready to burst into tears. instead of the active industry with which she had been accustomed, even while in the act of speaking, to employ her hands in some useful branch of household business, she was seated listless in a corner, sinking apparently under the weight of her own thoughts. yet the instant he entered, she dried her eyes, and, with the simplicity and openness of her character, immediately entered on conversation. "i am glad you have come in, mr. butler," said she, "for--for--for i wished to tell ye, that all maun be ended between you and me--it's best for baith our sakes." "ended!" said butler, in surprise; "and for what should it be ended?--i grant this is a heavy dispensation, but it lies neither at your door nor mine--it's an evil of god's sending, and it must be borne; but it cannot break plighted troth, jeanie, while they that plighted their word wish to keep it." "but, reuben," said the young woman, looking at him affectionately, "i ken weel that ye think mair of me than yourself; and, reuben, i can only in requital think mair of your weal than of my ain. ye are a man of spotless name, bred to god's ministry, and a' men say that ye will some day rise high in the kirk, though poverty keep ye doun e'en now. poverty is a bad back-friend, reuben, and that ye ken ower weel; but ill-fame is a waur ane, and that is a truth ye sall never learn through my means." "what do you mean?" said butler, eagerly and impatiently; "or how do you connect your sister's guilt, if guilt there be, which, i trust in god, may yet be disproved, with our engagement?--how can that affect you or me?" "how can you ask me that, mr. butler? will this stain, d'ye think, ever be forgotten, as lang as our heads are abune the grund? will it not stick to us, and to our bairns, and to their very bairns' bairns? to hae been the child of an honest man, might hae been saying something for me and mine; but to be the sister of a--o my god!"--with this exclamation her resolution failed, and she burst into a passionate fit of tears. the lover used every effort to induce her to compose herself, and at length succeeded; but she only resumed her composure to express herself with the same positiveness as before. "no, reuben, i'll bring disgrace hame to nae man's hearth; my ain distresses i can bear, and i maun bear, but there is nae occasion for buckling them on other folk's shouthers. i will bear my load alone--the back is made for the burden." a lover is by charter wayward and suspicious; and jeanie's readiness to renounce their engagement, under pretence of zeal for his peace of mind and respectability of character, seemed to poor butler to form a portentous combination with the commission of the stranger he had met with that morning. his voice faltered as he asked, "whether nothing but a sense of her sister's present distress occasioned her to talk in that manner?" "and what else can do sae?" she replied with simplicity. "is it not ten long years since we spoke together in this way?" "ten years!" said butler. "it's a long time--sufficient perhaps for a woman to weary" "to weary of her auld gown," said jeanie, "and to wish for a new ane if she likes to be brave, but not long enough to weary of a friend--the eye may wish change, but the heart never." "never!" said reuben,--"that's a bold promise." "but not more bauld than true," said jeanie, with the same quiet simplicity which attended her manner in joy and grief in ordinary affairs, and in those which most interested her feelings. butler paused, and looking at her fixedly--"i am charged," he said, "with a message to you, jeanie." "indeed! from whom? or what can ony ane have to say to me?" "it is from a stranger," said butler, affecting to speak with an indifference which his voice belied--"a young man whom i met this morning in the park." "mercy!" said jeanie, eagerly; "and what did he say?" "that he did not see you at the hour he expected, but required you should meet him alone at muschat's cairn this night, so soon as the moon rises." "tell him," said jeanie, hastily, "i shall certainly come." "may i ask," said butler, his suspicions increasing at the ready alacrity of the answer, "who this man is to whom you are so willing to give the meeting at a place and hour so uncommon?" "folk maun do muckle they have little will to do, in this world," replied jeanie. "granted," said her lover; "but what compels you to this?--who is this person? what i saw of him was not very favourable--who, or what is he?" "i do not know," replied jeanie, composedly. "you do not know!" said butler, stepping impatiently through the apartment--"you purpose to meet a young man whom you do not know, at such a time, and in a place so lonely--you say you are compelled to do this--and yet you say you do not know the person who exercises such an influence over you!--jeanie, what am i to think of this?" "think only, reuben, that i speak truth, as if i were to answer at the last day.--i do not ken this man--i do not even ken that i ever saw him; and yet i must give him the meeting he asks--there's life and death upon it." "will you not tell your father, or take him with you?" said butler. "i cannot," said jeanie; "i have no permission." "will you let _me_ go with you? i will wait in the park till nightfall, and join you when you set out." "it is impossible," said jeanie; "there maunna be mortal creature within hearing of our conference." "have you considered well the nature of what you are going to do?--the time--the place--an unknown and suspicious character?--why, if he had asked to see you in this house, your father sitting in the next room, and within call, at such an hour, you should have refused to see him." "my weird maun be fulfilled, mr. butler; my life and my safety are in god's hands, but i'll not spare to risk either of them on the errand i am gaun to do." "then, jeanie," said butler, much displeased, "we must indeed break short off, and bid farewell. when there can be no confidence betwixt a man and his plighted wife on such a momentous topic, it is a sign that she has no longer the regard for him that makes their engagement safe and suitable." jeanie looked at him and sighed. "i thought," she said, "that i had brought myself to bear this parting--but--but--i did not ken that we were to part in unkindness. but i am a woman and you are a man--it may be different wi' you--if your mind is made easier by thinking sae hardly of me, i would not ask you to think otherwise." "you are," said butler, "what you have always been--wiser, better, and less selfish in your native feelings, than i can be, with all the helps philosophy can give to a christian--but why--why will you persevere in an undertaking so desperate? why will you not let me be your assistant--your protector, or at least your adviser?" "just because i cannot, and i dare not," answered jeanie.--"but hark, what's that? surely my father is no weel?" in fact, the voices in the next room became obstreperously loud of a sudden, the cause of which vociferation it is necessary to explain before we go farther. when jeanie and butler retired, mr. saddletree entered upon the business which chiefly interested the family. in the commencement of their conversation he found old deans, who in his usual state of mind, was no granter of propositions, so much subdued by a deep sense of his daughter's danger and disgrace, that he heard without replying to, or perhaps without understanding, one or two learned disquisitions on the nature of the crime imputed to her charge, and on the steps which ought to be taken in consequence. his only answer at each pause was, "i am no misdoubting that you wuss us weel--your wife's our far-awa cousin." encouraged by these symptoms of acquiescence, saddletree, who, as an amateur of the law, had a supreme deference for all constituted authorities, again recurred to his other topic of interest, the murder, namely, of porteous, and pronounced a severe censure on the parties concerned. "these are kittle times--kittle times, mr. deans, when the people take the power of life and death out of the hands of the rightful magistrate into their ain rough grip. i am of opinion, and so i believe will mr. crossmyloof and the privy council, that this rising in effeir of war, to take away the life of a reprieved man, will prove little better than perduellion." "if i hadna that on my mind whilk is ill to bear, mr. saddletree," said deans, "i wad make bold to dispute that point wi' you." "how could you dispute what's plain law, man?" said saddletree, somewhat contemptuously; "there's no a callant that e'er carried a pock wi' a process in't, but will tell you that perduellion is the warst and maist virulent kind of treason, being an open convocating of the king's lieges against his authority (mair especially in arms, and by touk of drum, to baith whilk accessories my een and lugs bore witness), and muckle worse than lese-majesty, or the concealment of a treasonable purpose--it winna bear a dispute, neighbour." "but it will, though," retorted douce davie deans; "i tell ye it will bear a disputer never like your cauld, legal, formal doctrines, neighbour saddletree. i haud unco little by the parliament house, since the awfu' downfall of the hopes of honest folk that followed the revolution." "but what wad ye hae had, mr. deans?" said saddletree, impatiently; "didna ye get baith liberty and conscience made fast, and settled by tailzie on you and your heirs for ever?" "mr. saddletree," retorted deans, "i ken ye are one of those that are wise after the manner of this world, and that ye hand your part, and cast in your portion, wi' the lang heads and lang gowns, and keep with the smart witty-pated lawyers of this our land--weary on the dark and dolefu' cast that they hae gien this unhappy kingdom, when their black hands of defection were clasped in the red hands of our sworn murtherers: when those who had numbered the towers of our zion, and marked the bulwarks of reformation, saw their hope turn into a snare, and their rejoicing into weeping." "i canna understand this, neighbour," answered saddletree. "i am an honest presbyterian of the kirk of scotland, and stand by her and the general assembly, and the due administration of justice by the fifteen lords o' session and the five lords o' justiciary." "out upon ye, mr. saddletree!" exclaimed david, who, in an opportunity of giving his testimony on the offences and backslidings of the land, forgot for a moment his own domestic calamity--"out upon your general assembly, and the back of my hand to your court o' session!--what is the tane but a waefu' bunch o' cauldrife professors and ministers, that sate bien and warm when the persecuted remnant were warstling wi' hunger, and cauld, and fear of death, and danger of fire and sword upon wet brae-sides, peat-haggs, and flow-mosses, and that now creep out of their holes, like bluebottle flees in a blink of sunshine, to take the pu'pits and places of better folk--of them that witnessed, and testified, and fought, and endured pit, prison-house, and transportation beyond seas?--a bonny bike there's o' them!--and for your court o' session" "ye may say what ye will o' the general assembly," said saddletree, interrupting him, "and let them clear them that kens them; but as for the lords o' session, forby that they are my next-door neighbours, i would have ye ken, for your ain regulation, that to raise scandal anent them, whilk is termed to _murmur_ again them, is a crime _sui generis,_--_sui generis,_ mr. deans--ken ye what that amounts to?" "i ken little o' the language of antichrist," said deans; "and i care less than little what carnal courts may call the speeches of honest men. and as to murmur again them, it's what a' the folk that loses their pleas, and nine-tenths o' them that win them, will be gey sure to be guilty in. sae i wad hae ye ken that i hand a' your gleg-tongued advocates, that sell their knowledge for pieces of silver--and your worldly-wise judges, that will gie three days of hearing in presence to a debate about the peeling of an ingan, and no ae half-hour to the gospel testimony--as legalists and formalists, countenancing by sentences, and quirks, and cunning terms of law, the late begun courses of national defections--union, toleration, patronages, and yerastian prelatic oaths. as for the soul and body-killing court o' justiciary" the habit of considering his life as dedicated to bear testimony in behalf of what he deemed the suffering and deserted cause of true religion, had swept honest david along with it thus far; but with the mention of the criminal court, the recollection of the disastrous condition of his daughter rushed at once on his mind; he stopped short in the midst of his triumphant declamation, pressed his hands against his forehead, and remained silent. saddletree was somewhat moved, but apparently not so much so as to induce him to relinquish the privilege of prosing in his turn afforded him by david's sudden silence. "nae doubt, neighbour," he said, "it's a sair thing to hae to do wi' courts of law, unless it be to improve ane's knowledge and practique, by waiting on as a hearer; and touching this unhappy affair of effie--ye'll hae seen the dittay, doubtless?" he dragged out of his pocket a bundle of papers, and began to turn them over. "this is no it--this is the information of mungo marsport, of that ilk, against captain lackland, for coming on his lands of marsport with hawks, hounds, lying-dogs, nets, guns, cross-bows, hagbuts of found, or other engines more or less for destruction of game, sic as red-deer, fallow-deer, cappercailzies, grey-fowl, moor-fowl, paitricks, herons, and sic like; he, the said defender not being ane qualified person, in terms of the statute sixteen hundred and twenty-ane; that is, not having ane plough-gate of land. now, the defences proponed say, that _non constat_ at this present what is a plough-gate of land, whilk uncertainty is sufficient to elide the conclusions of the libel. but then the answers to the defences (they are signed by mr. crossmyloof, but mr. younglad drew them), they propone, that it signifies naething, _in hoc statu,_ what or how muckle a plough-gate of land may be, in respect the defender has nae lands whatsoever, less or mair. 'sae grant a plough-gate'" (here saddletree read from the paper in his hand) "'to be less than the nineteenth part of a guse's grass'--(i trow mr. crossmyloof put in that--i ken his style),--'of a guse's grass, what the better will the defender be, seeing he hasna a divot-cast of land in scotland?--_advocatus_ for lackland duplies, that _nihil interest de possessione,_ the pursuer must put his case under the statute'--(now, this is worth your notice, neighbour),--'and must show, _formaliter et specialiter,_ as well as _generaliter,_ what is the qualification that defender lackland does _not_ possess--let him tell me what a plough-gate of land is, and i'll tell him if i have one or no. surely the pursuer is bound to understand his own libel, and his own statute that he founds upon. _titius_ pursues _maevius_ for recovery of ane _black_ horse lent to maevius--surely he shall have judgment; but if titius pursue maevius for ane _scarlet_ or _crimson_ horse, doubtless he shall be bound to show that there is sic ane animal _in rerum natura._ no man can be bound to plead to nonsense--that is to say, to a charge which cannot be explained or understood'--(he's wrang there--the better the pleadings the fewer understand them),--'and so the reference unto this undefined and unintelligible measure of land is, as if a penalty was inflicted by statute for any man who suld hunt or hawk, or use lying-dogs, and wearing a sky-blue pair of breeches, without having--'but i am wearying you, mr. deans,--we'll pass to your ain business,--though this cue of marsport against lackland has made an unco din in the outer house. weel, here's the dittay against puir effie: 'whereas it is humbly meant and shown to us,' etc. (they are words of mere style), 'that whereas, by the laws of this and every other well-regulated realm, the murder of any one, more especially of an infant child, is a crime of ane high nature, and severely punishable: and whereas, without prejudice to the foresaid generality, it was, by ane act made in the second session of the first parliament of our most high and dread sovereigns william and mary, especially enacted, that ane woman who shall have concealed her condition, and shall not be able to show that she hath called for help at the birth in case that the child shall be found dead or amissing, shall be deemed and held guilty of the murder thereof; and the said facts of concealment and pregnancy being found proven or confessed, shall sustain the pains of law accordingly; yet, nevertheless, you, effie, or euphemia deans'" "read no farther!" said deans, raising his head up; "i would rather ye thrust a sword into my heart than read a word farther!" "weel, neighbour," said saddletree, "i thought it wad hae comforted ye to ken the best and the warst o't. but the question is, what's to be dune?" "nothing," answered deans firmly, "but to abide the dispensation that the lord sees meet to send us. oh, if it had been his will to take the grey head to rest before this awful visitation on my house and name! but his will be done. i can say that yet, though i can say little mair." "but, neighbour," said saddletree, "ye'll retain advocates for the puir lassie? it's a thing maun needs be thought of." "if there was ae man of them," answered deans, "that held fast his integrity--but i ken them weel, they are a' carnal, crafty, and warld-hunting self-seekers, yerastians, and arminians, every ane o' them." "hout tout, neighbour, ye mauna take the warld at its word," said saddletree; "the very deil is no sae ill as he's ca'd; and i ken mair than ae advocate that may be said to hae some integrity as weel as their neighbours; that is, after a sort o' fashion' o' their ain." "it is indeed but a fashion of integrity that ye will find amang them," replied david deans, "and a fashion of wisdom, and fashion of carnal learning--gazing, glancing-glasses they are, fit only to fling the glaiks in folk's een, wi' their pawky policy, and earthly ingine, their flights and refinements, and periods of eloquence, frae heathen emperors and popish canons. they canna, in that daft trash ye were reading to me, sae muckle as ca' men that are sae ill-starred as to be amang their hands, by ony name o' the dispensation o' grace, but maun new baptize them by the names of the accursed titus, wha was made the instrument of burning the holy temple, and other sic like heathens!" "it's tishius," interrupted saddletree, "and no titus. mr. crossmyloof cares as little about titus or the latin as ye do.--but it's a case of necessity--she maun hae counsel. now, i could speak to mr. crossmyloof--he's weel ken'd for a round-spun presbyterian, and a ruling elder to boot." "he's a rank yerastian," replied deans; "one of the public and polititious warldly-wise men that stude up to prevent ane general owning of the cause in the day of power!" "what say ye to the auld laird of cuffabout?" said saddletree; "he whiles thumps the dust out of a case gey and well." "he? the fause loon!" answered deans--"he was in his bandaliers to hae joined the ungracious highlanders in , an they had ever had the luck to cross the firth." "weel, arniston? there's a clever chield for ye!" said bartoline, triumphantly. "ay, to bring popish medals in till their very library from that schismatic woman in the north, the duchess of gordon."* * [james dundas younger of arniston was tried in the year upon charge of leasing-making, in having presented, from the duchess of gordon, medal of the pretender, for the purpose, it was said, of affronting queen anne.] "weel, weel, but somebody ye maun hae--what think ye o' kittlepunt?" "he's an arminian." "woodsetter?" "he's, i doubt, a cocceian." "auld whilliewhaw?" "he's ony thing ye like." "young naemmo?" "he's naething at a'." "ye're ill to please, neighbour," said saddletree: "i hae run ower the pick o' them for you, ye maun e'en choose for yoursell; but bethink ye that in the multitude of counsellors there's safety--what say ye to try young mackenyie? he has a' his uncle's practiques at the tongue's end." "what, sir, wad ye speak to me," exclaimed the sturdy presbyterian in excessive wrath, "about a man that has the blood of the saints at his fingers' ends? did na his eme [uncle] die and gang to his place wi' the name of the bluidy mackenyie? and winna he be kend by that name sae lang as there's a scots tongue to speak the word? if the life of the dear bairn that's under a suffering dispensation, and jeanie's, and my ain, and a' mankind's, depended on my asking sic a slave o' satan to speak a word for me or them, they should a' gae doun the water thegither for davie deans!" it was the exalted tone in which he spoke this last sentence that broke up the conversation between butler and jeanie, and brought them both "ben the house," to use the language of the country. here they found the poor old man half frantic between grief and zealous ire against saddletree's proposed measures, his cheek inflamed, his hand clenched, and his voice raised, while the tear in his eye, and the occasional quiver of his accents, showed that his utmost efforts were inadequate to shaking off the consciousness of his misery. butler, apprehensive of the consequences of his agitation to an aged and feeble frame, ventured to utter to him a recommendation to patience. "i _am_ patient," returned the old man sternly,--"more patient than any one who is alive to the woeful backslidings of a miserable time can be patient; and in so much, that i need neither sectarians, nor sons nor grandsons of sectarians, to instruct my grey hairs how to bear my cross." "but, sir," continued butler, taking no offence at the slur cast on his grandfather's faith, "we must use human means. when you call in a physician, you would not, i suppose, question him on the nature of his religious principles!" "wad i _no?_" answered david--"but i wad, though; and if he didna satisfy me that he had a right sense of the right hand and left hand defections of the day, not a goutte of his physic should gang through my father's son." it is a dangerous thing to trust to an illustration. butler had done so and miscarried; but, like a gallant soldier when his musket misses fire, he stood his ground, and charged with the bayonet.--"this is too rigid an interpretation of your duty, sir. the sun shines, and the rain descends, on the just and unjust, and they are placed together in life in circumstances which frequently render intercourse between them indispensable, perhaps that the evil may have an opportunity of being converted by the good, and perhaps, also, that the righteous might, among other trials, be subjected to that of occasional converse with the profane." "ye're a silly callant, reuben," answered deans, "with your bits of argument. can a man touch pitch and not be defiled? or what think ye of the brave and worthy champions of the covenant, that wadna sae muckle as hear a minister speak, be his gifts and graces as they would, that hadna witnessed against the enormities of the day? nae lawyer shall ever speak for me and mine that hasna concurred in the testimony of the scattered, yet lovely remnant, which abode in the clifts of the rocks." so saying, and as if fatigued, both with the arguments and presence of his guests, the old man arose, and seeming to bid them adieu with a motion of his head and hand, went to shut himself up in his sleeping apartment. "it's thrawing his daughter's life awa," said saddletree to butler, "to hear him speak in that daft gate. where will he ever get a cameronian advocate? or wha ever heard of a lawyer's suffering either for ae religion or another? the lassie's life is clean flung awa." during the latter part of this debate, dumbiedikes had arrived at the door, dismounted, hung the pony's bridle on the usual hook, and sunk down on his ordinary settle. his eyes, with more than their usual animation, followed first one speaker then another, till he caught the melancholy sense of the whole from saddletree's last words. he rose from his seat, stumped slowly across the room, and, coming close up to saddletree's ear, said in a tremulous anxious voice, "will--will siller do naething for them, mr. saddletree?" "umph!" said saddletree, looking grave,--"siller will certainly do it in the parliament house, if ony thing _can_ do it; but where's the siller to come frae? mr. deans, ye see, will do naething; and though mrs. saddletree's their far-awa friend, and right good weel-wisher, and is weel disposed to assist, yet she wadna like to stand to be bound _singuli in solidum_ to such an expensive wark. an ilka friend wad bear a share o' the burden, something might be dune--ilka ane to be liable for their ain input--i wadna like to see the case fa' through without being pled--it wadna be creditable, for a' that daft whig body says." "i'll--i will--yes" (assuming fortitude), "i will be answerable," said dumbiedikes, "for a score of punds sterling."--and he was silent, staring in astonishment at finding himself capable of such unwonted resolution and excessive generosity. "god almighty bless ye, laird!" said jeanie, in a transport of gratitude. "ye may ca' the twenty punds thretty," said dumbiedikes, looking bashfully away from her, and towards saddletree. "that will do bravely," said saddletree, rubbing his hands; and ye sall hae a' my skill and knowledge to gar the siller gang far--i'll tape it out weel--i ken how to gar the birkies tak short fees, and be glad o' them too--it's only garring them trow ye hae twa or three cases of importance coming on, and they'll work cheap to get custom. let me alane for whilly-whaing an advocate:--it's nae sin to get as muckle flue them for our siller as we can--after a', it's but the wind o' their mouth--it costs them naething; whereas, in my wretched occupation of a saddler, horse milliner, and harness maker, we are out unconscionable sums just for barkened hides and leather." "can i be of no use?" said butler. "my means, alas! are only worth the black coat i wear; but i am young--i owe much to the family--can i do nothing?" "ye can help to collect evidence, sir," said saddletree; "if we could but find ony ane to say she had gien the least hint o' her condition, she wad be brought aft wi' a wat finger--mr. crossmyloof tell'd me sae. the crown, says he, canna be craved to prove a positive--was't a positive or a negative they couldna be ca'd to prove?--it was the tane or the tither o' them, i am sure, and it maksna muckle matter whilk. wherefore, says he, the libel maun be redargued by the panel proving her defences. and it canna be done otherwise." "but the fact, sir," argued butler, "the fact that this poor girl has borne a child; surely the crown lawyers must prove that?" said butler. saddletree paused a moment, while the visage of dumbiedikes, which traversed, as if it had been placed on a pivot, from the one spokesman to the other, assumed a more blithe expression. "ye--ye--ye--es," said saddletree, after some grave hesitation; "unquestionably that is a thing to be proved, as the court will more fully declare by an interlocutor of relevancy in common form; but i fancy that job's done already, for she has confessed her guilt." "confessed the murder?" exclaimed jeanie, with a scream that made them all start. "no, i didna say that," replied bartoline. "but she confessed bearing the babe." "and what became of it, then?" said jeanie, "for not a word could i get from her but bitter sighs and tears." "she says it was taken away from her by the woman in whose house it was born, and who assisted her at the time." "and who was that woman?" said butler. "surely by her means the truth might be discovered.--who was she? i will fly to her directly." "i wish," said dumbiedikes, "i were as young and as supple as you, and had the gift of the gab as weel." "who is she?" again reiterated butler impatiently.--"who could that woman be?" "ay, wha kens that but herself?" said saddletree; "she deponed farther, and declined to answer that interrogatory." "then to herself will i instantly go," said butler; "farewell, jeanie;" then coming close up to her--"take no _rash steps_ till you hear from me. farewell!" and he immediately left the cottage. "i wad gang too," said the landed proprietor, in an anxious, jealous, and repining tone, "but my powny winna for the life o' me gang ony other road than just frae dumbiedikes to this house-end, and sae straight back again." "yell do better for them," said saddletree, as they left the house together, "by sending me the thretty punds." "thretty punds!" hesitated dumbiedikes, who was now out of the reach of those eyes which had inflamed his generosity; "i only said _twenty_ punds." "ay; but," said saddletree, "that was under protestation to add and eik; and so ye craved leave to amend your libel, and made it thretty." "did i? i dinna mind that i did," answered dumbiedikes. "but whatever i said i'll stand to." then bestriding his steed with some difficulty, he added, "dinna ye think poor jeanie's een wi' the tears in them glanced like lamour beads, mr. saddletree?" "i kenna muckle about women's een, laird," replied the insensible bartoline; "and i care just as little. i wuss i were as weel free o' their tongues; though few wives," he added, recollecting the necessity of keeping up his character for domestic rule, "are under better command than mine, laird. i allow neither perduellion nor lese-majesty against my sovereign authority." the laird saw nothing so important in this observation as to call for a rejoinder, and when they had exchanged a mute salutation, they parted in peace upon their different errands. chapter twelfth. i'll warrant that fellow from drowning, were the ship no stronger than a nut-shell. the tempest. butler felt neither fatigue nor want of refreshment, although, from the mode in which he had spent the night, he might well have been overcome with either. but in the earnestness with which he hastened to the assistance of the sister of jeanie deans, he forgot both. in his first progress he walked with so rapid a pace as almost approached to running, when he was surprised to hear behind him a call upon his name, contending with an asthmatic cough, and half-drowned amid the resounding trot of a highland pony. he looked behind, and saw the laird of dumbiedikes making after him with what speed he might, for it happened, fortunately for the laird's purpose of conversing with butler, that his own road homeward was for about two hundred yards the same with that which led by the nearest way to the city. butler stopped when he heard himself thus summoned, internally wishing no good to the panting equestrian who thus retarded his journey. "uh! uh! uh!" ejaculated dumbiedikes, as he checked the hobbling pace of the pony by our friend butler. "uh! uh! it's a hard-set willyard beast this o' mine." he had in fact just overtaken the object of his chase at the very point beyond which it would have been absolutely impossible for him to have continued the pursuit, since there butler's road parted from that leading to dumbiedikes, and no means of influence or compulsion which the rider could possibly have used towards his bucephalus could have induced the celtic obstinacy of rory bean (such was the pony's name) to have diverged a yard from the path that conducted him to his own paddock. even when he had recovered from the shortness of breath occasioned by a trot much more rapid than rory or he were accustomed to, the high purpose of dumbiedikes seemed to stick as it were in his throat, and impede his utterance, so that butler stood for nearly three minutes ere he could utter a syllable; and when he did find voice, it was only to say, after one or two efforts, "uh! uh! uhm! i say, mr.--mr. butler, it's a braw day for the har'st." "fine day, indeed," said butler. "i wish you good morning, sir." "stay--stay a bit," rejoined dumbiedikes; "that was no what i had gotten to say." "then, pray be quick, and let me have your commands," rejoined butler; "i crave your pardon, but i am in haste, and _tempus nemini_--you know the proverb." dumbiedikes did not know the proverb, nor did he even take the trouble to endeavour to look as if he did, as others in his place might have done. he was concentrating all his intellects for one grand proposition, and could not afford any detachment to defend outposts. "i say, mr. butler," said he, "ken ye if mr. saddletree's a great lawyer?" "i have no person's word for it but his own," answered butler, drily; "but undoubtedly he best understands his own qualities." "umph!" replied the taciturn dumbiedikes, in a tone which seemed to say, "mr. butler, i take your meaning." "in that case," he pursued, "i'll employ my ain man o' business, nichil novit (auld nichil's son, and amaist as gleg as his father), to agent effie's plea." and having thus displayed more sagacity than butler expected from him, he courteously touched his gold-laced cocked hat, and by a punch on the ribs, conveyed to rory bean, it was his rider's pleasure that he should forthwith proceed homewards; a hint which the quadruped obeyed with that degree of alacrity with which men and animals interpret and obey suggestions that entirely correspond with their own inclinations. butler resumed his pace, not without a momentary revival of that jealousy which the honest laird's attention to the family of deans had at different times excited in his bosom. but he was too generous long to nurse any feeling which was allied to selfishness. "he is," said butler to himself, "rich in what i want; why should i feel vexed that he has the heart to dedicate some of his pelf to render them services, which i can only form the empty wish of executing? in god's name, let us each do what we can. may she be but happy!--saved from the misery and disgrace that seems impending--let me but find the means of preventing the fearful experiment of this evening, and farewell to other thoughts, though my heart-strings break in parting with them!" he redoubled his pace, and soon stood before the door of the tolbooth, or rather before the entrance where the door had formerly been placed. his interview with the mysterious stranger, the message to jeanie, his agitating conversation with her on the subject of breaking off their mutual engagements, and the interesting scene with old deans, had so entirely occupied his mind as to drown even recollection of the tragical event which he had witnessed the preceding evening. his attention was not recalled to it by the groups who stood scattered on the street in conversation, which they hushed when strangers approached, or by the bustling search of the agents of the city police, supported by small parties of the military, or by the appearance of the guard-house, before which were treble sentinels, or, finally, by the subdued and intimidated looks of the lower orders of society, who, conscious that they were liable to suspicion, if they were not guilty of accession to a riot likely to be strictly inquired into, glided about with an humble and dismayed aspect, like men whose spirits being exhausted in the revel and the dangers of a desperate debauch over-night, are nerve-shaken, timorous, and unenterprising on the succeeding day. none of these symptoms of alarm and trepidation struck butler, whose mind was occupied with a different, and to him still more interesting subject, until he stood before the entrance to the prison, and saw it defended by a double file of grenadiers, instead of bolts and bars. their "stand, stand!" the blackened appearance of the doorless gateway, and the winding staircase and apartments of the tolbooth, now open to the public eye, recalled the whole proceedings of the eventful night. upon his requesting to speak with effie deans, the same tall, thin, silver-haired turnkey, whom he had seen on the preceding evening, made his appearance, "i think," he replied to butler's request of admission, with true scottish indirectness, "ye will be the same lad that was for in to see her yestreen?" butler admitted he was the same person. "and i am thinking," pursued the turnkey, "that ye speered at me when we locked up, and if we locked up earlier on account of porteous?" "very likely i might make some such observation," said butler; "but the question now is, can i see effie deans?" "i dinna ken--gang in by, and up the turnpike stair, and turn till the ward on the left hand." the old man followed close behind him, with his keys in his hand, not forgetting even that huge one which had once opened and shut the outward gate of his dominions, though at present it was but an idle and useless burden. no sooner had butler entered the room to which he was directed, than the experienced hand of the warder selected the proper key, and locked it on the outside. at first butler conceived this manoeuvre was only an effect of the man's habitual and official caution and jealousy. but when he heard the hoarse command, "turn out the guard!" and immediately afterwards heard the clash of a sentinel's arms, as he was posted at the door of his apartment, he again called out to the turnkey, "my good friend, i have business of some consequence with effie deans, and i beg to see her as soon as possible." no answer was returned. "if it be against your rules to admit me," repeated butler, in a still louder tone, "to see the prisoner, i beg you will tell me so, and let me go about my business.--_fugit irrevocabile tempus!_" muttered he to himself. "if ye had business to do, ye suld hae dune it before ye cam here," replied the man of keys from the outside; "yell find it's easier wunnin in than wunnin out here--there's sma' likelihood o' another porteous mob coming to rabble us again--the law will haud her ain now, neighbour, and that yell find to your cost." "what do you mean by that, sir?" retorted butler. "you must mistake me for some other person. my name is reuben butler, preacher of the gospel." "i ken that weel eneugh," said the turnkey. "well, then, if you know me, i have a right to know from you in return, what warrant you have for detaining me; that, i know, is the right of every british subject." "warrant!" said the jailor,--"the warrant's awa to libberton wi' twa sheriff officers seeking ye. if ye had staid at hame, as honest men should do, ye wad hae seen the warrant; but if ye come to be incarcerated of your ain accord, wha can help it, my jo?" "'so i cannot see effie deans, then," said butler; "and you are determined not to let me out?" "troth will i no, neighbour," answered the old man, doggedly; "as for effie deans, ye'll hae eneuch ado to mind your ain business, and let her mind hers; and for letting you out, that maun be as the magistrate will determine. and fare ye weel for a bit, for i maun see deacon sawyers put on ane or twa o' the doors that your quiet folk broke down yesternight, mr. butler." there was something in this exquisitely provoking, but there was also something darkly alarming. to be imprisoned, even on a false accusation, has something in it disagreeable and menacing even to men of more constitutional courage than butler had to boast; for although he had much of that resolution which arises from a sense of duty and an honourable desire to discharge it, yet, as his imagination was lively, and his frame of body delicate, he was far from possessing that cool insensibility to danger which is the happy portion of men of stronger health, more firm nerves, and less acute sensibility. an indistinct idea of peril, which he could neither understand nor ward off, seemed to float before his eyes. he tried to think over the events of the preceding night, in hopes of discovering some means of explaining or vindicating his conduct for appearing among the mob, since it immediately occurred to him that his detention must be founded on that circumstance. and it was with anxiety that he found he could not recollect to have been under the observation of any disinterested witness in the attempts that he made from time to time to expostulate with the rioters, and to prevail on them to release him. the distress of deans's family, the dangerous rendezvous which jeanie had formed, and which he could not now hope to interrupt, had also their share in his unpleasant reflections. yet, impatient as he was to receive an _e'claircissement_ upon the cause of his confinement, and if possible to obtain his liberty, he was affected with a trepidation which seemed no good omen; when, after remaining an hour in this solitary apartment, he received a summons to attend the sitting magistrate. he was conducted from prison strongly guarded by a party of soldiers, with a parade of precaution, that, however ill-timed and unnecessary, is generally displayed _after_ an event, which such precaution, if used in time, might have prevented. he was introduced into the council chamber, as the place is called where the magistrates hold their sittings, and which was then at a little distance from the prison. one or two of the senators of the city were present, and seemed about to engage in the examination of an individual who was brought forward to the foot of the long green-covered table round which the council usually assembled. "is that the preacher?" said one of the magistrates, as the city officer in attendance introduced butler. the man answered in the affirmative. "let him sit down there for an instant; we will finish this man's business very briefly." "shall we remove mr. butler?" queried the assistant. "it is not necessary--let him remain where he is." butler accordingly sate down on a bench at the bottom of the apartment, attended by one of his keepers. it was a large room, partially and imperfectly lighted; but by chance, or the skill of the architect, who might happen to remember the advantage which might occasionally be derived from such an arrangement, one window was so placed as to throw a strong light at the foot of the table at which prisoners were usually posted for examination, while the upper end, where the examinants sate, was thrown into shadow. butler's eyes were instantly fixed on the person whose examination was at present proceeding, in the idea that he might recognise some one of the conspirators of the former night. but though the features of this man were sufficiently marked and striking, he could not recollect that he had ever seen them before. the complexion of this person was dark, and his age somewhat advanced. he wore his own hair, combed smooth down, and cut very short. it was jet black, slightly curled by nature, and already mottled with grey. the man's face expressed rather knavery than vice, and a disposition to sharpness, cunning, and roguery, more than the traces of stormy and indulged passions. his sharp quick black eyes, acute features, ready sardonic smile, promptitude and effrontery, gave him altogether what is called among the vulgar a _knowing_ look, which generally implies a tendency to knavery. at a fair or market, you could not for a moment have doubted that he was a horse-jockey, intimate with all the tricks of his trade; yet, had you met him on a moor, you would not have apprehended any violence from him. his dress was also that of a horse-dealer--a close-buttoned jockey-coat, or wrap-rascal, as it was then termed, with huge metal buttons, coarse blue upper stockings, called boot-hose because supplying the place of boots, and a slouched hat. he only wanted a loaded whip under his arm and a spur upon one heel, to complete the dress of the character he seemed to represent. "your name is james ratcliffe?" said the magistrate. "ay--always wi' your honour's leave." "that is to say, you could find me another name if i did not like that one?" "twenty to pick and choose upon, always with your honour's leave," resumed the respondent. "but james ratcliffe is your present name?--what is your trade?" "i canna just say, distinctly, that i have what ye wad ca' preceesely a trade." "but," repeated the magistrate, "what are your means of living--your occupation?" "hout tout--your honour, wi' your leave, kens that as weel as i do," replied the examined. "no matter, i want to hear you describe it," said the examinant. "me describe!--and to your honour!--far be it from jemmie ratcliffe," responded the prisoner. "come, sir, no trifling--i insist on an answer." "weel, sir," replied the declarant, "i maun make a clean breast, for ye see, wi' your leave, i am looking for favour--describe my occupation, quo' ye?--troth it will be ill to do that, in a feasible way, in a place like this--but what is't again that the aught command says?" "thou shalt not steal," answered the magistrate. "are you sure o' that?" replied the accused.--"troth, then, my occupation, and that command, are sair at odds, for i read it, thou _shalt_ steal; and that makes an unco difference, though there's but a wee bit word left out." "to cut the matter short, ratcliffe, you have been a most notorious thief," said the examinant. "i believe highlands and lowlands ken that, sir, forby england and holland," replied ratcliffe, with the greatest composure and effrontery. "and what d'ye think the end of your calling will be?" said the magistrate. "i could have gien a braw guess yesterday--but i dinna ken sae weel the day," answered the prisoner. "and what would you have said would have been your end, had you been asked the question yesterday?" "just the gallows," replied ratcliffe, with the same composure. "you are a daring rascal, sir," said the magistrate; "and how dare you hope times are mended with you to-day?" "dear, your honour," answered ratcliffe, "there's muckle difference between lying in prison under sentence of death, and staying there of ane's ain proper accord, when it would have cost a man naething to get up and rin awa--what was to hinder me from stepping out quietly, when the rabble walked awa wi' jock porteous yestreen?--and does your honour really think i staid on purpose to be hanged?" "i do not know what you may have proposed to yourself; but i know," said the magistrate, "what the law proposes for you, and that is, to hang you next wednesday eight days." "na, na, your honour," said ratcliffe firmly, "craving your honour's pardon, i'll ne'er believe that till i see it. i have kend the law this mony a year, and mony a thrawart job i hae had wi' her first and last; but the auld jaud is no sae ill as that comes to--i aye fand her bark waur than her bite." "and if you do not expect the gallows, to which you are condemned (for the fourth time to my knowledge), may i beg the favour to know," said the magistrate, "what it is you _do_ expect, in consideration of your not having taken your flight with the rest of the jail-birds, which i will admit was a line of conduct little to have been expected?" "i would never have thought for a moment of staying in that auld gousty toom house," answered ratcliffe, "but that use and wont had just gien me a fancy to the place, and i'm just expecting a bit post in't." "a post!" exclaimed the magistrate; "a whipping-post, i suppose, you mean?" "na, na, sir, i had nae thoughts o' a whuppin-post. after having been four times doomed to hang by the neck till i was dead, i think i am far beyond being whuppit." "then, in heaven's name, what _did_ you expect?" "just the post of under-turnkey, for i understand there's a vacancy," said the prisoner; "i wadna think of asking the lockman's* place ower his head; it wadna suit me sae weel as ither folk, for i never could put a beast out o' the way, much less deal wi' a man." * note h. hangman, or lockman. "that's something in your favour," said the magistrate, making exactly the inference to which ratcliffe was desirous to lead him, though he mantled his art with an affectation of oddity. "but," continued the magistrate, "how do you think you can be trusted with a charge in the prison, when you have broken at your own hand half the jails in scotland?" "wi' your honour's leave," said ratcliffe, "if i kend sae weel how to wun out mysell, it's like i wad be a' the better a hand to keep other folk in. i think they wad ken their business weel that held me in when i wanted to be out, or wan out when i wanted to hand them in." the remark seemed to strike the magistrate, but he made no further immediate observation, only desired ratcliffe to be removed. when this daring and yet sly freebooter was out of hearing, the magistrate asked the city clerk, "what he thought of the fellow's assurance?" "it's no for me to say, sir," replied the clerk; "but if james ratcliffe be inclined to turn to good, there is not a man e'er came within the ports of the burgh could be of sae muckle use to the good town in the thief and lock-up line of business. i'll speak to mr. sharpitlaw about him." upon ratcliffe's retreat, butler was placed at the table for examination. the magistrate conducted his inquiry civilly, but yet in a manner which gave him to understand that he laboured under strong suspicion. with a frankness which at once became his calling and character, butler avowed his involuntary presence at the murder of porteous, and, at the request of the magistrate, entered into a minute detail of the circumstances which attended that unhappy affair. all the particulars, such as we have narrated, were taken minutely down by the clerk from butler's dictation. when the narrative was concluded, the cross-examination commenced, which it is a painful task even for the most candid witness to undergo, since a story, especially if connected with agitating and alarming incidents, can scarce be so clearly and distinctly told, but that some ambiguity and doubt may be thrown upon it by a string of successive and minute interrogatories. the magistrate commenced by observing, that butler had said his object was to return to the village of libberton, but that he was interrupted by the mob at the west port. "is the west port your usual way of leaving town when you go to libberton?" said the magistrate, with a sneer. "no, certainly," answered butler, with the haste of a man anxious to vindicate the accuracy of his evidence; "but i chanced to be nearer that port than any other, and the hour of shutting the gates was on the point of striking." "that was unlucky," said the magistrate, drily. "pray, being, as you say, under coercion and fear of the lawless multitude, and compelled to accompany them through scenes disagreeable to all men of humanity, and more especially irreconcilable to the profession of a minister, did you not attempt to struggle, resist, or escape from their violence?" butler replied, "that their numbers prevented him from attempting resistance, and their vigilance from effecting his escape." "that was unlucky," again repeated the magistrate, in the same dry inacquiescent tone of voice and manner. he proceeded with decency and politeness, but with a stiffness which argued his continued suspicion, to ask many questions concerning the behaviour of the mob, the manners and dress of the ringleaders; and when he conceived that the caution of butler, if he was deceiving him, must be lulled asleep, the magistrate suddenly and artfully returned to former parts of his declaration, and required a new recapitulation of the circumstances, to the minutest and most trivial point, which attended each part of the melancholy scene. no confusion or contradiction, however, occurred, that could countenance the suspicion which he seemed to have adopted against butler. at length the train of his interrogatories reached madge wildfire, at whose name the magistrate and town-clerk exchanged significant glances. if the fate of the good town had depended on her careful magistrate's knowing the features and dress of this personage, his inquiries could not have been more particular. but butler could say almost nothing of this person's features, which were disguised apparently with red paint and soot, like an indian going to battle, besides the projecting shade of a curch, or coif, which muffled the hair of the supposed female. he declared that he thought he could not know this madge wildfire, if placed before him in a different dress, but that he believed he might recognise her voice. the magistrate requested him again to state by what gate he left the city. "by the cowgate port," replied butler. "was that the nearest road to libberton?" "no," answered butler, with embarrassment; "but it was the nearest way to extricate myself from the mob." the clerk and magistrate again exchanged glances. "is the cowgate port a nearer way to libberton from the grassmarket than bristo port?" "no," replied butler; "but i had to visit a friend." "indeed!" said the interrogator--"you were in a hurry to tell the sight you had witnessed, i suppose?" "indeed i was not," replied butler; "nor did i speak on the subject the whole time i was at st. leonard's crags." "which road did you take to st. leonard's crags?" "by the foot of salisbury crags," was the reply. "indeed? you seem partial to circuitous routes," again said the magistrate. "whom did you see after you left the city?" one by one he obtained a description of every one of the groups who had passed butler, as already noticed, their number, demeanour, and appearance; and, at length, came to the circumstance of the mysterious stranger in the king's park. on this subject butler would fain have remained silent, but the magistrate had no sooner got a slight hint concerning the incident, than he seemed bent to possess himself of the most minute particulars. "look ye, mr. butler," said he, "you are a young man, and bear an excellent character; so much i will myself testify in your favour. but we are aware there has been, at times, a sort of bastard and fiery zeal in some of your order, and those, men irreproachable in other points, which has led them into doing and countenancing great irregularities, by which the peace of the country is liable to be shaken.--i will deal plainly with you. i am not at all satisfied with this story, of your setting out again and again to seek your dwelling by two several roads, which were both circuitous. and, to be frank, no one whom we have examined on this unhappy affair could trace in your appearance any thing like your acting under compulsion. moreover, the waiters at the cowgate port observed something like the trepidation of guilt in your conduct, and declare that you were the first to command them to open the gate, in a tone of authority, as if still presiding over the guards and out-posts of the rabble, who had besieged them the whole night." "god forgive them!" said butler; "i only asked free passage for myself; they must have much misunderstood, if they did not wilfully misrepresent me." "well, mr. butler," resumed the magistrate, "i am inclined to judge the best and hope the best, as i am sure i wish the best; but you must be frank with me, if you wish to secure my good opinion, and lessen the risk of inconvenience to yourself. you have allowed you saw another individual in your passage through the king's park to saint leonard's crags--i must know every word which passed betwixt you." thus closely pressed, butler, who had no reason for concealing what passed at that meeting, unless because jeanie deans was concerned in it, thought it best to tell the whole truth from beginning to end. "do you suppose," said the magistrate, pausing, "that the young woman will accept an invitation so mysterious?" "i fear she will," replied butler. "why do you use the word _fear_ it?" said the magistrate. "because i am apprehensive for her safety, in meeting at such a time and place, one who had something of the manner of a desperado, and whose message was of a character so inexplicable." "her safety shall be cared for," said the magistrate. "mr. butler, i am concerned i cannot immediately discharge you from confinement, but i hope you will not be long detained.--remove mr. butler, and let him be provided with decent accommodation in all respects." he was conducted back to the prison accordingly; but, in the food offered to him, as well as in the apartment in which he was lodged, the recommendation of the magistrate was strictly attended to. chapter thirteenth. dark and eerie was the night, and lonely was the way, as janet, wi' her green mantell, to miles' cross she did gae. old ballad. leaving butler to all the uncomfortable thoughts attached to his new situation, among which the most predominant was his feeling that he was, by his confinement, deprived of all possibility of assisting the family at st. leonard's in their greatest need, we return to jeanie deans, who had seen him depart, without an opportunity of farther explanation, in all that agony of mind with which the female heart bids adieu to the complicated sensations so well described by coleridge,-- hopes, and fears that kindle hope, an undistinguishable throng; and gentle wishes long subdued-- subdued and cherished long. it is not the firmest heart (and jeanie, under her russet rokelay, had one that would not have disgraced cato's daughter) that can most easily bid adieu to these soft and mingled emotions. she wept for a few minutes bitterly, and without attempting to refrain from this indulgence of passion. but a moment's recollection induced her to check herself for a grief selfish and proper to her own affections, while her father and sister were plunged into such deep and irretrievable affliction. she drew from her pocket the letter which had been that morning flung into her apartment through an open window, and the contents of which were as singular as the expression was violent and energetic. "if she would save a human being from the most damning guilt, and all its desperate consequences,--if she desired the life an honour of her sister to be saved from the bloody fangs of an unjust law,--if she desired not to forfeit peace of mind here, and happiness hereafter," such was the frantic style of the conjuration, "she was entreated to give a sure, secret, and solitary meeting to the writer. she alone could rescue him," so ran the letter, "and he only could rescue her." he was in such circumstances, the billet farther informed her, that an attempt to bring any witness of their conference, or even to mention to her father, or any other person whatsoever, the letter which requested it, would inevitably prevent its taking place, and ensure the destruction of her sister. the letter concluded with incoherent but violent protestations, that in obeying this summons she had nothing to fear personally. the message delivered to her by butler from the stranger in the park tallied exactly with the contents of the letter, but assigned a later hour and a different place of meeting. apparently the writer of the letter had been compelled to let butler so far into his confidence, for the sake of announcing this change to jeanie. she was more than once on the point of producing the billet, in vindication of herself from her lover's half-hinted suspicions. but there is something in stooping to justification which the pride of innocence does not at all times willingly submit to; besides that the threats contained in the letter, in case of her betraying the secret, hung heavy on her heart. it is probable, however, that had they remained longer together, she might have taken the resolution to submit the whole matter to butler, and be guided by him as to the line of conduct which she should adopt. and when, by the sudden interruption of their conference, she lost the opportunity of doing so, she felt as if she had been unjust to a friend, whose advice might have been highly useful, and whose attachment deserved her full and unreserved confidence. to have recourse to her father upon this occasion, she considered as highly imprudent. there was no possibility of conjecturing in what light the matter might strike old david, whose manner of acting and thinking in extraordinary circumstances depended upon feelings and principles peculiar to himself, the operation of which could not be calculated upon even by those best acquainted with him. to have requested some female friend to have accompanied her to the place of rendezvous, would perhaps have been the most eligible expedient; but the threats of the writer, that betraying his secret would prevent their meeting (on which her sister's safety was said to depend) from taking place at all, would have deterred her from making such a confidence, even had she known a person in whom she thought it could with safety have been reposed. but she knew none such. their acquaintance with the cottagers in the vicinity had been very slight, and limited to trifling acts of good neighbourhood. jeanie knew little of them, and what she knew did not greatly incline her to trust any of them. they were of the order of loquacious good-humoured gossips usually found in their situation of life; and their conversation had at all times few charms for a young woman, to whom nature and the circumstance of a solitary life had given a depth of thought and force of character superior to the frivolous part of her sex, whether in high or low degree. left alone and separated from all earthly counsel, she had recourse to a friend and adviser, whose ear is open to the cry of the poorest and most afflicted of his people. she knelt, and prayed with fervent sincerity, that god would please to direct her what course to follow in her arduous and distressing situation. it was the belief of the time and sect to which she belonged, that special answers to prayer, differing little in their character from divine inspiration, were, as they expressed it, "borne in upon their minds" in answer to their earnest petitions in a crisis of difficulty. without entering into an abstruse point of divinity, one thing is plain;--namely, that the person who lays open his doubts and distresses in prayer, with feeling and sincerity, must necessarily, in the act of doing so, purify his mind from the dross of worldly passions and interests, and bring it into that state, when the resolutions adopted are likely to be selected rather from a sense of duty, than from any inferior motive. jeanie arose from her devotions, with her heart fortified to endure affliction, and encouraged to face difficulties. "i will meet this unhappy man," she said to herself--"unhappy he must be, since i doubt he has been the cause of poor effie's misfortune--but i will meet him, be it for good or ill. my mind shall never cast up to me, that, for fear of what might be said or done to myself, i left that undone that might even yet be the rescue of her." with a mind greatly composed since the adoption of this resolution, she went to attend her father. the old man, firm in the principles of his youth, did not, in outward appearance at least, permit a thought of hit family distress to interfere with the stoical reserve of his countenance and manners. he even chid his daughter for having neglected, in the distress of the morning, some trifling domestic duties which fell under her department. "why, what meaneth this, jeanie?" said the old man--"the brown four-year-auld's milk is not seiled yet, nor the bowies put up on the bink. if ye neglect your warldly duties in the day of affliction, what confidence have i that ye mind the greater matters that concern salvation? god knows, our bowies, and our pipkins, and our draps o' milk, and our bits o' bread, are nearer and dearer to us than the bread of life!" jeanie, not unpleased to hear her father's thoughts thus expand themselves beyond the sphere of his immediate distress, obeyed him, and proceeded to put her household matters in order; while old david moved from place to place about his ordinary employments, scarce showing, unless by a nervous impatience at remaining long stationary, an occasional convulsive sigh, or twinkle of the eyelid, that he was labouring under the yoke of such bitter affliction. the hour of noon came on, and the father and child sat down to their homely repast. in his petition for a blessing on the meal, the poor old man added to his supplication, a prayer that the bread eaten in sadness of heart, and the bitter waters of marah, might be made as nourishing as those which had been poured forth from a full cup and a plentiful basket and store; and having concluded his benediction, and resumed the bonnet which he had laid "reverently aside," he proceeded to exhort his daughter to eat, not by example indeed, but at least by precept. "the man after god's own heart," he said, "washed and anointed himself, and did eat bread, in order to express his submission under a dispensation of suffering, and it did not become a christian man or woman so to cling to creature-comforts of wife or bairns"--(here the words became too great, as it were, for his utterance),--"as to forget the fist duty,--submission to the divine will." to add force to his precept, he took a morsel on his plate, but nature proved too strong even for the powerful feelings with which he endeavoured to bridle it. ashamed of his weakness, he started up, and ran out of the house, with haste very unlike the deliberation of his usual movements. in less than five minutes he returned, having successfully struggled to recover his ordinary composure of mind and countenance, and affected to colour over his late retreat, by muttering that he thought he heard the "young staig loose in the byre." he did not again trust himself with the subject of his former conversation, and his daughter was glad to see that he seemed to avoid farther discourse on that agitating topic. the hours glided on, as on they must and do pass, whether winged with joy or laden with affliction. the sun set beyond the dusky eminence of the castle and the screen of western hills, and the close of evening summoned david deans and his daughter to the family duty of the night. it came bitterly upon jeanie's recollection, how often, when the hour of worship approached, she used to watch the lengthening shadows, and look out from the door of the house, to see if she could spy her sister's return homeward. alas! this idle and thoughtless waste of time, to what evils had it not finally led? and was she altogether guiltless, who, noticing effie's turn to idle and light society, had not called in her father's authority to restrain her?--but i acted for the best, she again reflected, and who could have expected such a growth of evil, from one grain of human leaven, in a disposition so kind, and candid, and generous? as they sate down to the "exercise," as it is called, a chair happened accidentally to stand in the place which effie usually occupied. david deans saw his daughter's eyes swim in tears as they were directed towards this object, and pushed it aside, with a gesture of some impatience, as if desirous to destroy every memorial of earthly interest when about to address the deity. the portion of scripture was read, the psalm was sung, the prayer was made; and it was remarkable that, in discharging these duties, the old man avoided all passages and expressions, of which scripture affords so many, that might be considered as applicable to his own domestic misfortune. in doing so it was perhaps his intention to spare the feelings of his daughter, as well as to maintain, in outward show at least, that stoical appearance of patient endurance of all the evil which earth could bring, which was in his opinion essential to the character of one who rated all earthly things at their just estimate of nothingness. when he had finished the duty of the evening, he came up to his daughter, wished her good-night, and, having done so, continued to hold her by the hands for half-a-minute; then drawing her towards him, kissed her forehead, and ejaculated, "the god of israel bless you, even with the blessings of the promise, my dear bairn!" it was not either in the nature or habits of david deans to seem a fond father; nor was he often observed to experience, or at least to evince, that fulness of the heart which seeks to expand itself in tender expressions or caresses even to those who were dearest to him. on the contrary, he used to censure this as a degree of weakness in several of his neighbours, and particularly in poor widow butler. it followed, however, from the rarity of such emotions in this self-denied and reserved man, that his children attached to occasional marks of his affection and approbation a degree of high interest and solemnity; well considering them as evidences of feelings which were only expressed when they became too intense for suppression or concealment. with deep emotion, therefore, did he bestow, and his daughter receive, this benediction and paternal caress. "and you, my dear father," exclaimed jeanie, when the door had closed upon the venerable old man, "may you have purchased and promised blessings multiplied upon you--upon _you,_ who walk in this world as though you were not of the world, and hold all that it can give or take away but as the _midges_ that the sun-blink brings out, and the evening wind sweeps away!" she now made preparation for her night-walk. her father slept in another part of the dwelling, and, regular in all his habits, seldom or never left his apartment when he had betaken himself to it for the evening. it was therefore easy for her to leave the house unobserved, so soon as the time approached at which she was to keep her appointment. but the step she was about to take had difficulties and terrors in her own eyes, though she had no reason to apprehend her father's interference. her life had been spent in the quiet, uniform, and regular seclusion of their peaceful and monotonous household. the very hour which some damsels of the present day, as well of her own as of higher degree, would consider as the natural period of commencing an evening of pleasure, brought, in her opinion, awe and solemnity in it; and the resolution she had taken had a strange, daring, and adventurous character, to which she could hardly reconcile herself when the moment approached for putting it into execution. her hands trembled as she snooded her fair hair beneath the riband, then the only ornament or cover which young unmarried women wore on their head, and as she adjusted the scarlet tartan screen or muffler made of plaid, which the scottish women wore, much in the fashion of the black silk veils still a part of female dress in the netherlands. a sense of impropriety as well as of danger pressed upon her, as she lifted the latch of her paternal mansion to leave it on so wild an expedition, and at so late an hour, unprotected, and without the knowledge of her natural guardian. when she found herself abroad and in the open fields, additional subjects of apprehension crowded upon her. the dim cliffs and scattered rocks, interspersed with greensward, through which she had to pass to the place of appointment, as they glimmered before her in a clear autumn night, recalled to her memory many a deed of violence, which, according to tradition, had been done and suffered among them. in earlier days they had been the haunt of robbers and assassins, the memory of whose crimes is preserved in the various edicts which the council of the city, and even the parliament of scotland, had passed for dispersing their bands, and ensuring safety to the lieges, so near the precincts of the city. the names of these criminals, and, of their atrocities, were still remembered in traditions of the scattered cottages and the neighbouring suburb. in latter times, as we have already noticed, the sequestered and broken character of the ground rendered it a fit theatre for duels and rencontres among the fiery youth of the period. two or three of these incidents, all sanguinary, and one of them fatal in its termination, had happened since deans came to live at st. leonard's. his daughter's recollections, therefore, were of blood and horror as she pursued the small scarce-tracked solitary path, every step of which conveyed het to a greater distance from help, and deeper into the ominous seclusion of these unhallowed precincts. as the moon began to peer forth on the scene with a doubtful, flitting, and solemn light, jeanie's apprehensions took another turn, too peculiar to her rank and country to remain unnoticed. but to trace its origin will require another chapter. chapter fourteenth. the spirit i have seen may be the devil. and the devil has power to assume a pleasing shape. hamlet. witchcraft and demonology, as we have already had occasion to remark, were at this period believed in by almost all ranks, but more especially among the stricter classes of presbyterians, whose government, when their party were at the head of the state, had been much sullied by their eagerness to inquire into and persecute these imaginary crimes. now, in this point of view, also, saint leonard's crags and the adjacent chase were a dreaded and ill-reputed district. not only had witches held their meetings there, but even of very late years the enthusiast or impostor, mentioned in the _pandaemonium_ of richard bovet, gentleman,* had, among the recesses of these romantic cliffs, found his way into the hidden retreats where the fairies revel in the bowels of the earth. * note i. the fairy boy of leith. with all these legends jeanie deans was too well acquainted to escape that strong impression which they usually make on the imagination. indeed, relations of this ghostly kind had been familiar to her from her infancy, for they were the only relief which her father's conversation afforded from controversial argument, or the gloomy history of the strivings and testimonies, escapes, captures, tortures, and executions of those martyrs of the covenant, with whom it was his chiefest boast to say he had been acquainted. in the recesses of mountains, in caverns, and in morasses, to which these persecuted enthusiasts were so ruthlessly pursued, they conceived they had often to contend with the visible assaults of the enemy of mankind, as in the cities, and in the cultivated fields, they were exposed to those of the tyrannical government and their soldiery. such were the terrors which made one of their gifted seers exclaim, when his companion returned to him, after having left him alone in a haunted cavern in sorn in galloway, "it is hard living in this world-incarnate devils above the earth, and devils under the earth! satan has been here since ye went away, but i have dismissed him by resistance; we will be no more troubled with him this night." david deans believed this, and many other such ghostly encounters and victories, on the faith of the ansars, or auxiliaries of the banished prophets. this event was beyond david's remembrance. but he used to tell with great awe, yet not without a feeling of proud superiority to his auditors, how he himself had been present at a field-meeting at crochmade, when the duty of the day was interrupted by the apparition of a tall black man, who, in the act of crossing a ford to join the congregation, lost ground, and was carried down apparently by the force of the stream. all were instantly at work to assist him, but with so little success, that ten or twelve stout men, who had hold of the rope which they had cast in to his aid, were rather in danger to be dragged into the stream, and lose their own lives, than likely to save that of the supposed perishing man. "but famous john semple of carspharn," david deans used to say with exultation, "saw the whaup in the rape.--'quit the rope,' he cried to us (for i that was but a callant had a hand o' the rape mysell), 'it is the great enemy! he will burn, but not drown; his design is to disturb the good wark, by raising wonder and confusion in your minds; to put off from your spirits all that ye hae heard and felt.'--sae we let go the rape," said david, "and he went adown the water screeching and bullering like a bull of bashan, as he's ca'd in scripture."* * note j. intercourse of the covenanters with the invisible world. trained in these and similar legends, it was no wonder that jeanie began to feel an ill-defined apprehension, not merely of the phantoms which might beset her way, but of the quality, nature, and purpose of the being who had thus appointed her a meeting, at a place and hour of horror, and at a time when her mind must be necessarily full of those tempting and ensnaring thoughts of grief and despair, which were supposed to lay sufferers particularly open to the temptations of the evil one. if such an idea had crossed even butler's well-informed mind, it was calculated to make a much stronger impression upon hers. yet firmly believing the possibility of an encounter so terrible to flesh and blood, jeanie, with a degree of resolution of which we cannot sufficiently estimate the merit, because the incredulity of the age has rendered us strangers to the nature and extent of her feelings, persevered in her determination not to omit an opportunity of doing something towards saving her sister, although, in the attempt to avail herself of it, she might be exposed to dangers so dreadful to her imagination. so, like christiana in the pilgrim's progress, when traversing with a timid yet resolved step the terrors of the valley of the shadow of death, she glided on by rock and stone, "now in glimmer and now in gloom," as her path lay through moonlight or shadow, and endeavoured to overpower the suggestions of fear, sometimes by fixing her mind upon the distressed condition of her sister, and the duty she lay under to afford her aid, should that be in her power; and more frequently by recurring in mental prayer to the protection of that being to whom night is as noon-day. thus drowning at one time her fears by fixing her mind on a subject of overpowering interest, and arguing them down at others by referring herself to the protection of the deity, she at length approached the place assigned for this mysterious conference. it was situated in the depth of the valley behind salisbury crags, which has for a background the north-western shoulder of the mountain called arthur's seat, on whose descent still remain the ruins of what was once a chapel, or hermitage, dedicated to st. anthony the eremite. a better site for such a building could hardly have been selected; for the chapel, situated among the rude and pathless cliffs, lies in a desert, even in the immediate vicinity of a rich, populous, and tumultuous capital: and the hum of the city might mingle with the orisons of the recluses, conveying as little of worldly interest as if it had been the roar of the distant ocean. beneath the steep ascent on which these ruins are still visible, was, and perhaps is still pointed out, the place where the wretch nichol muschat, who has been already mentioned in these pages, had closed a long scene of cruelty towards his unfortunate wife, by murdering her, with circumstances of uncommon barbarity.* * see note g. muschat's cairn. the execration in which the man's crime was held extended itself to the place where it was perpetrated, which was marked by a small _cairn,_ or heap of stones, composed of those which each chance passenger had thrown there in testimony of abhorrence, and on the principle, it would seem, of the ancient british malediction, "may you have a cairn for your burial-place!" [illustration: muschat's cairn-- ] as our heroine approached this ominous and unhallowed spot, she paused and looked to the moon, now rising broad in the north-west, and shedding a more distinct light than it had afforded during her walk thither. eyeing the planet for a moment, she then slowly and fearfully turned her head towards the cairn, from which it was at first averted. she was at first disappointed. nothing was visible beside the little pile of stones, which shone grey in the moonlight. a multitude of confused suggestions rushed on her mind. had her correspondent deceived her, and broken his appointment?--was he too tardy at the appointment he had made?--or had some strange turn of fate prevented him from appearing as he proposed?--or, if he were an unearthly being, as her secret apprehensions suggested, was it his object merely to delude her with false hopes, and put her to unnecessary toil and terror, according to the nature, as she had heard, of those wandering demons?--or did he purpose to blast her with the sudden horrors of his presence when she had come close to the place of rendezvous? these anxious reflections did not prevent her approaching to the cairn with a pace that, though slow, was determined. when she was within two yards of the heap of stones, a figure rose suddenly up from behind it, and jeanie scarce forbore to scream aloud at what seemed the realisation of the most frightful of her anticipations. she constrained herself to silence, however, and, making a dead pause, suffered the figure to open the conversation, which he did, by asking, in a voice which agitation rendered tremulous and hollow, "are you the sister of that ill-fated young woman?" "i am--i am the sister of effie deans!" exclaimed jeanie. "and as ever you hope god will hear you at your need, tell me, if you can tell, what can be done to save her!" "i do _not_ hope god will hear me at my need," was the singular answer. "i do not deserve--i do not expect he will." this desperate language he uttered in a tone calmer than that with which he had at first spoken, probably because the shook of first addressing her was what he felt most difficult to overcome. jeanie remained mute with horror to hear language expressed so utterly foreign to all which she had ever been acquainted with, that it sounded in her ears rather like that of a fiend than of a human being. the stranger pursued his address to her, without seeming to notice her surprise. "you see before you a wretch, predestined to evil here and hereafter." "for the sake of heaven, that hears and sees us," said jeanie, "dinna speak in this desperate fashion! the gospel is sent to the chief of sinners--to the most miserable among the miserable." "then should i have my own share therein," said the stranger, "if you call it sinful to have been the destruction of the mother that bore me--of the friend that loved me--of the woman that trusted me--of the innocent child that was born to me. if to have done all this is to be a sinner, and survive it is to be miserable, then am i most guilty and most miserable indeed." "then you are the wicked cause of my sister's ruin?" said jeanie, with a natural touch of indignation expressed in her tone of voice. "curse me for it, if you will," said the stranger; "i have well deserved it at your hand." "it is fitter for me," said jeanie, "to pray to god to forgive you." "do as you will, how you will, or what you will," he replied, with vehemence; "only promise to obey my directions, and save your sister's life." "i must first know," said jeanie, "the means you would have me use in her behalf." "no!--you must first swear--solemnly swear, that you will employ them when i make them known to you." "surely, it is needless to swear that i will do all that is lawful to a christian to save the life of my sister?" "i will have no reservation!" thundered the stranger; "lawful or unlawful, christian or heathen, you shall swear to do my hest, and act by my counsel, or--you little know whose wrath you provoke!" "i will think on what you have said," said jeanie, who began to get much alarmed at the frantic vehemence of his manner, and disputed in her own mind, whether she spoke to a maniac, or an apostate spirit incarnate--"i will think on what you say, and let you ken to-morrow." "to-morrow!" exclaimed the man with a laugh of scorn--"and where will i be to-morrow?--or, where will you be to-night, unless you swear to walk by my counsel?--there was one accursed deed done at this spot before now; and there shall be another to match it, unless you yield up to my guidance body and soul." as he spoke, he offered a pistol at the unfortunate young woman. she neither fled nor fainted, but sunk on her knees, and asked him to spare her life. "is that all you have to say?" said the unmoved ruffian. "do not dip your hands in the blood of a defenceless creature that has trusted to you," said jeanie, still on her knees. "is that all you can say for your life?--have you no promise to give?--will you destroy your sister, and compel me to shed more blood?" "i can promise nothing," said jeanie, "which is unlawful for a christian." he cocked the weapon, and held it towards her. "may god forgive you!" she said, pressing her hands forcibly against her eyes. "d--n!" muttered the man; and, turning aside from her, he uncocked the pistol, and replaced it in his pocket--"i am a villain," he said, "steeped in guilt and wretchedness, but not wicked enough to do you any harm! i only wished to terrify you into my measures--she hears me not--she is gone!--great god! what a wretch am i become!" as he spoke, she recovered herself from an agony which partook of the bitterness of death; and, in a minute or two, through the strong exertion of her natural sense and courage, collected herself sufficiently to understand he intended her no personal injury. "no!" he repeated; "i would not add to the murder of your sister, and of her child, that of any one belonging to her!--mad, frantic, as i am, and unrestrained by either fear or mercy, given up to the possession of an evil being, and forsaken by all that is good, i would not hurt you, were the world offered me for a bribe! but, for the sake of all that is dear to you, swear you will follow my counsel. take this weapon, shoot me through the head, and with your own hand revenge your sister's wrong, only follow the course--the only course, by which her life can be saved." "alas! is she innocent or guilty?" "she is guiltless--guiltless of every thing, but of having trusted a villain!--yet, had it not been for those that were worse than i am--yes, worse than i am, though i am bad indeed--this misery had not befallen." "and my sister's child--does it live?" said jeanie. "no; it was murdered--the new-born infant was barbarously murdered," he uttered in a low, yet stern and sustained voice.--"but," he added hastily, "not by her knowledge or consent." "then, why cannot the guilty be brought to justice, and the innocent freed?" "torment me not with questions which can serve no purpose," he sternly replied--"the deed was done by those who are far enough from pursuit, and safe enough from discovery!--no one can save effie but yourself." "woe's me! how is it in my power?" asked jeanie, in despondency. "hearken to me!--you have sense--you can apprehend my meaning--i will trust you. your sister is innocent of the crime charged against her" "thank god for that!" said jeanie. "be still and hearken!--the person who assisted her in her illness murdered the child; but it was without the mother's knowledge or consent--she is therefore guiltless, as guiltless as the unhappy innocent, that but gasped a few minutes in this unhappy world--the better was its hap, to be so soon at rest. she is innocent as that infant, and yet she must die--it is impossible to clear her of the law!" "cannot the wretches be discovered, and given up to punishment?" said jeanie. "do you think you will persuade those who are hardened in guilt to die to save another?--is that the reed you would lean to?" "but you said there was a remedy," again gasped out the terrified young woman. "there is," answered the stranger, "and it is in your own hands. the blow which the law aims cannot be broken by directly encountering it, but it may be turned aside. you saw your sister during the period preceding the birth of her child--what is so natural as that she should have mentioned her condition to you? the doing so would, as their cant goes, take the case from under the statute, for it removes the quality of concealment. i know their jargon, and have had sad cause to know it; and the quality of concealment is essential to this statutory offence.* * note k. child murder. nothing is so natural as that effie should have mentioned her condition to you--think--reflect--i am positive that she did." "woe's me!" said jeanie, "she never spoke to me on the subject, but grat sorely when i spoke to her about her altered looks, and the change on her spirits." "you asked her questions on the subject?" he said eagerly. "you _must_ remember her answer was, a confession that she had been ruined by a villain--yes, lay a strong emphasis on that--a cruel false villain call it--any other name is unnecessary; and that she bore under her bosom the consequences of his guilt and her folly; and that he had assured her he would provide safely for her approaching illness.--well he kept his word!" these last words he spoke as if it were to himself, and with a violent gesture of self-accusation, and then calmly proceeded, "you will remember all this?--that is all that is necessary to be said." "but i cannot remember," answered jeanie, with simplicity, "that which effie never told me." "are you so dull--so very dull of apprehension?" he exclaimed, suddenly grasping her arm, and holding it firm in his hand. "i tell you" (speaking between his teeth, and under his breath, but with great energy), "you _must_ remember that she told you all this, whether she ever said a syllable of it or no. you must repeat this tale, in which there is no falsehood, except in so far as it was not told to you, before these justices--justiciary--whatever they call their bloodthirsty court, and save your sister from being murdered, and them from becoming murderers. do not hesitate--i pledge life and salvation, that in saying what i have said, you will only speak the simple truth." "but," replied jeanie, whose judgment was too accurate not to see the sophistry of this argument, "i shall be man-sworn in the very thing in which my testimony is wanted, for it is the concealment for which poor effie is blamed, and you would make me tell a falsehood anent it." "i see," he said, "my first suspicions of you were right, and that you will let your sister, innocent, fair, and guiltless, except in trusting a villain, die the death of a murderess, rather than bestow the breath of your mouth and the sound of your voice to save her." "i wad ware the best blood in my body to keep her skaithless," said jeanie, weeping in bitter agony, "but i canna change right into wrang, or make that true which is false." "foolish, hardhearted girl," said the stranger, "are you afraid of what they may do to you? i tell you, even the retainers of the law, who course life as greyhounds do hares, will rejoice at the escape of a creature so young--so beautiful, that they will not suspect your tale; that, if they did suspect it, they would consider you as deserving, not only of forgiveness, but of praise for your natural affection." "it is not man i fear," said jeanie, looking upward; "the god, whose name i must call on to witness the truth of what i say, he will know the falsehood." "and he will know the motive," said the stranger, eagerly; "he will know that you are doing this--not for lucre of gain, but to save the life of the innocent, and prevent the commission of a worse crime than that which the law seeks to avenge." "he has given us a law," said jeanie, "for the lamp of our path; if we stray from it we err against knowledge--i may not do evil, even that good may come out of it. but you--you that ken all this to be true, which i must take on your word--you that, if i understood what you said e'en now, promised her shelter and protection in her travail, why do not _you_ step forward, and bear leal and soothfast evidence in her behalf, as ye may with a clear conscience?" "to whom do you talk of a clear conscience, woman?" said he, with a sudden fierceness which renewed her terrors,--"to _me?_--i have not known one for many a year. bear witness in her behalf?--a proper witness, that even to speak these few words to a woman of so little consequence as yourself, must choose such an hour and such a place as this. when you see owls and bats fly abroad, like larks, in the sunshine, you may expect to see such as i am in the assemblies of men.--hush--listen to that." a voice was heard to sing one of those wild and monotonous strains so common in scotland, and to which the natives of that country chant their old ballads. the sound ceased--then came nearer, and was renewed; the stranger listened attentively, still holding jeanie by the arm (as she stood by him in motionless terror), as if to prevent her interrupting the strain by speaking or stirring. when the sounds were renewed, the words were distinctly audible: "when the glede's in the blue cloud, the lavrock lies still; when the hound's in' the green-wood, the hind keeps the hill." the person who sung kept a strained and powerful voice at its highest pitch, so that it could be heard at a very considerable distance. as the song ceased, they might hear a stifled sound, as of steps and whispers of persons approaching them. the song was again raised, but the tune was changed: "o sleep ye sound, sir james, she said, when ye suld rise and ride; there's twenty men, wi' bow and blade, are seeking where ye hide." "i dare stay no longer," said the stranger; "return home, or remain till they come up--you have nothing to fear--but do not tell you saw me--your sister's fate is in your hands." so saying, he turned from her, and with a swift, yet cautiously noiseless step, plunged into the darkness on the side most remote from the sounds which they heard approaching, and was soon lost to her sight. jeanie remained by the cairn terrified beyond expression, and uncertain whether she ought to fly homeward with all the speed she could exert, or wait the approach of those who were advancing towards her. this uncertainty detained her so long, that she now distinctly saw two or three figures already so near to her, that a precipitate flight would have been equally fruitless and impolitic. chapter fifteenth. she speaks things in doubt, that carry but half sense: her speech is nothing, yet the unshaped use of it doth move the hearers to collection; they aim at it, and botch the words up to fit their own thoughts. hamlet. like the digressive poet ariosto, i find myself under the necessity of connecting the branches of my story, by taking up the adventures of another of the characters, and bringing them down to the point at which we have left those of jeanie deans. it is not, perhaps, the most artificial way of telling a story, but it has the advantage of sparing the necessity of resuming what a knitter (if stocking-looms have left such a person in the land) might call our "dropped stitches;" a labour in which the author generally toils much, without getting credit for his pains. "i could risk a sma' wad," said the clerk to the magistrate, "that this rascal ratcliffe, if he were insured of his neck's safety, could do more than ony ten of our police-people and constables to help us to get out of this scrape of porteous's. he is weel acquent wi' a' the smugglers, thieves, and banditti about edinburgh; and, indeed, he may be called the father of a' the misdoers in scotland, for he has passed amang them for these twenty years by the name of daddie rat." "a bonny sort of a scoundrel," replied the magistrate, "to expect a place under the city!" "begging your honour's pardon," said the city's procurator-fiscal, upon whom the duties of superintendent of police devolved, "mr. fairscrieve is perfectly in the right. it is just sic as ratcliffe that the town needs in my department; an' if sae be that he's disposed to turn his knowledge to the city service, yell no find a better man.--ye'll get nae saints to be searchers for uncustomed goods, or for thieves and sic like;--and your decent sort of men, religious professors, and broken tradesmen, that are put into the like o' sic trust, can do nae gude ava. they are feared for this, and they are scrupulous about that, and they arena free to tell a lie, though it may be for the benefit of the city; and they dinna like to be out at irregular hours, and in a dark cauld night, and they like a clout ower the crown far waur; and sae between the fear o' god, and the fear o' man, and the fear o' getting a sair throat, or sair banes, there's a dozen o' our city-folk, baith waiters, and officers, and constables, that can find out naething but a wee bit skulduddery for the benefit of the kirk treasurer. jock porteous, that's stiff and stark, puir fallow, was worth a dozen o' them; for he never had ony fears, or scruples, or doubts, or conscience, about onything your honours bade him." "he was a gude servant o' the town," said the bailie, "though he was an ower free-living man. but if you really think this rascal ratcliffe could do us ony service in discovering these malefactors, i would insure him life, reward, and promotion. it's an awsome thing this mischance for the city, mr. fairscrieve. it will be very ill taen wi' abune stairs. queen caroline, god bless her! is a woman--at least i judge sae, and it's nae treason to speak my mind sae far--and ye maybe ken as weel as i do, for ye hae a housekeeper, though ye arena a married man, that women are wilfu', and downa bide a slight. and it will sound ill in her ears, that sic a confused mistake suld come to pass, and naebody sae muckle as to be put into the tolbooth about it." "if ye thought that, sir," said the procurator-fiscal, "we could easily clap into the prison a few blackguards upon suspicion. it will have a gude active look, and i hae aye plenty on my list, that wadna be a hair the waur of a week or twa's imprisonment; and if ye thought it no strictly just, ye could be just the easier wi' them the neist time they did onything to deserve it; they arena the sort to be lang o' gieing ye an opportunity to clear scores wi' them on that account." "i doubt that will hardly do in this case, mr. sharpitlaw," returned the town-clerk; "they'll run their letters,* and be adrift again, before ye ken where ye are." * a scottish form of procedure, answering, in some respects, to the english habeas corpus. "i will speak to the lord provost," said the magistrate, "about ratcliffe's business. mr. sharpitlaw, you will go with me, and receive instructions--something may be made too out of this story of butler's and his unknown gentleman--i know no business any man has to swagger about in the king's park, and call himself the devil, to the terror of honest folks, who dinna care to hear mair about the devil than is said from the pulpit on the sabbath. i cannot think the preacher himsell wad be heading the mob, though the time has been, they hae been as forward in a bruilzie as their neighbours." "but these times are lang by," said mr. sharpitlaw. "in my father's time, there was mair search for silenced ministers about the bow-head and the covenant close, and all the tents of kedar, as they ca'd the dwellings o' the godly in those days, than there's now for thieves and vagabonds in the laigh calton and the back o' the canongate. but that time's weel by, an it bide. and if the bailie will get me directions and authority from the provost, i'll speak wi' daddie rat mysell; for i'm thinking i'll make mair out o' him than ye'll do." mr. sharpitlaw, being necessarily a man of high trust, was accordingly empowered, in the course of the day, to make such arrangements as might seem in the emergency most advantageous for the good town. he went to the jail accordingly, and saw ratcliffe in private. the relative positions of a police-officer and a professed thief bear a different complexion, according to circumstances. the most obvious simile of a hawk pouncing upon his prey is often least applicable. sometimes the guardian of justice has the air of a cat watching a mouse, and, while he suspends his purpose of springing upon the pilferer, takes care so to calculate his motions that he shall not get beyond his power. sometimes, more passive still, he uses the art of fascination ascribed to the rattlesnake, and contents himself with glaring on the victim, through all his devious flutterings; certain that his terror, confusion, and disorder of ideas, will bring him into his jaws at last. the interview between ratcliffe and sharpitlaw had an aspect different from all these. they sat for five minutes silent, on opposite sides of a small table, and looked fixedly at each other, with a sharp, knowing, and alert cast of countenance, not unmingled with an inclination to laugh, and resembled more than anything else, two dogs, who, preparing for a game at romps, are seen to couch down, and remain in that posture for a little time, watching each other's movements, and waiting which shall begin the game. "so, mr. ratcliffe," said the officer, conceiving it suited his dignity to speak first, "you give up business, i find?" "yes, sir," replied ratcliffe; "i shall be on that lay nae mair--and i think that will save your folk some trouble, mr. sharpitlaw?" "which jock daigleish" (then finisher of the law* in the scottish metropolis) "wad save them as easily," returned the procurator-fiscal. * [among the flying leaves of the period, there is one called "sutherland's lament for the loss of his post,--with his advice, to john daglees his successor." he was whipped and banished th july . there is another, called the speech and dying words of john dalgleish, lockman _alias_ hangman of edinburgh, containing these lines:-- death, i've a favour for to beg, that ye wad only gie a fleg, and spare my life; as i did to ill-hanged megg, the webster's wife."] "ay; if i waited in the tolbooth here to have him fit my cravat--but that's an idle way o' speaking, mr. sharpitlaw." "why, i suppose you know you are under sentence of death, mr. ratcliffe?" replied mr. sharpitlaw. "aye, so are a', as that worthy minister said in the tolbooth kirk the day robertson wan off; but naebody kens when it will be executed. gude faith, he had better reason to say sae than he dreamed off, before the play was played out that morning!" "this robertson," said sharpitlaw, in a lower and something like a confidential tone, "d'ye ken, rat--that is, can ye gie us ony inkling where he is to be heard tell o'?" "troth, mr. sharpitlaw, i'll be frank wi' ye; robertson is rather a cut abune me--a wild deevil he was, and mony a daft prank he played; but except the collector's job that wilson led him into, and some tuilzies about run goods wi' the gaugers and the waiters, he never did onything that came near our line o' business." "umph! that's singular, considering the company he kept." "fact, upon my honour and credit," said ratcliffe, gravely. "he keepit out o' our little bits of affairs, and that's mair than wilson did; i hae dune business wi' wilson afore now. but the lad will come on in time; there's nae fear o' him; naebody will live the life he has led, but what he'll come to sooner or later." "who or what is he, ratcliffe? you know, i suppose?" said sharpitlaw. "he's better born, i judge, than he cares to let on; he's been a soldier, and he has been a play-actor, and i watna what he has been or hasna been, for as young as he is, sae that it had daffing and nonsense about it." "pretty pranks he has played in his time, i suppose?" "ye may say that," said ratcliffe, with a sardonic smile; "and" (touching his nose) "a deevil amang the lasses." "like enough," said sharpitlaw. "weel, ratcliffe, i'll no stand niffering wi' ye; ye ken the way that favour's gotten in my office; ye maun be usefu'." "certainly, sir, to the best of my power--naething for naething--i ken the rule of the office," said the ex-depredator. "now the principal thing in hand e'en now," said the official person, "is the job of porteous's; an ye can gie us a lift--why, the inner turnkey's office to begin wi', and the captainship in time--ye understand my meaning?" "ay, troth do i, sir; a wink's as gude as a nod to a blind horse; but jock porteous's job--lord help ye!--i was under sentence the haill time. god! but i couldna help laughing when i heard jock skirting for mercy in the lads' hands. mony a het skin ye hae gien me, neighbour, thought i, tak ye what's gaun: time about's fair play; ye'll ken now what hanging's gude for." "come, come, this is all nonsense, rat," said the procurator. "ye canna creep out at that hole, lad; you must speak to the point--you understand me--if you want favour; gif-gaf makes gude friends, ye ken." "but how can i speak to the point, as your honour ca's it," said ratcliffe, demurely, and with an air of great simplicity, "when ye ken i was under sentence and in the strong room a' the while the job was going on?" "and how can we turn ye loose on the public again, daddie rat, unless ye do or say something to deserve it?" "well, then, d--n it!" answered the criminal, "since it maun be sae, i saw geordie robertson among the boys that brake the jail; i suppose that will do me some gude?" "that's speaking to the purpose, indeed," said the office-bearer; "and now, rat, where think ye we'll find him?" "deil haet o' me kens," said ratcliffe; "he'll no likely gang back to ony o' his auld howffs; he'll be off the country by this time. he has gude friends some gate or other, for a' the life he's led; he's been weel educate." "he'll grace the gallows the better," said mr. sharpitlaw; "a desperate dog, to murder an officer of the city for doing his duty! wha kens wha's turn it might be next?--but you saw him plainly?" "as plainly as i see you." "how was he dressed?" said sharpitlaw. "i couldna weel see; something of a woman's bit mutch on his head; but ye never saw sic a ca'-throw. ane couldna hae een to a' thing." "but did he speak to no one?" said sharpitlaw. "they were a' speaking and gabbling through other," said ratcliffe, who was obviously unwilling to carry his evidence farther than he could possibly help. "this will not do, ratcliffe," said the procurator; "you must speak _out--out--out,_" tapping the table emphatically, as he repeated that impressive monosyllable. "it's very hard, sir," said the prisoner; "and but for the under-turnkey's place" "and the reversion of the captaincy--the captaincy of the tolbooth, man--that is, in case of gude behaviour." "ay, ay," said ratcliffe, "gude behaviour!--there's the deevil. and then it's waiting for dead folk's shoon into the bargain." "but robertson's head will weigh something," said sharpitlaw; "something gey and heavy, rat; the town maun show cause--that's right and reason--and then ye'll hae freedom to enjoy your gear honestly." "i dinna ken," said ratcliffe; "it's a queer way of beginning the trade of honesty--but deil ma care. weel, then, i heard and saw him speak to the wench effie deans, that's up there for child-murder." "the deil ye did? rat, this is finding a mare's nest wi' a witness.--and the man that spoke to butler in the park, and that was to meet wi' jeanie deans at muschat's cairn--whew! lay that and that together? as sure as i live he's been the father of the lassie's wean." "there hae been waur guesses than that, i'm thinking," observed ratcliffe, turning his quid of tobacco in his cheek, and squirting out the juice. "i heard something a while syne about his drawing up wi' a bonny quean about the pleasaunts, and that it was a' wilson could do to keep him frae marrying her." here a city officer entered, and told sharpitlaw that they had the woman in custody whom he had directed them to bring before him. "it's little matter now," said he, "the thing is taking another turn; however, george, ye may bring her in." the officer retired, and introduced, upon his return, a tall, strapping wench of eighteen or twenty, dressed, fantastically, in a sort of blue riding-jacket, with tarnished lace, her hair clubbed like that of a man, a highland bonnet, and a bunch of broken feathers, a riding-skirt (or petticoat) of scarlet camlet, embroidered with tarnished flowers. her features were coarse and masculine, yet at a little distance, by dint of very bright wild-looking black eyes, an aquiline nose, and a commanding profile, appeared rather handsome. she flourished the switch she held in her hand, dropped a courtesy as low as a lady at a birth-night introduction, recovered herself seemingly according to touchstone's directions to audrey, and opened the conversation without waiting till any questions were asked. "god gie your honour gude-e'en, and mony o' them, bonny mr. sharpitlaw!--gude-e'en to ye, daddie ratton--they tauld me ye were hanged, man; or did ye get out o' john dalgleish's hands like half-hangit maggie dickson?" "whisht, ye daft jaud," said ratcliffe, "and hear what's said to ye." "wi' a' my heart, ratton. great preferment for poor madge to be brought up the street wi' a grand man, wi' a coat a' passemented wi' worset-lace, to speak wi' provosts, and bailies, and town-clerks, and prokitors, at this time o' day--and the haill town looking at me too--this is honour on earth for ance!" "ay, madge," said mr. sharpitlaw, in a coaxing tone; "and ye're dressed out in your braws, i see; these are not your every-days' claiths ye have on." "deil be in my fingers, then!" said madge--"eh, sirs!" (observing butler come into the apartment), "there's a minister in the tolbooth--wha will ca' it a graceless place now?--i'se warrant he's in for the gude auld cause--but it's be nae cause o' mine," and off she went into a song-- "hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers, dub a dub, dub a dub, have at old beelzebub,-- oliver's squeaking for fear." "did you ever see that mad woman before?" said sharpitlaw to butler. "not to my knowledge, sir," replied butler. "i thought as much," said the procurator-fiscal, looking towards ratcliffe, who answered his glance with a nod of acquiescence and intelligence.-- "but that is madge wildfire, as she calls herself," said the man of law to butler. "ay, that i am," said madge, "and that i have been ever since i was something better--heigh ho"--(and something like melancholy dwelt on her features for a minute)--"but i canna mind when that was--it was lang syne, at ony rate, and i'll ne'er fash my thumb about it.-- i glance like the wildfire through country and town; i'm seen on the causeway--i'm seen on the down; the lightning that flashes so bright and so free, is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me." "hand your tongue, ye skirling limmer!" said the officer who had acted as master of the ceremonies to this extraordinary performer, and who was rather scandalised at the freedom of her demeanour before a person of mr. sharpitlaw's importance--"haud your tongue, or i'se gie ye something to skirl for!" "let her alone, george," said sharpitlaw, "dinna put her out o' tune; i hae some questions to ask her--but first, mr. butler, take another look of her." "do sae, minister--do sae," cried madge; "i am as weel worth looking at as ony book in your aught.--and i can say the single carritch, and the double carritch, and justification, and effectual calling, and the assembly of divines at westminster, that is" (she added in a low tone), "i could say them ance--but it's lang syne--and ane forgets, ye ken." and poor madge heaved another deep sigh. "weel, sir," said mr. sharpitlaw to butler, "what think ye now?" "as i did before," said butler; "that i never saw the poor demented creature in my life before." "then she is not the person whom you said the rioters last night described as madge wildfire?" "certainly not," said butler. "they may be near the same height, for they are both tall, but i see little other resemblance." "their dress, then, is not alike?" said sharpitlaw. "not in the least," said butler. "madge, my bonny woman," said sharpitlaw, in the same coaxing manner, "what did ye do wi' your ilka-day's claise yesterday?" "i dinna mind," said madge. "where was ye yesterday at e'en, madge?" "i dinna mind ony thing about yesterday," answered madge; "ae day is eneugh for ony body to wun ower wi' at a time, and ower muckle sometimes." "but maybe, madge, ye wad mind something about it, if i was to gie ye this half-crown?" said sharpitlaw, taking out the piece of money. "that might gar me laugh, but it couldna gar me mind." "but, madge," continued sharpitlaw, "were i to send you to the workhouse in leith wynd, and gar jock dalgleish lay the tawse on your back" "that wad gar me greet," said madge, sobbing, "but it couldna gar me mind, ye ken." "she is ower far past reasonable folks' motives, sir," said ratcliffe, "to mind siller, or john dalgleish, or the cat-and-nine-tails either; but i think i could gar her tell us something." "try her, then, ratcliffe," said sharpitlaw, "for i am tired of her crazy pate, and be d--d to her." "madge," said ratcliffe, "hae ye ony joes now?" "an ony body ask ye, say ye dinna ken.--set him to be speaking of my joes, auld daddie ratton!" "i dare say, ye hae deil ane?" "see if i haena then," said madge, with the toss of the head of affronted beauty--"there's rob the ranter, and will fleming, and then there's geordie robertson, lad--that's gentleman geordie--what think ye o' that?" ratcliffe laughed, and, winking to the procurator-fiscal, pursued the inquiry in his own way. "but, madge, the lads only like ye when ye hae on your braws--they wadna touch you wi' a pair o' tangs when you are in your auld ilka-day rags." "ye're a leeing auld sorrow then," replied the fair one; "for gentle geordie robertson put my ilka-day's claise on his ain bonny sell yestreen, and gaed a' through the town wi' them; and gawsie and grand he lookit, like ony queen in the land." "i dinna believe a word o't," said ratcliffe, with another wink to the procurator. "thae duds were a' o' the colour o' moonshine in the water, i'm thinking, madge--the gown wad be a sky-blue scarlet, i'se warrant ye?" "it was nae sic thing," said madge, whose unretentive memory let out, in the eagerness of contradiction, all that she would have most wished to keep concealed, had her judgment been equal to her inclination. "it was neither scarlet nor sky-blue, but my ain auld brown threshie-coat of a short-gown, and my mother's auld mutch, and my red rokelay--and he gied me a croun and a kiss for the use o' them, blessing on his bonny face--though it's been a dear ane to me." "and where did he change his clothes again, hinnie?" said sharpitlaw, in his most conciliatory manner. "the procurator's spoiled a'," observed ratcliffe, drily. and it was even so; for the question, put in so direct a shape, immediately awakened madge to the propriety of being reserved upon those very topics on which ratcliffe had indirectly seduced her to become communicative. "what was't ye were speering at us, sir?" she resumed, with an appearance of stolidity so speedily assumed, as showed there was a good deal of knavery mixed with her folly. "i asked you," said the procurator, "at what hour, and to what place, robertson brought back your clothes." "robertson?--lord hand a care o' us! what robertson?" "why, the fellow we were speaking of, gentle geordie, as you call him." "geordie gentle!" answered madge, with well-feigned amazement--"i dinna ken naebody they ca' geordie gentle." "come, my jo," said sharpitlaw, "this will not do; you must tell us what you did with these clothes of yours." madge wildfire made no answer, unless the question may seem connected with the snatch of a song with which she indulged the embarrassed investigator:-- "what did ye wi' the bridal ring--bridal ring--bridal ring? what did ye wi' your wedding ring, ye little cutty quean, o? i gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger, i gied it till a sodger, an auld true love o' mine, o." of all the madwomen who have sung and said, since the days of hamlet the dane, if ophelia be the most affecting, madge wildfire was the most provoking. the procurator-fiscal was in despair. "i'll take some measures with this d--d bess of bedlam," said he, "that shall make her find her tongue." "wi' your favour, sir," said ratcliffe, "better let her mind settle a little--ye have aye made out something." "true," said the official person; "a brown short-gown, mutch, red rokelay--that agrees with your madge wildfire, mr. butler?" butler agreed that it did so. "yes, there was a sufficient motive for taking this crazy creature's dress and name, while he was about such a job." "and i am free to say _now,_" said ratcliffe "when you see it has come out without you," interrupted sharpitlaw. "just sae, sir," reiterated ratcliffe. "i am free to say now, since it's come out otherwise, that these were the clothes i saw robertson wearing last night in the jail, when he was at the head of the rioters." "that's direct evidence," said sharpitlaw; "stick to that, rat--i will report favourably of you to the provost, for i have business for you to-night. it wears late; i must home and get a snack, and i'll be back in the evening. keep madge with you, ratcliffe, and try to get her into a good tune again." so saying he left the prison. chapter sixteenth. and some they whistled--and some they sang, and some did loudly say, whenever lord barnard's horn it blew, "away, musgrave away!" ballad of little musgrave. when the man of office returned to the heart of mid-lothian, he resumed his conference with ratcliffe, of whose experience and assistance he now held himself secure. "you must speak with this wench, rat--this effie deans--you must sift her a wee bit; for as sure as a tether she will ken robertson's haunts--till her, rat--till her without delay." "craving your pardon, mr. sharpitlaw," said the turnkey elect, "that's what i am not free to do." "free to do, man? what the deil ails ye now?--i thought we had settled a' that?" "i dinna ken, sir," said ratcliffe; "i hae spoken to this effie--she's strange to this place and to its ways, and to a' our ways, mr. sharpitlaw; and she greets, the silly tawpie, and she's breaking her heart already about this wild chield; and were she the mean's o' taking him, she wad break it outright." "she wunna hae time, lad," said sharpitlaw; "the woodie will hae it's ain o' her before that--a woman's heart takes a lang time o' breaking." "that's according to the stuff they are made o' sir," replied ratcliffe--"but to make a lang tale short, i canna undertake the job. it gangs against my conscience." "_your_ conscience, rat?" said sharpitlaw, with a sneer, which the reader will probably think very natural upon the occasion. "ou ay, sir," answered ratcliffe, calmly, "just my conscience; a'body has a conscience, though it may be ill wunnin at it. i think mine's as weel out o' the gate as maist folk's are; and yet it's just like the noop of my elbow, it whiles gets a bit dirl on a corner." "weel, rat," replied sharpitlaw, "since ye are nice, i'll speak to the hussy mysell." sharpitlaw, accordingly, caused himself to be introduced into the little dark apartment tenanted by the unfortunate effie deans. the poor girl was seated on her little flock-bed, plunged in a deep reverie. some food stood on the table, of a quality better than is usually supplied to prisoners, but it was untouched. the person under whose care she was more particularly placed, said, "that sometimes she tasted naething from the tae end of the four-and-twenty hours to the t'other, except a drink of water." sharpitlaw took a chair, and, commanding the turnkey to retire, he opened the conversation, endeavouring to throw into his tone and countenance as much commiseration as they were capable of expressing, for the one was sharp and harsh, the other sly, acute, and selfish. "how's a' wi' ye, effie?--how d'ye find yoursell, hinny?" a deep sigh was the only answer. "are the folk civil to ye, effie?--it's my duty to inquire." "very civil, sir," said effie, compelling herself to answer, yet hardly knowing what she said. "and your victuals," continued sharpitlaw, in the same condoling tone,--"do you get what you like?--or is there onything you would particularly fancy, as your health seems but silly?" "it's a' very weel, sir, i thank ye," said the poor prisoner, in a tone how different from the sportive vivacity of those of the lily of st. leonard's!--"it's a' very gude--ower gude for me." "he must have been a great villain, effie, who brought you to this pass," said sharpitlaw. the remark was dictated partly by a natural feeling, of which even he could not divest himself, though accustomed to practise on the passions of others, and keep a most heedful guard over his own, and partly by his wish to introduce the sort of conversation which might, best serve his immediate purpose. indeed, upon the present occasion, these mixed motives of feeling and cunning harmonised together wonderfully; for, said sharpitlaw to himself, the greater rogue robertson is, the more will be the merit of bringing him to justice. "he must have been a great villain, indeed," he again reiterated; "and i wish i had the skelping o' him." "i may blame mysell mair than him," said effie; "i was bred up to ken better; but he, poor fellow,"--(she stopped). "was a thorough blackguard a' his life, i dare say," said sharpitlaw. "a stranger he was in this country, and a companion of that lawless vagabond, wilson, i think, effie?" "it wad hae been dearly telling him that he had ne'er seen wilson's face." "that's very true that you are saying, effie," said sharpitlaw. "where was't that robertson and you were used to howff thegither? somegate about the laigh calton, i am thinking." the simple and dispirited girl had thus far followed mr. sharpitlaw's lead, because he had artfully adjusted his observations to the thoughts he was pretty certain must be passing through her own mind, so that her answers became a kind of thinking aloud, a mood into which those who are either constitutionally absent in mind, or are rendered so by the temporary pressure of misfortune, may be easily led by a skilful train of suggestions. but the last observation of the procurator-fiscal was too much of the nature of a direct interrogatory, and it broke the charm accordingly. "what was it that i was saying?" said effie, starting up from her reclining posture, seating herself upright, and hastily shading her dishevelled hair back from her wasted but still beautiful countenance. she fixed her eyes boldly and keenly upon sharpitlaw--"you are too much of a gentleman, sir,--too much of an honest man, to take any notice of what a poor creature like me says, that can hardly ca' my senses my ain--god help me!" "advantage!--i would be of some advantage to you if i could," said sharpitlaw, in a soothing tone; "and i ken naething sae likely to serve ye, effie, as gripping this rascal, robertson." "o dinna misca' him, sir, that never misca'd you!--robertson?--i am sure i had naething to say against ony man o' the name, and naething will i say." "but if you do not heed your own misfortune, effie, you should mind what distress he has brought on your family," said the man of law. "o, heaven help me!" exclaimed poor effie--"my poor father--my dear jeanie--o, that's sairest to bide of a'! o, sir, if you hae ony kindness--if ye hae ony touch of compassion--for a' the folk i see here are as hard as the wa'-stanes--if ye wad but bid them let my sister jeanie in the next time she ca's! for when i hear them put her awa frae the door, and canna climb up to that high window to see sae muckle as her gown-tail, it's like to pit me out o' my judgment." and she looked on him with a face of entreaty, so earnest, yet so humble, that she fairly shook the steadfast purpose of his mind. "you shall see your sister," he began, "if you'll tell me,"--then interrupting himself, he added, in a more hurried tone,--"no, d--n it, you shall see your sister whether you tell me anything or no." so saying, he rose up and left the apartment. when he had rejoined ratcliffe, he observed, "you are right, ratton; there's no making much of that lassie. but ae thing i have cleared--that is, that robertson has been the father of the bairn, and so i will wager a boddle it will be he that's to meet wi' jeanie deans this night at muschat's cairn, and there we'll nail him, rat, or my name is not gideon sharpitlaw." "but," said ratcliffe, perhaps because he was in no hurry to see anything which was like to be connected with the discovery and apprehension of robertson, "an that were the case, mr. butler wad hae kend the man in the king's park to be the same person wi' him in madge wildfire's claise, that headed the mob." "that makes nae difference, man," replied sharpitlaw--"the dress, the light, the confusion, and maybe a touch o' a blackit cork, or a slake o' paint-hout, ratton, i have seen ye dress your ainsell, that the deevil ye belang to durstna hae made oath t'ye." "and that's true, too," said ratcliffe. "and besides, ye donnard carle," continued sharpitlaw, triumphantly, "the minister _did_ say that he thought he knew something of the features of the birkie that spoke to him in the park, though he could not charge his memory where or when he had seen them." "it's evident, then, your honour will be right," said ratcliffe. "then, rat, you and i will go with the party oursells this night, and see him in grips or we are done wi' him." "i seena muckle use i can be o' to your honour," said ratcliffe, reluctantly. "use?" answered sharpitlaw--"you can guide the party--you ken the ground. besides, i do not intend to quit sight o' you, my good friend, till i have him in hand." "weel, sir," said ratcliffe, but in no joyful tone of acquiescence; "ye maun hae it your ain way--but mind he's a desperate man." "we shall have that with us," answered sharpitlaw, "that will settle him, if it is necessary." "but, sir," answered ratcliffe, "i am sure i couldna undertake to guide you to muschat's cairn in the night-time; i ken the place as mony does, in fair day-light, but how to find it by moonshine, amang sae mony crags and stanes, as like to each other as the collier to the deil, is mair than i can tell. i might as soon seek moonshine in water." "what's the meaning o' this, ratcliffe?" said sharpitlaw, while he fixed his eye on the recusant, with a fatal and ominous expression,--"have you forgotten that you are still under sentence of death?" "no, sir," said ratcliffe, "that's a thing no easily put out o' memory; and if my presence be judged necessary, nae doubt i maun gang wi' your honour. but i was gaun to tell your honour of ane that has mair skeel o' the gate than me, and that's e'en madge wildfire." "the devil she has!--do you think me as mad as she, is, to trust to her guidance on such an occasion?" "your honour is the best judge," answered ratcliffe; "but i ken i can keep her in tune, and garr her haud the straight path--she often sleeps out, or rambles about amang thae hills the haill simmer night, the daft limmer." "weel, ratcliffe," replied the procurator-fiscal, "if you think she can guide us the right way--but take heed to what you are about--your life depends on your behaviour." "it's a sair judgment on a man," said ratcliffe, "when he has ance gane sae far wrang as i hae done, that deil a bit he can be honest, try't whilk way he will." such was the reflection of ratcliffe, when he was left for a few minutes to himself, while the retainer of justice went to procure a proper warrant, and give the necessary directions. the rising moon saw the whole party free from the walls of the city, and entering upon the open ground. arthur's seat, like a couchant lion of immense size--salisbury crags, like a huge belt or girdle of granite, were dimly visible. holding their path along the southern side of the canongate, they gained the abbey of holyrood house, and from thence found their way by step and stile into the king's park. they were at first four in number--an officer of justice and sharpitlaw, who were well armed with pistols and cutlasses; ratcliffe, who was not trusted with weapons, lest, he might, peradventure, have used them on the wrong side; and the female. but at the last stile, when they entered the chase, they were joined by other two officers, whom sharpitlaw, desirous to secure sufficient force for his purpose, and at the same time to avoid observation, had directed to wait for him at this place. ratcliffe saw this accession of strength with some disquietude, for he had hitherto thought it likely that robertson, who was a bold, stout, and active young fellow, might have made his escape from sharpitlaw and the single officer, by force or agility, without his being implicated in the matter. but the present strength of the followers of justice was overpowering, and the only mode of saving robertson (which the old sinner was well disposed to do, providing always he could accomplish his purpose without compromising his own safety), must be by contriving that he should have some signal of their approach. it was probably with this view that ratcliffe had requested the addition of madge to the party, having considerable confidence in her propensity to exert her lungs. indeed, she had already given them so many specimens of her clamorous loquacity, that sharpitlaw half determined to send her back with one of the officers, rather than carry forward in his company a person so extremely ill qualified to be a guide in a secret expedition. it seemed, too, as if the open air, the approach to the hills, and the ascent of the moon, supposed to be so portentous over those whose brain is infirm, made her spirits rise in a degree tenfold more loquacious than she had hitherto exhibited. to silence her by fair means seemed impossible; authoritative commands and coaxing entreaties she set alike at defiance, and threats only made her sulky and altogether intractable. "is there no one of you," said sharpitlaw, impatiently, "that knows the way to this accursed place--this nichol muschat's cairn--excepting this mad clavering idiot?" "deil ane o' them kens it except mysell," exclaimed madge; "how suld they, the puir fule cowards! but i hae sat on the grave frae batfleeing time till cook-crow, and had mony a fine crack wi' muschat and ailie muschat, that are lying sleeping below." "the devil take your crazy brain," said sharpitlaw; "will you not allow the men to answer a question?" the officers obtaining a moment's audience while ratcliffe diverted madge's attention, declared that, though they had a general knowledge of the spot, they could not undertake to guide the party to it by the uncertain light of the moon, with such accuracy as to insure success to their expedition. "what shall we do, ratcliffe?" said sharpitlaw, "if he sees us before we see him,--and that's what he is certain to do, if we go strolling about, without keeping the straight road,--we may bid gude day to the job, and i would rather lose one hundred pounds, baith for the credit of the police, and because the provost says somebody maun be hanged for this job o' porteous, come o't what likes." "i think," said ratcliffe, "we maun just try madge; and i'll see if i can get her keepit in ony better order. and at ony rate, if he suld hear her skirting her auld ends o' sangs, he's no to ken for that that there's onybody wi' her." "that's true," said sharpitlaw; "and if he thinks her alone, he's as like to come towards her as to rin frae her. so set forward--we hae lost ower muckle time already--see to get her to keep the right road." "and what sort o' house does nichol muschat and his wife keep now?" said ratcliffe to the mad woman, by way of humouring her vein of folly; "they were but thrawn folk lang syne, an a' tales be true." "ou, ay, ay, ay--but a's forgotten now," replied madge, in the confidential tone of a gossip giving the history of her next-door neighbour--"ye see, i spoke to them mysell, and tauld them byganes suld be byganes--her throat's sair misguggled and mashackered though; she wears her corpse-sheet drawn weel up to hide it, but that canna hinder the bluid seiping through, ye ken. i wussed her to wash it in st. anthony's well, and that will cleanse if onything can--but they say bluid never bleaches out o' linen claith--deacon sanders's new cleansing draps winna do't--i tried them mysell on a bit rag we hae at hame that was mailed wi' the bluid of a bit skirting wean that was hurt some gate, but out it winna come--weel, yell say that's queer; but i will bring it out to st. anthony's blessed well some braw night just like this, and i'll cry up ailie muschat, and she and i will hae a grand bouking-washing, and bleach our claes in the beams of the bonny lady moon, that's far pleasanter to me than the sun--the sun's ower het, and ken ye, cummers, my brains are het eneugh already. but the moon, and the dew, and the night-wind, they are just like a caller kail-blade laid on my brow; and whiles i think the moon just shines on purpose to pleasure me, when naebody sees her but mysell." this raving discourse she continued with prodigious volubility, walking on at a great pace, and dragging ratcliffe along with her, while he endeavoured, in appearance at least, if not in reality, to induce her to moderate her voice. all at once she stopped short upon the top of a little hillock, gazed upward fixedly, and said not one word for the space of five minutes. "what the devil is the matter with her now?" said sharpitlaw to ratcliffe--"can you not get her forward?" "ye maun just take a grain o' patience wi' her, sir," said ratcliffe. "she'll no gae a foot faster than she likes herself." "d--n her," said sharpitlaw, "i'll take care she has her time in bedlam or bridewell, or both, for she's both mad and mischievous." in the meanwhile, madge, who had looked very pensive when she first stopped, suddenly burst into a vehement fit of laughter, then paused and sighed bitterly,--then was seized with a second fit of laughter--then, fixing her eyes on the moon, lifted up her voice and sung,-- "good even, good fair moon, good even to thee; i prithee, dear moon, now show to me the form and the features, the speech and degree, of the man that true lover of mine shall be. but i need not ask that of the bonny lady moon--i ken that weel eneugh mysell--_true_-love though he wasna--but naebody shall sae that i ever tauld a word about the matter--but whiles i wish the bairn had lived--weel, god guide us, there's a heaven aboon us a',"--(here she sighed bitterly), "and a bonny moon, and sterns in it forby" (and here she laughed once more). "are we to stand, here all night!" said sharpitlaw, very impatiently. "drag her forward." "ay, sir," said ratcliffe, "if we kend whilk way to drag her, that would settle it at ance.--come, madge, hinny," addressing her, "we'll no be in time to see nichol and his wife, unless ye show us the road." "in troth and that i will, ratton," said she, seizing him by the arm, and resuming her route with huge strides, considering it was a female who took them. "and i'll tell ye, ratton, blithe will nichol muschat be to see ye, for he says he kens weel there isna sic a villain out o' hell as ye are, and he wad be ravished to hae a crack wi' you--like to like ye ken--it's a proverb never fails--and ye are baith a pair o' the deevil's peats i trow--hard to ken whilk deserves the hettest corner o' his ingle-side." ratcliffe was conscience-struck, and could not forbear making an involuntary protest against this classification. "i never shed blood," he replied. "but ye hae sauld it, ratton--ye hae sauld blood mony a time. folk kill wi' the tongue as weel as wi' the hand--wi' the word as weel as wi' the gulley!-- it is the 'bonny butcher lad, that wears the sleeves of blue, he sells the flesh on saturday, on friday that he slew." "and what is that i ain doing now?" thought ratcliffe. "but i'll hae nae wyte of robertson's young bluid, if i can help it;" then speaking apart to madge, he asked her, "whether she did not remember ony o' her auld sangs?" "mony a dainty ane," said madge; "and blithely can i sing them, for lightsome sangs make merry gate." and she sang,-- "when the glede's in the blue cloud, the lavrock lies still; when the hound's in the greenwood. the hind keeps the hill." "silence her cursed noise, if you should throttle her," said sharpitlaw; "i see somebody yonder.--keep close, my boys, and creep round the shoulder of the height. george poinder, stay you with ratcliffe and tha mad yelling bitch; and you other two, come with me round under the shadow of the brae." and he crept forward with the stealthy pace of an indian savage, who leads his band to surprise an unsuspecting party of some hostile tribe. ratcliffe saw them glide of, avoiding the moonlight, and keeping as much in: the shade as possible. "robertson's done up," said he to himself; "thae young lads are aye sae thoughtless. what deevil could he hae to say to jeanie deans, or to ony woman on earth, that he suld gang awa and get his neck raxed for her? and this mad quean, after cracking like a pen-gun, and skirling like a pea-hen for the haill night, behoves just to hae hadden her tongue when her clavers might have dune some gude! but it's aye the way wi' women; if they ever hand their tongues ava', ye may swear it's for mischief. i wish i could set her on again without this blood-sucker kenning what i am doing. but he's as gleg as mackeachan's elshin,* that ran through sax plies of bendleather and half-an-inch into the king's heel." * [_elshin,_ a shoemaker's awl.] he then began to hum, but in a very low and suppressed tone, the first stanza of a favourite ballad of wildfire's, the words of which bore some distant analogy with the situation of robertson, trusting that the power of association would not fail to bring the rest to her mind:-- "there's a bloodhound ranging tinwald wood, there's harness glancing sheen: there's a maiden sits on tinwald brae, and she sings loud between." madge had no sooner received the catch-word, than she vindicated ratcliffe's sagacity by setting off at score with the song:-- "o sleep ye sound, sir james, she said, when ye suld rise and ride? there's twenty men, wi' bow and blade, are seeking where ye hide." though ratcliffe was at a considerable distance from the spot called muschat's cairn, yet his eyes, practised like those of a cat to penetrate darkness, could mark that robertson had caught the alarm. george poinder, less keen of sight, or less attentive, was not aware of his flight any more than sharpitlaw and his assistants, whose view, though they were considerably nearer to the cairn, was intercepted by the broken nature of the ground under which they were screening themselves. at length, however, after the interval of five or six minutes, they also perceived that robertson had fled, and rushed hastily towards the place, while sharpitlaw called out aloud, in the harshest tones of a voice which resembled a saw-mill at work, "chase, lads--chase--haud the brae--i see him on the edge of the hill!" then hollowing back to the rear-guard of his detachment, he issued his farther orders: "ratcliffe, come here, and detain the woman--george, run and kepp the stile at the duke's walk--ratcliffe, come here directly--but first knock out that mad bitch's brains!" "ye had better rin for it, madge," said ratcliffe, "for it's ill dealing wi' an angry man." madge wildfire was not so absolutely void of common sense as not to understand this innuendo; and while ratcliffe, in seemingly anxious haste of obedience, hastened to the spot where sharpitlaw waited to deliver up jeanie deans to his custody, she fled with all the despatch she could exert in an opposite direction. thus the whole party were separated, and in rapid motion of flight or pursuit, excepting ratcliffe and jeanie, whom, although making no attempt to escape, he held fast by the cloak, and who remained standing by muschat's cairn. chapter seventeenth. you have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. measure for measure. jeanie deans,--for here our story unites itself with that part of the narrative which broke off at the end of the fourteenth chapter,--while she waited, in terror and amazement, the hasty advance of three or four men towards her, was yet more startled at their suddenly breaking asunder, and giving chase in different directions to the late object of her terror, who became at that moment, though she could not well assign a reasonable cause, rather the cause of her interest. one of the party (it was sharpitlaw) came straight up to her, and saying, "your name is jeanie deans, and you are my prisoner," immediately added, "but if you will tell me which way he ran i will let you go." "i dinna ken, sir," was all the poor girl could utter; and, indeed, it is the phrase which rises most readily to the lips of any person in her rank, as the readiest reply to any embarrassing question. "but," said sharpitlaw, "ye _ken_ wha it was ye were speaking wi', my leddy, on the hill side, and midnight sae near; ye surely ken _that,_ my bonny woman?" "i dinna ken, sir," again iterated jeanie, who really did not comprehend in her terror the nature of the questions which were so hastily put to her in this moment of surprise. "we will try to mend your memory by and by, hinny," said sharpitlaw, and shouted, as we have already told the reader, to ratcliffe, to come up and take charge of her, while he himself directed the chase after robertson, which he still hoped might be successful. as ratcliffe approached, sharpitlaw pushed the young woman towards him with some rudeness, and betaking himself to the more important object of his quest, began to scale crags and scramble up steep banks, with an agility of which his profession and his general gravity of demeanour would previously have argued him incapable. in a few minutes there was no one within sight, and only a distant halloo from one of the pursuers to the other, faintly heard on the side of the hill, argued that there was any one within hearing. jeanie deans was left in the clear moonlight, standing under the guard of a person of whom she knew nothing, and, what was worse, concerning whom, as the reader is well aware, she could have learned nothing that would not have increased her terror. when all in the distance was silent, ratcliffe for the first time addressed her, and it was in that cold sarcastic indifferent tone familiar to habitual depravity, whose crimes are instigated by custom rather than by passion. "this is a braw night for ye, dearie," he said, attempting to pass his arm across her shoulder, "to be on the green hill wi' your jo." jeanie extricated herself from his grasp, but did not make any reply. "i think lads and lasses," continued the ruffian, "dinna meet at muschat's cairn at midnight to crack nuts," and he again attempted to take hold of her. "if ye are an officer of justice, sir," said jeanie, again eluding his attempt to seize her, "ye deserve to have your coat stripped from your back." "very true, hinny," said he, succeeding forcibly in his attempt to get hold of her, "but suppose i should strip your cloak off first?" "ye are more a man, i am sure, than to hurt me, sir," said jeanie; "for god's sake have pity on a half-distracted creature!" "come, come," said ratcliffe, "you're a good-looking wench, and should not be cross-grained. i was going to be an honest man--but the devil has this very day flung first a lawyer, and then a woman, in my gate. i'll tell you what, jeanie, they are out on the hill-side--if you'll be guided by me, i'll carry you to a wee bit corner in the pleasance, that i ken o' in an auld wife's, that a' the prokitors o' scotland wot naething o', and we'll send robertson word to meet us in yorkshire, for there is a set o' braw lads about the midland counties, that i hae dune business wi' before now, and sae we'll leave mr. sharpitlaw to whistle on his thumb." it was fortunate for jeanie, in an emergency like the present, that she possessed presence of mind and courage, so soon as the first hurry of surprise had enabled her to rally her recollection. she saw the risk she was in from a ruffian, who not only was such by profession, but had that evening been stupifying, by means of strong liquors, the internal aversion which he felt at the business on which sharpitlaw had resolved to employ him. "dinna speak sae loud," said she, in a low voice; "he's up yonder." "who?--robertson?" said ratcliffe, eagerly. "ay," replied jeanie; "up yonder;" and she pointed to the ruins of the hermitage and chapel. "by g--d, then," said ratcliffe, "i'll make my ain of him, either one way or other--wait for me here." but no sooner had he set off as fast as he could run, towards the chapel, than jeanie started in an opposite direction, over high and low, on the nearest path homeward. her juvenile exercise as a herdswoman had put "life and mettle" in her heels, and never had she followed dustiefoot, when the cows were in the corn, with half so much speed as she now cleared the distance betwixt muschat's cairn and her father's cottage at st. leonard's. to lift the latch--to enter--to shut, bolt, and double bolt the door--to draw against it a heavy article of furniture (which she could not have moved in a moment of less energy), so as to make yet farther provision against violence, was almost the work of a moment, yet done with such silence as equalled the celerity. her next anxiety was upon her father's account, and she drew silently to the door of his apartment, in order to satisfy herself whether he had been disturbed by her return. he was awake,--probably had slept but little; but the constant presence of his own sorrows, the distance of his apartment from the outer door of the house, and the precautions which jeanie had taken to conceal her departure and return, had prevented him from being sensible of either. he was engaged in his devotions, and jeanie could distinctly hear him use these words:--"and for the other child thou hast given me to be a comfort and stay to my old age, may her days be long in the land, according to the promise thou hast given to those who shall honour father and mother; may all her purchased and promised blessings be multiplied upon her; keep her in the watches of the night, and in the uprising of the morning, that all in this land may know that thou hast not utterly hid thy face from those that seek thee in truth and in sincerity." he was silent, but probably continued his petition in the strong fervency of mental devotion. his daughter retired to her apartment, comforted, that while she was exposed to danger, her head had been covered by the prayers of the just as by an helmet, and under the strong confidence, that while she walked worthy of the protection of heaven, she would experience its countenance. it was in that moment that a vague idea first darted across her mind, that something might yet be achieved for her sister's safety, conscious as she now was of her innocence of the unnatural murder with which she stood charged. it came, as she described it, on her mind, like a sun-blink on a stormy sea; and although it instantly vanished, yet she felt a degree of composure which she had not experienced for many days, and could not help being strongly persuaded that, by some means or other, she would be called upon, and directed, to work out her sister's deliverance. she went to bed, not forgetting her usual devotions, the more fervently made on account of her late deliverance, and she slept soundly in spite of her agitation. we must return to ratcliffe, who had started, like a greyhound from the slips when the sportsman cries halloo, as soon as jeanie had pointed to the ruins. whether he meant to aid robertson's escape, or to assist his pursuers, may be very doubtful; perhaps he did not himself know but had resolved to be guided by circumstances. he had no opportunity, however, of doing either; for he had no sooner surmounted the steep ascent, and entered under the broken arches of the rains, than a pistol was presented at his head, and a harsh voice commanded him, in the king's name, to surrender himself prisoner. "mr. sharpitlaw!" said ratcliffe, surprised, "is this your honour?" "is it only you, and be d--d to you?" answered the fiscal, still more disappointed--"what made you leave the woman?" "she told me she saw robertson go into the ruins, so i made what haste i could to cleek the callant." "it's all over now," said sharpitlaw; "we shall see no more of him to-night; but he shall hide himself in a bean-hool, if he remains on scottish ground without my finding him. call back the people, ratcliffe." ratcliffe hollowed to the dispersed officers, who willingly obeyed the signal; for probably there was no individual among them who would have been much desirous of a rencontre, hand to hand, and at a distance from his comrades, with such an active and desperate fellow as robertson. "and where are the two women?" said sharpitlaw. "both made their heels serve them, i suspect," replied ratcliffe, and he hummed the end of the old song-- "then hey play up the rin-awa bride, for she has taen the gee." "one woman," said sharpitlaw,--for, like all rogues, he was a great calumniator of the fair sex,*--"one woman is enough to dark the fairest ploy that was ever planned; and how could i be such an ass as to expect to carry through a job that had two in it? * note l. calumniator of the fair sex. but we know how to come by them both, if they are wanted, that's one good thing." accordingly, like a defeated general, sad and sulky, he led back his discomfited forces to the metropolis, and dismissed them for the night. the next morning early, he was under the necessity of making his report to the sitting magistrate of the day. the gentleman who occupied the chair of office on this occasion (for the bailies, _anglice',_ aldermen, take it by rotation) chanced to be the same by whom butler was committed, a person very generally respected among his fellow-citizens. something he was of a humorist, and rather deficient in general education; but acute, patient, and upright, possessed of a fortune acquired by honest industry which made him perfectly independent; and, in short, very happily qualified to support the respectability of the office, which he held. mr. middleburgh had just taken his seat, and was debating in an animated manner, with one of his colleagues, the doubtful chances of a game at golf which they had played the day before, when a letter was delivered to him, addressed "for bailie middleburgh; these: to be forwarded with speed." it contained these words:-- "sir,--i know you to be a sensible and a considerate magistrate, and one who, as such, will be content to worship god, though the devil bid you. i therefore expect that, notwithstanding the signature of this letter acknowledges my share in an action, which, in a proper time and place, i would not fear either to avow or to justify, you will not on that account reject what evidence i place before you. the clergyman, butler, is innocent of all but involuntary presence at an action which he wanted spirit to approve of, and from which he endeavoured, with his best set phrases, to dissuade us. but it was not for him that it is my hint to speak. there is a woman in your jail, fallen under the edge of a law so cruel, that it has hung by the wall like unsecured armour, for twenty years, and is now brought down and whetted to spill the blood of the most beautiful and most innocent creature whom the walls of a prison ever girdled in. her sister knows of her innocence, as she communicated to her that she was betrayed by a villain.--o that high heaven would put in every honest hand a whip, to scourge me such a villain through the world! "i write distractedly--but this girl--this jeanie deans, is a peevish puritan, superstitious and scrupulous after the manner of her sect; and i pray your honour, for so my phrase must go, to press upon her, that her sister's life depends upon her testimony. but though she should remain silent, do not dare to think that the young woman is guilty--far less to permit her execution. remember the death of wilson was fearfully avenged; and those yet live who can compel you to drink the dregs of your poisoned chalice.--i say, remember porteous, and say that you had good counsel from "one of his slayers." the magistrate read over this extraordinary letter twice or thrice. at first he was tempted to throw it aside as the production of a madman, so little did "the scraps from play-books," as he termed the poetical quotation, resemble the correspondence of a rational being. on a re-perusal, however, he thought that, amid its incoherence, he could discover something like a tone of awakened passion, though expressed in a manner quaint and unusual. "it is a cruelly severe statute," said the magistrate to his assistant, "and i wish the girl could be taken from under the letter of it. a child may have been born, and it may have been conveyed away while the mother was insensible, or it may have perished for want of that relief which the poor creature herself--helpless, terrified, distracted, despairing, and exhausted--may have been unable to afford to it. and yet it is certain, if the woman is found guilty under the statute, execution will follow. the crime has been too common, and examples are necessary." "but if this other wench," said the city-clerk, "can speak to her sister communicating her situation, it will take the case from under the statute." "very true," replied the bailie; "and i will walk out one of these days to st. leonard's, and examine the girl myself. i know something of their father deans--an old true-blue cameronian, who would see house and family go to wreck ere he would disgrace his testimony by a sinful complying with the defections of the times; and such he will probably uphold the taking an oath before a civil magistrate. if they are to go on and flourish with their bull-headed obstinacy, the legislature must pass an act to take their affirmations, as in the case of quakers. but surely neither a father nor a sister will scruple in a case of this kind. as i said before, i will go speak with them myself, when the hurry of this porteous investigation is somewhat over; their pride and spirit of contradiction will be far less alarmed, than if they were called into a court of justice at once." "and i suppose butler is to remain incarcerated?" said the city-clerk. "for the present, certainly," said the magistrate. "but i hope soon to set him at liberty upon bail." "do you rest upon the testimony of that light-headed letter?" asked the clerk. "not very much," answered the bailie; "and yet there is something striking about it too--it seems the letter of a man beside himself, either from great agitation, or some great sense of guilt." "yes," said the town-clerk, "it is very like the letter of a mad strolling play-actor, who deserves to be hanged with all the rest of his gang, as your honour justly observes." "i was not quite so bloodthirsty," continued the magistrate. "but to the point, butler's private character is excellent; and i am given to understand, by some inquiries i have been making this morning, that he did actually arrive in town only the day before yesterday, so that it was impossible he could have been concerned in any previous machinations of these unhappy rioters, and it is not likely that he should have joined them on a suddenty." "there's no saying anent that--zeal catches fire at a slight spark as fast as a brunstane match," observed the secretary. "i hae kend a minister wad be fair gude-day and fair gude-e'en wi' ilka man in the parochine, and hing just as quiet as a rocket on a stick, till ye mentioned the word abjuration-oath, or patronage, or siclike, and then, whiz, he was off, and up in the air an hundred miles beyond common manners, common sense, and common comprehension." "i do not understand," answered the burgher-magistrate, "that the young man butler's zeal is of so inflammable a character. but i will make farther investigation. what other business is there before us?" and they proceeded to minute investigations concerning the affair of porteous's death, and other affairs through which this history has no occasion to trace them. in the course of their business they were interrupted by an old woman of the lower rank, extremely haggard in look, and wretched in her appearance, who thrust herself into the council room. "what do you want, gudewife?--who are you?" said bailie middleburgh. "what do i want!" replied she, in a sulky tone--"i want my bairn, or i want naething frae nane o' ye, for as grand's ye are." and she went on muttering to herself with the wayward spitefulness of age--"they maun hae lordships and honours, nae doubt--set them up, the gutter-bloods! and deil a gentleman amang them."--then again addressing the sitting magistrate, "will _your honour_ gie me back my puir crazy bairn?--_his_ honour!--i hae kend the day when less wad ser'd him, the oe of a campvere skipper." "good woman," said the magistrate to this shrewish supplicant--"tell us what it is you want, and do not interrupt the court." "that's as muckle as till say, bark, bawtie, and be dune wi't!--i tell ye," raising her termagant voice, "i want my bairn! is na that braid scots?" "who _are_ you?--who is your bairn?" demanded the magistrate. "wha am i?--wha suld i be, but meg murdockson, and wha suld my bairn be but magdalen murdockson?--your guard soldiers, and your constables, and your officers, ken us weel eneugh when they rive the bits o' duds aff our backs, and take what penny o' siller we hae, and harle us to the correctionhouse in leith wynd, and pettle us up wi' bread and water and siclike sunkets." "who is she?" said the magistrate, looking round to some of his people. "other than a gude ane, sir," said one of the city officers, shrugging his shoulders and smiling. "will ye say sae?" said the termagant, her eye gleaming with impotent fury; "an i had ye amang the figgat-whins,* wadna i set my ten talents in your wuzzent face for that very word?" and she suited the word to the action, by spreading out a set of claws resembling those of st. george's dragon on a country sign-post. * [this was a name given to a tract of sand hillocks extending along the sea-shore from leith to portobello, and which at this time were covered with _whin_-bushes or furze.] "what does she want here?" said the impatient magistrate--"can she not tell her business, or go away?" "it's my bairn!--it's magdalen murdockson i'm wantin'," answered the beldam, screaming at the highest pitch of her cracked and mistuned voice--"havena i been telling ye sae this half-hour? and if ye are deaf, what needs ye sit cockit up there, and keep folk scraughin' t'ye this gate?" "she wants her daughter, sir," said the same officer whose interference had given the hag such offence before--"her daughter, who was taken up last night--madge wildfire, as they ca' her." "madge hellfire, as they ca' her!" echoed the beldam "and what business has a blackguard like you to ca' an honest woman's bairn out o' her ain name?" "an _honest_ woman's bairn, maggie?" answered the peace-officer, smiling and shaking his head with an ironical emphasis on the adjective, and a calmness calculated to provoke to madness the furious old shrew. "if i am no honest now, i was honest ance," she replied; "and that's mair than ye can say, ye born and bred thief, that never kend ither folks' gear frae your ain since the day ye was cleckit. honest, say ye?--ye pykit your mother's pouch o' twalpennies scots when ye were five years auld, just as she was taking leave o' your father at the fit o' the gallows." "she has you there, george," said the assistants, and there was a general laugh; for the wit was fitted for the meridian of the place where it was uttered. this general applause somewhat gratified the passions of the old hag; the "grim feature" smiled and even laughed--but it was a laugh of bitter scorn. she condescended, however, as if appeased by the success of her sally, to explain her business more distinctly, when the magistrate, commanding silence, again desired her either to speak out her errand, or to leave the place. "her bairn," she said, "_was_ her bairn, and she came to fetch her out of ill haft and waur guiding. if she wasna sae wise as ither folk, few ither folk had suffered as muckle as she had done; forby that she could fend the waur for hersell within the four wa's of a jail. she could prove by fifty witnesses, and fifty to that, that her daughter had never seen jock porteous, alive or dead, since he had gien her a laundering wi' his cane, the neger that he was! for driving a dead cat at the provost's wig on the elector of hanover's birthday." notwithstanding the wretched appearance and violent demeanour of this woman, the magistrate felt the justice of her argument, that her child might be as dear to her as to a more fortunate and more amiable mother. he proceeded to investigate the circumstances which had led to madge murdockson's (or wildfire's) arrest, and as it was clearly shown that she had not been engaged in the riot, he contented himself with directing that an eye should be kept upon her by the police, but that for the present she should be allowed to return home with her mother. during the interval of fetching madge from the jail, the magistrate endeavoured to discover whether her mother had been privy to the change of dress betwixt that young woman and robertson. but on this point he could obtain no light. she persisted in declaring, that she had never seen robertson since his remarkable escape during service-time; and that, if her daughter had changed clothes with him, it must have been during her absence at a hamlet about two miles out of town, called duddingstone, where she could prove that she passed that eventful night. and, in fact, one of the town-officers, who had been searching for stolen linen at the cottage of a washer-woman in that village, gave his evidence, that he had seen maggie murdockson there, whose presence had considerably increased his suspicion of the house in which she was a visitor, in respect that he considered her as a person of no good reputation. "i tauld ye sae," said the hag; "see now what it is to hae a character, gude or bad!--now, maybe, after a', i could tell ye something about porteous that you council-chamber bodies never could find out, for as muckle stir as ye mak." all eyes were turned towards her--all ears were alert. "speak out!" said the magistrate. "it will be for your ain gude," insinuated the town-clerk. "dinna keep the bailie waiting," urged the assistants. she remained doggedly silent for two or three minutes, casting around a malignant and sulky glance, that seemed to enjoy the anxious suspense with which they waited her answer. and then she broke forth at once,--"a' that i ken about him is, that he was neither soldier nor gentleman, but just a thief and a blackguard, like maist o' yoursells, dears--what will ye gie me for that news, now?--he wad hae served the gude town lang or provost or bailie wad hae fund that out, my jo!" while these matters were in discussion, madge wildfire entered, and her first exclamation was, "eh! see if there isna our auld ne'er-do-weel deevil's-buckie o' a mither--hegh, sirs! but we are a hopeful family, to be twa o' us in the guard at ance--but there were better days wi' us ance--were there na, mither?" old maggie's eyes had glistened with something like an expression of pleasure when she saw her daughter set at liberty. but either her natural affection, like that of the tigress, could not be displayed without a strain of ferocity, or there was something in the ideas which madge's speech awakened, that again stirred her cross and savage temper. "what signifies what we, were, ye street-raking limmer!" she exclaimed, pushing her daughter before her to the door, with no gentle degree of violence. "i'se tell thee what thou is now--thou's a crazed hellicat bess o' bedlam, that sall taste naething but bread and water for a fortnight, to serve ye for the plague ye hae gien me--and ower gude for ye, ye idle taupie!" madge, however, escaped from her mother at the door, ran back to the foot of the table, dropped a very low and fantastic courtesy to the judge, and said, with a giggling laugh,--"our minnie's sair mis-set, after her ordinar, sir--she'll hae had some quarrel wi' her auld gudeman--that's satan, ye ken, sirs." this explanatory note she gave in a low confidential tone, and the spectators of that credulous generation did not hear it without an involuntary shudder. "the gudeman and her disna aye gree weel, and then i maun pay the piper; but my back's broad eneugh to bear't a'--an' if she hae nae havings, that's nae reason why wiser folk shouldna hae some." here another deep courtesy, when the ungracious voice of her mother was heard. "madge, ye limmer! if i come to fetch ye!" "hear till her," said madge. "but i'll wun out a gliff the night for a' that, to dance in the moonlight, when her and the gudeman will be whirrying through the blue lift on a broom-shank, to see jean jap, that they hae putten intill the kirkcaldy tolbooth--ay, they will hae a merry sail ower inchkeith, and ower a' the bits o' bonny waves that are poppling and plashing against the rocks in the gowden glimmer o' the moon, ye ken.--i'm coming, mother--i'm coming," she concluded, on hearing a scuffle at the door betwixt the beldam and the officers, who were endeavouring to prevent her re-entrance. madge then waved her hand wildly towards the ceiling, and sung, at the topmost pitch of her voice, "up in the air, on my bonny grey mare, and i see, and i see, and i see her yet;" and with a hop, skip, and jump, sprung out of the room, as the witches of macbeth used, in less refined days, to seem to fly upwards from the stage. some weeks intervened before mr. middleburgh, agreeably to his benevolent resolution, found an opportunity of taking a walk towards st. leonard's, in order to discover whether it might be possible to obtain the evidence hinted at in the anonymous letter respecting effie deans. in fact, the anxious perquisitions made to discover the murderers of porteous occupied the attention of all concerned with the administration of justice. in the course of these inquiries, two circumstances happened material to our story. butler, after a close investigation of his conduct, was declared innocent of accession to the death of porteous; but, as having been present during the whole transaction, was obliged to find bail not to quit his usual residence at liberton, that he might appear as a witness when called upon. the other incident regarded the disappearance of madge wildfire and her mother from edinburgh. when they were sought, with the purpose of subjecting them to some farther interrogatories, it was discovered by mr. sharpitlaw that they had eluded the observation of the police, and left the city so soon as dismissed from the council-chamber. no efforts could trace the place of their retreat. in the meanwhile the excessive indignation of the council of regency, at the slight put upon their authority by the murder of porteous, had dictated measures, in which their own extreme desire of detecting the actors in that conspiracy were consulted in preference to the temper of the people and the character of their churchmen. an act of parliament was hastily passed, offering two hundred pounds reward to those who should inform against any person concerned in the deed, and the penalty of death, by a very unusual and severe enactment, was denounced against those who should harbour the guilty. but what was chiefly accounted exceptionable, was a clause, appointing the act to be read in churches by the officiating clergyman, on the first sunday of every month, for a certain period, immediately before the sermon. the ministers who should refuse to comply with this injunction were declared, for the first offence, incapable of sitting or voting in any church judicature, and for the second, incapable of holding any ecclesiastical preferment in scotland. this last order united in a common cause those who might privately rejoice in porteous's death, though they dared not vindicate the manner of it, with the more scrupulous presbyterians, who held that even the pronouncing the name of the "lords spiritual" in a scottish pulpit was, _quodammodo,_ an acknowledgment of prelacy, and that the injunction of the legislature was an interference of the civil government with the _jus divinum_ of presbytery, since to the general assembly alone, as representing the invisible head of the kirk, belonged the sole and exclusive right of regulating whatever pertained to public worship. very many also, of different political or religious sentiments, and therefore not much moved by these considerations, thought they saw, in so violent an act of parliament, a more vindictive spirit than became the legislature of a great country, and something like an attempt to trample upon the rights and independence of scotland. the various steps adopted for punishing the city of edinburgh, by taking away her charter and liberties, for what a violent and overmastering mob had done within her walls, were resented by many, who thought a pretext was too hastily taken for degrading the ancient metropolis of scotland. in short, there was much heart-burning, discontent, and disaffection, occasioned by these ill-considered measures.* * the magistrates were closely interrogated before the house of peers, concerning the particulars of the porteous mob, and the _patois_ in which these functionaries made their answers, sounded strange in the ears of the southern nobles. the duke of newcastle having demanded to know with what kind of shot the guard which porteous commanded had loaded their muskets, was answered, naively, "ow, just sic as ane shoots _dukes and fools_ with." this reply was considered as a contempt of the house of lords, and the provost would have suffered accordingly, but that the duke of argyle explained, that the expression, properly rendered into english, meant _ducks and waterfowls._ amidst these heats and dissensions, the trial of effie deans, after she had been many weeks imprisoned, was at length about to be brought forward, and mr. middleburgh found leisure to inquire into the evidence concerning her. for this purpose, he chose a fine day for his walk towards her father's house. the excursion into the country was somewhat distant, in the opinion of a burgess of those days, although many of the present inhabit suburban villas considerably beyond the spot to which we allude. three-quarters of an hour's walk, however, even at a pace of magisterial gravity, conducted our benevolent office-bearer to the crags of st. leonard's, and the humble mansion of david deans. the old man was seated on the deas, or turf-seat, at the end of his cottage, busied in mending his cart-harness with his own hands; for in those days any sort of labour which required a little more skill than usual fell to the share of the goodman himself, and that even when he was well to pass in the world. with stern and austere gravity he persevered in his task, after having just raised his head to notice the advance of the stranger. it would have been impossible to have discovered, from his countenance and manner, the internal feelings of agony with which he contended. mr. middleburgh waited an instant, expecting deans would in some measure acknowledge his presence, and lead into conversation; but, as he seemed determined to remain silent, he was himself obliged to speak first. "my name is middleburgh--mr. james middleburgh, one of the present magistrates of the city of edinburgh." "it may be sae," answered deans laconically, and without interrupting his labour. "you must understand," he continued, "that the duty of a magistrate is sometimes an unpleasant one." "it may be sae," replied david; "i hae naething to say in the contrair;" and he was again doggedly silent. "you must be aware," pursued the magistrate, "that persons in my situation are often obliged to make painful and disagreeable inquiries of individuals, merely because it is their bounden duty." "it may be sae," again replied deans; "i hae naething to say anent it, either the tae way or the t'other. but i do ken there was ance in a day a just and god-fearing magistracy in yon town o' edinburgh, that did not bear the sword in vain, but were a terror to evil-doers, and a praise to such as kept the path. in the glorious days of auld worthy faithfu' provost dick,* when there was a true and faithfu' general assembly of * note m. sir william dick of braid. the kirk, walking hand in hand with the real noble scottish-hearted barons, and with the magistrates of this and other towns, gentles, burgesses, and commons of all ranks, seeing with one eye, hearing with one ear, and upholding the ark with their united strength--and then folk might see men deliver up their silver to the state's use, as if it had been as muckle sclate stanes. my father saw them toom the sacks of dollars out o' provost dick's window intill the carts that carried them to the army at dunse law; and if ye winna believe his testimony, there is the window itsell still standing in the luckenbooths--i think it's a claith-merchant's booth the day*--at the airn stanchells, five doors abune gossford's close. * i think so too--but if the reader be curious, he may consult mr. chambers's traditions of edinburgh. --but now we haena sic spirit amang us; we think mair about the warst wallydraigle in our ain byre, than about the blessing which the angel of the covenant gave to the patriarch even at peniel and mahanaim, or the binding obligation of our national vows; and we wad rather gie a pund scots to buy an unguent to clear out auld rannell-trees and our beds o' the english bugs as they ca' them, than we wad gie a plack to rid the land of the swarm of arminian caterpillars, socinian pismires, and deistical miss katies, that have ascended out of the bottomless pit, to plague this perverse, insidious, and lukewarm generation." it happened to davie deans on this occasion, as it has done to many other habitual orators; when once he became embarked on his favourite subject, the stream of his own enthusiasm carried him forward in spite of his mental distress, while his well-exercised memory supplied him amply with all the types and tropes of rhetoric peculiar to his sect and cause. mr. middleburgh contented himself with answering--"all this may be very true, my friend; but, as you said just now, i have nothing to say to it at present, either one way or other.--you have two daughters, i think, mr. deans?" the old man winced, as one whose smarting sore is suddenly galled; but instantly composed himself, resumed the work which, in the heat of his declamation, he had laid down, and answered with sullen resolution, "ae daughter, sir--only _ane._" "i understand you," said mr. middleburgh; "you have only one daughter here at home with you--but this unfortunate girl who is a prisoner--she is, i think, your youngest daughter?" the presbyterian sternly raised his eyes. "after the world, and according to the flesh, she _is_ my daughter; but when she became a child of belial, and a company-keeper, and a trader in guilt and iniquity, she ceased to be a bairn of mine." "alas, mr. deans," said middleburgh, sitting down by him, and endeavouring to take his hand, which the old man proudly withdrew, "we are ourselves all sinners; and the errors of our offspring, as they ought not to surprise us, being the portion which they derive of a common portion of corruption inherited through us, so they do not entitle us to cast them off because they have lost themselves." "sir," said deans impatiently, "i ken a' that as weel as--i mean to say," he resumed, checking the irritation he felt at being schooled--a discipline of the mind which those most ready to bestow it on others do themselves most reluctantly submit to receive--"i mean to say, that what ye o serve may be just and reasonable--but i hae nae freedom to enter into my ain private affairs wi' strangers--and now, in this great national emergency, when there's the porteous' act has come doun frae london, that is a deeper blow to this poor sinfu' kingdom and suffering kirk than ony that has been heard of since the foul and fatal test--at a time like this" "but, goodman," interrupted mr. middleburgh, "you must think of your own household first, or else you are worse even than the infidels." "i tell ye, bailie middleburgh," retorted david deans, "if ye be a bailie, as there is little honour in being ane in these evil days--i tell ye, i heard the gracious saunders peden--i wotna whan it was; but it was in killing time, when the plowers were drawing alang their furrows on the back of the kirk of scotland--i heard him tell his hearers, gude and waled christians they were too, that some o' them wad greet mair for a bit drowned calf or stirk than for a' the defections and oppressions of the day; and that they were some o' them thinking o' ae thing, some o' anither, and there was lady hundleslope thinking o' greeting jock at the fireside! and the lady confessed in my hearing that a drow of anxiety had come ower her for her son that she had left at hame weak of a decay*--and what wad he hae said of me if i had ceased to think of the gude cause for a castaway--a--it kills me to think of what she is!" * see _life of peden,_ p. . "but the life of your child, goodman--think of that--if her life could be saved," said middleburgh. "her life!" exclaimed david--"i wadna gie ane o' my grey hairs for her life, if her gude name be gane--and yet," said he, relenting and retracting as he spoke, "i wad make the niffer, mr. middleburgh--i wad gie a' these grey hairs that she has brought to shame and sorrow--i wad gie the auld head they grow on for her life, and that she might hae time to amend and return, for what hae the wicked beyond the breath of their nosthrils?--but i'll never see her mair--no!--that--that i am determined in--i'll never see her mair!" his lips continued to move for a minute after his voice ceased to be heard, as if he were repeating the same vow internally. "well, sir," said mr. middleburgh, "i speak to you as a man of sense; if you would save your daughter's life, you must use human means." "i understand what you mean; but mr. novit, who is the procurator and doer of an honourable person, the laird of dumbiedikes, is to do what carnal wisdom can do for her in the circumstances. mysell am not clear to trinquet and traffic wi' courts o' justice as they are now constituted; i have a tenderness and scruple in my mind anent them." "that is to say," said middleburgh, "that you are a cameronian, and do not acknowledge the authority of our courts of judicature, or present government?" "sir, under your favour," replied david, who was too proud of his own polemical knowledge to call himself the follower of any one, "ye take me up before i fall down. i canna see why i suld be termed a cameronian, especially now that ye hae given the name of that famous and savoury sufferer, not only until a regimental band of souldiers, [h. m. th foot] whereof i am told many can now curse, swear, and use profane language, as fast as ever richard cameron could preach or pray, but also because ye have, in as far as it is in your power, rendered that martyr's name vain and contemptible, by pipes, drums, and fifes, playing the vain carnal spring called the cameronian rant, which too many professors of religion dance to--a practice maist unbecoming a professor to dance to any tune whatsoever, more especially promiscuously, that is, with the female sex.* a brutish fashion it is, whilk is the beginning of defection with many, as i may hae as muckle cause as maist folk to testify." * see note f. peter walker. "well, but, mr. deans," replied mr. middleburgh, "i only meant to say that you were a cameronian, or macmillanite, one of the society people, in short, who think it inconsistent to take oaths under a government where the covenant is not ratified." "sir," replied the controversialist, who forgot even his present distress in such discussions as these, "you cannot fickle me sae easily as you do opine. i am _not_ a macmillanite, or a russelite, or a hamiltonian, or a harleyite, or a howdenite*--i will be led by the nose by none--i take my name as a christian from no vessel of clay. i have my own principles and practice to answer for, and am an humble pleader for the gude auld cause in a legal way." * all various species of the great genus cameronian. "that is to say, mr. deans," said middleburgh, "that you are a _deanite,_ and have opinions peculiar to yourself." "it may please you to say sae," said david deans; "but i have maintained my testimony before as great folk, and in sharper times; and though i will neither exalt myself nor pull down others, i wish every man and woman in this land had kept the true testimony, and the middle and straight path, as it were, on the ridge of a hill, where wind and water shears, avoiding right-hand snares and extremes, and left-hand way-slidings, as weel as johnny dodds of farthing's acre, and ae man mair that shall be nameless." "i suppose," replied the magistrate, "that is as much as to say, that johnny dodds of farthing's acre, and david deans of st. leonard's, constitute the only members of the true, real, unsophisticated kirk of scotland?" "god forbid that i suld make sic a vain-glorious speech, when there are sae mony professing christians!" answered david; "but this i maun say, that all men act according to their gifts and their grace, 'sae that it is nae marvel that" "this is all very fine," interrupted mr. middleburgh; "but i have no time to spend in hearing it. the matter in hand is this--i have directed a citation to be lodged in your daughter's hands--if she appears on the day of trial and gives evidence, there is reason to hope she may save her sister's life--if, from any constrained scruples about the legality of her performing the office of an affectionate sister and a good subject, by appearing in a court held under the authority of the law and government, you become the means of deterring her from the discharge of this duty, i must say, though the truth may sound harsh in your ears, that you, who gave life to this unhappy girl, will become the means of her losing it by a premature and violent death." so saying, mr. middleburgh turned to leave him. "bide awee--bide awee, mr. middleburgh," said deans, in great perplexity and distress of mind; but the bailie, who was probably sensible that protracted discussion might diminish the effect of his best and most forcible argument, took a hasty leave, and declined entering farther into the controversy. deans sunk down upon his seat, stunned with a variety of conflicting emotions. it had been a great source of controversy among those holding his opinions in religious matters how far the government which succeeded the revolution could be, without sin, acknowledged by true presbyterians, seeing that it did not recognise the great national testimony of the solemn league and covenant? and latterly, those agreeing in this general doctrine, and assuming the sounding title of "the anti-popish, anti-prelatic, anti-erastian, anti-sectarian, true presbyterian remnant," were divided into many petty sects among themselves, even as to the extent of submission to the existing laws and rulers, which constituted such an acknowledgment as amounted to sin. at a very stormy and tumultuous meeting, held in , to discuss these important and delicate points, the testimonies of the faithful few were found utterly inconsistent with each other.* * this remarkable convocation took place upon th june , and an account of its confused and divisive proceedings may be found in michael shield's _faithful contendings displayed_ (first printed at glasgow, , p. ). it affords a singular and melancholy example how much a metaphysical and polemical spirit had crept in amongst these unhappy sufferers, since amid so many real injuries which they had to sustain, they were disposed to add disagreement and disunion concerning the character and extent of such as were only imaginary. the place where this conference took place was remarkably well adapted for such an assembly. it was a wild and very sequestered dell in tweeddale, surrounded by high hills, and far remote from human habitation. a small river, or rather a mountain torrent, called the talla, breaks down the glen with great fury, dashing successively over a number of small cascades, which has procured the spot the name of talla linns. here the leaders among the scattered adherents to the covenant, men who, in their banishment from human society, and in the recollection of the seventies to which they had been exposed, had become at once sullen in their tempers, and fantastic in their religious opinions, met with arms in their hands, and by the side of the torrent discussed, with a turbulence which the noise of the stream could not drown, points of controversy as empty and unsubstantial as its foam. it was the fixed judgment of most of the meeting, that all payment of cess or tribute to the existing government was utterly unlawful, and a sacrificing to idols. about other impositions and degrees of submission there were various opinions; and perhaps it is the best illustration of the spirit of those military fathers of the church to say, that while all allowed it was impious to pay the cess employed for maintaining the standing army and militia, there was a fierce controversy on the lawfulness of paying the duties levied at ports and bridges, for maintaining roads and other necessary purposes; that there were some who, repugnant to these imposts for turnpikes and pontages, were nevertheless free in conscience to make payment of the usual freight at public ferries, and that a person of exceeding and punctilious zeal, james russel, one of the slayers of the archbishop of st. andrews, had given his testimony with great warmth even against this last faint shade of subjection to constituted authority. this ardent and enlightened person and his followers had also great scruples about the lawfulness of bestowing the ordinary names upon the days of the week and the months of the year, which savoured in their nostrils so strongly of paganism, that at length they arrived at the conclusion that they who owned such names as monday, tuesday, january, february, and so forth, "served themselves heirs to the same, if not greater punishment, than had been denounced against the idolaters of old." david deans had been present on this memorable occasion, although too young to be a speaker among the polemical combatants. his brain, however, had been thoroughly heated by the noise, clamour, and metaphysical ingenuity of the discussion, and it was a controversy to which his mind had often returned; and though he carefully disguised his vacillation from others, and, perhaps from himself, he had never been able to come to any precise line of decision on the subject. in fact, his natural sense had acted as a counterpoise to his controversial zeal. he was by no means pleased with the quiet and indifferent manner in which king william's government slurred over the errors of the times, when, far from restoring the presbyterian kirk to its former supremacy, they passed an act of oblivion even to those who had been its persecutors, and bestowed on many of them titles, favours, and employments. when, in the first general assembly which succeeded the revolution, an overture was made for the revival of the league and covenant, it was with horror that douce david heard the proposal eluded by the men of carnal wit and policy, as he called them, as being inapplicable to the present times, and not falling under the modern model of the church. the reign of queen anne had increased his conviction, that the revolution government was not one of the true presbyterian complexion. but then, more sensible than the bigots of his sect, he did not confound the moderation and tolerance of these two reigns with the active tyranny and oppression exercised in those of charles ii. and james ii. the presbyterian form of religion, though deprived of the weight formerly attached to its sentences of excommunication, and compelled to tolerate the coexistence of episcopacy, and of sects of various descriptions, was still the national church; and though the glory of the second temple was far inferior to that which had flourished from till the battle of dunbar, still it was a structure that, wanting the strength and the terrors, retained at least the form and symmetry, of the original model. then came the insurrection in , and david deans's horror for the revival of the popish and prelatical faction reconciled him greatly to the government of king george, although he grieved that that monarch might be suspected of a leaning unto erastianism. in short, moved by so many different considerations, he had shifted his ground at different times concerning the degree of freedom which he felt in adopting any act of immediate acknowledgment or submission to the present government, which, however mild and paternal, was still uncovenanted, and now he felt himself called upon, by the most powerful motive conceivable, to authorise his daughter's giving testimony in a court of justice, which all who have been since called cameronians accounted a step of lamentable and direct defection. the voice of nature, however, exclaimed loud in his bosom against the dictates of fanaticism; and his imagination, fertile in the solution of polemical difficulties, devised an expedient for extricating himself from the fearful dilemma, in which he saw, on the one side, a falling off from principle, and, on the other, a scene from which a father's thoughts could not but turn in shuddering horror. "i have been constant and unchanged in my testimony," said david deans; "but then who has said it of me, that i have judged my neighbour over closely, because he hath had more freedom in his walk than i have found in mine? i never was a separatist, nor for quarrelling with tender souls about mint, cummin, or other the lesser tithes. my daughter jean may have a light in this subject that is hid frae my auld een--it is laid on her conscience, and not on mine--if she hath freedom to gang before this judicatory, and hold up her hand for this poor castaway, surely i will not say she steppeth over her bounds; and if not"--he paused in his mental argument, while a pang of unutterable anguish convulsed his features, yet, shaking it off, he firmly resumed the strain of his reasoning--"and if not--god forbid that she should go into defection at bidding of mine! i wunna fret the tender conscience of one bairn--no, not to save the life of the other." a roman would have devoted his daughter to death from different feelings and motives, but not upon a more heroic principle of duty. chapter eighteenth. to man, in this his trial state, the privilege is given, when tost by tides of human fate, to anchor fast on heaven. watts's _hymns._ it was with a firm step that deans sought his daughter's apartment, determined to leave her to the light of her own conscience in the dubious point of casuistry in which he supposed her to be placed. the little room had been the sleeping apartment of both sisters, and there still stood there a small occasional bed which had been made for effie's accommodation, when, complaining of illness, she had declined to share, as in happier times, her sister's pillow. the eyes of deans rested involuntarily, on entering the room, upon this little couch, with its dark-green coarse curtains, and the ideas connected with it rose so thick upon his soul as almost to incapacitate him from opening his errand to his daughter. her occupation broke the ice. he found her gazing on a slip of paper, which contained a citation to her to appear as a witness upon her sister's trial in behalf of the accused. for the worthy magistrate, determined to omit no chance of doing effie justice, and to leave her sister no apology for not giving the evidence which she was supposed to possess, had caused the ordinary citation, or _subpoena,_ of the scottish criminal court, to be served upon her by an officer during his conference with david. this precaution was so far favourable to deans, that it saved him the pain of entering upon a formal explanation with his daughter; he only said, with a hollow and tremulous voice, "i perceive ye are aware of the matter." "o father, we are cruelly sted between god's laws and man's laws--what shall we do?--what can we do?" jeanie, it must be observed, had no hesitation whatever about the mere act of appearing in a court of justice. she might have heard the point discussed by her father more than once; but we have already noticed that she was accustomed to listen with reverence to much which she was incapable of understanding, and that subtle arguments of casuistry found her a patient, but unedified hearer. upon receiving the citation, therefore, her thoughts did not turn upon the chimerical scruples which alarmed her father's mind, but to the language which had been held to her by the stranger at muschat's cairn. in a word, she never doubted but she was to be dragged forward into the court of justice, in order to place her in the cruel position of either sacrificing her sister by telling the truth, or committing perjury in order to save her life. and so strongly did her thoughts run in this channel, that she applied her father's words, "ye are aware of the matter," to his acquaintance with the advice that had been so fearfully enforced upon her. she looked up with anxious surprise, not unmingled with a cast of horror, which his next words, as she interpreted and applied them, were not qualified to remove. "daughter," said david, "it has ever been my mind, that in things of ane doubtful and controversial nature, ilk christian's conscience suld be his ain guide--wherefore descend into yourself, try your ain mind with sufficiency of soul exercise, and as you sall finally find yourself clear to do in this matter--even so be it." "but, father," said jeanie, whose mind revolted at the construction which she naturally put upon his language, "can this-this be a doubtful or controversial matter?--mind, father, the ninth command--'thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.'" david deans paused; for, still applying her speech to his preconceived difficulties, it seemed to him as if _she,_ a woman, and a sister, was scarce entitled to be scrupulous upon this occasion, where he, a man, exercised in the testimonies of that testifying period, had given indirect countenance to her following what must have been the natural dictates of her own feelings. but he kept firm his purpose, until his eyes involuntarily rested upon the little settle-bed, and recalled the form of the child of his old age, as she sate upon it, pale, emaciated, and broken-hearted. his mind, as the picture arose before him, involuntarily conceived, and his tongue involuntarily uttered--but in a tone how different from his usual dogmatical precision!--arguments for the course of conduct likely to ensure his child's safety. "daughter," he said, "i did not say that your path was free from stumbling--and, questionless, this act may be in the opinion of some a transgression, since he who beareth witness unlawfully, and against his conscience, doth in some sort bear false witness against his neighbour. yet in matters of compliance, the guilt lieth not in the compliance sae muckle, as in the mind and conscience of him that doth comply; and, therefore, although my testimony hath not been spared upon public defections, i haena felt freedom to separate mysell from the communion of many who have been clear to hear those ministers who have taken the fatal indulgence because they might get good of them, though i could not." when david had proceeded thus far, his conscience reproved him, that he might be indirectly undermining the purity of his daughter's faith, and smoothing the way for her falling off from strictness of principle. he, therefore, suddenly stopped, and changed his tone:--"jeanie, i perceive that our vile affections,--so i call them in respect of doing the will of our father,--cling too heavily to me in this hour of trying sorrow, to permit me to keep sight of my ain duty, or to airt you to yours. i will speak nae mair anent this overtrying matter--jeanie, if ye can, wi' god and gude conscience, speak in favour of this puir unhappy"--(here his voice faltered)--"she is your sister in the flesh--worthless and castaway as she is, she is the daughter of a saint in heaven, that was a mother to you, jeanie, in place of your ain--but if ye arena free in conscience to speak for her in the court of judicature, follow your conscience, jeanie, and let god's will be done." after this adjuration he left the apartment, and his daughter remained in a state of great distress and perplexity. it would have been no small addition to the sorrows of david deans, even in this extremity of suffering, had he known that his daughter was applying the casuistical arguments which he had been using, not in the sense of a permission to follow her own opinion on a dubious and disputed point of controversy, but rather as an encouragement to transgress one of those divine commandments which christians of all sects and denominations unite in holding most sacred. "can this be?" said jeanie, as the door closed on her father--"can these be his words that i have heard, or has the enemy taken his voice and features to give weight unto the counsel which causeth to perish?--a sister's life, and a father pointing out how to save it!--o god, deliver me!--this is a fearfu' temptation." roaming from thought to thought, she at one time imagined her father understood the ninth commandment literally, as prohibiting false witness _against_ our neighbour, without extending the denunciation against falsehood uttered _in favour_ of the criminal. but her clear and unsophisticated power of discriminating between good and evil, instantly rejected an interpretation so limited, and so unworthy of the author of the law. she remained in a state of the most agitating terror and uncertainty--afraid to communicate her thoughts freely to her father, lest she should draw forth an opinion with which she could not comply,--wrung with distress on her sister's account, rendered the more acute by reflecting that the means of saving her were in her power, but were such as her conscience prohibited her from using,--tossed, in short, like a vessel in an open roadstead during a storm, and, like that vessel, resting on one only sure cable and anchor,--faith in providence, and a resolution to discharge her duty. butler's affection and strong sense of religion would have been her principal support in these distressing circumstances, but he was still under restraint, which did not permit him to come to st. leonard's crags; and her distresses were of a nature, which, with her indifferent habits of scholarship, she found it impossible to express in writing. she was therefore compelled to trust for guidance to her own unassisted sense of what was right or wrong. it was not the least of jeanie's distresses, that, although she hoped and believed her sister to be innocent, she had not the means of receiving that assurance from her own mouth. the double-dealing of ratcliffe in the matter of robertson had not prevented his being rewarded, as double-dealers frequently have been, with favour and preferment. sharpitlaw, who found in him something of a kindred genius, had been intercessor in his behalf with the magistrates, and the circumstance of his having voluntarily remained in the prison, when the doors were forced by the mob, would have made it a hard measure to take the life which he had such easy means of saving. he received a full pardon; and soon afterwards, james ratcliffe, the greatest thief and housebreaker in scotland, was, upon the faith, perhaps, of an ancient proverb, selected as a person to be entrusted with the custody of other delinquents. when ratcliffe was thus placed in a confidential situation, he was repeatedly applied to by the sapient saddletree and others, who took some interest in the deans family, to procure an interview between the sisters; but the magistrates, who were extremely anxious for the apprehension of robertson, had given strict orders to the contrary, hoping that, by keeping them separate, they might, from the one or the other, extract some information respecting that fugitive. on this subject jeanie had nothing to tell them. she informed mr. middleburgh, that she knew nothing of robertson, except having met him that night by appointment to give her some advice respecting her sister's concern, the purport of which, she said, was betwixt god and her conscience. of his motions, purposes, or plans, past, present, or future, she knew nothing, and so had nothing to communicate. effie was equally silent, though from a different cause. it was in vain that they offered a commutation and alleviation of her punishment, and even a free pardon, if she would confess what she knew of her lover. she answered only with tears; unless, when at times driven into pettish sulkiness by the persecution of the interrogators, she made them abrupt and disrespectful answers. at length, after her trial had been delayed for many weeks, in hopes she might be induced to speak out on a subject infinitely more interesting to the magistracy than her own guilt or innocence, their patience was worn out, and even mr. middleburgh finding no ear lent to farther intercession in her behalf, the day was fixed for the trial to proceed. it was now, and not sooner, that sharpitlaw, recollecting his promise to effie deans, or rather being dinned into compliance by the unceasing remonstrances of mrs. saddletree, who was his next-door neighbour, and who declared it was heathen cruelty to keep the twa brokenhearted creatures separate, issued the important mandate, permitting them to see each other. on the evening which preceded the eventful day of trial, jeanie was permitted to see her sister--an awful interview, and occurring at a most distressing crisis. this, however, formed a part of the bitter cup which she was doomed to drink, to atone for crimes and follies to which she had no accession; and at twelve o'clock noon, being the time appointed for admission to the jail, she went to meet, for the first time for several months, her guilty, erring, and most miserable sister, in that abode of guilt, error, and utter misery. chapter nineteenth. sweet sister, let me live! what sin you do to save a brother's life, nature dispenses with the deed so far, that it becomes a virtue. measure for measure. jeanie deans was admitted into the jail by ratcliffe. this fellow, as void of shame as of honesty, as he opened the now trebly secured door, asked her, with a leer which made her shudder, "whether she remembered him?" a half-pronounced and timid "no," was her answer. "what! not remember moonlight, and muschat's cairn, and rob and rat?" said he, with the same sneer;--"your memory needs redding up, my jo." if jeanie's distresses had admitted of aggravation, it must have been to find her sister under the charge of such a profligate as this man. he was not, indeed, without something of good to balance so much that was evil in his character and habits. in his misdemeanours he had never been bloodthirsty or cruel; and in his present occupation, he had shown himself, in a certain degree, accessible to touches of humanity. but these good qualities were unknown to jeanie, who, remembering the scene at muschat's cairn, could scarce find voice to acquaint him, that she had an order from bailie middleburgh, permitting her to see her sister. "i ken that fa' weel, my bonny doo; mair by token, i have a special charge to stay in the ward with you a' the time ye are thegither." "must that be sae?" asked jeanie, with an imploring voice. "hout, ay, hinny," replied the turnkey; "and what the waur will you and your tittie be of jim ratcliffe hearing what ye hae to say to ilk other?--deil a word ye'll say that will gar him ken your kittle sex better than he kens them already; and another thing is, that if ye dinna speak o' breaking the tolbooth, deil a word will i tell ower, either to do ye good or ill." thus saying, ratcliffe marshalled her the way to the apartment where effie was confined. shame, fear, and grief, had contended for mastery in the poor prisoner's bosom during the whole morning, while she had looked forward to this meeting; but when the door opened, all gave way to a confused and strange feeling that had a tinge of joy in it, as, throwing herself on her sister's neck, she ejaculated, "my dear jeanie!--my dear jeanie! it's lang since i hae seen ye." jeanie returned the embrace with an earnestness that partook almost of rapture, but it was only a flitting emotion, like a sunbeam unexpectedly penetrating betwixt the clouds of a tempest, and obscured almost as soon as visible. the sisters walked together to the side of the pallet bed, and sate down side by side, took hold of each other's hands, and looked each other in the face, but without speaking a word. in this posture they remained for a minute, while the gleam of joy gradually faded from their features, and gave way to the most intense expression, first of melancholy, and then of agony, till, throwing themselves again into each other's arms, they, to use the language of scripture, lifted up their voices, and wept bitterly. even the hardhearted turnkey, who had spent his life in scenes calculated to stifle both conscience and feeling, could not witness this scene without a touch of human sympathy. it was shown in a trifling action, but which had more delicacy in it than seemed to belong to ratcliffe's character and station. the unglazed window of the miserable chamber was open, and the beams of a bright sun fell right upon the bed where the sufferers were seated. with a gentleness that had something of reverence in it, ratcliffe partly closed the shutter, and seemed thus to throw a veil over a scene so sorrowful. "ye are ill, effie," were the first words jeanie could utter; "ye are very ill." "o, what wad i gie to be ten times waur, jeanie!" was the reply--"what wad i gie to be cauld dead afore the ten o'clock bell the morn! and our father--but i am his bairn nae langer now--o, i hae nae friend left in the warld!--o, that i were lying dead at my mother's side, in newbattle kirkyard!" "hout, lassie," said ratcliffe, willing to show the interest which he absolutely felt, "dinna be sae dooms doon-hearted as a' that; there's mony a tod hunted that's no killed. advocate langtale has brought folk through waur snappers than a' this, and there's no a cleverer agent than nichil novit e'er drew a bill of suspension. hanged or unhanged, they are weel aff has sic an agent and counsel; ane's sure o' fair play. ye are a bonny lass, too, an ye wad busk up your cockernony a bit; and a bonny lass will find favour wi' judge and jury, when they would strap up a grewsome carle like me for the fifteenth part of a flea's hide and tallow, d--n them." to this homely strain of consolation the mourners returned no answer; indeed, they were so much lost in their own sorrows as to have become insensible of ratcliffe's presence. "o effie," said her elder sister, "how could you conceal your situation from me? o woman, had i deserved this at your hand?--had ye spoke but ae word--sorry we might hae been, and shamed we might hae been, but this awfu' dispensation had never come ower us." "and what gude wad that hae dune?" answered the prisoner. "na, na, jeanie, a' was ower when ance i forgot what i promised when i faulded down the leaf of my bible. see," she said, producing the sacred volume, "the book opens aye at the place o' itsell. o see, jeanie, what a fearfu' scripture!" jeanie took her sister's bible, and found that the fatal mark was made at this impressive text in the book of job: "he hath stripped me of my glory, and taken the crown from my head. he hath destroyed me on every side, and i am gone. and mine hope hath he removed like a tree." "isna that ower true a doctrine?" said the prisoner "isna my crown, my honour, removed? and what am i but a poor, wasted, wan-thriven tree, dug up by the roots, and flung out to waste in the highway, that man and beast may tread it under foot? i thought o' the bonny bit them that our father rooted out o' the yard last may, when it had a' the flush o' blossoms on it; and then it lay in the court till the beasts had trod them a' to pieces wi' their feet. i little thought, when i was wae for the bit silly green bush and its flowers, that i was to gang the same gate mysell." "o, if ye had spoken ae word," again sobbed jeanie,--"if i were free to swear that ye had said but ae word of how it stude wi' ye, they couldna hae touched your life this day." "could they na?" said effie, with something like awakened interest--for life is dear even to those who feel it is a burden--"wha tauld ye that, jeanie?" "it was ane that kend what he was saying weel eneugh," replied jeanie, who had a natural reluctance at mentioning even the name of her sister's seducer. "wha was it?--i conjure you to tell me," said effie, seating herself upright.--"wha could tak interest in sic a cast-by as i am now?--was it--was it _him?_" "hout," said ratcliffe, "what signifies keeping the poor lassie in a swither? i'se uphaud it's been robertson that learned ye that doctrine when ye saw him at muschat's cairn." "was it him?" said effie, catching eagerly at his words--"was it him, jeanie, indeed?--o, i see it was him--poor lad, and i was thinking his heart was as hard as the nether millstane--and him in sic danger on his ain part--poor george!" somewhat indignant at this burst of tender feeling towards the author of her misery, jeanie could not help exclaiming--"o effie, how can ye speak that gate of sic a man as that?" "we maun forgie our enemies, ye ken," said poor effie, with a timid look and a subdued voice; for her conscience told her what a different character the feelings with which she regarded her seducer bore, compared with the christian charity under which she attempted to veil it. "and ye hae suffered a' this for him, and ye can think of loving him still?" said her sister, in a voice betwixt pity and blame. "love him!" answered effie--"if i hadna loved as woman seldom loves, i hadna been within these wa's this day; and trow ye, that love sic as mine is lightly forgotten?--na, na--ye may hew down the tree, but ye canna change its bend--and, o jeanie, if ye wad do good to me at this moment, tell me every word that he said, and whether he was sorry for poor effie or no!" "what needs i tell ye onything about it?" said jeanie. "ye may be sure he had ower muckle to do to save himsell, to speak lang or muckle about ony body beside." [illustration: jeanie and effie-- ] "that's no true, jeanie, though a saunt had said it," replied effie, with a sparkle of her former lively and irritable temper. "but ye dinna ken, though i do, how far he pat his life in venture to save mine." and looking at ratcliffe, she checked herself and was silent. "i fancy," said ratcliffe, with one of his familiar sneers, "the lassie thinks that naebody has een but hersell--didna i see when gentle geordie was seeking to get other folk out of the tolbooth forby jock porteous?--but ye are of my mind, hinny--better sit and rue, than flit and rue--ye needna look in my face sae amazed. i ken mair things than that, maybe." "o my god! my god!" said effie, springing up and throwing herself down on her knees before him--"d'ye ken where they hae putten my bairn?--o my bairn! my bairn! the poor sackless innocent new-born wee ane--bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh!--o man, if ye wad e'er deserve a portion in heaven, or a brokenhearted creature's blessing upon earth, tell me where they hae put my bairn--the sign of my shame, and the partner of my suffering! tell me wha has taen't away, or what they hae dune wi't?" "hout tout," said the turnkey, endeavouring to extricate himself from the firm grasp with which she held him, "that's taking me at my word wi' a witness--bairn, quo' she? how the deil suld i ken onything of your bairn, huzzy? ye maun ask that of auld meg murdockson, if ye dinna ken ower muckle about it yoursell." as his answer destroyed the wild and vague hope which had suddenly gleamed upon her, the unhappy prisoner let go her hold of his coat, and fell with her face on the pavement of the apartment in a strong convulsion fit. jeanie deans possessed, with her excellently clear understanding, the concomitant advantage of promptitude of spirit, even in the extremity of distress. she did not suffer herself to be overcome by her own feelings of exquisite sorrow, but instantly applied herself to her sister's relief, with the readiest remedies which circumstances afforded; and which, to do ratcliffe justice, he showed himself anxious to suggest, and alert in procuring. he had even the delicacy to withdraw to the farthest corner of the room, so as to render his official attendance upon them as little intrusive as possible, when effie was composed enough again to resume her conference with her sister. the prisoner once more, in the most earnest and broken tones, conjured jeanie to tell her the particulars of the conference with robertson, and jeanie felt it was impossible to refuse her this gratification. "do ye mind," she said, "effie, when ye were in the fever before we left woodend, and how angry your mother, that's now in a better place, was wi' me for gieing ye milk and water to drink, because ye grat for it? ye were a bairn then, and ye are a woman now, and should ken better than ask what canna but hurt you--but come weal or woe, i canna refuse ye onything that ye ask me wi' the tear in your ee." again effie threw herself into her arms, and kissed her cheek and forehead, murmuring, "o, if ye kend how lang it is since i heard his name mentioned?--if ye but kend how muckle good it does me but to ken onything o' him, that's like goodness or kindness, ye wadna wonder that i wish to hear o' him!" jeanie sighed, and commenced her narrative of all that had passed betwixt robertson and her, making it as brief as possible. effie listened in breathless anxiety, holding her sister's hand in hers, and keeping her eye fixed upon her face, as if devouring every word she uttered. the interjections of "poor fellow,"--"poor george," which escaped in whispers, and betwixt sighs, were the only sounds with which she interrupted the story. when it was finished she made a long pause. "and this was his advice?" were the first words she uttered. "just sic as i hae tell'd ye," replied her sister. "and he wanted you to say something to yon folks, that wad save my young life?" "he wanted," answered jeanie, "that i suld be man-sworn." "and you tauld him," said effie, "that ye wadna hear o' coming between me and the death that i am to die, and me no aughten year auld yet?" "i told him," replied jeanie, who now trembled at the turn which her sister's reflection seemed about to take, "that i daured na swear to an untruth." "and what d'ye ca' an untruth?" said effie, again showing a touch of her former spirit--"ye are muckle to blame, lass, if ye think a mother would, or could, murder her ain bairn--murder!--i wad hae laid down my life just to see a blink o' its ee!" "i do believe," said jeanie, "that ye are as innocent of sic a purpose as the new-born babe itsell." "i am glad ye do me that justice," said effie, haughtily; "ifs whiles the faut of very good folk like you, jeanie, that, they think a' the rest of the warld are as bad as the warst temptations can make them." "i didna deserve this frae ye, effie," said her sister, sobbing, and feeling at once the injustice of the reproach, and compassion for the state of mind which dictated it. "maybe no, sister," said effie. "but ye are angry because i love robertson--how can i help loving him, that loves me better than body and soul baith?--here he put his life in a niffer, to break the prison to let me out; and sure am i, had it stude wi' him as it stands wi' you"--here she paused and was silent. "o, if it stude wi' me to save ye wi' risk of my life!" said jeanie. "ay, lass," said her sister, "that's lightly said, but no sae lightly credited, frae ane that winna ware a word for me; and if it be a wrang word, ye'll hae time eneugh to repent o't." "but that word is a grievous sin, and it's a deeper offence when it's a sin wilfully and presumptuously committed." "weel, weel, jeanie," said effie, "i mind a' about the sins o' presumption in the questions--we'll speak nae mair about this matter, and ye may save your breath to say your carritch and for me, i'll soon hae nae breath to waste on onybody." "i must needs say," interposed ratcliffe, "that it's d--d hard, when three words of your mouth would give the girl the chance to nick moll blood,* that you make such scrupling about rapping** to them. d--n me, if they would take me, if i would not rap to all what d'ye callums--hyssop's fables, for her life--i am us'd to't, b--t me, for less matters. why, i have smacked calf-skin*** fifty times in england for a keg of brandy." * the gallows. ** swearing. *** kissed the book. "never speak mair o't," said the prisoner. "it's just as weel as it is--and gude-day, sister; ye keep mr. ratcliffe waiting on--ye'll come back and see me, i reckon, before"--here she stopped and became deadly pale. "and are we to part in this way," said jeanie, "and you in sic deadly peril? o effie, look but up, and say what ye wad hae me to do, and i could find in my heart amaist to say that i wad do't." "no, jeanie," replied her sister after an effort, "i am better minded now. at my best, i was never half sae gude as ye were, and what for suld you begin to mak yoursell waur to save me, now that i am no worth saving? god knows, that in my sober mind, i wadna wuss ony living creature to do a wrang thing to save my life. i might have fled frae this tolbooth on that awfu' night wi' ane wad hae carried me through the warld, and friended me, and fended for me. but i said to them, let life gang when gude fame is gane before it. but this lang imprisonment has broken my spirit, and i am whiles sair left to mysell, and then i wad gie the indian mines of gold and diamonds, just for life and breath--for i think, jeanie, i have such roving fits as i used to hae in the fever; but, instead of the fiery een and wolves, and widow butler's bullseg, that i used to see spieling upon my bed, i am thinking now about a high, black gibbet, and me standing up, and such seas of faces all looking up at poor effie deans, and asking if it be her that george robertson used to call the lily of st. leonard's. and then they stretch out their faces, and make mouths, and girn at me, and whichever way i look, i see a face laughing like meg murdockson, when she tauld me i had seen the last of my wean. god preserve us, jeanie, that carline has a fearsome face!" she clapped her hands before her eyes as she uttered this exclamation, as if to secure herself against seeing the fearful object she had alluded to. jeanie deans remained with her sister for two hours, during which she endeavoured, if possible, to extract something from her that might be serviceable in her exculpation. but she had nothing to say beyond what she had declared on her first examination, with the purport of which the reader will be made acquainted in proper time and place. "they wadna believe her," she said, "and she had naething mair to tell them." at length, ratcliffe, though reluctantly, informed the sisters that there was a necessity that they should part. "mr. novit," he said, "was to see the prisoner, and maybe mr. langtale too. langtale likes to look at a bonny lass, whether in prison or out o' prison." reluctantly, therefore, and slowly, after many a tear, and many an embrace, jeanie retired from the apartment, and heard its jarring bolts turned upon the dear being from whom she was separated. somewhat familiarised now even with her rude conductor, she offered him a small present in money, with a request he would do what he could for her sister's accommodation. to her surprise, ratcliffe declined the fee. "i wasna bloody when i was on the pad," he said, "and i winna be greedy--that is, beyond what's right and reasonable--now that i am in the lock.--keep the siller; and for civility, your sister sall hae sic as i can bestow; but i hope you'll think better on it, and rap an oath for her--deil a hair ill there is in it, if ye are rapping again the crown. i kend a worthy minister, as gude a man, bating the deed they deposed him for, as ever ye heard claver in a pu'pit, that rapped to a hogshead of pigtail tobacco, just for as muckle as filled his spleuchan.* * tobacco-pouch. but maybe ye are keeping your ain counsel--weel, weel, there's nae harm in that. as for your sister, i'se see that she gets her meat clean and warm, and i'll try to gar her lie down and take a sleep after dinner, for deil a ee she'll close the night. i hae gude experience of these matters. the first night is aye the warst o't. i hae never heard o' ane that sleepit the night afore trial, but of mony a ane that sleepit as sound as a tap the night before their necks were straughted. and it's nae wonder--the warst may be tholed when it's kend--better a finger aff as aye wagging." chapter twentieth. yet though thou mayst be dragg'd in scorn to yonder ignominious tree, thou shalt not want one faithful friend to share the cruel fates' decree. jemmy dawson. after spending the greater part of the morning in his devotions (for his benevolent neighbours had kindly insisted upon discharging his task of ordinary labour), david deans entered the apartment when the breakfast meal was prepared. his eyes were involuntarily cast down, for he was afraid to look at jeanie, uncertain as he was whether she might feel herself at liberty, with a good conscience, to attend the court of justiciary that day, to give the evidence which he understood that she possessed, in order to her sister's exculpation. at length, after a minute of apprehensive hesitation, he looked at her dress to discover whether it seemed to be in her contemplation to go abroad that morning. her apparel was neat and plain, but such as conveyed no exact intimation of her intentions to go abroad. she had exchanged her usual garb for morning labour, for one something inferior to that with which, as her best, she was wont to dress herself for church, or any more rare occasion of going into society. her sense taught her, that it was respectful to be decent in her apparel on such an occasion, while her feelings induced her to lay aside the use of the very few and simple personal ornaments, which, on other occasions, she permitted herself to wear. so that there occurred nothing in her external appearance which could mark out to her father, with anything like certainty, her intentions on this occasion. the preparations for their humble meal were that morning made in vain. the father and daughter sat, each assuming the appearance of eating, when the other's eyes were turned to them, and desisting from the effort with disgust, when the affectionate imposture seemed no longer necessary. at length these moments of constraint were removed. the sound of st. giles's heavy toll announced the hour previous to the commencement of the trial; jeanie arose, and with a degree of composure for which she herself could not account, assumed her plaid, and made her other preparations for a distant walking. it was a strange contrast between the firmness of her demeanour, and the vacillation and cruel uncertainty of purpose indicated in all her father's motions; and one unacquainted with both could scarcely have supposed that the former was, in her ordinary habits of life, a docile, quiet, gentle, and even timid country maiden, while her father, with a mind naturally proud and strong, and supported by religious opinions of a stern, stoical, and unyielding character, had in his time undergone and withstood the most severe hardships, and the most imminent peril, without depression of spirit, or subjugation of his constancy. the secret of this difference was, that jeanie's mind had already anticipated the line of conduct which she must adopt, with all its natural and necessary consequences; while her father, ignorant of every other circumstance, tormented himself with imagining what the one sister might say or swear, or what effect her testimony might have upon the awful event of the trial. he watched his daughter, with a faltering and indecisive look, until she looked back upon him, with a look of unutterable anguish, as she was about to leave the apartment. "my dear lassie," said he, "i will." his action, hastily and confusedly searching for his worsted mittans* and staff, showed his purpose of accompanying her, though his tongue failed distinctly to announce it. * a kind of worsted gloves, used by the lower orders. "father," said jeanie, replying rather to his action than his words, "ye had better not." "in the strength of my god," answered deans, assuming firmness, "i will go forth." and, taking his daughter's arm under his, he began to walk from the door with a step so hasty, that she was almost unable to keep up with him. a trifling circumstance, but which marked the perturbed state of his mind, checked his course. "your bonnet, father?" said jeanie, who observed he had come out with his grey hairs uncovered. he turned back with a slight blush on his cheek, being ashamed to have been detected in an omission which indicated so much mental confusion, assumed his large blue scottish bonnet, and with a step slower, but more composed, as if the circumstance, had obliged him to summon up his resolution, and collect his scattered ideas, again placed his daughter's arm under his, and resumed the way to edinburgh. the courts of justice were then, and are still, held in what is called the parliament close, or, according to modern phrase, parliament square, and occupied the buildings intended for the accommodation of the scottish estates. this edifice, though in an imperfect and corrupted style of architecture, had then a grave, decent, and, as it were, a judicial aspect, which was at least entitled to respect from its antiquity. for which venerable front, i observed, on my last occasional visit to the metropolis, that modern taste had substituted, at great apparent expense, a pile so utterly inconsistent with every monument of antiquity around, and in itself so clumsy at the same time and fantastic, that it may be likened to the decorations of tom errand the porter, in the _trip to the jubilee,_ when he appears bedizened with the tawdry finery of beau clincher. _sed transeat cum caeteris erroribus._ the small quadrangle, or close, if we may presume still to give it that appropriate, though antiquated title, which at lichfield, salisbury, and elsewhere, is properly applied to designate the enclosure adjacent to a cathedral, already evinced tokens of the fatal scene which was that day to be acted. the soldiers of the city guard were on their posts, now enduring, and now rudely repelling with the butts of their muskets, the motley crew who thrust each other forward, to catch a glance at the unfortunate object of trial, as she should pass from the adjacent prison to the court in which her fate was to be determined. all must have occasionally observed, with disgust, the apathy with which the vulgar gaze on scenes of this nature, and how seldom, unless when their sympathies are called forth by some striking and extraordinary circumstance, the crowd evince any interest deeper than that of callous, unthinking bustle, and brutal curiosity. they laugh, jest, quarrel, and push each other to and fro, with the same unfeeling indifference as if they were assembled for some holiday sport, or to see an idle procession. occasionally, however, this demeanour, so natural to the degraded populace of a large town, is exchanged for a temporary touch of human affections; and so it chanced on the present occasion. when deans and his daughter presented themselves in the close, and endeavoured to make their way forward to the door of the court-house, they became involved in the mob, and subject, of course, to their insolence. as deans repelled with some force the rude pushes which he received on all sides, his figure and antiquated dress caught the attention of the rabble, who often show an intuitive sharpness in ascribing the proper character from external appearance,-- "ye're welcome, whigs, frae bothwell briggs," sung one fellow (for the mob of edinburgh were at that time jacobitically disposed, probably because that was the line of sentiment most diametrically opposite to existing authority). "mess david williamson, chosen of twenty, ran up the pu'pit stair, and sang killiecrankie," chanted a siren, whose profession might be guessed by her appearance. a tattered caidie, or errand-porter, whom david deans had jostled in his attempt to extricate himself from the vicinity of these scorners, exclaimed in a strong north-country tone, "ta deil ding out her cameronian een--what gies her titles to dunch gentlemans about?" "make room for the ruling elder," said yet another; "he comes to see a precious sister glorify god in the grassmarket!" "whisht; shame's in ye, sirs," said the voice of a man very loudly, which, as quickly sinking, said in a low but distinct tone, "it's her father and sister." all fell back to make way for the sufferers; and all, even the very rudest and most profligate, were struck with shame and silence. in the space thus abandoned to them by the mob, deans stood, holding his daughter by the hand, and said to her, with a countenance strongly and sternly expressive of his internal emotion, "ye hear with your ears, and ye see with your eyes, where and to whom the backslidings and defections of professors are ascribed by the scoffers. not to themselves alone, but to the kirk of which they are members, and to its blessed and invisible head. then, weel may we take wi' patience our share and portion of this outspreading reproach." the man who had spoken, no other than our old friend, dumbiedikes, whose mouth, like that of the prophet's ass, had been opened by the emergency of the case, now joined them, and, with his usual taciturnity, escorted them into the court-house. no opposition was offered to their entrance either by the guards or doorkeepers; and it is even said that one of the latter refused a shilling of civility-money tendered him by the laird of dumbiedikes, who was of opinion that "siller wad make a' easy." but this last incident wants confirmation. admitted within the precincts of the court-house, they found the usual number of busy office-bearers, and idle loiterers, who attend on these scenes by choice, or from duty. burghers gaped and stared; young lawyers sauntered, sneered, and laughed, as in the pit of the theatre; while others apart sat on a bench retired, and reasoned highly, _inter apices juris,_ on the doctrines of constructive crime, and the true import of the statute. the bench was prepared for the arrival of the judges. the jurors were in attendance. the crown-counsel, employed in looking over their briefs and notes of evidence, looked grave, and whispered with each other. they occupied one side of a large table placed beneath the bench; on the other sat the advocates, whom the humanity of the scottish law (in this particular more liberal than that of the sister-country) not only permits, but enjoins, to appear and assist with their advice and skill all persons under trial. mr. nichil novit was seen actively instructing the counsel for the panel (so the prisoner is called in scottish law-phraseology), busy, bustling, and important. when they entered the court-room, deans asked the laird, in a tremulous whisper, "where will _she_ sit?" dumbiedikes whispered novit, who pointed to a vacant space at the bar, fronting the judges, and was about to conduct deans towards it. "no!" he said; "i cannot sit by her--i cannot own her--not as yet, at least--i will keep out of her sight, and turn mine own eyes elsewhere--better for us baith." saddletree, whose repeated interference with the counsel had procured him one or two rebuffs, and a special request that he would concern himself with his own matters, now saw with pleasure an opportunity of playing the person of importance. he bustled up to the poor old man, and proceeded to exhibit his consequence, by securing, through his interest with the bar-keepers and macers, a seat for deans, in a situation where he was hidden from the general eye by the projecting corner of the bench. "it's gude to have a friend at court," he said, continuing his heartless harangues to the passive auditor, who neither heard nor replied to them; "few folk but mysell could hae sorted ye out a seat like this--the lords will be here incontinent, and proceed _instanter_ to trial. they wunna fence the court as they do at the circuit--the high court of justiciary is aye fenced.--but, lord's sake, what's this o't--jeanie, ye are a cited witness--macer, this lass is a witness--she maun be enclosed--she maun on nae account be at large.--mr. novit, suldna jeanie deans be enclosed?" novit answered in the affirmative, and offered to conduct jeanie to the apartment, where, according to the scrupulous practice of the scottish court, the witnesses remain in readiness to be called into court to give evidence; and separated, at the same time, from all who might influence their testimony, or give them information concerning that which was passing upon the trial. "is this necessary?" said jeanie, still reluctant to quit her father's hand. "a matter of absolute needcessity," said saddletree, "wha ever heard of witnesses no being enclosed?" "it is really a matter of necessity," said the younger counsellor, retained for her sister; and jeanie reluctantly followed the macer of the court to the place appointed. "this, mr. deans," said saddletree, "is ca'd sequestering a witness; but it's clean different (whilk maybe ye wadna fund out o' yoursell) frae sequestering ane's estate or effects, as in cases of bankruptcy. i hae aften been sequestered as a witness, for the sheriff is in the use whiles to cry me in to witness the declarations at precognitions, and so is mr. sharpitlaw; but i was ne'er like to be sequestered o' land and gudes but ance, and that was lang syne, afore i was married. but whisht, whisht! here's the court coming." as he spoke, the five lords of justiciary, in their long robes of scarlet, faced with white, and preceded by their mace-bearer, entered with the usual formalities, and took their places upon the bench of judgment. the audience rose to receive them; and the bustle occasioned by their entrance was hardly composed, when a great noise and confusion of persons struggling, and forcibly endeavouring to enter at the doors of the court-room, and of the galleries, announced that the prisoner was about to be placed at the bar. this tumult takes place when the doors, at first only opened to those either having right to be present, or to the better and more qualified ranks, are at length laid open to all whose curiosity induces them to be present on the occasion. with inflamed countenances and dishevelled dresses, struggling with, and sometimes tumbling over each other, in rushed the rude multitude, while a few soldiers, forming, as it were, the centre of the tide, could scarce, with all their efforts, clear a passage for the prisoner to the place which she was to occupy. by the authority of the court, and the exertions of its officers, the tumult among the spectators was at length appeased, and the unhappy girl brought forward, and placed betwixt two sentinels with drawn bayonets, as a prisoner at the bar, where she was to abide her deliverance for good or evil, according to the issue of her trial. chapter twenty-first. we have strict statutes, and most biting laws-- the needful bits and curbs for headstrong steeds-- which, for these fourteen years, we have let sleep, like to an o'ergrown lion in a cave, that goes not out to prey. measure for measure. "euphemia deans," said the presiding judge, in an accent in which pity was blended with dignity, "stand up and listen to the criminal indictment now to be preferred against you." the unhappy girl, who had been stupified by the confusion through which the guards had forced a passage, cast a bewildered look on the multitude of faces around her, which seemed to tapestry, as it were, the walls, in one broad slope from the ceiling to the floor, with human countenances, and instinctively obeyed a command, which rung in her ears like the trumpet of the judgment-day. "put back your hair, effie," said one of the macers. for her beautiful and abundant tresses of long fair hair, which, according to the costume of the country, unmarried women were not allowed to cover with any sort of cap, and which, alas! effie dared no longer confine with the snood or riband, which implied purity of maiden-fame, now hung unbound and dishevelled over her face, and almost concealed her features. on receiving this hint from the attendant, the unfortunate young woman, with a hasty, trembling, and apparently mechanical compliance, shaded back from her face her luxuriant locks, and showed to the whole court, excepting one individual, a countenance, which, though pale and emaciated, was so lovely amid its agony, that it called forth a universal murmur of compassion and sympathy. apparently the expressive sound of human feeling recalled the poor girl from the stupor of fear, which predominated at first over every other sensation, and awakened her to the no less painful sense of shame and exposure attached to her present situation. her eye, which had at first glanced wildly around, was turned on the ground; her cheek, at first so deadly pale, began gradually to be overspread with a faint blush, which increased so fast, that, when in agony of shame she strove to conceal her face, her temples, her brow, her neck, and all that her slender fingers and small palms could not cover, became of the deepest crimson. all marked and were moved by these changes, excepting one. it was old deans, who, motionless in his seat, and concealed, as we have said, by the corner of the bench, from seeing or being seen, did nevertheless keep his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, as if determined that, by no possibility whatever, would he be an ocular witness of the shame of his house. "ichabod!" he said to himself--"ichabod! my glory is departed!" while these reflections were passing through his mind, the indictment, which set forth in technical form the crime of which the panel stood accused, was read as usual, and the prisoner was asked if she was guilty, or not guilty. "not guilty of my poor bairn's death," said effie deans, in an accent corresponding in plaintive softness of tone to the beauty of her features, and which was not heard by the audience without emotion. the presiding judge next directed the counsel to plead to the relevancy; that is, to state on either part the arguments in point of law, and evidence in point of fact, against and in favour of the criminal; after which it is the form of the court to pronounce a preliminary judgment, sending the cause to the cognisance of the jury, or assize. the counsel for the crown briefly stated the frequency of the crime of infanticide, which had given rise to the special statute under which the panel stood indicted. he mentioned the various instances, many of them marked with circumstances of atrocity, which had at length induced the king's advocate, though with great reluctance, to make the experiment, whether, by strictly enforcing the act of parliament which had been made to prevent such enormities, their occurrence might be prevented. "he expected," he said, "to be able to establish by witnesses, as well as by the declaration of the panel herself, that she was in the state described by the statute. according to his information, the panel had communicated her pregnancy to no one, nor did she allege in her own declaration that she had done so. this secrecy was the first requisite in support of the indictment. the same declaration admitted, that she had borne a male child, in circumstances which gave but too much reason to believe it had died by the hands, or at least with the knowledge or consent, of the unhappy mother. it was not, however, necessary for him to bring positive proof that the panel was accessory to the murder, nay, nor even to prove, that the child was murdered at all. it was sufficient to support the indictment, that it could not be found. according to the stern, but necessary severity of this statute, she who should conceal her pregnancy, who should omit to call that assistance which is most necessary on such occasions, was held already to have meditated the death of her offspring, as an event most likely to be the consequence of her culpable and cruel concealment. and if, under such circumstances, she could not alternatively show by proof that the infant had died a natural death, or produce it still in life, she must, under the construction of the law, be held to have murdered it, and suffer death accordingly." the counsel for the prisoner, mr. fairbrother, a man of considerable fame in his profession, did not pretend directly to combat the arguments of the king's advocate. he began by lamenting that his senior at the bar, mr. langtale, had been suddenly called to the county of which he was sheriff, and that he had been applied to, on short warning, to give the panel his assistance in this interesting case. he had had little time, he said, to make up for his inferiority to his learned brother by long and minute research; and he was afraid he might give a specimen of his incapacity, by being compelled to admit the accuracy of the indictment under the statute. "it was enough for their lordships," he observed, "to know that such was the law, and he admitted the advocate had a right to call for the usual interlocutor of relevancy." but he stated, "that when he came to establish his case by proof, he trusted to make out circumstances which would satisfactorily elide the charge in the libel. his client's story was a short, but most melancholy one. she was bred up in the strictest tenets of religion and virtue, the daughter of a worthy and conscientious person, who, in evil times, had established a character for courage and religion, by becoming a sufferer for conscience' sake." david deans gave a convulsive start at hearing himself thus mentioned, and then resumed the situation, in which, with his face stooped against his hands, and both resting against the corner of the elevated bench on which the judges sate, he had hitherto listened to the procedure in the trial. the whig lawyers seemed to be interested; the tories put up their lip. "whatever may be our difference of opinion," resumed the lawyer, whose business it was to carry his whole audience with him if possible, "concerning the peculiar tenets of these people" (here deans groaned deeply), "it is impossible to deny them the praise of sound, and even rigid morals, or the merit of training up their children in the fear of god; and yet it was the daughter of such a person whom a jury would shortly be called upon, in the absence of evidence, and upon mere presumptions, to convict of a crime more properly belonging to a heathen, or a savage, than to a christian and civilised country. it was true," he admitted, "that the excellent nurture and early instruction which the poor girl had received, had not been sufficient to preserve her from guilt and error. she had fallen a sacrifice to an inconsiderate affection for a young man of prepossessing manners, as he had been informed, but of a very dangerous and desperate character. she was seduced under promise of marriage--a promise, which the fellow might have, perhaps, done her justice by keeping, had he not at that time been called upon by the law to atone for a crime, violent and desperate in itself, but which became the preface to another eventful history, every step of which was marked by blood and guilt, and the final termination of which had not even yet arrived. he believed that no one would hear him without surprise, when he stated that the father of this infant now amissing, and said by the learned advocate to have been murdered, was no other than the notorious george robertson, the accomplice of wilson, the hero of the memorable escape from the tolbooth church, and as no one knew better than his learned friend the advocate, the principal actor in the porteous conspiracy" "i am sorry to interrupt a counsel in such a case as the present," said, the presiding judge; "but i must remind the learned gentleman that he is travelling out of the case before us." the counsel bowed and resumed. "he only judged it necessary," he said, "to mention the name and situation of robertson, because the circumstance in which that character was placed, went a great way in accounting for the silence on which his majesty's counsel had laid so much weight, as affording proof that his client proposed to allow no fair play for its life to the helpless being whom she was about to bring into the world. she had not announced to her friends that she had been seduced from the path of honour--and why had she not done so?--because she expected daily to be restored to character, by her seducer doing her that justice which she knew to be in his power, and believed to be in his inclination. was it natural--was it reasonable--was it fair, to expect that she should in the interim, become _felo de se_ of her own character, and proclaim her frailty to the world, when she had every reason to expect, that, by concealing it for a season, it might be veiled for ever? was it not, on the contrary, pardonable, that, in such an emergency, a young woman, in such a situation, should be found far from disposed to make a confidant of every prying gossip, who, with sharp eyes, and eager ears, pressed upon her for an explanation of suspicious circumstances, which females in the lower--he might say which females of all ranks, are so alert in noticing, that they sometimes discover them where they do not exist? was it strange or was it criminal, that she should have repelled their inquisitive impertinence with petulant denials? the sense and feeling of all who heard him would answer directly in the negative. but although his client had thus remained silent towards those to whom she was not called upon to communicate her situation,--to whom," said the learned gentleman, "i will add, it would have been unadvised and improper in her to have done so; yet, i trust, i shall remove this case most triumphantly from under the statute, and obtain the unfortunate young woman an honourable dismission from your lordships' bar, by showing that she did, in due time and place, and to a person most fit for such confidence, mention the calamitous circumstances in which she found herself. this occurred after robertson's conviction, and when he was lying in prison in expectation of the fate which his comrade wilson afterwards suffered, and from which he himself so strangely escaped. it was then, when all hopes of having her honour repaired by wedlock vanished from her eyes,--when an union with one in robertson's situation, if still practicable, might, perhaps, have been regarded rather as an addition to her disgrace,--it was _then,_ that i trust to be able to prove that the prisoner communicated and consulted with her sister, a young woman several years older than herself, the daughter of her father, if i mistake not, by a former marriage, upon the perils and distress of her unhappy situation." "if, indeed, you are able to instruct _that_ point, mr. fairbrother," said the presiding judge. "if i am indeed able to instruct that point, my lord," resumed mr. fairbrother, "i trust not only to serve my client, but to relieve your lordships from that which i know you feel the most painful duty of your high office; and to give all who now hear me the exquisite pleasure of beholding a creature, so young, so ingenuous, and so beautiful, as she that is now at the bar of your lordships' court, dismissed from thence in safety and in honour." this address seemed to affect many of the audience, and was followed by a slight murmur of applause. deans, as he heard his daughter's beauty and innocent appearance appealed to, was involuntarily about to turn his eyes towards her; but, recollecting himself, he bent them again on the ground with stubborn resolution. "will not my learned brother, on the other side of the bar," continued the advocate, after a short pause, "share in this general joy, since, i know, while he discharges his duty in bringing an accused person here, no one rejoices more in their being freely and honourably sent hence? my learned brother shakes his head doubtfully, and lays his hand on the panel's declaration. i understand him perfectly--he would insinuate that the facts now stated to your lordships are inconsistent with the confession of euphemia deans herself. i need not remind your lordships, that her present defence is no whit to be narrowed within the bounds of her former confession; and that it is not by any account which she may formerly have given of herself, but by what is now to be proved for or against her, that she must ultimately stand or fall. i am not under the necessity of accounting for her choosing to drop out of her declaration the circumstances of her confession to her sister. she might not be aware of its importance; she might be afraid of implicating her sister; she might even have forgotten the circumstance entirely, in the terror and distress of mind incidental to the arrest of so young a creature on a charge so heinous. any of these reasons are sufficient to account for her having suppressed the truth in this instance, at whatever risk to herself; and i incline most to her erroneous fear of criminating her sister, because i observe she has had a similar tenderness towards her lover (however undeserved on his part), and has never once mentioned robertson's name from beginning to end of her declaration. "but, my lords," continued fairbrother, "i am aware the king's advocate will expect me to show, that the proof i offer is consistent with other circumstances of the, case, which i do not and cannot deny. he will demand of me how effie deans's confession to her sister, previous to her delivery, is reconcilable with the mystery of the birth,--with the disappearance, perhaps the murder (for i will not deny a possibility which i cannot disprove) of the infant. my lords, the explanation of this is to be found in the placability, perchance, i may say, in the facility and pliability, of the female sex. the _dulcis amaryllidis irae,_ as your lordships well know, are easily appeased; nor is it possible to conceive a woman so atrociously offended by the man whom she has loved, but that she will retain a fund of forgiveness, upon which his penitence, whether real or affected, may draw largely, with a certainty that his bills will be answered. we can prove, by a letter produced in evidence, that this villain robertson, from the bottom of the dungeon whence he already probably meditated the escape, which he afterwards accomplished by the assistance of his comrade, contrived to exercise authority over the mind, and to direct the motions, of this unhappy girl. it was in compliance with his injunctions, expressed in that letter, that the panel was prevailed upon to alter the line of conduct which her own better thoughts had suggested; and, instead of resorting, when her time of travail approached, to the protection of her own family, was induced to confide herself to the charge of some vile agent of this nefarious seducer, and by her conducted to one of those solitary and secret purlieus of villany, which, to the shame of our police, still are suffered to exist in the suburbs of this city, where, with the assistance, and under the charge, of a person of her own sex, she bore a male child, under circumstances which added treble bitterness to the woe denounced against our original mother. what purpose robertson had in all this, it is hard to tell, or even to guess. he may have meant to marry the girl, for her father is a man of substance. but, for the termination of the story, and the conduct of the woman whom he had placed about the person of euphemia deans, it is still more difficult to account. the unfortunate young woman was visited by the fever incidental to her situation. in this fever she appears to have been deceived by the person that waited on her, and, on recovering her senses, she found that she was childless in that abode of misery. her infant had been carried off, perhaps for the worst purposes, by the wretch that waited on her. it may have been murdered, for what i can tell." he was here interrupted by a piercing shriek, uttered by the unfortunate prisoner. she was with difficulty brought to compose herself. her counsel availed himself of the tragical interruption, to close his pleading with effect. "my lords," said he, "in that piteous cry you heard the eloquence of maternal affection, far surpassing the force of my poor words--rachel weeping for her children! nature herself bears testimony in favour of the tenderness and acuteness of the prisoner's parental feelings. i will not dishonour her plea by adding a word more." "heard ye ever the like o' that, laird?" said saddletree to dumbiedikes, when the counsel had ended his speech. "there's a chield can spin a muckle pirn out of a wee tait of tow! deil haet he kens mair about it than what's in the declaration, and a surmise that jeanie deans suld hae been able to say something about her sister's situation, whilk surmise, mr. crossmyloof says, rests on sma' authority. and he's cleckit this great muckle bird out o' this wee egg! he could wile the very flounders out o' the firth.--what garr'd my father no send me to utrecht?--but whisht, the court is gaun to pronounce the interlocutor of relevancy." and accordingly the judges, after a few words, recorded their judgment, which bore, that the indictment, if proved, was relevant to infer the pains of law: and that the defence, that the panel had communicated her situation to her sister, was a relevant defence: and, finally, appointed the said indictment and defence to be submitted to the judgment of an assize. chapter twenty-second. most righteous judge! a sentence.--come, prepare. merchant of venice. it is by no means my intention to describe minutely the forms of a scottish criminal trial, nor am i sure that i could draw up an account so intelligible and accurate as to abide the criticism of the gentlemen of the long robe. it is enough to say that the jury was impanelled, and the case proceeded. the prisoner was again required to plead to the charge, and she again replied, "not guilty," in the same heart-thrilling tone as before. the crown counsel then called two or three female witnesses, by whose testimony it was established, that effie's situation had been remarked by them, that they had taxed her with the fact, and that her answers had amounted to an angry and petulant denial of what they charged her with. but, as very frequently happens, the declaration of the panel or accused party herself was the evidence which bore hardest upon her case. in the event of these tales ever finding their way across the border, it may be proper to apprise the southern reader that it is the practice in scotland, on apprehending a suspected person, to subject him to a judicial examination before a magistrate. he is not compelled to answer any of the questions asked of him, but may remain silent if he sees it his interest to do so. but whatever answers he chooses to give are formally written down, and being subscribed by himself and the magistrate, are produced against the accused in case of his being brought to trial. it is true, that these declarations are not produced as being in themselves evidence properly so called, but only as adminicles of testimony, tending to corroborate what is considered as legal and proper evidence. notwithstanding this nice distinction, however, introduced by lawyers to reconcile this procedure to their own general rule, that a man cannot be required to bear witness against himself, it nevertheless usually happens that these declarations become the means of condemning the accused, as it were, out of their own mouths. the prisoner, upon these previous examinations, has indeed the privilege of remaining silent if he pleases; but every man necessarily feels that a refusal to answer natural and pertinent interrogatories, put by judicial authority, is in itself a strong proof of guilt, and will certainly lead to his being committed to prison; and few can renounce the hope of obtaining liberty by giving some specious account of themselves, and showing apparent frankness in explaining their motives and accounting for their conduct. it, therefore, seldom happens that the prisoner refuses to give a judicial declaration, in which, nevertheless, either by letting out too much of the truth, or by endeavouring to substitute a fictitious story, he almost always exposes himself to suspicion and to contradictions, which weigh heavily in the minds of the jury. the declaration of effie deans was uttered on other principles, and the following is a sketch of its contents, given in the judicial form, in which they may still be found in the books of adjournal. the declarant admitted a criminal intrigue with an individual whose name she desired to conceal. "being interrogated, what her reason was for secrecy on this point? she declared, that she had no right to blame that person's conduct more than she did her own, and that she was willing to confess her own faults, but not to say anything which might criminate the absent. interrogated, if she confessed her situation to any one, or made any preparation for her confinement? declares, she did not. and being interrogated, why she forbore to take steps which her situation so peremptorily required? declares, she was ashamed to tell her friends, and she trusted the person she has mentioned would provide for her and the infant. interrogated if he did so? declares, that he did not do so personally; but that it was not his fault, for that the declarant is convinced he would have laid down his life sooner than the bairn or she had come to harm. interrogated, what prevented him from keeping his promise? declares, that it was impossible for him to do so, he being under trouble at the time, and declines farther answer to this question. interrogated, where she was from the period she left her master, mr. saddletree's family, until her appearance at her father's, at st. leonard's, the day before she was apprehended? declares, she does not remember. and, on the interrogatory being repeated, declares, she does not mind muckle about it, for she was very ill. on the question being again repeated, she declares, she will tell the truth, if it should be the undoing of her, so long as she is not asked to tell on other folk; and admits, that she passed that interval of time in the lodging of a woman, an acquaintance of that person who had wished her to that place to be delivered, and that she was there delivered accordingly of a male child. interrogated, what was the name of that person? declares and refuses to answer this question. interrogated, where she lives? declares, she has no certainty, for that she was taken to the lodging aforesaid under cloud of night. interrogated, if the lodging was in the city or suburbs? declares and refuses to answer that question. interrogated, whether, when she left the house of mr. saddletree, she went up or down the street? declares and refuses to answer the question. interrogated, whether she had ever seen the woman before she was wished to her, as she termed it, by the person whose name she refuses to answer? declares and replies, not to her knowledge. interrogated, whether this woman was introduced to her by the said person verbally, or by word of mouth? declares, she has no freedom to answer this question. interrogated, if the child was alive when it was born? declares, that--god help her and it!--it certainly was alive. interrogated, if it died a natural death after birth? declares, not to her knowledge. interrogated, where it now is? declares, she would give her right hand to ken, but that she never hopes to see mair than the banes of it. and being interrogated, why she supposes it is now dead? the declarant wept bitterly and made no answer. interrogated, if the woman, in whose lodging she was, seemed to be a fit person to be with her in that situation? declares, she might be fit enough for skill, but that she was an hard-hearted bad woman. interrogated, if there was any other person in the lodging excepting themselves two? declares, that she thinks there was another woman; but her head was so carried with pain of body and trouble of mind, that she minded her very little. interrogated, when the child was taken away from her? declared that she fell in a fever, and was light-headed, and when she came to her own mind, the woman told her the bairn was dead; and that the declarant answered, if it was dead it had had foul play. that, thereupon, the woman was very sair on her, and gave her much ill language; and that the deponent was frightened, and crawled out of the house when her back was turned, and went home to saint leonard's crags, as well as a woman in her condition dought.* * i.e. was able to do. interrogated, why she did not tell her story to her sister and father, and get force to search the house for her child, dead or alive? declares, it was her purpose to do so, but she had not time. interrogated, why she now conceals the name of the woman, and the place of her abode? the declarant remained silent for a time, and then said, that to do so could not repair the skaith that was done, but might be the occasion of more. interrogated, whether she had herself, at any time, had any purpose of putting away the child by violence? declares, never; so might god be merciful to her--and then again declares, never, when she was in her perfect senses; but what bad thoughts the enemy might put into her brain when she was out of herself, she cannot answer. and again solemnly interrogated, declares, that she would have been drawn with wild horses, rather than have touched the bairn with an unmotherly hand. interrogated, declares, that among the ill-language the woman gave her, she did say sure enough that the declarant had hurt the bairn when she was in the brain fever; but that the declarant does not believe that she said this from any other cause than to frighten her, and make her be silent. interrogated, what else the woman said to her? declares, that when the declarant cried loud for her bairn, and was like to raise the neighbours, the woman threatened her, that they that could stop the wean's skirling would stop hers, if she did not keep a' the founder.* * i.e. the quieter. and that this threat, with the manner of the woman, made the declarant conclude, that the bairn's life was gone, and her own in danger, for that the woman was a desperate bad woman, as the declarant judged from the language she used. interrogated, declares, that the fever and delirium were brought on her by hearing bad news, suddenly told to her, but refuses to say what the said news related to. interrogated, why she does not now communicate these particulars, which might, perhaps, enable the magistrate to ascertain whether the child is living or dead; and requested to observe, that her refusing to do so, exposes her own life, and leaves the child in bad hands; as also that her present refusal to answer on such points is inconsistent with her alleged intention to make a clean breast to her sister? declares, that she kens the bairn is now dead, or, if living, there is one that will look after it; that for her own living or dying, she is in god's hands, who knows her innocence of harming her bairn with her will or knowledge; and that she has altered her resolution of speaking out, which she entertained when she left the woman's lodging, on account of a matter which she has since learned. and declares, in general, that she is wearied, and will answer no more questions at this time." upon a subsequent examination, euphemia deans adhered to the declaration she had formerly made, with this addition, that a paper found in her trunk being shown to her, she admitted that it contained the credentials, in consequence of which she resigned herself to the conduct of the woman at whose lodgings she was delivered of the child. its tenor ran thus:-- "dearest effie,--i have gotten the means to send to you by a woman who is well qualified to assist you in your approaching streight; she is not what i could wish her, but i cannot do better for you in my present condition. i am obliged to trust to her in this present calamity, for myself and you too. i hope for the best, though i am now in a sore pinch; yet thought is free--i think handie dandie and i may queer the stifler* for all that is come and gone. * avoid the gallows. you will be angry for me writing this to my little cameronian lily; but if i can but live to be a comfort to you, and a father to your babie, you will have plenty of time to scold.--once more, let none knew your counsel--my life depends on this hag, d--n her--she is both deep and dangerous, but she has more wiles and wit than ever were in a beldam's head, and has cause to be true to me. farewell, my lily--do not droop on my account--in a week i will be yours or no more my own." then followed a postscript. "if they must truss me, i will repent of nothing so much, even at the last hard pinch, as of the injury i have done my lily." effie refused to say from whom she had received this letter, but enough of the story was now known, to ascertain that it came from robertson; and from the date, it appeared to have been written about the time when andrew wilson (called for a nickname handie dandie) and he were meditating their first abortive attempt to escape, which miscarried in the manner mentioned in the beginning of this history. the evidence of the crown being concluded, the counsel for the prisoner began to lead a proof in her defence. the first witnesses were examined upon the girl's character. all gave her an excellent one, but none with more feeling than worthy mrs. saddletree, who, with the tears on her cheeks, declared, that she could not have had a higher opinion of effie deans, nor a more sincere regard for her, if she had been her own daughter. all present gave the honest woman credit for her goodness of heart, excepting her husband, who whispered to dumbiedikes, "that nichil novit of yours is but a raw hand at leading evidence, i'm thinking. what signified his bringing a woman here to snotter and snivel, and bather their lordships? he should hae ceeted me, sir, and i should hae gien them sic a screed o' testimony, they shauldna hae touched a hair o' her head." "hadna ye better get up and tryt yet?" said the laird. "i'll mak a sign to novit." "na, na," said saddletree, "thank ye for naething, neighbour--that would be ultroneous evidence, and i ken what belangs to that; but nichil novit suld hae had me ceeted _debito tempore._" and wiping his mouth with his silk handkerchief with great importance, he resumed the port and manner of an edified and intelligent auditor. mr. fairbrother now premised, in a few words, "that he meant to bring forward his most important witness, upon whose evidence the cause must in a great measure depend. what his client was, they had learned from the preceding witnesses; and so far as general character, given in the most forcible terms, and even with tears, could interest every one in her fate, she had already gained that advantage. it was necessary, he admitted, that he should produce more positive testimony of her innocence than what arose out of general character, and this he undertook to do by the mouth of the person to whom she had communicated her situation--by the mouth of her natural counsellor and guardian--her sister.--macer, call into court, jean, or jeanie deans, daughter of david deans, cowfeeder, at saint leonard's crags!" when he uttered these words, the poor prisoner instantly started up, and stretched herself half-way over the bar, towards the side at which her sister was to enter. and when, slowly following the officer, the witness advanced to the foot of the table, effie, with the whole expression of her countenance altered, from that of confused shame and dismay, to an eager, imploring, and almost ecstatic earnestness of entreaty, with outstretched hands, hair streaming back, eyes raised eagerly to her sister's face, and glistening through tears, exclaimed in a tone which went through the heart of all who heard her,--"o jeanie, jeanie, save me, save me!" with a different feeling, yet equally appropriated to his proud and self-dependent character, old deans drew himself back still farther under the cover of the bench; so that when jeanie, as she entered the court, cast a timid glance towards the place at which she had left him seated, his venerable figure was no longer visible. he sate down on the other side of dumbiedikes, wrung his hand hard, and whispered, "ah, laird, this is warst of a'--if i can but win ower this part--i feel my head unco dizzy; but my master is strong in his servant's weakness." after a moment's mental prayer, he again started up, as if impatient of continuing in any one posture, and gradually edged himself forward towards the place he had just quitted. jeanie in the meantime had advanced to the bottom of the table, when, unable to resist the impulse of affections she suddenly extended her hand to her sister. effie was just within the distance that she could seize it with both hers, press it to her mouth, cover it with kisses, and bathe it in tears, with the fond devotion that a catholic would pay to a guardian saint descended for his safety; while jeanie, hiding her own face with her other hand, wept bitterly. the sight would have moved a heart of stone, much more of flesh and blood. many of the spectators shed tears, and it was some time before the presiding judge himself could so far subdue his emotion as to request the witness to compose herself, and the prisoner to forbear those marks of eager affection, which, however natural, could not be permitted at that time, and in that presence. the solemn oath,--"the truth to tell, and no truth to conceal, as far as she knew or should be asked," was then administered by the judge "in the name of god, and as the witness should answer to god at the great day of judgment;" an awful adjuration, which seldom fails to make impression even on the most hardened characters, and to strike with fear even the most upright. jeanie, educated in deep and devout reverence for the name and attributes of the deity, was, by the solemnity of a direct appeal to his person and justice, awed, but at the same time elevated above all considerations, save those which she could, with a clear conscience, call him to witness. she repeated the form in a low and reverent, but distinct tone of voice, after the judge, to whom, and not to any inferior officer of the court, the task is assigned in scotland of directing the witness in that solemn appeal which is the sanction of his testimony. when the judge had finished the established form, he added in a feeling, but yet a monitory tone, an advice, which the circumstances appeared to him to call for. "young woman," these were his words, "you come before this court in circumstances, which it would be worse than cruel not to pity and to sympathise with. yet it is my duty to tell you, that the truth, whatever its consequences may be, the truth is what you owe to your country, and to that god whose word is truth, and whose name you have now invoked. use your own time in answering the questions that gentleman" (pointing to the counsel) "shall put to you.--but remember, that what you may be tempted to say beyond what is the actual truth, you must answer both here and hereafter." the usual questions were then put to her:--whether any one had instructed her what evidence she had to deliver? whether any one had given or promised her any good deed, hire, or reward, for her testimony? whether she had any malice or ill-will at his majesty's advocate, being the party against whom she was cited as a witness? to which questions she successively answered by a quiet negative. but their tenor gave great scandal and offence to her father, who was not aware that they are put to every witness as a matter of form. "na, na," he exclaimed, loud enough to be heard, "my bairn is no like the widow of tekoah--nae man has putten words into her mouth." one of the judges, better acquainted, perhaps, with the books of adjournal than with the book of samuel, was disposed to make some instant inquiry after this widow of tekoah, who, as he construed the matter, had been tampering with the evidence. but the presiding judge, better versed in scripture history, whispered to his learned brother the necessary explanation; and the pause occasioned by this mistake had the good effect of giving jeanie deans time to collect her spirits for the painful task she had to perform. fairbrother, whose practice and intelligence were considerable, saw the necessity of letting the witness compose herself. in his heart he suspected that she came to bear false witness in her sister's cause. "but that is her own affair," thought fairbrother; "and it is my business to see that she has plenty of time to regain composure, and to deliver her evidence, be it true, or be it false--_valeat quantum._" accordingly, he commenced his interrogatories with uninteresting questions, which admitted of instant reply. "you are, i think, the sister of the prisoner?" "yes, sir." "not the full sister, however?" "no, sir--we are by different mothers." "true; and you are, i think, several years older than your sister?" "yes, sir," etc. after the advocate had conceived that, by these preliminary and unimportant questions, he had familiarised the witness with the situation in which she stood, he asked, "whether she had not remarked her sister's state of health to be altered, during the latter part of the term when she had lived with mrs. saddletree?" jeanie answered in the affirmative. "and she told you the cause of it, my dear, i suppose?" said fairbrother, in an easy, and, as one may say, an inductive sort of tone. "i am sorry to interrupt my brother," said the crown counsel, rising; "but i am in your lordships' judgment, whether this be not a leading question?" "if this point is to be debated," said the presiding judge, "the witness must be removed." for the scottish lawyers regard with a sacred and scrupulous horror every question so shaped by the counsel examining, as to convey to a witness the least intimation of the nature of the answer which is desired from him. these scruples, though founded on an excellent principle, are sometimes carried to an absurd pitch of nicety, especially as it is generally easy for a lawyer who has his wits about him to elude the objection. fairbrother did so in the present case. "it is not necessary to waste the time of the court, my lord since the king's counsel thinks it worth while to object to the form of my question, i will shape it otherwise.--pray, young woman, did you ask your sister any question when you observed her looking unwell?--take courage--speak out." "i asked her," replied jeanie, "what ailed her." "very well--take your own time--and what was the answer she made?" continued mr. fairbrother. jeanie was silent, and looked deadly pale. it was not that she at any one instant entertained an idea of the possibility of prevarication--it was the natural hesitation to extinguish the last spark of hope that remained for her sister. "take courage, young woman," said fairbrother.--"i asked what your sister said ailed her when you inquired?" "nothing," answered jeanie, with a faint voice, which was yet heard distinctly in the most distant corner of the court-room,--such an awful and profound silence had been preserved during the anxious interval, which had interposed betwixt the lawyer's question and the answer of the witness. fairbrother's countenance fell; but with that ready presence of mind, which is as useful in civil as in military emergencies, he immediately rallied.--"nothing? true; you mean nothing at _first_--but when you asked her again, did she not tell you what ailed her?" the question was put in a tone meant to make her comprehend the importance of her answer, had she not been already aware of it. the ice was broken, however, and with less pause than at first, she now replied,--"alack! alack! she never breathed word to me about it." a deep groan passed through the court. it was echoed by one deeper and more agonised from the unfortunate father. the hope to which unconsciously, and in spite of himself, he had still secretly clung, had now dissolved, and the venerable old man fell forward senseless on the floor of the court-house, with his head at the foot of his terrified daughter. the unfortunate prisoner, with impotent passion, strove with the guards betwixt whom she was placed. "let me gang to my father!--i _will_ gang to him--i _will_ gang to him--he is dead--he is killed--i hae killed him!"--she repeated, in frenzied tones of grief, which those who heard them did not speedily forget. even in this moment of agony and general confusion, jeanie did not lose that superiority, which a deep and firm mind assures to its possessor under the most trying circumstances. "he is my father--he is our father," she mildly repeated to those who endeavoured to separate them, as she stooped,--shaded aside his grey hairs, and began assiduously to chafe his temples. the judge, after repeatedly wiping his eyes, gave directions that they should be conducted into a neighbouring apartment, and carefully attended. the prisoner, as her father was borne from the court, and her sister slowly followed, pursued them with her eyes so earnestly fixed, as if they would have started from their sockets. but when they were no longer visible, she seemed to find, in her despairing and deserted state, a courage which she had not yet exhibited. "the bitterness of it is now past," she said, and then boldly, addressed the court. "my lords, if it is your pleasure to gang on wi' this matter, the weariest day will hae its end at last." the judge, who, much to his honour, had shared deeply in the general sympathy, was surprised at being recalled to his duty by the prisoner. he collected himself, and requested to know if the panel's counsel had more evidence to produce. fairbrother replied, with an air of dejection, that his proof was concluded. the king's counsel addressed the jury for the crown. he said in a few words, that no one could be more concerned than he was for the distressing scene which they had just witnessed. but it was the necessary consequence of great crimes to bring distress and ruin upon all connected with the perpetrators. he briefly reviewed the proof, in which he showed that all the circumstances of the case concurred with those required by the act under which the unfortunate prisoner was tried: that the counsel for the panel had totally failed in proving, that euphemia deans had communicated her situation to her sister: that, respecting her previous good character, he was sorry to observe, that it was females who possessed the world's good report, and to whom it was justly valuable, who were most strongly tempted, by shame and fear of the world's censure, to the crime of infanticide: that the child was murdered, he professed to entertain no doubt. the vacillating and inconsistent declaration of the prisoner herself, marked as it was by numerous refusals to speak the truth on subjects, when, according to her own story, it would have been natural, as well as advantageous, to have been candid; even this imperfect declaration left no doubt in his mind as to the fate of the unhappy infant. neither could he doubt that the panel was a partner in this guilt. who else had an interest in a deed so inhuman? surely neither robertson, nor robertson's agent, in whose house she was delivered, had the least temptation to commit such a crime, unless upon her account, with her connivance, and for the sake of saying her reputation. but it was not required of him, by the law, that he should bring precise proof of the murder, or of the prisoner's accession to it. it was the very purpose of the statute to substitute a certain chain of presumptive evidence in place of a probation, which, in such cases, it was peculiarly difficult to obtain. the jury might peruse the statute itself, and they had also the libel and interlocutor of relevancy to direct them in point of law. he put it to the conscience of the jury, that under both he was entitled to a verdict of guilty. the charge of fairbrother was much cramped by his having failed in the proof which he expected to lead. but he fought his losing cause with courage and constancy. he ventured to arraign the severity of the statute under which the young woman was tried. "in all other cases," he said, "the first thing required of the criminal prosecutor was to prove unequivocally that the crime libelled had actually been committed, which lawyers called proving the _corpus delicti._ but this statute, made doubtless with the best intentions, and under the impulse of a just horror for the unnatural crime of infanticide, ran the risk of itself occasioning the worst of murders, the death of an innocent person, to atone for a supposed crime which may never have been committed by anyone. he was so far from acknowledging the alleged probability of the child's violent death, that he could not even allow that there was evidence of its having ever lived." the king's counsel pointed to the woman's declaration; to which the counsel replied--"a production concocted in a moment of terror and agony, and which approached to insanity," he said, "his learned brother well knew was no sound evidence against the party who emitted it. it was true, that a judicial confession, in presence of the justices themselves, was the strongest of all proof, insomuch that it is said in law, that '_in confitentem nullae sunt partes judicis._' but this was true of judicial confession only, by which law meant that which is made in presence of the justices, and the sworn inquest. of extrajudicial confession, all authorities held with the illustrious farinaceus and matthaeus, '_confessio extrajudicialis in se nulla est; et quod nullum est, non potest adminiculari._' it was totally inept, and void of all strength and effect from the beginning; incapable, therefore, of being bolstered up or supported, or, according to the law phrase, adminiculated, by other presumptive circumstances. in the present case, therefore, letting the extrajudicial confession go, as it ought to go, for nothing," he contended, "the prosecutor had not made out the second quality of the statute, that a live child had been born; and _that,_ at least, ought to be established before presumptions were received that it had been murdered. if any of the assize," he said, "should be of opinion that this was dealing rather narrowly with the statute, they ought to consider that it was in its nature highly penal, and therefore entitled to no favourable construction." he concluded a learned speech, with an eloquent peroration on the scene they had just witnessed, during which saddletree fell fast asleep. it was now the presiding judge's turn to address the jury. he did so briefly and distinctly. "it was for the jury," he said, "to consider whether the prosecutor had made out his plea. for himself, he sincerely grieved to say, that a shadow of doubt remained not upon his mind concerning the verdict which the inquest had to bring in. he would not follow the prisoner's counsel through the impeachment which he had brought against the statute of king william and queen mary. he and the jury were sworn to judge according to the laws as they stood, not to criticise, or evade, or even to justify them. in no civil case would a counsel have been permitted to plead his client's case in the teeth of the law; but in the hard situation in which counsel were often placed in the criminal court, as well as out of favour to all presumptions of innocence, he had not inclined to interrupt the learned gentleman, or narrow his plea. the present law, as it now stood, had been instituted by the wisdom of their fathers, to check the alarming progress of a dreadful crime; when it was found too severe for its purpose it would doubtless be altered by the wisdom of the legislature; at present it was the law of the land, the rule of the court, and, according to the oath which they had taken, it must be that of the jury. this unhappy girl's situation could not be doubted; that she had borne a child, and that the child had disappeared, were certain facts. the learned counsel had failed to show that she had communicated her situation. all the requisites of the case required by the statute were therefore before the jury. the learned gentleman had, indeed, desired them to throw out of consideration the panel's own confession, which was the plea usually urged, in penury of all others, by counsel in his situation, who usually felt that the declarations of their clients bore hard on them. but that the scottish law designed that a certain weight should be laid on these declarations, which, he admitted, were _quodammodo_ extrajudicial, was evident from the universal practice by which they were always produced and read, as part of the prosecutor's probation. in the present case, no person who had heard the witnesses describe the appearance of the young woman before she left saddletree's house, and contrasted it with that of her state and condition at her return to her father's, could have any doubt that the fact of delivery had taken place, as set forth in her own declaration, which was, therefore, not a solitary piece of testimony, but adminiculated and supported by the strongest circumstantial proof. "he did not," he said, "state the impression upon his own mind with the purpose of biassing theirs. he had felt no less than they had done from the scene of domestic misery which had been exhibited before them; and if they, having god and a good conscience, the sanctity of their oath, and the regard due to the law of the country, before their eyes, could come to a conclusion favourable to this unhappy prisoner, he should rejoice as much as anyone in court; for never had he found his duty more distressing than in discharging it that day, and glad he would be to be relieved from the still more painful task which would otherwise remain for him." the jury, having heard the judge's address, bowed and retired, preceded by a macer of court, to the apartment destined for their deliberation. chapter twenty-third. law, take thy victim--may she find the mercy in yon mild heaven, which this hard world denies her! it was an hour ere the jurors returned, and as they traversed the crowd with slow steps, as men about to discharge themselves of a heavy and painful responsibility, the audience was hushed into profound, earnest, and awful silence. "have you agreed on your chancellor, gentlemen?" was the first question of the judge. the foreman, called in scotland the chancellor of the jury, usually the man of best rank and estimation among the assizers, stepped forward, and with a low reverence, delivered to the court a sealed paper, containing the verdict, which, until of late years, that verbal returns are in some instances permitted, was always couched in writing. the jury remained standing while the judge broke the seals, and having perused the paper, handed it with an air of mournful gravity down to the clerk of court, who proceeded to engross in the record the yet unknown verdict, of which, however, all omened the tragical contents. a form still remained, trifling and unimportant in itself, but to which imagination adds a sort of solemnity, from the awful occasion upon which it is used. a lighted candle was placed on the table, the original paper containing the verdict was enclosed in a sheet of paper, and, sealed with the judge's own signet, was transmitted to the crown office, to be preserved among other records of the same kind. as all this is transacted in profound silence, the producing and extinguishing the candle seems a type of the human spark which is shortly afterwards doomed to be quenched, and excites in the spectators something of the same effect which in england is obtained by the judge assuming the fatal cap of judgment. when these preliminary forms had been gone through, the judge required euphemia deans to attend to the verdict to be read. after the usual words of style, the verdict set forth, that the jury having made choice of john kirk, esq., to be their chancellor, and thomas moore, merchant, to be their clerk, did, by a plurality of voices, find the said euphemia deans guilty of the crime libelled; but, in consideration of her extreme youth, and the cruel circumstances of her case, did earnestly entreat that the judge would recommend her to the mercy of the crown. "gentlemen," said the judge, "you have done your duty--and a painful one it must have been to men of humanity like you. i will undoubtedly transmit your recommendation to the throne. but it is my duty to tell all who now hear me, but especially to inform that unhappy young woman, in order that her mind may be settled accordingly, that i have not the least hope of a pardon being granted in the present case. you know the crime has been increasing in this land, and i know farther, that this has been ascribed to the lenity in which the laws have been exercised, and that there is therefore no hope whatever of obtaining a remission for this offence." the jury bowed again, and, released from their painful office, dispersed themselves among the mass of bystanders. the court then asked mr. fairbrother whether he had anything to say, why judgment should not follow on the verdict? the counsel had spent some time in persuing and reperusing the verdict, counting the letters in each juror's name, and weighing every phrase, nay, every syllable, in the nicest scales of legal criticism. but the clerk of the jury had understood his business too well. no flaw was to be found, and fairbrother mournfully intimated, that he had nothing to say in arrest of judgment. the presiding judge then addressed the unhappy prisoner:--"euphemia deans, attend to the sentence of the court now to be pronounced against you." she rose from her seat, and with a composure far greater than could have been augured from her demeanour during some parts of the trial, abode the conclusion of the awful scene. so nearly does the mental portion of our feelings resemble those which are corporeal, that the first severe blows which we receive bring with them a stunning apathy, which renders us indifferent to those that follow them. thus said mandrin, when he was undergoing the punishment of the wheel; and so have all felt, upon whom successive inflictions have descended with continuous and reiterated violence.* * [the notorious mandrin was known as the captain-general of french & smugglers. see a tract on his exploits, printed .] "young woman," said the judge, "it is my painful duty to tell you, that your life is forfeited under a law, which, if it may seem in some degree severe, is yet wisely so, to render those of your unhappy situation aware what risk they run, by concealing, out of pride or false shame, their lapse from virtue, and making no preparation to save the lives of the unfortunate infants whom they are to bring into the world. when you concealed your situation from your mistress, your sister, and other worthy and compassionate persons of your own sex, in whose favour your former conduct had given you a fair place, you seem to me to have had in your contemplation, at least, the death of the helpless creature, for whose life you neglected to provide. how the child was disposed of--whether it was dealt upon by another, or by yourself--whether the extraordinary story you have told is partly false, or altogether so, is between god and your own conscience. i will not aggravate your distress by pressing on that topic, but i do most solemnly adjure you to employ the remaining space of your time in making your peace with god, for which purpose such reverend clergymen, as you yourself may name, shall have access to you. notwithstanding the humane recommendation of the jury, i cannot afford to you, in the present circumstances of the country, the slightest hope that your life will be prolonged beyond the period assigned for the execution of your sentence. forsaking, therefore, the thoughts of this world, let your mind be prepared by repentance for those of more awful moments--for death, judgment, and eternity.--doomster, read the sentence."* * note n. doomster, or dempster, of court. when the doomster showed himself, a tall haggard figure, arrayed in a fantastic garment of black and grey, passmented with silver lace, all fell back with a sort of instinctive horror, and made wide way for him to approach the foot of the table. as this office was held by the common executioner, men shouldered each other backward to avoid even the touch of his garment, and some were seen to brush their own clothes, which had accidentally become subject to such contamination. a sound went through the court, produced by each person drawing in their breath hard, as men do when they expect or witness what is frightful, and at the same time affecting. the caitiff villain yet seemed, amid his hardened brutality, to have some sense of his being the object of public detestation, which made him impatient of being in public, as birds of evil omen are anxious to escape from daylight, and from pure air. repeating after the clerk of court, he gabbled over the words of the sentence, which condemned euphemia deans to be conducted back to the tolbooth of edinburgh, and detained there until wednesday the day of ---; and upon that day, betwixt the hours of two and four o'clock afternoon, to be conveyed to the common place of execution, and there hanged by the neck upon a gibbet. "and this," said the doomster, aggravating his harsh voice, "i pronounce for _doom._" he vanished when he had spoken the last emphatic word, like a foul fiend after the purpose of his visitation had been accomplished; but the impression of horror excited by his presence and his errand, remained upon the crowd of spectators. the unfortunate criminal,--for so she must now be termed,--with more susceptibility, and more irritable feelings than her father and sister, was found, in this emergence, to possess a considerable share of their courage. she had remained standing motionless at the bar while the sentence was pronounced, and was observed to shut her eyes when the doomster appeared. but she was the first to break silence when that evil form had left his place. "god forgive ye, my lords," she said, "and dinna be angry wi' me for wishing it--we a' need forgiveness.--as for myself, i canna blame ye, for ye act up to your lights; and if i havena killed my poor infant, ye may witness a' that hae seen it this day, that i hae been the means of killing my greyheaded father--i deserve the warst frae man, and frae god too--but god is mair mercifu' to us than we are to each other." with these words the trial concluded. the crowd rushed, bearing forward and shouldering each other, out of the court, in the same tumultuary mode in which they had entered; and, in excitation of animal motion and animal spirits, soon forgot whatever they had felt as impressive in the scene which they had witnessed. the professional spectators, whom habit and theory had rendered as callous to the distress of the scene as medical men are to those of a surgical operation, walked homeward in groups, discussing the general principle of the statute under which the young woman was condemned, the nature of the evidence, and the arguments of the counsel, without considering even that of the judge as exempt from their criticism. the female spectators, more compassionate, were loud in exclamation against that part of the judge's speech which seemed to cut off the hope of pardon. "set him up, indeed," said mrs. howden, "to tell us that the poor lassie behoved to die, when mr. john kirk, as civil a gentleman as is within the ports of the town, took the pains to prigg for her himsell." "ay, but, neighbour," said miss damahoy, drawing up her thin maidenly form to its full height of prim dignity--"i really think this unnatural business of having bastard-bairns should be putten a stop to.--there isna a hussy now on this side of thirty that you can bring within your doors, but there will be chields--writer-lads, prentice-lads, and what not--coming traiking after them for their destruction, and discrediting ane's honest house into the bargain--i hae nae patience wi' them." "hout, neighbour," said mrs. howden, "we suld live and let live--we hae been young oursells, and we are no aye to judge the warst when lads and lasses forgather." "young oursells! and judge the warst!" said miss damahoy. "i am no sae auld as that comes to, mrs. howden; and as for what ye ca' the warst, i ken neither good nor bad about the matter, i thank my stars!" "ye are thankfu' for sma' mercies, then," said mrs. howden with a toss of her head; "and as for you and young--i trow ye were doing for yoursell at the last riding of the scots parliament, and that was in the gracious year seven, sae ye can be nae sic chicken at ony rate." plumdamas, who acted as squire of the body to the two contending dames, instantly saw the hazard of entering into such delicate points of chronology, and being a lover of peace and good neighbourhood, lost no time in bringing back the conversation to its original subject. "the judge didna tell us a' he could hae tell'd us, if he had liked, about the application for pardon, neighbours," said he "there is aye a wimple in a lawyer's clew; but it's a wee bit of a secret." "and what is't--what is't, neighbour plumdamas?" said mrs. howden and miss damahoy at once, the acid fermentation of their dispute being at once neutralised by the powerful alkali implied in the word secret. "here's mr. saddletree can tell ye that better than me, for it was him that tauld me," said plumdamas as saddletree came up, with his wife hanging on his arm, and looking very disconsolate. when the question was put to saddletree, he looked very scornful. "they speak about stopping the frequency of child-murder," said he, in a contemptuous tone; "do ye think our auld enemies of england, as glendook aye ca's them in his printed statute-book, care a boddle whether we didna kill ane anither, skin and birn, horse and foot, man, woman, and bairns, all and sindry, _omnes et singulos,_ as mr. crossmyloof says? na, na, it's no _that_ hinders them frae pardoning the bit lassie. but here is the pinch of the plea. the king and queen are sae ill pleased wi' that mistak about porteous, that deil a kindly scot will they pardon again, either by reprieve or remission, if the haill town o' edinburgh should be a' hanged on ae tow." "deil that they were back at their german kale-yard then, as my neighbour maccroskie ca's it," said mrs. howden, "an that's the way they're gaun to guide us!" "they say for certain," said miss damahoy, "that king george flang his periwig in the fire when he heard o' the porteous mob." "he has done that, they say," replied saddletree, "for less thing." "aweel," said miss damahoy, "he might keep mair wit in his anger--but it's a' the better for his wigmaker, i'se warrant." "the queen tore her biggonets for perfect anger,--ye'll hae heard o' that too?" said plumdamas. "and the king, they say, kickit sir robert walpole for no keeping down the mob of edinburgh; but i dinna believe he wad behave sae ungenteel." "it's dooms truth, though," said saddletree; "and he was for kickin' the duke of argyle* too." * note o. john duke of argyle and greenwich. "kickin' the duke of argyle!" exclaimed the hearers at once, in all the various combined keys of utter astonishment. "ay, but maccallummore's blood wadna sit down wi' that; there was risk of andro ferrara coming in thirdsman." "the duke is a real scotsman--a true friend to the country," answered saddletree's hearers. "ay, troth is he, to king and country baith, as ye sall hear," continued the orator, "if ye will come in bye to our house, for it's safest speaking of sic things _inter parietes._" when they entered his shop, he thrust his prentice boy out of it, and, unlocking his desk, took out, with an air of grave and complacent importance, a dirty and crumpled piece of printed paper; he observed, "this is new corn--it's no every body could show you the like o' this. it's the duke's speech about the porteous mob, just promulgated by the hawkers. ye shall hear what ian roy cean* says for himsell. * red john the warrior, a name personal and proper in the highlands to john duke of argyle and greenwich, as maccummin was that of his race or dignity. my correspondent bought it in the palace-yard, that's like just under the king's nose--i think he claws up their mittans!--it came in a letter about a foolish bill of exchange that the man wanted me to renew for him. i wish ye wad see about it, mrs. saddletree." honest mrs. saddletree had hitherto been so sincerely distressed about the situation of her unfortunate prote'ge'e, that she had suffered her husband to proceed in his own way, without attending to what he was saying. the words bills and renew had, however, an awakening sound in them; and she snatched the letter which her husband held towards her, and wiping her eyes, and putting on her spectacles, endeavoured, as fast as the dew which collected on her glasses would permit, to get at the meaning of the needful part of the epistle; while her husband, with pompous elevation, read an extract from the speech. "i am no minister, i never was a minister, and i never will be one" "i didna ken his grace was ever designed for the ministry," interrupted mrs. howden. "he disna mean a minister of the gospel, mrs. howden, but a minister of state," said saddletree, with condescending goodness, and then proceeded: "the time was when i might have been a piece of a minister, but i was too sensible of my own incapacity to engage in any state affair. and i thank god that i had always too great a value for those few abilities which nature has given me, to employ them in doing any drudgery, or any job of what kind soever. i have, ever since i set out in the world (and i believe few have set out more early), served my prince with my tongue; i have served him with any little interest i had, and i have served him with my sword, and in my profession of arms. i have held employments which i have lost, and were i to be to-morrow deprived of those which still remain to me, and which i have endeavoured honestly to deserve, i would still serve him to the last acre of my inheritance, and to the last drop of my blood" mrs. saddletree here broke in upon the orator:--"mr. saddletree, what _is_ the meaning of a' this? here are ye clavering about the duke of argyle, and this man martingale gaun to break on our hands, and lose us gude sixty pounds--i wonder what duke will pay that, quotha--i wish the duke of argyle would pay his ain accounts--he is in a thousand punds scots on thae very books when he was last at roystoun--i'm no saying but he's a just nobleman, and that it's gude siller--but it wad drive ane daft to be confused wi' deukes and drakes, and thae distressed folk up-stairs, that's jeanie deans and her father. and then, putting the very callant that was sewing the curpel out o' the shop, to play wi' blackguards in the close--sit still, neighbours, it's no that i mean to disturb _you;_ but what between courts o' law and courts o' state, and upper and under parliaments, and parliament houses, here and in london, the gudeman's gane clean gyte, i think." the gossips understood civility, and the rule of doing as they would be done by, too well, to tarry upon the slight invitation implied in the conclusion of this speech, and therefore made their farewells and departure as fast as possible, saddletree whispering to plundamas that he would "meet him at maccroskie's" (the low-browed shop in the luckenbooths, already mentioned), "in the hour of cause, and put maccallummore's speech in his pocket, for a' the gudewife's din." when mrs. saddletree saw the house freed of her importunate visitors, and the little boy reclaimed from the pastimes of the wynd to the exercise of the awl, she went to visit her unhappy relative, david deans, and his elder daughter, who had found in her house the nearest place of friendly refuge. [illustration: bookcover] [illustration: spines] the heart of mid-lothian, volume by walter scott tales of my landlord collected and arranged by jedediah cleishbotham, schoolmaster and parish clerk of gandercleugh. second series. [illustration: titlepage] the heart of mid-lothian. chapter first. isab.--alas! what poor ability's in me to do him good? lucio.--assay the power you have. measure for measure. when mrs. saddletree entered the apartment in which her guests had shrouded their misery, she found the window darkened. the feebleness which followed his long swoon had rendered it necessary to lay the old man in bed. the curtains were drawn around him, and jeanie sate motionless by the side of the bed. mrs. saddletree was a woman of kindness, nay, of feeling, but not of delicacy. she opened the half-shut window, drew aside the curtain, and, taking her kinsman by the hand, exhorted him to sit up, and bear his sorrow like a good man, and a christian man, as he was. but when she quitted his hand, it fell powerless by his side, nor did he attempt the least reply. "is all over?" asked jeanie, with lips and cheeks as pale as ashes,--"and is there nae hope for her?" "nane, or next to nane," said mrs. saddletree; "i heard the judge-carle say it with my ain ears--it was a burning shame to see sae mony o' them set up yonder in their red gowns and black gowns, and to take the life o' a bit senseless lassie. i had never muckle broo o' my gudeman's gossips, and now i like them waur than ever. the only wiselike thing i heard onybody say, was decent mr. john kirk of kirk-knowe, and he wussed them just to get the king's mercy, and nae mair about it. but he spake to unreasonable folk--he might just hae keepit his breath to hae blawn on his porridge." "but _can_ the king gie her mercy?" said jeanie, earnestly. "some folk tell me he canna gie mercy in cases of mur in cases like hers." "_can_ he gie mercy, hinny?--i weel i wot he can, when he likes. there was young singlesword, that stickit the laird of ballencleuch, and captain hackum, the englishman, that killed lady colgrain's gudeman, and the master of saint clair, that shot the twa shaws,* and mony mair in my time--to be sure they were gentle blood, and had their, kin to speak for them--and there was jock porteous the other day--i'se warrant there's mercy, an folk could win at it." * [in , the author presented to the roxburgh club a curious volume containing the "proceedings in the court-martial held upon john, master of sinclair, for the murder of ensign schaw, and captain schaw, th october ."] "porteous?" said jeanie; "very true--i forget a' that i suld maist mind.-- fare ye weel, mrs. saddletree; and may ye never want a friend in the hour of distress!" "will ye no stay wi' your father, jeanie, bairn?--ye had better," said mrs. saddletree. "i will be wanted ower yonder," indicating the tolbooth with her hand, "and i maun leave him now, or i will never be able to leave him. i fearna for his life--i ken how strong-hearted he is--i ken it," she said, laying her hand on her bosom, "by my ain heart at this minute." "weel, hinny, if ye think it's for the best, better he stay here and rest him, than gang back to st. leonard's." "muckle better--muckle better--god bless you!--god bless you!--at no rate let him gang till ye hear frae me," said jeanie. "but ye'll be back belive?" said mrs. saddletree, detaining her; "they winna let ye stay yonder, hinny." "but i maun gang to st. leonard's--there's muckle to be dune, and little time to do it in--and i have friends to speak to--god bless you--take care of my father." she had reached the door of the apartment, when, suddenly turning, she came back, and knelt down by the bedside.--"o father, gie me your blessing--i dare not go till ye bless me. say but 'god bless ye, and prosper ye, jeanie'--try but to say that!" instinctively, rather than by an exertion of intellect, the old man murmured a prayer, that "purchased and promised blessings might be multiplied upon her." "he has blessed mine errand," said his daughter, rising from her knees, "and it is borne in upon my mind that i shall prosper." so saying, she left the room. mrs. saddletree looked after her, and shook her head. "i wish she binna roving, poor thing--there's something queer about a' thae deanses. i dinna like folk to be sae muckle better than other folk--seldom comes gude o't. but if she's gaun to look after the kye at st. leonard's, that's another story; to be sure they maun be sorted.--grizzie, come up here, and tak tent to the honest auld man, and see he wants naething.--ye silly tawpie" (addressing the maid-servant as she entered), "what garr'd ye busk up your cockemony that gate?--i think there's been enough the day to gie an awfa' warning about your cockups and your fallal duds--see what they a' come to," etc. etc. etc. leaving the good lady to her lecture upon worldly vanities, we must transport our reader to the cell in which the unfortunate effie deans was now immured, being restricted of several liberties which she had enjoyed before the sentence was pronounced. when she had remained about an hour in the state of stupified horror so natural in her situation, she was disturbed by the opening of the jarring bolts of her place of confinement, and ratcliffe showed himself. "it's your sister," he said, "wants to speak t'ye, effie." "i canna see naebody," said effie, with the hasty irritability which misery had rendered more acute--"i canna see naebody, and least of a' her--bid her take care o' the auld man--i am naething to ony o' them now, nor them to me." "she says she maun see ye, though," said ratcliffe; and jeanie, rushing into the apartment, threw her arms round her sister's neck, who writhed to extricate herself from her embrace. "what signifies coming to greet ower me," said poor effie, "when you have killed me?--killed me, when a word of your mouth would have saved me--killed me, when i am an innocent creature--innocent of that guilt at least--and me that wad hae wared body and soul to save your finger from being hurt?" "you shall not die," said jeanie, with enthusiastic firmness; "say what you like o' me--think what you like o' me--only promise--for i doubt your proud heart--that ye wunna harm yourself, and you shall not die this shameful death." "a _shameful_ death i will not die, jeanie, lass. i have that in my heart--though it has been ower kind a ane--that wunna bide shame. gae hame to our father, and think nae mair on me--i have eat my last earthly meal." "oh, this was what i feared!" said jeanie. "hout, tout, hinny," said ratcliffe; "it's but little ye ken o' thae things. ane aye thinks at the first dinnle o' the sentence, they hae heart eneugh to die rather than bide out the sax weeks; but they aye bide the sax weeks out for a' that. i ken the gate o't weel; i hae fronted the doomster three times, and here i stand, jim ratcliffe, for a' that. had i tied my napkin strait the first time, as i had a great mind till't--and it was a' about a bit grey cowt, wasna worth ten punds sterling--where would i have been now?" "and how _did_ you escape?" said jeanie, the fates of this man, at first so odious to her, having acquired a sudden interest in her eyes from their correspondence with those of her sister. "_how_ did i escape?" said ratcliffe, with a knowing wink,--"i tell ye i 'scapit in a way that naebody will escape from this tolbooth while i keep the keys." "my sister shall come out in the face of the sun," said jeanie; "i will go to london, and beg her pardon from the king and queen. if they pardoned porteous, they may pardon her; if a sister asks a sister's life on her bended knees, they will pardon her--they _shall_ pardon her--and they will win a thousand hearts by it." effie listened in bewildered astonishment, and so earnest was her sister's enthusiastic assurance, that she almost involuntarily caught a gleam of hope; but it instantly faded away. "ah, jeanie! the king and queen live in london, a thousand miles from this--far ayont the saut sea; i'll be gane before ye win there." "you are mistaen," said jeanie; "it is no sae far, and they go to it by land; i learned something about thae things from reuben butler." "ah, jeanie! ye never learned onything but what was gude frae the folk ye keepit company wi'; but!--but!"--she wrung her hands and wept bitterly. "dinna think on that now," said jeanie; "there will be time for that if the present space be redeemed. fare ye weel. unless i die by the road, i will see the king's face that gies grace--o, sir" (to ratcliffe), "be kind to her--she ne'er ken'd what it was to need a stranger's kindness till now.--fareweel--fareweel, effie!--dinna speak to me--i maunna greet now--my head's ower dizzy already!" she tore herself from her sister's arms, and left the cell. ratcliffe followed her, and beckoned her into a small room. she obeyed his signal, but not without trembling. "what's the fule thing shaking for?" said he; "i mean nothing but civility to you. d--n me, i respect you, and i can't help it. you have so much spunk, that d--n me, but i think there's some chance of your carrying the day. but you must not go to the king till you have made some friend; try the duke--try maccallummore; he's scotland's friend--i ken that the great folks dinna muckle like him--but they fear him, and that will serve your purpose as weel. d'ye ken naebody wad gie ye a letter to him?" "duke of argyle!" said jeanie, recollecting herself suddenly, "what was he to that argyle that suffered in my father's time--in the persecution?" "his son or grandson, i'm thinking," said ratcliffe, "but what o' that?" "thank god!" said jeanie, devoutly clasping her hands. "you whigs are aye thanking god for something," said the ruffian. "but hark ye, hinny, i'll tell ye a secret. ye may meet wi' rough customers on the border, or in the midland, afore ye get to lunnon. now, deil ane o' them will touch an acquaintance o' daddie ratton's; for though i am retired frae public practice, yet they ken i can do a gude or an ill turn yet--and deil a gude fellow that has been but a twelvemonth on the lay, be he ruffler or padder, but he knows my gybe* as well as the jark** of e'er a queer cuffin*** in england--and there's rogue's latin for you." * pass. ** seal. *** justice of peace. it was indeed totally unintelligible to jeanie deans, who was only impatient to escape from him. he hastily scrawled a line or two on a dirty piece of paper, and said to her, as she drew back when he offered it, "hey!--what the deil--it wunna bite you, my lass--if it does nae gude, it can do nae ill. but i wish you to show it, if you have ony fasherie wi' ony o' st. nicholas's clerks." "alas!" said she, "i do not understand what you mean." "i mean, if ye fall among thieves, my precious,--that is a scripture phrase, if ye will hae ane--the bauldest of them will ken a scart o' my guse feather. and now awa wi' ye--and stick to argyle; if onybody can do the job, it maun be him." after casting an anxious look at the grated windows and blackened walls of the old tolbooth, and another scarce less anxious at the hospitable lodging of mrs. saddletree, jeanie turned her back on that quarter, and soon after on the city itself. she reached st. leonard's crags without meeting any one whom she knew, which, in the state of her mind, she considered as a great blessing. "i must do naething," she thought, as she went along, "that can soften or weaken my heart--it's ower weak already for what i hae to do. i will think and act as firmly as i can, and speak as little." there was an ancient servant, or rather cottar, of her father's, who had lived under him for many years, and whose fidelity was worthy of full confidence. she sent for this woman, and explaining to her that the circumstances of her family required that she should undertake a journey, which would detain her for some weeks from home, she gave her full instructions concerning the management of the domestic concerns in her absence. with a precision, which, upon reflection, she herself could not help wondering at, she described and detailed the most minute steps which were to be taken, and especially such as were necessary for her father's comfort. "it was probable," she said, "that he would return to st. leonard's to-morrow! certain that he would return very soon--all must be in order for him. he had eneugh to distress him, without being fashed about warldly matters." in the meanwhile she toiled busily, along with may hettly, to leave nothing unarranged. it was deep in the night when all these matters were settled; and when they had partaken of some food, the first which jeanie had tasted on that eventful day, may hettly, whose usual residence was a cottage at a little distance from deans's house, asked her young mistress, whether she would not permit her to remain in the house all night? "ye hae had an awfu' day," she said, "and sorrow and fear are but bad companions in the watches of the night, as i hae heard the gudeman say himself." "they are ill companions indeed," said jeanie; "but i maun learn to abide their presence, and better begin in the house than in the field." she dismissed her aged assistant accordingly,--for so slight was the gradation in their rank of life, that we can hardly term may a servant,--and proceeded to make a few preparations for her journey. the simplicity of her education and country made these preparations very brief and easy. her tartan screen served all the purposes of a riding-habit and of an umbrella; a small bundle contained such changes of linen as were absolutely necessary. barefooted, as sancho says, she had come into the world, and barefooted she proposed to perform her pilgrimage; and her clean shoes and change of snow-white thread stockings were to be reserved for special occasions of ceremony. she was not aware, that the english habits of comfort attach an idea of abject misery to the idea of a barefooted traveller; and if the objection of cleanliness had been made to the practice, she would have been apt to vindicate herself upon the very frequent ablutions to which, with mahometan scrupulosity, a scottish damsel of some condition usually subjects herself. thus far, therefore, all was well. from an oaken press, or cabinet, in which her father kept a few old books, and two or three bundles of papers, besides his ordinary accounts and receipts, she sought out and extracted from a parcel of notes of sermons, calculations of interest, records of dying speeches of the martyrs, and the like, one or two documents which she thought might be of some use to her upon her mission. but the most important difficulty remained behind, and it had not occurred to her until that very evening. it was the want of money; without which it was impossible she could undertake so distant a journey as she now meditated. david deans, as we have said, was easy, and even opulent in his circumstances. but his wealth, like that of the patriarchs of old, consisted in his kine and herds, and in two or three sums lent out at interest to neighbours or relatives, who, far from being in circumstances to pay anything to account of the principal sums, thought they did all that was incumbent on them when, with considerable difficulty, they discharged the "annual rent." to these debtors it would be in vain, therefore, to apply, even with her father's concurrence; nor could she hope to obtain such concurrence, or assistance in any mode, without such a series of explanations and debates as she felt might deprive her totally of the power of taking the step, which, however daring and hazardous, she felt was absolutely necessary for trying the last chance in favour of her sister. without departing from filial reverence, jeanie had an inward conviction that the feelings of her father, however just, and upright, and honourable, were too little in unison with the spirit of the time to admit of his being a good judge of the measures to be adopted in this crisis. herself more flexible in manner, though no less upright in principle, she felt that to ask his consent to her pilgrimage would be to encounter the risk of drawing down his positive prohibition, and under that she believed her journey could not be blessed in its progress and event. accordingly, she had determined upon the means by which she might communicate to him her undertaking and its purpose, shortly after her actual departure. but it was impossible to apply to him for money without altering this arrangement, and discussing fully the propriety of her journey; pecuniary assistance from that quarter, therefore, was laid out of the question. it now occurred to jeanie that she should have consulted with mrs. saddletree on this subject. but, besides the time that must now necessarily be lost in recurring to her assistance jeanie internally revolted from it. her heart acknowledged the goodness of mrs. saddletree's general character, and the kind interest she took in their family misfortunes; but still she felt that mrs. saddletree was a woman of an ordinary and worldly way of thinking, incapable, from habit and temperament, of taking a keen or enthusiastic view of such a resolution as she had formed; and to debate the point with her, and to rely upon her conviction of its propriety, for the means of carrying it into execution, would have been gall and wormwood. butler, whose assistance she might have been assured of, was greatly poorer than herself. in these circumstances, she formed a singular resolution for the purpose of surmounting this difficulty, the execution of which will form the subject of the next chapter. chapter second 'tis the voice of the sluggard, i've heard him complain, "you have waked me too soon, i must slumber again;" as the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, turns his side, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. dr. watts. the mansion-house of dumbiedikes, to which we are now to introduce our readers, lay three or four miles--no matter for the exact topography--to the southward of st. leonard's. it had once borne the appearance of some little celebrity; for the "auld laird," whose humours and pranks were often mentioned in the ale-houses for about a mile round it, wore a sword, kept a good horse, and a brace of greyhounds; brawled, swore, and betted at cock-fights and horse-matches; followed somerville of drum's hawks, and the lord ross's hounds, and called himself _point devise_ a gentleman. but the line had been veiled of its splendour in the present proprietor, who cared for no rustic amusements, and was as saying, timid, and retired, as his father had been at once grasping and selfishly extravagant--daring, wild, and intrusive. dumbiedikes was what is called in scotland a single house; that is, having only one room occupying its whole depth from back to front, each of which single apartments was illuminated by six or eight cross lights, whose diminutive panes and heavy frames permitted scarce so much light to enter as shines through one well-constructed modern window. this inartificial edifice, exactly such as a child would build with cards, had a steep roof flagged with coarse grey stones instead of slates; a half-circular turret, battlemented, or, to use the appropriate phrase, bartizan'd on the top, served as a case for a narrow turnpike stair, by which an ascent was gained from storey to storey; and at the bottom of the said turret was a door studded with large-headed nails. there was no lobby at the bottom of the tower, and scarce a landing-place opposite to the doors which gave access to the apartments. one or two low and dilapidated outhouses, connected by a courtyard wall equally ruinous, surrounded the mansion. the court had been paved, but the flags being partly displaced and partly renewed, a gallant crop of docks and thistles sprung up between them, and the small garden, which opened by a postern through the wall, seemed not to be in a much more orderly condition. over the low-arched gateway which led into the yard there was a carved stone, exhibiting some attempt at armorial bearings; and above the inner entrance hung, and had hung, for many years, the mouldering hatchment, which announced that umquhile laurence dumbie of dumbiedikes had been gathered to his fathers in newbattle kirkyard. the approach to this palace of pleasure was by a road formed by the rude fragments of stone gathered from the fields, and it was surrounded by ploughed, but unenclosed land. upon a baulk, that is, an unploughed ridge of land interposed among the corn, the laird's trusty palfrey was tethered by the head, and picking a meal of grass. the whole argued neglect and discomfort; the consequence, however, of idleness and indifference, not of poverty. in this inner court, not without a sense of bashfulness and timidity, stood jeanie deans, at an early hour in a fine spring morning. she was no heroine of romance, and therefore looked with some curiosity and interest on the mansion-house and domains, of which, it might at that moment occur to her, a little encouragement, such as women of all ranks know by instinct how to apply, might have made her mistress. moreover, she was no person of taste beyond her time, rank, and country, and certainly thought the house of dumbiedikes, though inferior to holyrood house, or the palace at dalkeith, was still a stately structure in its way, and the land a "very bonny bit, if it were better seen to and done to." but jeanie deans was a plain, true-hearted, honest girl, who, while she acknowledged all the splendour of her old admirer's habitation, and the value of his property, never for a moment harboured a thought of doing the laird, butler, or herself, the injustice, which many ladies of higher rank would not have hesitated to do to all three on much less temptation. her present errand being with the laird, she looked round the offices to see if she could find any domestic to announce that she wished to see him. as all was silence, she ventured to open one door--it was the old laird's dog-kennel, now deserted, unless when occupied, as one or two tubs seemed to testify, as a washing-house. she tried another--it was the rootless shed where the hawks had been once kept, as appeared from a perch or two not yet completely rotten, and a lure and jesses which were mouldering on the wall. a third door led to the coal-house, which was well stocked. to keep a very good fire was one of the few points of domestic management in which dumbiedikes was positively active; in all other matters of domestic economy he was completely passive, and at the mercy of his housekeeper--the same buxom dame whom his father had long since bequeathed to his charge, and who, if fame did her no injustice, had feathered her nest pretty well at his expense. jeanie went on opening doors, like the second calender wanting an eye, in the castle of the hundred obliging damsels, until, like the said prince errant, she came to a stable. the highland pegasus, rory bean, to which belonged the single entire stall, was her old acquaintance, whom she had seen grazing on the baulk, as she failed not to recognise by the well-known ancient riding furniture and demi-pique saddle, which half hung on the walls, half trailed on the litter. beyond the "treviss," which formed one side of the stall, stood a cow, who turned her head and lowed when jeanie came into the stable, an appeal which her habitual occupations enabled her perfectly to understand, and with which she could not refuse complying, by shaking down some fodder to the animal, which had been neglected like most things else in the castle of the sluggard. while she was accommodating "the milky mother" with the food which she should have received two hours sooner, a slipshod wench peeped into the stable, and perceiving that a stranger was employed in discharging the task which she, at length, and reluctantly, had quitted her slumbers to perform, ejaculated, "eh, sirs! the brownie! the brownie!" and fled, yelling as if she had seen the devil. to explain her terror it may be necessary to notice that the old house of dumbiedikes had, according to report, been long haunted by a brownie, one of those familiar spirits who were believed in ancient times to supply the deficiencies of the ordinary labourer-- whirl the long mop, and ply the airy flail. certes, the convenience of such a supernatural assistance could have been nowhere more sensibly felt than in a family where the domestics were so little disposed to personal activity; yet this serving maiden was so far from rejoicing in seeing a supposed aerial substitute discharging a task which she should have long since performed herself, that she proceeded to raise the family by her screams of horror, uttered as thick as if the brownie had been flaying her. jeanie, who had immediately resigned her temporary occupation, and followed the yelling damsel into the courtyard, in order to undeceive and appease her, was there met by mrs. janet balchristie, the favourite sultana of the last laird, as scandal went--the housekeeper of the present. the good-looking buxom woman, betwixt forty and fifty (for such we described her at the death of the last laird), was now a fat, red-faced, old dame of seventy, or thereabouts, fond of her place, and jealous of her authority. conscious that her administration did not rest on so sure a basis as in the time of the old proprietor, this considerate lady had introduced into the family the screamer aforesaid, who added good features and bright eyes to the powers of her lungs. she made no conquest of the laird, however, who seemed to live as if there was not another woman in the world but jeanie deans, and to bear no very ardent or overbearing affection even to her. mrs. janet balchristie, notwithstanding, had her own uneasy thoughts upon the almost daily visits to st. leonard's crags, and often, when the laird looked at her wistfully and paused, according to his custom before utterance, she expected him to say, "jenny, i am gaun to change my condition;" but she was relieved by, "jenny, i am gaun to change my shoon." still, however, mrs. balchristie regarded jeanie deans with no small portion of malevolence, the customary feeling of such persons towards anyone who they think has the means of doing them an injury. but she had also a general aversion to any female tolerably young, and decently well-looking, who showed a wish to approach the house of dumbiedikes and the proprietor thereof. and as she had raised her mass of mortality out of bed two hours earlier than usual, to come to the rescue of her clamorous niece, she was in such extreme bad humour against all and sundry, that saddletree would have pronounced that she harboured _inimicitiam contra omnes mortales._ "wha the deil are ye?" said the fat dame to poor jeanie, whom she did not immediately recognise, "scouping about a decent house at sic an hour in the morning?" "it was ane wanting to speak to the laird," said jeanie, who felt something of the intuitive terror which she had formerly entertained for this termagant, when she was occasionally at dumbiedikes on business of her father's. "ane!--and what sort of ane are ye!--hae ye nae name?--d'ye think his honour has naething else to do than to speak wi' ilka idle tramper that comes about the town, and him in his bed yet, honest man?" "dear mrs. balchristie," replied jeanie, in a submissive tone, "d'ye no mind me?--d'ye no mind jeanie deans?" "jeanie deans!" said the termagant, in accents affecting the utmost astonishment; then, taking two strides nearer to her, she peered into her face with a stare of curiosity, equally scornful and malignant--"i say jeanie deans indeed--jeanie deevil, they had better hae ca'ed ye!--a bonny spot o' wark your tittie and you hae made out, murdering ae puir wean, and your light limmer of a sister's to be hanged for't, as weel she deserves!--and the like o' you to come to ony honest man's house, and want to be into a decent bachelor gentleman's room at this time in the morning, and him in his bed!--gae wa', gae wa'!" jeanie was struck mute with shame at the unfeeling brutality of this accusation, and could not even find words to justify herself from the vile construction put upon her visit. when mrs. balchristie, seeing her advantage, continued in the same tone, "come, come, bundle up your pipes and tramp awa wi' ye!--ye may be seeking a father to another wean for ony thing i ken. if it warna that your father, auld david deans, had been a tenant on our land, i would cry up the men-folk, and hae ye dookit in the burn for your impudence." jeanie had already turned her back, and was walking towards the door of the court-yard, so that mrs. balchristie, to make her last threat impressively audible to her, had raised her stentorian voice to its utmost pitch. but, like many a general, she lost the engagement by pressing her advantage too far. the laird had been disturbed in his morning slumbers by the tones of mrs. balchristie's objurgation, sounds in themselves by no means uncommon, but very remarkable, in respect to the early hour at which they were now heard. he turned himself on the other side, however, in hopes the squall would blow by, when, in the course of mrs. balchristie's second explosion of wrath, the name of deans distinctly struck the tympanum of his ear. as he was, in some degree, aware of the small portion of benevolence with which his housekeeper regarded the family at st. leonard's, he instantly conceived that some message from thence was the cause of this untimely ire, and getting out of his bed, he slipt as speedily as possible into an old brocaded night-gown, and some other necessary garments, clapped on his head his father's gold-laced hat (for though he was seldom seen without it, yet it is proper to contradict the popular report that he slept in it, as don quixote did in his helmet), and opening the window of his bedroom, beheld, to his great astonishment, the well-known figure of jeanie deans herself retreating from his gate; while his housekeeper, with arms a-kimbo, fist clenched and extended, body erect, and head shaking with rage, sent after her a volley of billingsgate oaths. his choler rose in proportion to the surprise, and, perhaps, to the disturbance of his repose. "hark ye," he exclaimed from the window, "ye auld limb of satan--wha the deil gies you commission to guide an honest man's daughter that gate?" mrs. balchristie was completely caught in the manner. she was aware, from the unusual warmth with which the laird expressed himself, that he was quite serious in this matter, and she knew, that with all his indolence of nature, there were points on which he might be provoked, and that, being provoked, he had in him something dangerous, which her wisdom taught her to fear accordingly. she began, therefore, to retract her false step as fast as she could. "she was but speaking for the house's credit, and she couldna think of disturbing his honour in the morning sae early, when the young woman might as weel wait or call again; and to be sure, she might make a mistake between the twa sisters, for ane o' them wasna sae creditable an acquaintance." "haud your peace, ye auld jade," said dumbiedikes; "the warst quean e'er stude in their shoon may ca' you cousin, an a' be true that i have heard.--jeanie, my woman, gang into the parlour--but stay, that winna be redd up yet--wait there a minute till i come down to let ye in--dinna mind what jenny says to ye." "na, na," said jenny, with a laugh of affected heartiness, "never mind me, lass--a' the warld kens my bark's waur than my bite--if ye had had an appointment wi' the laird, ye might hae tauld me--i am nae uncivil person--gang your ways in by, hinny," and she opened the door of the house with a master-key. "but i had no appointment wi' the laird," said jeanie, drawing back; "i want just to speak twa words to him, and i wad rather do it standing here, mrs. balchristie." "in the open court-yard!--na, na, that wad never do, lass; we mauna guide ye that gate neither--and how's that douce honest man, your father?" jeanie was saved the pain of answering this hypocritical question by the appearance of the laird himself. "gang in and get breakfast ready," said he to his housekeeper--"and, d'ye hear, breakfast wi' us yoursell--ye ken how to manage thae porringers of tea-water--and, hear ye, see abune a' that there's a gude fire.--weel, jeanie, my woman, gang in by--gang in by, and rest ye." "na, laird," jeanie replied, endeavouring as much as she could to express herself with composure, notwithstanding she still trembled, "i canna gang in--i have a lang day's darg afore me--i maun be twenty mile o' gate the night yet, if feet will carry me." "guide and deliver us!--twenty mile--twenty mile on your feet!" ejaculated dumbiedikes, whose walks were of a very circumscribed diameter,--"ye maun never think o' that--come in by." "i canna do that, laird," replied jeanie; "the twa words i have to say to ye i can say here; forby that mrs. balchristie" "the deil flee awa wi' mrs. balchristie," said dumbiedikes, "and he'll hae a heavy lading o' her! i tell ye, jeanie deans, i am a man of few words, but i am laird at hame, as well as in the field; deil a brute or body about my house but i can manage when i like, except rory bean, my powny; but i can seldom be at the plague, an it binna when my bluid's up." "i was wanting to say to ye, laird," said jeanie, who felt the necessity of entering upon her business, "that i was gaun a lang journey, outby of my father's knowledge." "outby his knowledge, jeanie!--is that right? ye maun think ot again--it's no right," said dumbiedikes, with a countenance of great concern. "if i were ance at lunnon," said jeanie, in exculpation, "i am amaist sure i could get means to speak to the queen about my sister's life." "lunnon--and the queen--and her sister's life!" said dumbiedikes, whistling for very amazement--"the lassie's demented." "i am no out o' my mind," said she, "and sink or swim, i am determined to gang to lunnon, if i suld beg my way frae door to door--and so i maun, unless ye wad lend me a small sum to pay my expenses--little thing will do it; and ye ken my father's a man of substance, and wad see nae man, far less you, laird, come to loss by me." dumbiedikes, on comprehending the nature of this application, could scarce trust his ears--he made no answer whatever, but stood with his eyes rivetted on the ground. "i see ye are no for assisting me, laird," said jeanie, "sae fare ye weel--and gang and see my poor father as aften as ye can--he will be lonely eneugh now." "where is the silly bairn gaun?" said dumbiedikes; and, laying hold of her hand, he led her into the house. "it's no that i didna think o't before," he said, "but it stack in my throat." thus speaking to himself, he led her into an old-fashioned parlour, shut the door behind them, and fastened it with a bolt. while jeanie, surprised at this manoeuvre, remained as near the door as possible, the laird quitted her hand, and pressed upon a spring lock fixed in an oak panel in the wainscot, which instantly slipped aside. an iron strong-box was discovered in a recess of the wall; he opened this also, and pulling out two or three drawers, showed that they were filled with leathern bags full of gold and silver coin. "this is my bank, jeanie lass," he said, looking first at her and then at the treasure, with an air of great complacency,--"nane o' your goldsmith's bills for me,--they bring folk to ruin." then, suddenly changing his tone, he resolutely said,--"jeanie, i will make ye lady dumbiedikes afore the sun sets and ye may ride to lunnon in your ain coach, if ye like." "na, laird," said jeanie, "that can never be--my father's grief--my sister's situation--the discredit to you" "that's _my_ business," said dumbiedikes; "ye wad say naething about that if ye werena a fule--and yet i like ye the better for't--ae wise body's eneugh in the married state. but if your heart's ower fu', take what siller will serve ye, and let it be when ye come back again--as gude syne as sune." "but, laird," said jeanie, who felt the necessity of being explicit with so extraordinary a lover, "i like another man better than you, and i canna marry ye." "another man better than me, jeanie!" said dumbiedikes; "how is that possible? it's no possible, woman--ye hae ken'd me sae lang." "ay but, laird," said jeanie, with persevering simplicity, "i hae ken'd him langer." "langer! it's no possible!" exclaimed the poor laird. "it canna be; ye were born on the land. o jeanie woman, ye haena lookit--ye haena seen the half o' the gear." he drew out another drawer--"a' gowd, jeanie, and there's bands for siller lent--and the rental book, jeanie--clear three hunder sterling--deil a wadset, heritable band, or burden--ye haena lookit at them, woman--and then my mother's wardrobe, and my grandmother's forby--silk gowns wad stand on their ends, their pearline-lace as fine as spiders' webs, and rings and ear-rings to the boot of a' that--they are a' in the chamber of deas--oh, jeanie, gang up the stair and look at them!" [illustration: jeanie and the laird of dumbiedykes--frontispiece] but jeanie held fast her integrity, though beset with temptations, which perhaps the laird of dumbiedikes did not greatly err in supposing were those most affecting to her sex. "it canna be, laird--i have said it--and i canna break my word till him, if ye wad gie me the haill barony of dalkeith, and lugton into the bargain." "your word to _him,_" said the laird, somewhat pettishly; "but wha is he, jeanie?--wha is he?--i haena heard his name yet--come now, jeanie, ye are but queering us--i am no trowing that there is sic a ane in the warld--ye are but making fashion--what is he?--wha is he?" "just reuben butler, that's schulemaster at liberton," said jeanie. "reuben butler! reuben butler!" echoed the laird of dumbiedikes, pacing the apartment in high disdain,--"reuben butler, the dominie at liberton--and a dominie depute too!--reuben, the son of my cottar!--very weel, jeanie lass, wilfu' woman will hae her way--reuben butler! he hasna in his pouch the value o' the auld black coat he wears--but it disna signify." and as he spoke, he shut successively and with vehemence the drawers of his treasury. "a fair offer, jeanie, is nae cause of feud--ae man may bring a horse to the water, but twenty winna gar him drink--and as for wasting my substance on other folk's joes" there was something in the last hint that nettled jeanie's honest pride.-- "i was begging nane frae your honour," she said; "least of a' on sic a score as ye pit it on.--gude morning to ye, sir; ye hae been kind to my father, and it isna in my heart to think otherwise than kindly of you." so saying, she left the room without listening to a faint "but, jeanie--jeanie--stay, woman!" and traversing the courtyard with a quick step, she set out on her forward journey, her bosom glowing with that natural indignation and shame, which an honest mind feels at having subjected itself to ask a favour, which had been unexpectedly refused. when out of the laird's ground, and once more upon the public road, her pace slackened, her anger cooled, and anxious anticipations of the consequence of this unexpected disappointment began to influence her with other feelings. must she then actually beg her way to london? for such seemed the alternative; or must she turn back, and solicit her father for money? and by doing so lose time, which was precious, besides the risk of encountering his positive prohibition respecting the journey! yet she saw no medium between these alternatives; and, while she walked slowly on, was still meditating whether it were not better to return. while she was thus in an uncertainty, she heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and a well-known voice calling her name. she looked round, and saw advancing towards her on a pony, whose bare back and halter assorted ill with the nightgown, slippers, and laced cocked-hat of the rider, a cavalier of no less importance than dumbiedikes himself. in the energy of his pursuit, he had overcome even the highland obstinacy of rory bean, and compelled that self-willed palfrey to canter the way his rider chose; which rory, however, performed with all the symptoms of reluctance, turning his head, and accompanying every bound he made in advance with a sidelong motion, which indicated his extreme wish to turn round,--a manoeuvre which nothing but the constant exercise of the laird's heels and cudgel could possibly have counteracted. when the laird came up with jeanie, the first words he uttered were,--"jeanie, they say ane shouldna aye take a woman at her first word?" "ay, but ye maun take me at mine, laird," said jeanie, looking on the ground, and walking on without a pause.--"i hae but ae word to bestow on ony body, and that's aye a true ane." "then," said dumbiedikes, "at least ye suldna aye take a man at _his_ first word. ye maunna gang this wilfu' gate sillerless, come o't what like."--he put a purse into her hand. "i wad gie you rory too, but he's as wilfu' as yoursell, and he's ower weel used to a gate that maybe he and i hae gaen ower aften, and he'll gang nae road else." "but, laird," said jeanie, "though i ken my father will satisfy every penny of this siller, whatever there's o't, yet i wadna like to borrow it frae ane that maybe thinks of something mair than the paying o't back again." "there's just twenty-five guineas o't," said dumbiedikes, with a gentle sigh, "and whether your father pays or disna pay, i make ye free till't without another word. gang where ye like--do what ye like--and marry a' the butlers in the country gin ye like--and sae, gude morning to you, jeanie." "and god bless you, laird, wi' mony a gude morning!" said jeanie, her heart more softened by the unwonted generosity of this uncouth character, than perhaps butler might have approved, had he known her feelings at that moment; "and comfort, and the lord's peace, and the peace of the world, be with you, if we suld never meet again!" dumbiedikes turned and waved his hand; and his pony, much more willing to return than he had been to set out, hurried him homeward so fast, that, wanting the aid of a regular bridle, as well as of saddle and stirrups, he was too much puzzled to keep his seat to permit of his looking behind, even to give the parting glance of a forlorn swain. i am ashamed to say, that the sight of a lover, ran away with in nightgown and slippers and a laced hat, by a bare-backed highland pony, had something in it of a sedative, even to a grateful and deserved burst of affectionate esteem. the figure of dumbiedikes was too ludicrous not to confirm jeanie in the original sentiments she entertained towards him. "he's a gude creature," said she, "and a kind--it's a pity he has sae willyard a powny." and she immediately turned her thoughts to the important journey which she had commenced, reflecting with pleasure, that, according to her habits of life and of undergoing fatigue, she was now amply or even superfluously provided with the means of encountering the expenses of the road, up and down from london, and all other expenses whatever. chapter third what strange and wayward thoughts will slide into a lover's head; "o mercy!" to myself i cried, "if lucy should be dead!" wordsworth. in pursuing her solitary journey, our heroine, soon after passing the house of dumbiedikes, gained a little eminence, from which, on looking to the eastward down a prattling brook, whose meanders were shaded with straggling widows and alder trees, she could see the cottages of woodend and beersheba, the haunts and habitation of her early life, and could distinguish the common on which she had so often herded sheep, and the recesses of the rivulet where she had pulled rushes with butler, to plait crowns and sceptres for her sister effie, then a beautiful but spoiled child, of about three years old. the recollections which the scene brought with them were so bitter, that, had she indulged them, she would have sate down and relieved her heart with tears. "but i ken'd," said jeanie, when she gave an account of her pilgrimage, "that greeting would do but little good, and that it was mair beseeming to thank the lord, that had showed me kindness and countenance by means of a man, that mony ca'd a nabal, and churl, but wha was free of his gudes to me, as ever the fountain was free of the stream. and i minded the scripture about the sin of israel at meribah, when the people murmured, although moses had brought water from the dry rock that the congregation might drink and live. sae, i wad not trust mysell with another look at puir woodend, for the very blue reek that came out of the lum-head pat me in mind of the change of market days with us." in this resigned and christian temper she pursued her journey until she was beyond this place of melancholy recollections, and not distant from the village where butler dwelt, which, with its old-fashioned church and steeple, rises among a tuft of trees, occupying the ridge of an eminence to the south of edinburgh. at a quarter of a mile's distance is a clumsy square tower, the residence of the laird of liberton, who, in former times, with the habits of the predatory chivalry of germany, is said frequently to have annoyed the city of edinburgh, by intercepting the supplies and merchandise which came to the town from the southward. this village, its tower, and its church, did not lie precisely in jeanie's road towards england; but they were not much aside from it, and the village was the abode of butler. she had resolved to see him in the beginning of her journey, because she conceived him the most proper person to write to her father concerning her resolution and her hopes. there was probably another reason latent in her affectionate bosom. she wished once more to see the object of so early and so sincere an attachment, before commencing a pilgrimage, the perils of which she did not disguise from herself, although she did not allow them so to press upon her mind as to diminish the strength and energy of her resolution. a visit to a lover from a young person in a higher rank of life than jeanie's, would have had something forward and improper in its character. but the simplicity of her rural habits was unacquainted with these punctilious ideas of decorum, and no notion, therefore, of impropriety crossed her imagination, as, setting out upon a long journey, she went to bid adieu to an early friend. there was still another motive that pressed upon her mind with additional force as she approached the village. she had looked anxiously for butler in the courthouse, and had expected that, certainly, in some part of that eventful day, he would have appeared to bring such countenance and support as he could give to his old friend, and the protector of his youth, even if her own claims were laid aside. she know, indeed, that he was under a certain degree of restraint; but she still had hoped that he would have found means to emancipate himself from it, at least for one day. in short, the wild and wayward thoughts which wordsworth has described as rising in an absent lover's imagination, suggested, as the only explanation of his absence, that butler must be very ill. and so much had this wrought on her imagination, that when she approached the cottage where her lover occupied a small apartment, and which had been pointed out to her by a maiden with a milk-pail on her head, she trembled at anticipating the answer she might receive on inquiring for him. her fears in this case had, indeed, only hit upon the truth. butler, whose constitution was naturally feeble, did not soon recover the fatigue of body and distress of mind which he had suffered, in consequence of the tragical events with which our narrative commenced. the painful idea that his character was breathed on by suspicion, was an aggravation to his distress. but the most cruel addition was the absolute prohibition laid by the magistrates on his holding any communication with deans or his family. it had unfortunately appeared likely to them, that some intercourse might be again attempted with that family by robertson, through the medium of butler, and this they were anxious to intercept, or prevent if possible. the measure was not meant as a harsh or injurious severity on the part of the magistrates; but, in butler's circumstances, it pressed cruelly hard. he felt he must be suffering under the bad opinion of the person who was dearest to him, from an imputation of unkind desertion, the most alien to his nature. this painful thought, pressing on a frame already injured, brought on a succession of slow and lingering feverish attacks, which greatly impaired his health, and at length rendered him incapable even of the sedentary duties of the school, on which his bread depended. fortunately, old mr. whackbairn, who was the principal teacher of the little parochial establishment, was sincerely attached to butler. besides that he was sensible of his merits and value as an assistant, which had greatly raised the credit of his little school, the ancient pedagogue, who had himself been tolerably educated, retained some taste for classical lore, and would gladly relax, after the drudgery of the school was over, by conning over a few pages of horace or juvenal with his usher. a similarity of taste begot kindness, and accordingly he saw butler's increasing debility with great compassion, roused up his own energies to teaching the school in the morning hours, insisted upon his assistant's reposing himself at that period, and, besides, supplied him with such comforts as the patient's situation required, and his own means were inadequate to compass. such was butler's situation, scarce able to drag himself to the place where his daily drudgery must gain his daily bread, and racked with a thousand fearful anticipations concerning the fate of those who were dearest to him in the world, when the trial and condemnation of effie deans put the copestone upon his mental misery. he had a particular account of these events, from a fellow-student who resided in the same village, and who, having been present on the melancholy occasion, was able to place it in all its agony of horrors before his excruciated imagination. that sleep should have visited his eyes after such a curfew-note, was impossible. a thousand dreadful visions haunted his imagination all night, and in the morning he was awaked from a feverish slumber, by the only circumstance which could have added to his distress,--the visit of an intrusive ass. this unwelcome visitant was no other than bartoline saddletree. the worthy and sapient burgher had kept his appointment at maccroskie's with plumdamas and some other neighbours, to discuss the duke of argyle's speech, the justice of effie deans's condemnation, and the improbability of her obtaining a reprieve. this sage conclave disputed high and drank deep, and on the next morning bartoline felt, as he expressed it, as if his head was like a "confused progress of writs." to bring his reflective powers to their usual serenity, saddle-tree resolved to take a morning's ride upon a certain hackney, which he, plumdamas, and another honest shopkeeper, combined to maintain by joint subscription, for occasional jaunts for the purpose of business or exercise. as saddletree had two children boarded with whackbairn, and was, as we have seen, rather fond of butler's society, he turned his palfrey's head towards liberton, and came, as we have already said, to give the unfortunate usher that additional vexation, of which imogene complains so feelingly, when she says,-- "i'm sprighted with a fool-- sprighted and anger'd worse." if anything could have added gall to bitterness, it was the choice which saddletree made of a subject for his prosing harangues, being the trial of effie deans, and the probability of her being executed. every word fell on butler's ear like the knell of a death-bell, or the note of a screech-owl. jeanie paused at the door of her lover's humble abode upon hearing the loud and pompous tones of saddletree sounding from the inner apartment, "credit me, it will be sae, mr. butler. brandy cannot save her. she maun gang down the bow wi' the lad in the pioted coat* at her heels.-- * the executioner, in livery of black or dark grey and silver, likened by low wit to a magpie. i am sorry for the lassie, but the law, sir, maun hae its course-- vivat rex, currat lex, as the poet has it, in whilk of horace's odes i know not." here butler groaned, in utter impatience of the brutality and ignorance which bartoline had contrived to amalgamate into one sentence. but saddletree, like other prosers, was blessed with a happy obtuseness of perception concerning the unfavourable impression which he sometimes made on his auditors. he proceeded to deal forth his scraps of legal knowledge without mercy, and concluded by asking butler, with great self-complacency, "was it na a pity my father didna send me to utrecht? havena i missed the chance to turn out as _clarissimus_ an _ictus,_ as auld grunwiggin himself?--whatfor dinna ye speak, mr. butler? wad i no hae been a _clarissimus ictus?_--eh, man?" "i really do not understand you, mr. saddletree," said butler, thus pushed hard for an answer. his faint and exhausted tone of voice was instantly drowned in the sonorous bray of bartoline. "no understand me, man? _ictus_ is latin for a lawyer, is it not?" "not that ever i heard of," answered butler in the same dejected tone. "the deil ye didna!--see, man, i got the word but this morning out of a memorial of mr. crossmyloof's--see, there it is, _ictus clarissimus et perti--peritissimus_--it's a' latin, for it's printed in the italian types." "o, you mean _juris-consultus--ictus_ is an abbreviation for _juris-consultus._" "dinna tell me, man," persevered saddletree, "there's nae abbreviates except in adjudications; and this is a' about a servitude of water-drap--that is to say, _tillicidian_* (maybe ye'll say that's no latin neither), in mary king's close in the high street." * he meant, probably, _stillicidium._ "very likely," said poor butler, overwhelmed by the noisy perseverance of his visitor. "iam not able to dispute with you." "few folk are--few folk are, mr. butler, though i say it that shouldna say it," returned bartoline with great delight. "now, it will be twa hours yet or ye're wanted in the schule, and as ye are no weel, i'll sit wi' you to divert ye, and explain t'ye the nature of a _tillicidian._ ye maun ken, the petitioner, mrs. crombie, a very decent woman, is a friend of mine, and i hae stude her friend in this case, and brought her wi' credit into the court, and i doubtna that in due time she will win out o't wi' credit, win she or lose she. ye see, being an inferior tenement or laigh house, we grant ourselves to be burdened wi' the _tillicide,_ that is, that we are obligated to receive the natural water-drap of the superior tenement, sae far as the same fa's frae the heavens, or the roof of our neighbour's house, and from thence by the gutters or eaves upon our laigh tenement. but the other night comes a highland quean of a lass, and she flashes, god kens what, out at the eastmost window of mrs. macphail's house, that's the superior tenement. i believe the auld women wad hae agreed, for luckie macphail sent down the lass to tell my friend mrs. crombie that she had made the gardyloo out of the wrang window, out of respect for twa highlandmen that were speaking gaelic in the close below the right ane. but luckily for mrs. crombie, i just chanced to come in in time to break aff the communing, for it's a pity the point suldna be tried. we had mrs. macphail into the ten-mark court--the hieland limmer of a lass wanted to swear herself free--but haud ye there, says i." the detailed account of this important suit might have lasted until poor butler's hour of rest was completely exhausted, had not saddletree been interrupted by the noise of voices at the door. the woman of the house where butler lodged, on returning with her pitcher from the well, whence she had been fetching water for the family, found our heroine jeanie deans standing at the door, impatient of the prolix harangue of saddletree, yet unwilling to enter until he should have taken his leave. the good woman abridged the period of hesitation by inquiring, "was ye wanting the gudeman or me, lass?" "i wanted to speak with mr. butler, if he's at leisure," replied jeanie. "gang in by then, my woman," answered the goodwife; and opening the door of a room, she announced the additional visitor with, "mr. butler, here's a lass wants to speak t'ye." the surprise of butler was extreme, when jeanie, who seldom stirred half-a-mile from home, entered his apartment upon this annunciation. "good god!" he said, starting from his chair, while alarm restored to his cheek the colour of which sickness had deprived it; "some new misfortune must have happened!" "none, mr. reuben, but what you must hae heard of--but oh, ye are looking ill yoursell!"--for the "hectic of a moment" had not concealed from her affectionate eyes the ravages which lingering disease and anxiety of mind had made in her lover's person. "no: i am well--quite well," said butler with eagerness; "if i can do anything to assist you, jeanie--or your father." "ay, to be sure," said saddletree; "the family may be considered as limited to them twa now, just as if effie had never been in the tailzie, puir thing. but, jeanie lass, what brings you out to liberton sae air in the morning, and your father lying ill in the luckenbooths?" "i had a message frae my father to mr. butler," said jeanie with embarrassment; but instantly feeling ashamed of the fiction to which she had resorted, for her love of and veneration for truth was almost quaker-like, she corrected herself--"that is to say, i wanted to speak with mr. butler about some business of my father's and puir effie's." "is it law business?" said bartoline; "because if it be, ye had better take my opinion on the subject than his." "it is not just law business," said jeanie, who saw considerable inconvenience might arise from letting mr. saddletree into the secret purpose of her journey; "but i want mr. butler to write a letter for me." "very right," said mr. saddletree; "and if ye'll tell me what it is about, i'll dictate to mr. butler as mr. crossmyloof does to his clerk.--get your pen and ink in initialibus, mr. butler." jeanie looked at butler, and wrung her hands with vexation and impatience. "i believe, mr. saddletree," said butler, who saw the necessity of getting rid of him at all events, "that mr. whackbairn will be somewhat affronted if you do not hear your boys called up to their lessons." "indeed, mr. butler, and that's as true; and i promised to ask a half play-day to the schule, so that the bairns might gang and see the hanging, which canna but have a pleasing effect on their young minds, seeing there is no knowing what they may come to themselves.--odd so, i didna mind ye were here, jeanie deans; but ye maun use yoursell to hear the matter spoken o'.--keep jeanie here till i come back, mr. butler; i winna bide ten minutes." and with this unwelcome assurance of an immediate return, he relieved them of the embarrassment of his presence. "reuben," said jeanie, who saw the necessity of using the interval of his absence in discussing what had brought her there, "i am bound on a lang journey--i am gaun to lunnon to ask effie's life of the king and of the queen." "jeanie! you are surely not yourself," answered butler, in the utmost surprise;--"_you_ go to london--_you_ address the king and queen!" "and what for no, reuben?" said jeanie, with all the composed simplicity of her character; "it's but speaking to a mortal man and woman when a' is done. and their hearts maun be made o' flesh and blood like other folk's, and effie's story wad melt them were they stane. forby, i hae heard that they are no sic bad folk as what the jacobites ca' them." "yes, jeanie," said butler; "but their magnificence--their retinue--the difficulty of getting audience?" "i have thought of a' that, reuben, and it shall not break my spirit. nae doubt their claiths will be very grand, wi' their crowns on their heads, and their sceptres in their hands, like the great king ahasuerus when he sate upon his royal throne fornent the gate of his house, as we are told in scripture. but i have that within me that will keep my heart from failing, and i am amaist sure that i will be strengthened to speak the errand i came for." "alas! alas!" said butler, "the kings now-a-days do not sit in the gate to administer justice, as in patriarchal times. i know as little of courts as you do, jeanie, by experience; but by reading and report i know, that the king of britain does everything by means of his ministers." "and if they be upright, god-fearing ministers," said jeanie, "it's sae muckle the better chance for effie and me." "but you do not even understand the most ordinary words relating to a court," said butler; "by the ministry is meant not clergymen, but the king's official servants." "nae doubt," returned jeanie, "he maun hae a great number mair, i daur to say, than the duchess has at dalkeith, and great folk's servants are aye mair saucy than themselves. but i'll be decently put on, and i'll offer them a trifle o' siller, as if i came to see the palace. or, if they scruple that, i'll tell them i'm come on a business of life and death, and then they will surely bring me to speech of the king and queen?" butler shook his head. "o jeanie, this is entirely a wild dream. you can never see them but through some great lord's intercession, and i think it is scarce possible even then." "weel, but maybe i can get that too," said jeanie, "with a little helping from you." "from me, jeanie! this is the wildest imagination of all." "ay, but it is not, reuben. havena i heard you say, that your grandfather (that my father never likes to hear about) did some gude langsyne to the forbear of this maccallummore, when he was lord of lorn?" "he did so," said butler, eagerly, "and i can prove it.--i will write to the duke of argyle--report speaks him a good kindly man, as he is known for a brave soldier and true patriot--i will conjure him to stand between your sister and this cruel fate. there is but a poor chance of success, but we will try all means." "we _must_ try all means," replied jeanie; "but writing winna do it--a letter canna look, and pray, and beg, and beseech, as the human voice can do to the human heart. a letter's like the music that the ladies have for their spinets--naething but black scores, compared to the same tune played or sung. it's word of mouth maun do it, or naething, reuben." "you are right," said reuben, recollecting his firmness, "and i will hope that heaven has suggested to your kind heart and firm courage the only possible means of saving the life of this unfortunate girl. but, jeanie, you must not take this most perilous journey alone; i have an interest in you, and i will not agree that my jeanie throws herself away. you must even, in the present circumstances, give me a husband's right to protect you, and i will go with you myself on this journey, and assist you to do your duty by your family." "alas, reuben!" said jeanie in her turn, "this must not be; a pardon will not gie my sister her fair fame again, or make me a bride fitting for an honest man and an usefu' minister. wha wad mind what he said in the pu'pit, that had to wife the sister of a woman that was condemned for sic wickedness?" "but, jeanie," pleaded her lover, "i do not believe, and i cannot believe, that effie has done this deed." "heaven bless ye for saying sae, reuben," answered jeanie; "but she maun bear the blame o't after all." "but the blame, were it even justly laid on her, does not fall on you." "ah, reuben, reuben," replied the young woman, "ye ken it is a blot that spreads to kith and kin.--ichabod--as my poor father says--the glory is departed from our house; for the poorest man's house has a glory, where there are true hands, a divine heart, and an honest fame--and the last has gane frae us a." "but, jeanie, consider your word and plighted faith to me; and would you undertake such a journey without a man to protect you?--and who should that protector be but your husband?" "you are kind and good, reuben, and wad take me wi' a' my shame, i doubtna. but ye canna but own that this is no time to marry or be given in marriage. na, if that suld ever be, it maun be in another and a better season.--and, dear reuben, ye speak of protecting me on my journey--alas! who will protect and take care of you?--your very limbs tremble with standing for ten minutes on the floor; how could you undertake a journey as far as lunnon?" "but i am strong--i am well," continued butler, sinking in his seat totally exhausted, "at least i shall be quite well to-morrow." "ye see, and ye ken, ye maun just let me depart," said jeanie, after a pause; and then taking his extended hand, and gazing kindly in his face, she added, "it's e'en a grief the mair to me to see you in this way. but ye maun keep up your heart for jeanie's sake, for if she isna your wife, she will never be the wife of living man. and now gie me the paper for maccallummore, and bid god speed me on my way." there was something of romance in jeanie's venturous resolution; yet, on consideration, as it seemed impossible to alter it by persuasion, or to give her assistance but by advice, butler, after some farther debate, put into her hands the paper she desired, which, with the muster-roll in which it was folded up, were the sole memorials of the stout and enthusiastic bible butler, his grandfather. while butler sought this document, jeanie had time to take up his pocket bible. "i have marked a scripture," she said, as she again laid it down, "with your kylevine pen, that will be useful to us baith. and ye maun tak the trouble, reuben, to write a' this to my father, for, god help me, i have neither head nor hand for lang letters at ony time, forby now; and i trust him entirely to you, and i trust you will soon be permitted to see him. and, reuben, when ye do win to the speech o' him, mind a' the auld man's bits o' ways, for jeanie's sake; and dinna speak o' latin or english terms to him, for he's o' the auld warld, and downa bide to be fashed wi' them, though i daresay he may be wrang. and dinna ye say muckle to him, but set him on speaking himself, for he'll bring himsell mair comfort that way. and o, reuben, the poor lassie in yon dungeon!--but i needna bid your kind heart--gie her what comfort ye can as soon as they will let ye see her--tell her--but i maunna speak mair about her, for i maunna take leave o' ye wi' the tear in my ee, for that wouldna be canny.--god bless ye, reuben!" to avoid so ill an omen she left the room hastily, while her features yet retained the mournful and affectionate smile which she had compelled them to wear, in order to support butler's spirits. it seemed as if the power of sight, of speech, and of reflection, had left him as she disappeared from the room, which she had entered and retired from so like an apparition. saddletree, who entered immediately afterwards, overwhelmed him with questions, which he answered without understanding them, and with legal disquisitions, which conveyed to him no iota of meaning. at length the learned burgess recollected that there was a baron court to be, held at loanhead that day, and though it was hardly worth while, "he might as weel go to see if there was onything doing, as he was acquainted with the baron bailie, who was a decent man, and would be glad of a word of legal advice." so soon as he departed, butler flew to the bible, the last book which jeanie had touched. to his extreme surprise, a paper, containing two or three pieces of gold, dropped from the book. with a black-lead pencil, she had marked the sixteenth and twenty-fifth verses of the thirty-seventh psalm,--"a little that a righteous man hath, is better than the riches of the wicked."--"i have been young and am now old, yet have i not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging their bread." deeply impressed with the affectionate delicacy which shrouded its own generosity under the cover of a providential supply to his wants, he pressed the gold to his lips with more ardour than ever the metal was greeted with by a miser. to emulate her devout firmness and confidence seemed now the pitch of his ambition, and his first task was to write an account to david deans of his daughter's resolution and journey southward. he studied every sentiment, and even every phrase, which he thought could reconcile the old man to her extraordinary resolution. the effect which this epistle produced will be hereafter adverted to. butler committed it to the charge of an honest clown, who had frequent dealings with deans in the sale of his dairy produce, and who readily undertook a journey to edinburgh to put the letter into his own hands.* * by dint of assiduous research i am enabled to certiorate the reader, that the name of this person was saunders broadfoot, and that he dealt in the wholesome commodity called kirn-milk (_anglice',_ butter-milk).-- j. c. chapter fourth. "my native land, good night." lord byron. in the present day, a journey from edinburgh to london is a matter at once safe, brief, and simple, however inexperienced or unprotected the traveller. numerous coaches of different rates of charge, and as many packets, are perpetually passing and repassing betwixt the capital of britain and her northern sister, so that the most timid or indolent may execute such a journey upon a few hours' notice. but it was different in . so slight and infrequent was the intercourse betwixt london and edinburgh, that men still alive remember that upon one occasion the mail from the former city arrived at the general post-office in scotland with only one letter in it.* * the fact is certain. the single epistle was addressed to the principal director of the british linen company. the usual mode of travelling was by means of post-horses, the traveller occupying one, and his guide another, in which manner, by relays of horses from stage to stage, the journey might be accomplished in a wonderfully short time by those who could endure fatigue. to have the bones shaken to pieces by a constant change of those hacks was a luxury for the rich--the poor were under the necessity of using the mode of conveyance with which nature had provided them. with a strong heart, and a frame patient of fatigue, jeanie deans, travelling at the rate of twenty miles a-day, and sometimes farther, traversed the southern part of scotland, and advanced as far as durham. hitherto she had been either among her own country-folk, or those to whom her bare feet and tartan screen were objects too familiar to attract much attention. but as she advanced, she perceived that both circumstances exposed her to sarcasm and taunts, which she might otherwise have escaped; and although in her heart she thought it unkind, and inhospitable, to sneer at a passing stranger on account of the fashion of her attire, yet she had the good sense to alter those parts of her dress which attracted ill-natured observation. her chequed screen was deposited carefully in her bundle, and she conformed to the national extravagance of wearing shoes and stockings for the whole day. she confessed afterwards, that, "besides the wastrife, it was lang or she could walk sae comfortably with the shoes as without them; but there was often a bit saft heather by the road-side, and that helped her weel on." the want of the screen, which was drawn over the head like a veil, she supplied by a _bon-grace,_ as she called it; a large straw bonnet like those worn by the english maidens when labouring in the fields. "but i thought unco shame o' mysell," she said, "the first time i put on a married woman's _bon-grace,_ and me a single maiden." with these changes she had little, as she said, to make "her kenspeckle when she didna speak," but her accent and language drew down on her so many jests and gibes, couched in a worse _patois_ by far than her own, that she soon found it was her interest to talk as little and as seldom as possible. she answered, therefore, civil salutations of chance passengers with a civil courtesy, and chose, with anxious circumspection, such places of repose as looked at once most decent and sequestered. she found the common people of england, although inferior in courtesy to strangers, such as was then practised in her own more unfrequented country, yet, upon the whole, by no means deficient in the real duties of hospitality. she readily obtained food, and shelter, and protection at a very moderate rate, which sometimes the generosity of mine host altogether declined, with a blunt apology,--"thee hast a long way afore thee, lass; and i'se ne'er take penny out o' a single woman's purse; it's the best friend thou can have on the road." it often happened, too, that mine hostess was struck with "the tidy, nice scotch body," and procured her an escort, or a cast in a waggon, for some part of the way, or gave her a useful advice and recommendation respecting her resting-places. at york our pilgrim stopped for the best part of a day, partly to recruit her strength,--partly because she had the good luck to obtain a lodging in an inn kept by a countrywoman,--partly to indite two letters to her father and reuben butler; an operation of some little difficulty, her habits being by no means those of literary composition. that to her father was in the following words.-- "dearest father,--i make my present pilgrimage more heavy and burdensome, through the sad occasion to reflect that it is without your knowledge, which, god knows, was far contrary to my heart; for scripture says, that 'the vow of the daughter should not be binding without the consent of the father,' wherein it may be i have been guilty to tak this wearie journey without your consent. nevertheless, it was borne in upon my mind that i should be an instrument to help my poor sister in this extremity of needcessity, otherwise i wad not, for wealth or for world's gear, or for the haill lands of da'keith and lugton, have done the like o' this, without your free will and knowledge. oh, dear father, as ye wad desire a blessing on my journey, and upon your household, speak a word or write a line of comfort to yon poor prisoner. if she has sinned, she has sorrowed and suffered, and ye ken better than me, that we maun forgie others, as we pray to be forgien. dear father, forgive my saying this muckle, for it doth not become a young head to instruct grey hairs; but i am sae far frae ye, that my heart yearns to ye a', and fain wad i hear that ye had forgien her trespass, and sae i nae doubt say mair than may become me. the folk here are civil, and, like the barbarians unto the holy apostle, hae shown me much kindness; and there are a sort of chosen people in the land, for they hae some kirks without organs that are like ours, and are called meeting-houses, where the minister preaches without a gown. but most of the country are prelatists, whilk is awfu' to think; and i saw twa men that were ministers following hunds, as bauld as roslin or driden, the young laird of loup-the-dike, or ony wild gallant in lothian. a sorrowfa' sight to behold! oh, dear father, may a blessing be with your down-lying and up-rising, and remember in your prayers your affectionate daughter to command, "jean deans." a postscript bore, "i learned from a decent woman, a grazier's widow, that they hae a cure for the muir-ill in cumberland, whilk is ane pint, as they ca't, of yill, whilk is a dribble in comparison of our gawsie scots pint, and hardly a mutchkin, boiled wi' sope and hartshorn draps, and toomed doun the creature's throat wi' ane whorn. ye might try it on the bauson-faced year-auld quey; an it does nae gude, it can do nae ill.-- she was a kind woman, and seemed skeely about horned beasts. when i reach lunnon, i intend to gang to our cousin mrs. glass, the tobacconist, at the sign o' the thistle, wha is so ceevil as to send you down your spleuchan-fu' anes a year; and as she must be well kend in lunnon, i doubt not easily to find out where she lives." being seduced into betraying our heroine's confidence thus far, we will stretch our communication a step beyond, and impart to the reader her letter to her lover. "mr. reuben butler,--hoping this will find you better, this comes to say, that i have reached this great town safe, and am not wearied with walking, but the better for it. and i have seen many things which i trust to tell you one day, also the muckle kirk of this place; and all around the city are mills, whilk havena muckle wheels nor mill-dams, but gang by the wind--strange to behold. ane miller asked me to gang in and see it work, but i wad not, for i am not come to the south to make acquaintance with strangers. i keep the straight road, and just beck if onybody speaks to me ceevilly, and answers naebody with the tong but women of my ain sect. i wish, mr. butler, i kend onything that wad mak ye weel, for they hae mair medicines in this town of york than wad cure a' scotland, and surely some of them wad be gude for your complaints. if ye had a kindly motherly body to nurse ye, and no to let ye waste yoursell wi' reading--whilk ye read mair than eneugh wi' the bairns in the schule--and to gie ye warm milk in the morning, i wad be mair easy for ye. dear mr. butler, keep a good heart, for we are in the hands of ane that kens better what is gude for us than we ken what is for oursells. i hae nae doubt to do that for which i am come--i canna doubt it--i winna think to doubt it--because, if i haena full assurance, how shall i bear myself with earnest entreaties in the great folk's presence? but to ken that ane's purpose is right, and to make their heart strong, is the way to get through the warst day's darg. the bairns' rime says, the warst blast of the borrowing days* couldna kill the three silly poor hog-lams. * the last three days of march, old style, are called the borrowing days; for, as they are remarked to be unusually stormy, it is feigned that march had borrowed them from april, to extend the sphere of his rougher sway. the rhyme on the subject is quoted in the glossary to leyden's edition of the "complaynt of scotland"-- [march said to aperill, i see three hogs upon a hill, a young sheep before it has lost its first fleece. but when the borrowed days were gane the three silly hogs came hirplin hame.] "and if it be god's pleasure, we that are sindered in sorrow may meet again in joy, even on this hither side of jordan. i dinna bid ye mind what i said at our partin' anent my poor father, and that misfortunate lassie, for i ken you will do sae for the sake of christian charity, whilk is mair than the entreaties of her that is your servant to command, "jeanie deans." this letter also had a postscript. "dear reuben, if ye think that it wad hae been right for me to have said mair and kinder things to ye, just think that i hae written sae, since i am sure that i wish a' that is kind and right to ye and by ye. ye will think i am turned waster, for i wear clean hose and shoon every day; but it's the fashion here for decent bodies and ilka land has it's ain landlaw. ower and aboon a', if laughing days were e'er to come back again till us, ye wad laugh weel to see my round face at the far end of a strae _bon-grace,_ that looks as muckle and round as the middell aisle in libberton kirk. but it sheds the sun weel aff, and keeps uncivil folk frae staring as if ane were a worrycow. i sall tell ye by writ how i come on wi' the duke of argyle, when i won up to lunnon. direct a line, to say how ye are, to me, to the charge of mrs. margaret glass, tobacconist, at the sign of the thistle, lunnon, whilk, if it assures me of your health, will make my mind sae muckle easier. excuse bad spelling and writing, as i have ane ill pen." the orthography of these epistles may seem to the southron to require a better apology than the letter expresses, though a bad pen was the excuse of a certain galwegian laird for bad spelling; but, on behalf of the heroine, i would have them to know, that, thanks to the care of butler, jeanie deans wrote and spelled fifty times better than half the women of rank in scotland at that period, whose strange orthography and singular diction form the strongest contrast to the good sense which their correspondence usually intimates. for the rest, in the tenor of these epistles, jeanie expressed, perhaps, more hopes, a firmer courage, and better spirits, than she actually felt. but this was with the amiable idea of relieving her father and lover from apprehensions on her account, which she was sensible must greatly add to their other troubles. "if they think me weel, and like to do weel," said the poor pilgrim to herself, "my father will be kinder to effie, and butler will be kinder to himself. for i ken weel that they will think mair o' me than i do o' mysell." accordingly, she sealed her letters carefully, and put them into the post-office with her own hand, after many inquiries concerning the time in which they were likely to reach edinburgh. when this duty was performed, she readily accepted her landlady's pressing invitation to dine with her, and remain till the next morning. the hostess, as we have said, was her countrywoman, and the eagerness with which scottish people meet, communicate, and, to the extent of their power, assist each other, although it is often objected to us as a prejudice and narrowness of sentiment, seems, on the contrary, to arise from a most justifiable and honourable feeling of patriotism, combined with a conviction, which, if undeserved, would long since have been confuted by experience, that the habits and principles of the nation are a sort of guarantee for the character of the individual. at any rate, if the extensive influence of this national partiality be considered as an additional tie, binding man to man, and calling forth the good offices of such as can render them to the countryman who happens to need them, we think it must be found to exceed, as an active and efficient motive, to generosity, that more impartial and wider principle of general benevolence, which we have sometimes seen pleaded as an excuse for assisting no individual whatever. mrs. bickerton, lady of the ascendant of the seven stars, in the castle-gate, york, was deeply infected with the unfortunate prejudices of her country. indeed, she displayed so much kindness to jeanie deans (because she herself, being a merse woman, _marched_ with mid-lothian, in which jeanie was born), showed such motherly regard to her, and such anxiety for her farther progress, that jeanie thought herself safe, though by temper sufficiently cautious, in communicating her whole story to her. mrs. bickerton raised her hands and eyes at the recital, and exhibited much wonder and pity. but she also gave some effectual good advice. she required to know the strength of jeanie's purse, reduced by her deposit at liberton, and the necessary expense of her journey, to about fifteen pounds. "this," she said, "would do very well, providing she would carry it a' safe to london." "safe!" answered jeanie; "i'se warrant my carrying it safe, bating the needful expenses." "ay, but highwaymen, lassie," said mrs. bickerton; "for ye are come into a more civilised, that is to say, a more roguish country than the north, and how ye are to get forward, i do not profess to know. if ye could wait here eight days, our waggons would go up, and i would recommend you to joe broadwheel, who would see you safe to the swan and two necks. and dinna sneeze at joe, if he should be for drawing up wi' you" (continued mrs. bickerton, her acquired english mingling with her national or original dialect), "he's a handy boy, and a wanter, and no lad better thought o' on the road; and the english make good husbands enough, witness my poor man, moses bickerton, as is i' the kirkyard." jeanie hastened to say, that she could not possibly wait for the setting forth of joe broadwheel; being internally by no means gratified with the idea of becoming the object of his attention during the journey, "aweel, lass," answered the good landlady, "then thou must pickle in thine ain poke-nook, and buckle thy girdle thine ain gate. but take my advice, and hide thy gold in thy stays, and keep a piece or two and some silver, in case thou be'st spoke withal; for there's as wud lads haunt within a day's walk from hence, as on the braes of doune in perthshire. and, lass, thou maunna gang staring through lunnon, asking wha kens mrs. glass at the sign o' the thistle; marry, they would laugh thee to scorn. but gang thou to this honest man," and she put a direction into jeanie's hand, "he kens maist part of the sponsible scottish folk in the city, and he will find out your friend for thee." jeanie took the little introductory letter with sincere thanks; but, something alarmed on the subject of the highway robbers, her mind recurred to what ratcliffe had mentioned to her, and briefly relating the circumstances which placed a document so extraordinary in her hands, she put the paper he had given her into the hand of mrs. bickerton. the lady of the seven stars did not indeed ring a bell, because such was not the fashion of the time, but she whistled on a silver call, which was hung by her side, and a tight serving-maid entered the room. "tell dick ostler to come here," said mrs. bickerton. dick ostler accordingly made his appearance;--a queer, knowing, shambling animal, with a hatchet-face, a squint, a game-arm, and a limp. "dick ostler," said mrs. bickerton, in a tone of authority that showed she was (at least by adoption) yorkshire too, "thou knowest most people and most things o' the road." "eye, eye, god help me, mistress," said dick, shrugging his shoulders betwixt a repentant and a knowing expression--"eye! i ha' know'd a thing or twa i' ma day, mistress." he looked sharp and laughed--looked grave and sighed, as one who was prepared to take the matter either way. "kenst thou this wee bit paper amang the rest, man?" said mrs. bickerton, handing him the protection which ratcliffe had given jeanie deans. when dick had looked at the paper, he winked with one eye, extended his grotesque mouth from ear to ear, like a navigable canal, scratched his head powerfully, and then said, "ken!--ay--maybe we ken summat, an it werena for harm to him, mistress!" "none in the world," said mrs. bickerton; "only a dram of hollands to thyself, man, an thou wilt speak." "why, then," said dick, giving the head-band of his breeches a knowing hoist with one hand, and kicking out one foot behind him to accommodate the adjustment of that important habiliment, "i dares to say the pass will be kend weel eneugh on the road, an that be all." "but what sort of a lad was he?" said mrs. bickerton, winking to jeanie, as proud of her knowing ostler. "why, what ken i?--jim the rat--why he was cock o' the north within this twelmonth--he and scotch wilson, handle dandie, as they called him--but he's been out o' this country a while, as i rackon; but ony gentleman, as keeps the road o' this side stamford, will respect jim's pass." without asking farther questions, the landlady filled dick ostler a bumper of hollands. he ducked with his head and shoulders, scraped with his more advanced hoof, bolted the alcohol, to use the learned phrase, and withdrew to his own domains. "i would advise thee, jeanie," said mrs. bickerton, "an thou meetest with ugly customers o' the road, to show them this bit paper, for it will serve thee, assure thyself." a neat little supper concluded the evening. the exported scotswoman, mrs. bickerton by name, ate heartily of one or two seasoned dishes, drank some sound old ale, and a glass of stiff negus; while she gave jeanie a history of her gout, admiring how it was possible that she, whose fathers and mothers for many generations had been farmers in lammermuir, could have come by a disorder so totally unknown to them. jeanie did not choose to offend her friendly landlady, by speaking her mind on the probable origin of this complaint; but she thought on the flesh-pots of egypt, and, in spite of all entreaties to better fare, made her evening meal upon vegetables, with a glass of fair water. mrs. bickerton assured her, that the acceptance of any reckoning was entirely out of the question, furnished her with credentials to her correspondent in london, and to several inns upon the road where she had some influence or interest, reminded her of the precautions she should adopt for concealing her money, and as she was to depart early in the morning, took leave of her very affectionately, taking her word that she would visit her on her return to scotland, and tell her how she had managed, and that summum bonum for a gossip, "all how and about it." this jeanie faithfully promised. chapter fifth. and need and misery, vice and danger, bind, in sad alliance, each degraded mind. as our traveller set out early on the ensuing morning to prosecute her journey, and was in the act of leaving the innyard, dick ostler, who either had risen early or neglected to go to bed, either circumstance being equally incident to his calling, hollowed out after her,--"the top of the morning to you, moggie. have a care o' gunderby hill, young one. robin hood's dead and gwone, but there be takers yet in the vale of bever. jeanie looked at him as if to request a farther explanation, but, with a leer, a shuffle, and a shrug, inimitable (unless by emery*), dick turned again to the raw-boned steed which he was currying, and sung as he employed the comb and brush,-- "robin hood was a yeoman right good, and his bow was of trusty yew; and if robin said stand on the king's lea-land, pray, why should not we say so too?" * [john emery, an eminent comedian, played successfully at covent garden theatre between and . among his characters, were those of dandie dinmont in _guy mannering,_ dougal in _rob roy,_ and ratcliffe in the heart of _mid-lothian._] jeanie pursued her journey without farther inquiry, for there was nothing in dick's manner that inclined her to prolong their conference. a painful day's journey brought her to ferrybridge, the best inn, then and since, upon the great northern road; and an introduction from mrs. bickerton, added to her own simple and quiet manners, so propitiated the landlady of the swan in her favour, that the good dame procured her the convenient accommodation of a pillion and post-horse then returning to tuxford, so that she accomplished, upon the second day after leaving york, the longest journey she had yet made. she was a good deal fatigued by a mode of travelling to which she was less accustomed than to walking, and it was considerably later than usual on the ensuing morning that she felt herself able to resume her pilgrimage. at noon the hundred-armed trent, and the blackened ruins of newark castle, demolished in the great civil war, lay before her. it may easily be supposed, that jeanie had no curiosity to make antiquarian researches, but, entering the town, went straight to the inn to which she had been directed at ferrybridge. while she procured some refreshment, she observed the girl who brought it to her, looked at her several times with fixed and peculiar interest, and at last, to her infinite surprise, inquired if her name was not deans, and if she was not a scotchwoman, going to london upon justice business. jeanie, with all her simplicity of character, had some of the caution of her country, and, according to scottish universal custom, she answered the question by another, requesting the girl would tell her why she asked these questions? the maritornes of the saracen's head, newark, replied, "two women had passed that morning, who had made inquiries after one jeanie deans, travelling to london on such an errand, and could scarce be persuaded that she had not passed on." much surprised and somewhat alarmed (for what is inexplicable is usually alarming), jeanie questioned the wench about the particular appearance of these two women, but could only learn that the one was aged, and the other young; that the latter was the taller, and that the former spoke most, and seemed to maintain an authority over her companion, and that both spoke with the scottish accent. this conveyed no information whatever, and with an indescribable presentiment of evil designed towards her, jeanie adopted the resolution of taking post-horses for the next stage. in this, however, she could not be gratified; some accidental circumstances had occasioned what is called a run upon the road, and the landlord could not accommodate her with a guide and horses. after waiting some time, in hopes that a pair of horses that had gone southward would return in time for her use, she at length, feeling ashamed at her own pusillanimity, resolved to prosecute her journey in her usual manner. "it was all plain road," she was assured, "except a high mountain called gunnerby hill, about three miles from grantham, which was her stage for the night. "i'm glad to hear there's a hill," said jeanie, "for baith my sight and my very feet are weary o' sic tracts o' level ground--it looks a' the way between this and york as if a' the land had been trenched and levelled, whilk is very wearisome to my scotch een. when i lost sight of a muckle blue hill they ca' ingleboro', i thought i hadna a friend left in this strange land." "as for the matter of that, young woman," said mine host, "an you be so fond o' hill, i carena an thou couldst carry gunnerby away with thee in thy lap, for it's a murder to post-horses. but here's to thy journey, and mayst thou win well through it, for thou is a bold and a canny lass." so saying, he took a powerful pull at a solemn tankard of home-brewed ale. "i hope there is nae bad company on the road, sir?" said jeanie. "why, when it's clean without them i'll thatch groby pool wi' pancakes. but there arena sae mony now; and since they hae lost jim the rat, they hold together no better than the men of marsham when they lost their common. take a drop ere thou goest," he concluded, offering her the tankard; "thou wilt get naething at night save grantham gruel, nine grots and a gallon of water." jeanie courteously declined the tankard, and inquired what was her "lawing?" "thy lawing! heaven help thee, wench! what ca'st thou that?" "it is--i was wanting to ken what was to pay," replied jeanie. "pay? lord help thee!--why nought, woman--we hae drawn no liquor but a gill o' beer, and the saracen's head can spare a mouthful o' meat to a stranger like o' thee, that cannot speak christian language. so here's to thee once more. the same again, quoth mark of bellgrave," and he took another profound pull at the tankard. the travellers who have visited newark more lately, will not fail to remember the remarkably civil and gentlemanly manners of the person who now keeps the principal inn there, and may find some amusement in contrasting them with those of his more rough predecessor. but we believe it will be found that the polish has worn off none of the real worth of the metal. taking leave of her lincolnshire gaius, jeanie resumed her solitary walk, and was somewhat alarmed when evening and twilight overtook her in the open ground which extends to the foot of gunnerby hill, and is intersected with patches of copse and with swampy spots. the extensive commons on the north road, most of which are now enclosed, and in general a relaxed state of police, exposed the traveller to a highway robbery in a degree which is now unknown, except in the immediate vicinity of the metropolis. aware of this circumstance, jeanie mended her pace when she heard the trampling of a horse behind, and instinctively drew to one side of the road, as if to allow as much room for the rider to pass as might be possible. when the animal came up, she found that it was bearing two women, the one placed on a side-saddle, the other on a pillion behind her, as may still occasionally be seen in england. "a braw good-night to ye, jeanie deans," said the foremost female as the horse passed our heroine; "what think ye o' yon bonny hill yonder, lifting its brow to the moon? trow ye yon's the gate to heaven, that ye are sae fain of?--maybe we will win there the night yet, god sain us, though our minny here's rather dreigh in the upgang." the speaker kept changing her seat in the saddle, and half stopping the horse as she brought her body round, while the woman that sate behind her on the pillion seemed to urge her on, in words which jeanie heard but imperfectly. "hand your tongue, ye moon-raised b----! what is your business with ----, or with heaven or hell either?" "troth, mither, no muckle wi' heaven, i doubt, considering wha i carry ahint me--and as for hell, it will fight its ain battle at its ain time, i'se be bound.--come, naggie, trot awa, man, an as thou wert a broomstick, for a witch rides thee-- with my curtch on my foot, and my shoe on my hand, i glance like the wildfire through brugh and through land." the tramp of the horse, and the increasing distance, drowned the rest of her song, but jeanie heard for some time the inarticulate sounds ring along the waste. our pilgrim remained stupified with undefined apprehensions. the being named by her name in so wild a manner, and in a strange country, without farther explanation or communing, by a person who thus strangely flitted forward and disappeared before her, came near to the supernatural sounds in comus:-- the airy tongues, which syllable men's names on sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. and although widely different in features, deportment, and rank, from the lady of that enchanting masque, the continuation of the passage may be happily applied to jeanie deans upon this singular alarm:-- these thoughts may startle well, but not astound the virtuous mind, that ever walks attended by a strong siding champion--conscience. in fact, it was, with the recollection of the affectionate and dutiful errand on which she was engaged, her right, if such a word could be applicable, to expect protection in a task so meritorious. she had not advanced much farther, with a mind calmed by these reflections, when she was disturbed by a new and more instant subject of terror. two men, who had been lurking among some copse, started up as she advanced, and met her on the road in a menacing manner. "stand and deliver," said one of them, a short stout fellow, in a smock-frock, such as are worn by waggoners. "the woman," said the other, a tall thin figure, "does not understand the words of action.--your money, my precious, or your life." "i have but very little money, gentlemen," said poor jeanie, tendering that portion which she had separated from her principal stock, and kept apart for such an emergency; "but if you are resolved to have it, to be sure you must have it." "this won't do, my girl. d--n me, if it shall pass!" said the shorter ruffian; "do ye think gentlemen are to hazard their lives on the road to be cheated in this way? we'll have every farthing you have got, or we will strip you to the skin, curse me." his companion, who seemed to have something like compassion for the horror which jeanie's countenance now expressed, said, "no, no, tom, this is one of the precious sisters, and we'll take her word, for once, without putting her to the stripping proof--hark ye, my lass, if ye look up to heaven, and say, this is the last penny you have about ye, why, hang it, we'll let you pass." "i am not free," answered jeanie, "to say what i have about me, gentlemen, for there's life and death depends on my journey; but if you leave me as much as finds me bread and water, i'll be satisfied, and thank you, and pray for you." "d--n your prayers!" said the shorter fellow, "that's a coin that won't pass with us;" and at the same time made a motion to seize her. "stay, gentlemen," ratcliffe's pass suddenly occurring to her; "perhaps you know this paper." "what the devil is she after now, frank?" said the more savage ruffian--"do you look at it, for, d--n me if i could read it if it were for the benefit of my clergy." "this is a jark from jim ratcliffe," said the taller, having looked at the bit of paper. "the wench must pass by our cutter's law." "i say no," answered his companion; "rat has left the lay, and turned bloodhound, they say." "we may need a good turn from him all the same," said the taller ruffian again. "but what are we to do then?" said the shorter man--"we promised, you know, to strip the wench, and send her begging back to her own beggarly country, and now you are for letting her go on." "i did not say that," said the other fellow, and whispered to his companion, who replied, "be alive about it then, and don't keep chattering till some travellers come up to nab us." "you must follow us off the road, young woman," said the taller. "for the love of god!" exclaimed jeanie, "as you were born of woman, dinna ask me to leave the road! rather take all i have in the world." "what the devil is the wench afraid of?" said the other fellow. "i tell you you shall come to no harm; but if you will not leave the road and come with us, d--n me, but i'll beat your brains out where you stand." "thou art a rough bear, tom," said his companion.--"an ye touch her, i'll give ye a shake by the collar shall make the leicester beans rattle in thy guts.--never mind him, girl; i will not allow him to lay a finger on you, if you walk quietly on with us; but if you keep jabbering there, d--n me, but i'll leave him to settle it with you." this threat conveyed all that is terrible to the imagination of poor jeanie, who saw in him that "was of milder mood" her only protection from the most brutal treatment. she, therefore, not only followed him, but even held him by the sleeve, lest he should escape from her; and the fellow, hardened as he was, seemed something touched by these marks of confidence, and repeatedly assured her, that he would suffer her to receive no harm. they conducted their prisoner in a direction leading more and more from the public road, but she observed that they kept a sort of track or by-path, which relieved her from part of her apprehensions, which would have been greatly increased had they not seemed to follow a determined and ascertained route. after about half-an-hour's walking, all three in profound silence, they approached an old barn, which stood on the edge of some cultivated ground, but remote from everything like a habitation. it was itself, however, tenanted, for there was light in the windows. one of the footpads scratched at the door, which was opened by a female, and they entered with their unhappy prisoner. an old woman, who was preparing food by the assistance of a stifling fire of lighted charcoal, asked them, in the name of the devil, what they brought the wench there for, and why they did not strip her and turn her abroad on the common? "come, come, mother blood," said the tall man, "we'll do what's right to oblige you, and we'll do no more; we are bad enough, but not such as you would make us,--devils incarnate." "she has got a jark from jim ratcliffe," said the short fellow, "and frank here won't hear of our putting her through the mill." "no, that i will not, by g--d!" answered frank; "but if old mother blood could keep her here for a little while, or send her back to scotland, without hurting her, why, i see no harm in that--not i." "i'll tell you what, frank levitt," said the old woman, "if you call me mother blood again, i'll paint this gully" (and she held a knife up as if about to make good her threat) "in the best blood in your body, my bonny boy." "the price of ointment must be up in the north," said frank, "that puts mother blood so much out of humour." without a moment's hesitation the fury darted her knife at him with the vengeful dexterity of a wild indian. as he was on his guard, he avoided the missile by a sudden motion of his head, but it whistled past his ear, and stuck deep in the clay wall of a partition behind. "come, come, mother," said the robber, seizing her by both wrists, "i shall teach you who's master;" and so saying, he forced the hag backwards by main force, who strove vehemently until she sunk on a bunch of straw, and then, letting go her hands, he held up his finger towards her in the menacing posture by which a maniac is intimidated by his keeper. it appeared to produce the desired effect; for she did not attempt to rise from the seat on which he had placed her, or to resume any measures of actual violence, but wrung her withered hands with impotent rage, and brayed and howled like a demoniac. "i will keep my promise with you, you old devil," said frank; "the wench shall not go forward on the london road, but i will not have you touch a hair of her head, if it were but for your insolence." this intimation seemed to compose in some degree the vehement passion of the old hag; and while her exclamations and howls sunk into a low, maundering, growling tone of voice, another personage was added to this singular party. "eh, frank levitt," said this new-comer, who entered with a hop, step, and jump, which at once conveyed her from the door into the centre of the party, "were ye killing our mother? or were ye cutting the grunter's weasand that tam brought in this morning? or have ye been reading your prayers backward, to bring up my auld acquaintance the deil amang ye?" the tone of the speaker was so particular, that jeanie immediately recognised the woman who had rode foremost of the pair which passed her just before she met the robbers; a circumstance which greatly increased her terror, as it served to show that the mischief designed against her was premeditated, though by whom, or for what cause, she was totally at a loss to conjecture. from the style of her conversation, the reader also may probably acknowledge in this female an old acquaintance in the earlier part of our narrative. "out, ye mad devil!" said tom, whom she had disturbed in the middle of a draught of some liquor with which he had found means of accommodating himself; "betwixt your bess of bedlam pranks, and your dam's frenzies, a man might live quieter in the devil's ken than here."--and he again resumed the broken jug out of which he had been drinking. "and wha's this o't?" said the mad woman, dancing up to jeanie deans, who, although in great terror, yet watched the scene with a resolution to let nothing pass unnoticed which might be serviceable in assisting her to escape, or informing her as to the true nature of her situation, and the danger attending it,--"wha's this o't?" again exclaimed madge wildfire. "douce davie deans, the auld doited whig body's daughter, in a gipsy's barn, and the night setting in? this is a sight for sair een!--eh, sirs, the falling off o' the godly!--and the t'other sister's in the tolbooth of edinburgh; i am very sorry for her, for my share--it's my mother wusses ill to her, and no me--though maybe i hae as muckle cause." "hark ye, madge," said the taller ruffian, "you have not such a touch of the devil's blood as the hag your mother, who may be his dam for what i know--take this young woman to your kennel, and do not let the devil enter, though he should ask in god's name." "ou ay; that i will, frank," said madge, taking hold of jeanie by the arm, and pulling her along; "for it's no for decent christian young leddies, like her and me, to be keeping the like o' you and tyburn tam company at this time o' night. sae gude-e'en t'ye, sirs, and mony o' them; and may ye a' sleep till the hangman wauken ye, and then it will be weel for the country." she then, as her wild fancy seemed suddenly to prompt her, walked demurely towards her mother, who, seated by the charcoal fire, with the reflection of the red light on her withered and distorted features marked by every evil passion, seemed the very picture of hecate at her infernal rites; and, suddenly dropping on her knees, said, with the manner of a six years' old child, "mammie, hear me say my prayers before i go to bed, and say god bless my bonny face, as ye used to do lang syne." "the deil flay the hide o' it to sole his brogues wi'!" said the old lady, aiming a buffet at the supplicant, in answer to her duteous request. the blow missed madge, who, being probably acquainted by experience with the mode in which her mother was wont to confer her maternal benedictions, slipt out of arm's length with great dexterity and quickness. the hag then started up, and, seizing a pair of old fire-tongs, would have amended her motion, by beating out the brains either of her daughter or jeanie (she did not seem greatly to care which), when her hand was once more arrested by the man whom they called frank levitt, who, seizing her by the shoulder, flung her from him with great violence, exclaiming, "what, mother damnable--again, and in my sovereign presence!--hark ye, madge of bedlam! get to your hole with your playfellow, or we shall have the devil to pay here, and nothing to pay him with." madge took levitt's advice, retreating as fast as she could, and dragging jeanie along with her into a sort of recess, partitioned off from the rest of the barn, and filled with straw, from which it appeared that it was intended for the purpose of slumber. the moonlight shone, through an open hole, upon a pillion, a pack-saddle, and one or two wallets, the travelling furniture of madge and her amiable mother.--"now, saw ye e'er in your life," said madge, "sae dainty a chamber of deas? see as the moon shines down sae caller on the fresh strae! there's no a pleasanter cell in bedlam, for as braw a place as it is on the outside.--were ye ever in bedlam?" "no," answered jeanie faintly, appalled by the question, and the way in which it was put, yet willing to soothe her insane companion, being in circumstances so unhappily precarious, that even the society of this gibbering madwoman seemed a species of protection. "never in bedlam?" said madge, as if with some surprise.--"but ye'll hae been in the cells at edinburgh!" "never," repeated jeanie. "weel, i think thae daft carles the magistrates send naebody to bedlam but me--thae maun hae an unco respect for me, for whenever i am brought to them, thae aye hae me back to bedlam. but troth, jeanie" (she said this in a very confidential tone), "to tell ye my private mind about it, i think ye are at nae great loss; for the keeper's a cross-patch, and he maun hae it a' his ain gate, to be sure, or he makes the place waur than hell. i often tell him he's the daftest in a' the house.--but what are they making sic a skirling for?--deil ane o' them's get in here--it wadna be mensfu'! i will sit wi' my back again the door; it winna be that easy stirring me." "madge!"--"madge!"--"madge wildfire!"--"madge devil! what have ye done with the horse?" was repeatedly asked by the men without. "he's e'en at his supper, puir thing," answered madge; "deil an ye were at yours, too, an it were scauding brimstone, and then we wad hae less o' your din." "his supper!" answered the more sulky ruffian--"what d'ye mean by that!--tell me where he is, or i will knock your bedlam brains out!" "he's in gaffer gablewood's wheat-close, an ye maun ken." "his wheat-close, you crazed jilt!" answered the other, with an accent of great indignation. "o, dear tyburn tam, man, what ill will the blades of the young wheat do to the puir nag?" "that is not the question," said the other robber; "but what the country will say to us to-morrow, when they see him in such quarters?--go, tom, and bring him in; and avoid the soft ground, my lad; leave no hoof-track behind you." "i think you give me always the fag of it, whatever is to be done," grumbled his companion. "leap, laurence, you're long enough," said the other; and the fellow left the barn accordingly, without farther remonstrance. in the meanwhile, madge had arranged herself for repose on the straw; but still in a half-sitting posture, with her back resting against the door of the hovel, which, as it opened inwards, was in this manner kept shut by the weight of the person. "there's mair shifts by stealing, jeanie," said madge wildfire; "though whiles i can hardly get our mother to think sae. wha wad hae thought but mysell of making a bolt of my ain back-bane? but it's no sae strong as thae that i hae seen in the tolbooth at edinburgh. the hammermen of edinburgh are to my mind afore the warld for making stancheons, ring-bolts, fetter-bolts, bars, and locks. and they arena that bad at girdles for carcakes neither, though the cu'ross hammermen have the gree for that. my mother had ance a bonny cu'ross girdle, and i thought to have baked carcakes on it for my puir wean that's dead and gane nae fair way--but we maun a' dee, ye ken, jeanie--you cameronian bodies ken that brawlies; and ye're for making a hell upon earth that ye may be less unwillin' to part wi' it. but as touching bedlam that ye were speaking about, i'se ne'er recommend it muckle the tae gate or the other, be it right--be it wrang. but ye ken what the sang says." and, pursuing the unconnected and floating wanderings of her mind, she sung aloud-- "in the bonny cells of bedlam, ere i was ane-and-twenty, i had hempen bracelets strong, and merry whips, ding-dong, and prayer and fasting plenty. "weel, jeanie, i am something herse the night, and i canna sing muckle mair; and troth, i think, i am gaun to sleep." she drooped her head on her breast, a posture from which jeanie, who would have given the world for an opportunity of quiet to consider the means and the probability of her escape, was very careful not to disturb her. after nodding, however, for a minute'or two, with her eyes half-closed, the unquiet and restless spirit of her malady again assailed madge. she raised her head, and spoke, but with a lowered tone, which was again gradually overcome by drowsiness, to which the fatigue of a day's journey on horseback had probably given unwonted occasion,--"i dinna ken what makes me sae sleepy--i amaist never sleep till my bonny lady moon gangs till her bed--mair by token, when she's at the full, ye ken, rowing aboon us yonder in her grand silver coach--i have danced to her my lane sometimes for very joy--and whiles dead folk came and danced wi' me--the like o' jock porteous, or ony body i had ken'd when i was living--for ye maun ken i was ance dead mysell." here the poor maniac sung, in a low and wild tone, "my banes are buried in yon kirkyard sae far ayont the sea, and it is but my blithesome ghaist that's speaking now to thee. "but after a', jeanie, my woman, naebody kens weel wha's living and wha's dead--or wha's gone to fairyland--there's another question. whiles i think my puir bairn's dead--ye ken very weel it's buried--but that signifies naething. i have had it on my knee a hundred times, and a hundred till that, since it was buried--and how could that be were it dead, ye ken?--it's merely impossible."--and here, some conviction half-overcoming the reveries of her imagination, she burst into a fit of crying and ejaculation, "wae's me! wae's me! wae's me!" till at length she moaned and sobbed herself into a deep sleep, which was soon intimated by her breathing hard, leaving jeanie to her own melancholy reflections and observations. chapter sixth. bind her quickly; or, by this steel, i'll tell, although i truss for company. fletcher. the imperfect light which shone into the window enabled jeanie to see that there was scarcely any chance of making her escape in that direction; for the aperture was high in the wall, and so narrow, that, could she have climbed up to it, she might well doubt whether it would have permitted her to pass her body through it. an unsuccessful attempt to escape would be sure to draw down worse treatment than she now received, and she, therefore, resolved to watch her opportunity carefully ere making such a perilous effort. for this purpose she applied herself to the ruinous clay partition, which divided the hovel in which she now was from the rest of the waste barn. it was decayed and full of cracks and chinks, one of which she enlarged with her fingers, cautiously and without noise, until she could obtain a plain view of the old hag and the taller ruffian, whom they called levitt, seated together beside the decayed fire of charcoal, and apparently engaged in close conference. she was at first terrified by the sight; for the features of the old woman had a hideous cast of hardened and inveterate malice and ill-humour, and those of the man, though naturally less unfavourable, were such as corresponded well with licentious habits, and a lawless profession. "but i remembered," said jeanie, "my worthy fathers tales of a winter evening, how he was confined with the blessed martyr, mr. james renwick, who lifted up the fallen standard of the true reformed kirk of scotland, after the worthy and renowned daniel cameron, our last blessed banner-man, had fallen among the swords of the wicked at airsmoss, and how the very hearts of the wicked malefactors and murderers, whom they were confined withal, were melted like wax at the sound of their doctrine: and i bethought mysell, that the same help that was wi' them in their strait, wad be wi' me in mine, an i could but watch the lord's time and opportunity for delivering my feet from their snare; and i minded the scripture of the blessed psalmist, whilk he insisteth on, as weel in the forty-second as in the forty-third psalm--'why art thou cast down, o my soul, and why art thou disquieted within me? hope in god, for i shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my god.'" strengthened in a mind naturally calm, sedate, and firm, by the influence of religious confidence, this poor captive was enabled to attend to, and comprehend, a great part of an interesting conversation which passed betwixt those into whose hands she had fallen, notwithstanding that their meaning was partly disguised by the occasional use of cant terms, of which jeanie knew not the import, by the low tone in which they spoke, and by their mode of supplying their broken phrases by shrugs and signs, as is usual amongst those of their disorderly profession. the man opened the conversation by saying, "now, dame, you see i am true to my friend. i have not forgot that you _planked a chury,_* which helped me through the bars of the castle of york, and i came to do your work without asking questions; for one good turn deserves another. * concealed a knife. but now that madge, who is as loud as tom of lincoln, is somewhat still, and this same tyburn neddie is shaking his heels after the old nag, why, you must tell me what all this is about, and what's to be done--for d--n me if i touch the girl, or let her be touched, and she with jim rat's pass, too." "thou art an honest lad, frank," answered the old woman, "but e'en too good for thy trade; thy tender heart will get thee into trouble. i will see ye gang up holborn hill backward, and a' on the word of some silly loon that could never hae rapped to ye had ye drawn your knife across his weasand." "you may be balked there, old one," answered the robber; "i have known many a pretty lad cut short in his first summer upon the road, because he was something hasty with his flats and sharps. besides, a man would fain live out his two years with a good conscience. so, tell me what all this is about, and what's to be done for you that one can do decently?" "why, you must know, frank--but first taste a snap of right hollands." she drew a flask from her pocket, and filled the fellow a large bumper, which he pronounced to be the right thing.--"you must know, then, frank--wunna ye mend your hand?" again offering the flask. "no, no,--when a woman wants mischief from you, she always begins by filling you drunk. d--n all dutch courage. what i do i will do soberly--i'll last the longer for that too." "well, then, you must know," resumed the old woman, without any further attempts at propitiation, "that this girl is going to london." here jeanie could only distinguish the word sister. the robber answered in a louder tone, "fair enough that; and what the devil is your business with it?" "business enough, i think. if the b--queers the noose, that silly cull will marry her." "and who cares if he does?" said the man. "who cares, ye donnard neddie! i care; and i will strangle her with my own hands, rather than she should come to madge's preferment." "madge's preferment! does your old blind eyes see no farther than that? if he is as you say, dye think he'll ever marry a moon-calf like madge? ecod, that's a good one--marry madge wildfire!--ha! ha! ha!" "hark ye, ye crack-rope padder, born beggar, and bred thief!" replied the hag, "suppose he never marries the wench, is that a reason he should marry another, and that other to hold my daughter's place, and she crazed, and i a beggar, and all along of him? but i know that of him will hang him--i know that of him will hang him, if he had a thousand lives--i know that of him will hang--hang--hang him!" she grinned as she repeated and dwelt upon the fatal monosyllable, with the emphasis of a vindictive fiend. "then why don't you hang--hang--hang him?" said frank, repeating her words contemptuously. "there would be more sense in that, than in wreaking yourself here upon two wenches that have done you and your daughter no ill." "no ill?" answered the old woman--"and he to marry this jail-bird, if ever she gets her foot loose!" "but as there is no chance of his marrying a bird of your brood, i cannot, for my soul, see what you have to do with all this," again replied the robber, shrugging his shoulders. "where there is aught to be got, i'll go as far as my neighbours, but i hate mischief for mischiefs sake." "and would you go nae length for revenge?" said the hag--"for revenge--the sweetest morsel to the mouth that over was cooked in hell!" "the devil may keep it for his own eating, then," said the robber; "for hang me if i like the sauce he dresses it with." "revenge!" continued the old woman; "why, it is the best reward the devil gives us for our time here and hereafter. i have wrought hard for it--i have suffered for it--and i have sinned for it--and i will have it,--or there is neither justice in heaven or in hell!" levitt had by this time lighted a pipe, and was listening with great composure to the frantic and vindictive ravings of the old hag. he was too much, hardened by his course of life to be shocked with them--too indifferent, and probably too stupid, to catch any part of their animation or energy. "but, mother," he said, after a pause, "still i say, that if revenge is your wish, you should take it on the young fellow himself." "i wish i could," she said, drawing in her breath, with the eagerness of a thirsty person while mimicking the action of drinking--"i wish i could--but no--i cannot--i cannot." "and why not?--you would think little of peaching and hanging him for this scotch affair.--rat me, one might have milled the bank of england, and less noise about it." "i have nursed him at this withered breast," answered the old woman, folding her hands on her bosom, as if pressing an infant to it, "and, though he has proved an adder to me--though he has been the destruction of me and mine--though he has made me company for the devil, if there be a devil, and food for hell, if there be such a place, yet i cannot take his life.--no, i cannot," she continued, with an appearance of rage against herself; "i have thought of it--i have tried it--but, francis levitt, i canna gang through wi't--na, na--he was the first bairn i ever nurst--ill i had been--and man can never ken what woman feels for the bairn she has held first to her bosom!" "to be sure," said levitt, "we have no experience; but, mother, they say you ha'n't been so kind to other bairns, as you call them, that have come in your way.--nay, d--n me, never lay your hand on the whittle, for i am captain and leader here, and i will have no rebellion." the hag, whose first motion had been, upon hearing the question, to grasp the haft of a large knife, now unclosed her hand, stole it away from the weapon, and suffered it to fall by her side, while she proceeded with a sort of smile--"bairns! ye are joking, lad--wha wad touch bairns? madge, puir thing, had a misfortune wi' ane--and the t'other"--here her voice sunk so much, that jeanie, though anxiously upon the watch, could not catch a word she said, until she raised her tone at the conclusion of the sentence--"so madge, in her daffin', threw it into the nor'-lock, i trow." madge, whose slumbers, like those of most who labour under mental malady, had been short, and were easily broken, now made herself heard from her place of repose. "indeed, mother, that's a great lie, for i did nae sic thing." "hush, thou hellicat devil," said her mother--"by heaven! the other wench will be waking too." "that may be dangerous," said frank; and he rose, and followed meg murdockson across the floor. "rise," said the hag to her daughter, "or i sall drive the knife between the planks into the bedlam back of thee!" apparently she at the same time seconded her threat by pricking her with the point of a knife, for madge, with a faint scream, changed her place, and the door opened. [illustration: jennie in the outlaws hut-- ] the old woman held a candle in one hand, and a knife in the other. levitt appeared behind her, whether with a view of preventing, or assisting her in any violence she might meditate, could not be well guessed. jeanie's presence of mind stood her friend in this dreadful crisis. she had resolution enough to maintain the attitude and manner of one who sleeps profoundly, and to regulate even her breathing, notwithstanding the agitation of instant terror, so as to correspond with her attitude. the old woman passed the light across her eyes; and although jeanie's fears were so powerfully awakened by this movement, that she often declared afterwards, that she thought she saw the figures of her destined murderers through her closed eyelids, she had still the resolution to maintain the feint, on which her safety perhaps depended. levitt looked at her with fixed attention; he then turned the old woman out of the place, and followed her himself. having regained the outward apartment, and seated themselves, jeanie heard the highwayman say, to her no small relief, "she's as fast as if she were in bedfordshire.--now, old meg, d--n me if i can understand a glim of this story of yours, or what good it will do you to hang the one wench and torment the other; but, rat me, i will be true to my friend, and serve ye the way ye like it. i see it will be a bad job; but i do think i could get her down to surfleet on the wash, and so on board tom moonshine's neat lugger, and keep her out of the way three or four weeks, if that will please ye--but d--n me if any one shall harm her, unless they have a mind to choke on a brace of blue plums.--it's a cruel, bad job, and i wish you and it, meg, were both at the devil." "never mind, hinny levitt," said the old woman; "you are a ruffler, and will have a' your ain gate--she shanna gang to heaven an hour sooner for me; i carena whether she live or die--it's her sister--ay, her sister!" "well, we'll say no more about it; i hear tom coming in. we'll couch a hogshead,* and so better had you." * lay ourselves down to sleep. they retired to repose accordingly, and all was silent in this asylum of iniquity. jeanie lay for a long time awake. at break of day she heard the two ruffians leave the barn, after whispering to the old woman for some time. the sense that she was now guarded by persons of her own sex gave her some confidence, and irresistible lassitude at length threw her into slumber. when the captive awakened, the sun was high in heaven, and the morning considerably advanced. madge wildfire was still in the hovel which had served them for the night, and immediately bid her good-morning, with her usual air of insane glee. "and dye ken, lass," said madge, "there's queer things chanced since ye hae been in the land of nod. the constables hae been here, woman, and they met wi' my minnie at the door, and they whirl'd her awa to the justice's about the man's wheat.--dear! thae english churls think as muckle about a blade of wheat or grass, as a scotch laird does about his maukins and his muir-poots. now, lass, if ye like, we'll play them a fine jink; we will awa out and take a walk--they will mak unco wark when they miss us, but we can easily be back by dinner time, or before dark night at ony rate, and it will be some frolic and fresh air.--but maybe ye wad like to take some breakfast, and then lie down again? i ken by mysell, there's whiles i can sit wi' my head in my hand the haill day, and havena a word to cast at a dog--and other whiles, that i canna sit still a moment. that's when the folk think me warst, but i am aye canny eneugh--ye needna be feared to walk wi' me." had madge wildfire been the most raging lunatic, instead of possessing a doubtful, uncertain, and twilight sort of rationality, varying, probably, from the influence of the most trivial causes, jeanie would hardly have objected to leave a place of captivity, where she had so much to apprehend. she eagerly assured madge that she had no occasion for further sleep, no desire whatever for eating; and, hoping internally that she was not guilty of sin in doing so, she flattered her keeper's crazy humour for walking in the woods. "it's no a'thegither for that neither," said poor madge; "but i am judging ye will wun the better out o' thae folk's hands; no that they are a'thegither bad folk neither, but they have queer ways wi' them, and i whiles dinna think it has ever been weel wi' my mother and me since we kept sic-like company." with the haste, the joy, the fear, and the hope of a liberated captive, jeanie snatched up her little bundle, followed madge into the free air, and eagerly looked round her for a human habitation; but none was to be seen. the ground was partly cultivated, and partly left in its natural state, according as the fancy of the slovenly agriculturists had decided. in its natural state it was waste, in some places covered with dwarf trees and bushes, in others swamp, and elsewhere firm and dry downs or pasture grounds. jeanie's active mind next led her to conjecture which way the high-road lay, whence she had been forced. if she regained that public road, she imagined she must soon meet some person, or arrive at some house, where she might tell her story, and request protection. but, after a glance around her, she saw with regret that she had no means whatever of directing her course with any degree of certainty, and that she was still in dependence upon her crazy companion. "shall we not walk upon the high-road?" said she to madge, in such a tone as a nurse uses to coax a child. "it's brawer walking on the road than amang thae wild bushes and whins." madge, who was walking very fast, stopped at this question, and looked at jeanie with a sudden and scrutinising glance, that seemed to indicate complete acquaintance with her purpose. "aha, lass!" she exclaimed, "are ye gaun to guide us that gate?--ye'll be for making your heels save your head, i am judging." jeanie hesitated for a moment, on hearing her companion thus express herself, whether she had not better take the hint, and try to outstrip and get rid of her. but she knew not in which direction to fly; she was by no means sure that she would prove the swiftest, and perfectly conscious that in the event of her being pursued and overtaken, she would be inferior to the madwoman in strength. she therefore gave up thoughts for the present of attempting to escape in that manner, and, saying a few words to allay madge's suspicions, she followed in anxious apprehension the wayward path by which her guide thought proper to lead her. madge, infirm of purpose, and easily reconciled to the present scene, whatever it was, began soon to talk with her usual diffuseness of ideas. "it's a dainty thing to be in the woods on a fine morning like this! i like it far better than the town, for there isna a wheen duddie bairns to be crying after ane, as if ane were a warld's wonder, just because ane maybe is a thought bonnier and better put-on than their neighbours--though, jeanie, ye suld never be proud o' braw claiths, or beauty neither--wae's me! they're but a snare--i ance thought better o'them, and what came o't?" "are ye sure ye ken the way ye are taking us?" said jeanie, who began to imagine that she was getting deeper into the woods and more remote from the high-road. "do i ken the road?--wasna i mony a day living here, and what for shouldna i ken the road? i might hae forgotten, too, for it was afore my accident; but there are some things ane can never forget, let them try it as muckle as they like." by this time they had gained the deepest part of a patch of woodland. the trees were a little separated from each other, and at the foot of one of them, a beautiful poplar, was a hillock of moss, such as the poet of grasmere has described. so soon as she arrived at this spot, madge wildfire, joining her hands above her head with a loud scream that resembled laughter, flung herself all at once upon the spot, and remained lying there motionless. jeanie's first idea was to take the opportunity of flight; but her desire to escape yielded for a moment to apprehension for the poor insane being, who, she thought, might perish for want of relief. with an effort, which in her circumstances, might be termed heroic, she stooped down, spoke in a soothing tone, and endeavoured to raise up the forlorn creature. she effected this with difficulty, and as she placed her against the tree in a sitting posture, she observed with surprise, that her complexion, usually florid, was now deadly pale, and that her face was bathed in tears. notwithstanding her own extreme danger, jeanie was affected by the situation of her companion; and the rather, that, through the whole train of her wavering and inconsistent state of mind and line of conduct, she discerned a general colour of kindness towards herself, for which she felt gratitude. "let me alane!--let me alane!" said the poor young woman, as her paroxysm of sorrow began to abate--"let me alane--it does me good to weep. i canna shed tears but maybe ance or twice a year, and i aye come to wet this turf with them, that the flowers may grow fair, and the grass may be green." "but what is the matter with you?" said jeanie--"why do you weep so bitterly?" "there's matter enow," replied the lunatic,--"mair than ae puir mind can bear, i trow. stay a bit, and i'll tell you a' about it; for i like ye, jeanie deans--a'body spoke weel about ye when we lived in the pleasaunts-- and i mind aye the drink o' milk ye gae me yon day, when i had been on arthur's seat for four-and-twenty hours, looking for the ship that somebody was sailing in." these words recalled to jeanie's recollection, that, in fact, she had been one morning much frightened by meeting a crazy young woman near her father's house at an early hour, and that, as she appeared to be harmless, her apprehension had been changed into pity, and she had relieved the unhappy wanderer with some food, which she devoured with the haste of a famished person. the incident, trifling in itself, was at present of great importance, if it should be found to have made a favourable and permanent impression in her favour on the mind of the object of her charity. "yes," said madge, "i'll tell ye a' about it, for ye are a decent man's daughter--douce davie deans, ye ken--and maybe ye'll can teach me to find out the narrow way, and the straight path, for i have been burning bricks in egypt, and walking through the weary wilderness of sinai, for lang and mony a day. but whenever i think about mine errors, i am like to cover my lips for shame."--here she looked up and smiled.--"it's a strange thing now--i hae spoke mair gude words to you in ten minutes, than i wad speak to my mother in as mony years--it's no that i dinna think on them--and whiles they are just at my tongue's end, but then comes the devil, and brushes my lips with his black wing, and lays his broad black loof on my mouth--for a black loof it is, jeanie--and sweeps away a' my gude thoughts, and dits up my gude words, and pits a wheen fule sangs and idle vanities in their place." "try, madge," said jeanie,--"try to settle your mind and make your breast clean, and you'll find your heart easier.--just resist the devil, and he will flee from you--and mind that, as my worthy father tells me, there is nae devil sae deceitfu' as our ain wandering thoughts." "and that's true too, lass," said madge, starting up; "and i'll gang a gate where the devil daurna follow me; and it's a gate that you will like dearly to gang--but i'll keep a fast haud o' your arm, for fear apollyon should stride across the path, as he did in the pilgrim's progress." accordingly she got up, and, taking jeanie by the arm, began to walk forward at a great pace; and soon, to her companion's no small joy, came into a marked path, with the meanders of which she seemed perfectly acquainted. jeanie endeavoured to bring her back to the confessional, but the fancy was gone by. in fact, the mind of this deranged being resembled nothing so much as a quantity of dry leaves, which may for a few minutes remain still, but are instantly discomposed and put in motion by the first casual breath of air. she had now got john bunyan's parable into her head, to the exclusion of everything else, and on she went with great volubility. "did ye never read the pilgrim's progress? and you shall be the woman, christiana, and i will be the maiden, mercy--for ye ken mercy was of the fairer countenance, and the more alluring than her companion--and if i had my little messan dog here, it would be great-heart, their guide, ye ken, for he was e'en as bauld, that he wad bark at ony thing twenty times his size; and that was e'en the death of him, for he bit corporal macalpine's heels ae morning when they were hauling me to the guard-house, and corporal macalpine killed the bit faithfu' thing wi' his lochaber axe--deil pike the highland banes o' him." "o fie! madge," said jeanie, "ye should not speak such words." "it's very true," said madge, shaking her head; "but then i maunna think o' my puir bit doggie, snap, when i saw it lying dying in the gutter. but it's just as weel, for it suffered baith cauld and hunger when it was living, and in the grave there is rest for a' things--rest for the doggie, and my puir bairn, and me." "your bairn?" said jeanie, conceiving that by speaking on such a topic, supposing it to be a real one, she could not fail to bring her companion to a more composed temper. she was mistaken, however, for madge coloured, and replied with some anger, "_my_ bairn? ay, to be sure, my bairn. whatfor shouldna i hae a bairn and lose a bairn too, as weel as your bonnie tittie, the lily of st. leonard's?" the answer struck jeanie with some alarm, and she was anxious to soothe the irritation she had unwittingly given occasion to. "i am very sorry for your misfortune" "sorry! what wad ye be sorry for?" answered madge. "the bairn was a blessing--that is, jeanie, it wad hae been a blessing if it hadna been for my mother; but my mother's a queer woman.--ye see, there was an auld carle wi' a bit land, and a gude clat o' siller besides, just the very picture of old mr. feeblemind or mr. ready-to-halt, that great-heart delivered from slaygood the giant, when he was rifling him and about to pick his bones, for slaygood was of the nature of the flesh-eaters--and great-heart killed giant despair too--but i am doubting giant despair's come alive again, for a' the story book--i find him busy at my heart whiles." "weel, and so the auld carle," said jeanie, for she was painfully interested in getting to the truth of madge's history, which she could not but suspect was in some extraordinary way linked and entwined with the fate of her sister. she was also desirous, if possible, to engage her companion in some narrative which might be carried on in a lower tone of voice, for she was in great apprehension lest the elevated notes of madge's conversation should direct her mother or the robbers in search of them. "and so the auld carle," said madge, repeating her words--"i wish ye had seen him stoiting about, aff ae leg on to the other, wi' a kind o' dot-and-go-one sort o' motion, as if ilk ane o' his twa legs had belanged to sindry folk--but gentle george could take him aff brawly--eh, as i used to laugh to see george gang hip-hop like him!--i dinna ken, i think i laughed heartier then than what i do now, though maybe no just sae muckle." "and who was gentle george?" said jeanie, endeavouring to bring her back to her story. "o, he was geordie robertson, ye ken, when he was in edinburgh; but that's no his right name neither--his name is--but what is your business wi' his name?" said she, as if upon sudden recollection, "what have ye to do asking for folk's names?--have ye a mind i should scour my knife between your ribs, as my mother says?" as this was spoken with a menacing tone and gesture, jeanie hastened to protest her total innocence of purpose in the accidental question which she had asked, and madge wildfire went on somewhat pacified. "never ask folk's names, jeanie--it's no civil--i hae seen half-a-dozen o' folk in my mother's at ance, and ne'er ane a' them ca'd the ither by his name; and daddie ratton says, it is the most uncivil thing may be, because the bailie bodies are aye asking fashions questions, when ye saw sic a man, or sic a man; and if ye dinna ken their names, ye ken there can be nae mair speerd about it." "in what strange school," thought jeanie to herself, "has this poor creature been bred up, where such remote precautions are taken against the pursuits of justice? what would my father or reuben butler think if i were to tell them there are sic folk in the world? and to abuse the simplicity of this demented creature! oh, that i were but safe at hame amang mine ain leal and true people! and i'll bless god, while i have breath, that placed me amongst those who live in his fear, and under the shadow of his wing." she was interrupted by the insane laugh of madge wildfire, as she saw a magpie hop across the path. "see there!--that was the gate my auld joe used to cross the country, but no just sae lightly--he hadna wings to help his auld legs, i trow; but i behoved to have married him for a' that, jeanie, or my mother wad hae been the dead o' me. but then came in the story of my poor bairn, and my mother thought he wad be deaved wi' it's skirling, and she pat it away in below the bit bourock of turf yonder, just to be out o' the gate; and i think she buried my best wits with it, for i have never been just mysell since. and only think, jeanie, after my mother had been at a' these pains, the auld doited body johnny drottle turned up his nose, and wadna hae aught to say to me! but it's little i care for him, for i have led a merry life ever since, and ne'er a braw gentleman looks at me but ye wad think he was gaun to drop off his horse for mere love of me. i have ken'd some o' them put their hand in their pocket, and gie me as muckle as sixpence at a time, just for my weel-faured face." this speech gave jeanie a dark insight into madge's history. she had been courted by a wealthy suitor, whose addresses her mother had favoured, notwithstanding the objection of old age and deformity. she had been seduced by some profligate, and, to conceal her shame and promote the advantageous match she had planned, her mother had not hesitated to destroy the offspring of their intrigue. that the consequence should be the total derangement of amind which was constitutionally unsettled by giddiness and vanity, was extremely natural; and such was, in fact, the history of madge wildfire's insanity. chapter seventh. so free from danger, free from fear they crossed the court--right glad they were. christabel. pursuing the path which madge had chosen, jeanie deans observed, to her no small delight, that marks of more cultivation appeared, and the thatched roofs of houses, with their blue smoke arising in little columns, were seen embosomed in a tuft of trees at some distance. the track led in that direction, and jeanie, therefore, resolved, while madge continued to pursue it, that she would ask her no questions; having had the penetration to observe, that by doing so she ran the risk of irritating her guide, or awakening suspicions, to the impressions of which, persons in madge's unsettled state of mind are particularly liable. madge, therefore, uninterrupted, went on with the wild disjointed chat which her rambling imagination suggested; a mood in which she was much more communicative respecting her own history, and that of others, than when there was any attempt made, by direct queries, or cross-examinations, to extract information on these subjects. "it's a queer thing," she said, "but whiles i can speak about the bit bairn and the rest of it, just as if it had been another body's, and no my ain; and whiles i am like to break my heart about it--had you ever a bairn, jeanie?" jeanie replied in the negative. "ay; but your sister had, though--and i ken what came o't too." "in the name of heavenly mercy," said jeanie, forgetting the line of conduct which she had hitherto adopted, "tell me but what became of that unfortunate babe, and" madge stopped, looked at her gravely and fixedly, and then broke into a great fit of laughing--"aha, lass,--catch me if you can--i think it's easy to gar you trow ony thing.--how suld i ken onything o' your sister's wean? lasses suld hae naething to do wi' weans till they are married--and then a' the gossips and cummers come in and feast as if it were the blithest day in the warld.--they say maidens' bairns are weel guided. i wot that wasna true of your tittie's and mine; but these are sad tales to tell.--i maun just sing a bit to keep up my heart--it's a sang that gentle george made on me lang syne, when i went with him to lockington wake, to see him act upon a stage, in fine clothes, with the player folk. he might hae dune waur than married me that night as he promised--better wed over the mixen* as over the moor, as they say in yorkshire-- * a homely proverb, signifying better wed a neighbour than one fetched from a distance.--mixen signifies dunghill. he may gang farther and fare waur--but that's a' ane to the sang, 'i'm madge of the country, i'm madge of the town, and i'm madge of the lad i am blithest to own-- the lady of beeve in diamonds may shine, but has not a heart half so lightsome as mine. 'i am queen of the wake, and i'm lady of may, and i lead the blithe ring round the may-pole to-day; the wildfire that flashes so fair and so free, was never so bright, or so bonny, as me.' "i like that the best o' a' my sangs," continued the maniac, "because he made it. i am often singing it, and that's maybe the reason folk ca' me madge wildfire. i aye answer to the name, though it's no my ain, for what's the use of making a fash?" "but ye shouldna sing upon the sabbath at least," said jeanie, who, amid all her distress and anxiety, could not help being scandalised at the deportment of her companion, especially as they now approached near to the little village. "ay! is this sunday?" said madge. "my mother leads sic a life, wi' turning night into day, that ane loses a' count o' the days o' the week, and disna ken sunday frae saturday. besides, it's a' your whiggery--in england, folk sings when they like--and then, ye ken, you are christiana and i am mercy--and ye ken, as they went on their way, they sang."--and she immediately raised one of john bunyan's ditties:-- "he that is down need fear no fall, he that is low no pride, he that is humble ever shall have god to be his guide. "fulness to such a burthen is that go on pilgrimage; here little, and hereafter bliss, is best from age to age." "and do ye ken, jeanie, i think there's much truth in that book, the pilgrim's progress. the boy that sings that song was feeding his father's sheep in the valley of humiliation, and mr. great-heart says, that he lived a merrier life, and had more of the herb called heart's-ease in his bosom, than they that wear silk and velvet like me, and are as bonny as i am." jeanie deans had never read the fanciful and delightful parable to which madge alluded. bunyan was, indeed, a rigid calvinist, but then he was also a member of a baptist congregation, so that his works had no place on david deans's shelf of divinity. madge, however, at some time of her life, had been well acquainted, as it appeared, with the most popular of his performances, which, indeed, rarely fails to make a deep impression upon children, and people of the lower rank. "i am sure," she continued, "i may weel say i am come out of the city of destruction, for my mother is mrs. bat's-eyes, that dwells at deadman's corner; and frank levitt, and tyburn tam, they may be likened to mistrust and guilt, that came galloping up, and struck the poor pilgrim to the ground with a great club, and stole a bag of silver, which was most of his spending money, and so have they done to many, and will do to more. but now we will gang to the interpreter's house, for i ken a man that will play the interpreter right weel; for he has eyes lifted up to heaven, the best of books in his hand, the law of truth written on his lips, and he stands as if he pleaded wi' men--oh, if i had minded what he had said to me, i had never been the cutaway creature that i am!--but it is all over now.--but we'll knock at the gate, and then the keeper will admit christiana, but mercy will be left out--and then i'll stand at the door, trembling and crying, and then christiana--that's you, jeanie--will intercede for me; and then mercy--that's me, ye ken, will faint; and then the interpreter--yes, the interpreter, that's mr. staunton himself, will come out and take me--that's poor, lost, demented me--by the hand, and give me a pomegranate, and a piece of honeycomb, and a small bottle of spirits, to stay my fainting--and then the good times will come back again, and we'll be the happiest folk you ever saw." in the midst of the confused assemblage of ideas indicated in this speech, jeanie thought she saw a serious purpose on the part of madge, to endeavour to obtain the pardon and countenance of some one whom she had offended; an attempt the most likely of all others to bring them once more into contact with law and legal protection. she, therefore, resolved to be guided by her while she was in so hopeful a disposition, and act for her own safety according to circumstances. they were now close by the village, one of those beautiful scenes which are so often found in merry england, where the cottages, instead of being built in two direct lines on each side of a dusty high-road, stand in detached groups, interspersed not only with large oaks and elms, but with fruit-trees, so many of which were at this time in flourish, that the grove seemed enamelled with their crimson and white blossoms. in the centre of the hamlet stood the parish church, and its little gothic tower, from which at present was heard the sunday chime of bells. "we will wait here until the folk are a' in the church--they ca' the kirk a church in england, jeanie, be sure you mind that--for if i was gaun forward amang them, a' the gaitts o' boys and lasses wad be crying at madge wildfire's tail, the little hell-rakers! and the beadle would be as hard upon us as if it was our fault. i like their skirting as ill as he does, i can tell him; i'm sure i often wish there was a het peat doun their throats when they set them up that gate." conscious of the disorderly appearance of her own dress after the adventure of the preceding night, and of the grotesque habit and demeanour of her guide, and sensible how important it was to secure an attentive and impatient audience to her strange story from some one who might have the means to protect her, jeanie readily acquiesced in madge's proposal to rest under the trees, by which they were still somewhat screened, until the commencement of service should give them an opportunity of entering the hamlet without attracting a crowd around them. she made the less opposition, that madge had intimated that this was not the village where her mother was in custody, and that the two squires of the pad were absent in a different direction. she sate herself down, therefore, at the foot of an oak, and by the assistance of a placid fountain, which had been dammed up for the use of the villagers, and which served her as a natural mirror, she began--no uncommon thing with a scottish maiden of her rank--to arrange her toilette in the open air, and bring her dress, soiled and disordered as it was, into such order as the place and circumstances admitted. she soon perceived reason, however, to regret that she had set about this task, however decent and necessary, in the present time and society. madge wildfire, who, among other indications of insanity, had a most overweening opinion of those charms, to which, in fact, she had owed her misery, and whose mind, like a raft upon a lake, was agitated and driven about at random by each fresh impulse, no sooner beheld jeanie begin to arrange her hair, place her bonnet in order, rub the dust from her shoes and clothes, adjust her neck-handkerchief and mittans, and so forth, than with imitative zeal she began to bedizen and trick herself out with shreds and remnants of beggarly finery, which she took out of a little bundle, and which, when disposed around her person, made her appearance ten times more fantastic and apish than it had been before. jeanie groaned in spirit, but dared not interfere in a matter so delicate. across the man's cap or riding hat which she wore, madge placed a broken and soiled white feather, intersected with one which had been shed from the train of a peacock. to her dress, which was a kind of riding-habit, she stitched, pinned, and otherwise secured, a large furbelow of artificial flowers, all crushed, wrinkled and dirty, which had at first bedecked a lady of quality, then descended to her abigail, and dazzled the inmates of the servants' hall. a tawdry scarf of yellow silk, trimmed with tinsel and spangles, which had seen as hard service, and boasted as honourable a transmission, was next flung over one shoulder, and fell across her person in the manner of a shoulder-belt, or baldrick. madge then stripped off the coarse ordinary shoes, which she wore, and replaced them by a pair of dirty satin ones, spangled and embroidered to match the scarf, and furnished with very high heels. she had cut a willow switch in her morning's walk, almost as long as a boy's fishing-rod. this she set herself seriously to peel, and when it was transformed into such a wand as the treasurer or high steward bears on public occasions, she told jeanie that she thought they now looked decent, as young women should do upon the sunday morning, and that, as the bells had done ringing, she was willing to conduct her to the interpreter's house. jeanie sighed heavily, to think it should be her lot on the lord's day, and during kirk time too, to parade the street of an inhabited village with so very grotesque a comrade; but necessity had no law, since, without a positive quarrel with the madwoman, which, in the circumstances, would have been very unadvisable, she could see no means of shaking herself free of her society. as for poor madge, she was completely elated with personal vanity, and the most perfect satisfaction concerning her own dazzling dress, and superior appearance. they entered the hamlet without being observed, except by one old woman, who, being nearly "high-gravel blind," was only conscious that something very fine and glittering was passing by, and dropped as deep a reverence to madge as she would have done to a countess. this filled up the measure of madge's self-approbation. she minced, she ambled, she smiled, she simpered, and waved jeanie deans forward with the condescension of a noble _chaperone,_ who has undertaken the charge of a country miss on her first journey to the capital. jeanie followed in patience, and with her eyes fixed on the ground, that she might save herself the mortification of seeing her companion's absurdities; but she started when, ascending two or three steps, she found herself in the churchyard, and saw that madge was making straight for the door of the church. as jeanie had no mind to enter the congregation in such company, she walked aside from the pathway, and said in a decided tone, "madge, i will wait here till the church comes out--you may go in by yourself if you have a mind." as she spoke these words, she was about to seat herself upon one of the grave-stones. madge was a little before jeanie when she turned aside; but, suddenly changing her course, she followed her with long strides, and, with every feature inflamed with passion, overtook and seized her by the arm. "do ye think, ye ungratefu' wretch, that i am gaun to let you sit doun upon my father's grave? the deil settle ye doun, if ye dinna rise and come into the interpreter's house, that's the house of god, wi' me, but i'll rive every dud aft your back!" she adapted the action to the phrase; for with one clutch she stripped jeanie of her straw bonnet and a handful of her hair to boot, and threw it up into an old yew-tree, where it stuck fast. jeanie's first impulse was to scream, but conceiving she might receive deadly harm before she could obtain the assistance of anyone, notwithstanding the vicinity of the church, she thought it wiser to follow the madwoman into the congregation, where she might find some means of escape from her, or at least be secured against her violence. but when she meekly intimated her consent to follow madge, her guide's uncertain brain had caught another train of ideas. she held jeanie fast with one hand, and with the other pointed to the inscription on the grave-stone, and commanded her to read it. jeanie obeyed, and read these words:-- "this monument was erected to the memory of donald murdockson of the king's xxvi., or cameronian regiment, a sincere christian, a brave soldier, and a faithful servant, by his grateful and sorrowing master, robert staunton." "it's very weel read, jeanie; it's just the very words," said madge, whose ire had now faded into deep melancholy, and with a step which, to jeanie's great joy, was uncommonly quiet and mournful, she led her companion towards the door of the church. [illustration: madge and jennie-- ] it was one of those old-fashioned gothic parish churches which are frequent in england, the most cleanly, decent, and reverential places of worship that are, perhaps, anywhere to be found in the christian world. yet, notwithstanding the decent solemnity of its exterior, jeanie was too faithful to the directory of the presbyterian kirk to have entered a prelatic place of worship, and would, upon any other occasion, have thought that she beheld in the porch the venerable figure of her father waving her back from the entrance, and pronouncing in a solemn tone, "cease, my child, to hear the instruction which causeth to err from the words of knowledge." but in her present agitating and alarming situation, she looked for safety to this forbidden place of assembly, as the hunted animal will sometimes seek shelter from imminent danger in the human habitation, or in other places of refuge most alien to its nature and habits. not even the sound of the organ, and of one or two flutes which accompanied the psalmody, prevented her from following her guide into the chancel of the church. no sooner had madge put her foot upon the pavement, and become sensible that she was the object of attention to the spectators, than she resumed all the fantastic extravagance of deportment which some transient touch of melancholy had banished for an instant. she swam rather than walked up the centre aisle, dragging jeanie after her, whom she held fast by the hand. she would, indeed, have fain slipped aside into the pew nearest to the door, and left madge to ascend in her own manner and alone to the high places of the synagogue; but this was impossible, without a degree of violent resistance, which seemed to her inconsistent with the time and place, and she was accordingly led in captivity up the whole length of the church by her grotesque conductress, who, with half-shut eyes, a prim smile upon her lips, and a mincing motion with her hands, which corresponded with the delicate and affected pace at which she was pleased to move, seemed to take the general stare of the congregation, which such an exhibition necessarily excited, as a high compliment, and which she returned by nods and half-courtesies to individuals amongst the audience, whom she seemed to distinguish as acquaintances. her absurdity was enhanced in the eyes of the spectators by the strange contrast which she formed to her companion, who, with dishevelled hair, downcast eyes, and a face glowing with shame, was dragged, as it were in triumph after her. madge's airs were at length fortunately cut short by her encountering in her progress the looks of the clergyman, who fixed upon her a glance, at once steady, compassionate, and admonitory. she hastily opened an empty pew which happened to be near her, and entered, dragging in jeanie after her. kicking jeanie on the shins, by way of hint that she should follow her example, she sunk her head upon her hand for the space of a minute. jeanie, to whom this posture of mental devotion was entirely new, did not attempt to do the like, but looked round her with a bewildered stare, which her neighbours, judging from the company in which they saw her, very naturally ascribed to insanity. every person in their immediate vicinity drew back from this extraordinary couple as far as the limits of their pew permitted; but one old man could not get beyond madge's reach, ere, she had snatched the prayer-book from his hand, and ascertained the lesson of the day. she then turned up the ritual, and with the most overstrained enthusiasm of gesture and manner, showed jeanie the passages as they were read in the service, making, at the same time, her own responses so loud as to be heard above those of every other person. notwithstanding the shame and vexation which jeanie felt in being thus exposed in a place of worship, she could not and durst not omit rallying her spirits so as to look around her, and consider to whom she ought to appeal for protection so soon as the service should be concluded. her first ideas naturally fixed upon the clergyman, and she was confirmed in the resolution by observing that he was an aged gentleman, of a dignified appearance and deportment, who read the service with an undisturbed and decent gravity, which brought back to becoming attention those younger members of the congregation who had been disturbed by the extravagant behaviour of madge wildfire. to the clergyman, therefore, jeanie resolved to make her appeal when the service was over. it is true she felt disposed to be shocked at his surplice, of which she had heard so much, but which she had never seen upon the person of a preacher of the word. then she was confused by the change of posture adopted in different parts of the ritual, the more so as madge wildfire, to whom they seemed familiar, took the opportunity to exercise authority over her, pulling her up and pushing her down with a bustling assiduity, which jeanie felt must make them both the objects of painful attention. but, notwithstanding these prejudices, it was her prudent resolution, in this dilemma, to imitate as nearly as she could what was done around her. the prophet, she thought, permitted naaman the syrian to bow even in the house of rimmon. surely if i, in this streight, worship the god of my fathers in mine own language, although the manner thereof be strange to me, the lord will pardon me in this thing. in this resolution she became so much confirmed, that, withdrawing herself from madge as far as the pew permitted, she endeavoured to evince by serious and composed attention to what was passing, that her mind was composed to devotion. her tormentor would not long have permitted her to remain quiet, but fatigue overpowered her, and she fell fast asleep in the other corner of the pew. jeanie, though her mind in her own despite sometimes reverted to her situation, compelled herself to give attention to a sensible, energetic, and well-composed discourse, upon the practical doctrines of christianity, which she could not help approving, although it was every word written down and read by the preacher, and although it was delivered in a tone and gesture very different from those of boanerges stormheaven, who was her father's favourite preacher. the serious and placid attention with which jeanie listened, did not escape the clergyman. madge wildfire's entrance had rendered him apprehensive of some disturbance, to provide against which, as far as possible, he often turned his eyes to the part of the church where jeanie and she were placed, and became soon aware that, although the loss of her head-gear, and the awkwardness of her situation, had given an uncommon and anxious air to the features of the former, yet she was in a state of mind very different from that of her companion. when he dismissed the congregation, he observed her look around with a wild and terrified look, as if uncertain what course she ought to adopt, and noticed that she approached one or two of the most decent of the congregation, as if to address them, and then shrunk back timidly, on observing that they seemed to shun and to avoid her. the clergyman was satisfied there must be something extraordinary in all this, and as a benevolent man, as well as a good christian pastor, he resolved to inquire into the matter more minutely. chapter eighth. there governed in that year a stern, stout churl--an angry overseer. crabbe. while mr. staunton, for such was this worthy clergyman's name, was laying aside his gown in the vestry, jeanie was in the act of coming to an open rupture with madge. "we must return to mummer's barn directly," said madge; "we'll be ower late, and my mother will be angry." "i am not going back with you, madge," said jeanie, taking out a guinea, and offering it to her; "i am much obliged to you, but i maun gang my ain road." "and me coming a' this way out o' my gate to pleasure you, ye ungratefu' cutty," answered madge; "and me to be brained by my mother when i gang hame, and a' for your sake!--but i will gar ye as good" "for god's sake," said jeanie to a man who stood beside them, "keep her off!--she is mad." "ey, ey," answered the boor; "i hae some guess of that, and i trow thou be'st a bird of the same feather.--howsomever, madge, i redd thee keep hand off her, or i'se lend thee a whisterpoop." several of the lower class of the parishioners now gathered round the strangers, and the cry arose among the boys that "there was a-going to be a fite between mad madge murdockson and another bess of bedlam." but while the fry assembled with the humane hope of seeing as much of the fun as possible, the laced cocked-hat of the beadle was discerned among the multitude, and all made way for that person of awful authority. his first address was to madge. "what's brought thee back again, thou silly donnot, to plague this parish? hast thou brought ony more bastards wi' thee to lay to honest men's doors? or does thou think to burden us with this goose, that's as hare-brained as thysell, as if rates were no up enow? away wi' thee to thy thief of a mother; she's fast in the stocks at barkston town-end-- away wi' ye out o' the parish, or i'se be at ye with the ratan." madge stood sulky for a minute; but she had been too often taught submission to the beadle's authority by ungentle means to feel courage enough to dispute it. "and my mother--my puir auld mother, is in the stocks at barkston!--this is a' your wyte, miss jeanie deans; but i'll be upsides wi' you, as sure as my name's madge wildfire--i mean murdockson--god help me, i forget my very name in this confused waste!" so saying, she turned upon her heel, and went off, followed by all the mischievous imps of the village, some crying, "madge, canst thou tell thy name yet?" some pulling the skirts of her dress, and all, to the best of their strength and ingenuity, exercising some new device or other to exasperate her into frenzy. jeanie saw her departure with infinite delight, though she wished that, in some way or other, she could have requited the service madge had conferred upon her. in the meantime, she applied to the beadle to know whether "there was any house in the village where she could be civilly entertained for her money, and whether she could be permitted to speak to the clergyman?" "ay, ay, we'se ha' reverend care on thee; and i think," answered the man of constituted authority, "that, unless thou answer the rector all the better, we'se spare thy money, and gie thee lodging at the parish charge, young woman." "where am i to go then?" said jeanie, in some alarm. "why, i am to take thee to his reverence, in the first place, to gie an account o' thysell, and to see thou comena to be a burden upon the parish." "i do not wish to burden anyone," replied jeanie; "i have enough for my own wants, and only wish to get on my journey safely." "why, that's another matter," replied the beadle, "and if it be true--and i think thou dost not look so polrumptious as thy playfellow yonder--thou wouldst be a mettle lass enow, an thou wert snog and snod a bid better. come thou away, then--the rector is a good man." "is that the minister," said jeanie, "who preached" "the minister? lord help thee! what kind o' presbyterian art thou?--why, 'tis the rector--the rector's sell, woman, and there isna the like o' him in the county, nor the four next to it. come away--away with thee--we maunna bide here." "i am sure i am very willing to go to see the minister," said jeanie; "for though he read his discourse, and wore that surplice, as they call it here, i canna but think he must be a very worthy god-fearing man, to preach the root of the matter in the way he did." the disappointed rabble, finding that there was like to be no farther sport, had by this time dispersed, and jeanie, with her usual patience, followed her consequential and surly, but not brutal, conductor towards the rectory. this clerical mansion was large and commodious, for the living was an excellent one, and the advowson belonged to a very wealthy family in the neighbourhood, who had usually bred up a son or nephew to the church for the sake of inducting him, as opportunity offered, into this very comfortable provision. in this manner the rectory of willingham had always been considered as a direct and immediate appanage of willingham hall; and as the rich baronets to whom the latter belonged had usually a son, or brother, or nephew, settled in the living, the utmost care had been taken to render their habitation not merely respectable and commodious, but even dignified and imposing. it was situated about four hundred yards from the village, and on a rising ground which sloped gently upward, covered with small enclosures, or closes, laid out irregularly, so that the old oaks and elms, which were planted in hedge-rows, fell into perspective, and were blended together in beautiful irregularity. when they approached nearer to the house, a handsome gateway admitted them into a lawn, of narrow dimensions indeed, but which was interspersed with large sweet chestnut trees and beeches, and kept in handsome order. the front of the house was irregular. part of it seemed very old, and had, in fact, been the residence of the incumbent in romish times. successive occupants had made considerable additions and improvements, each in the taste of his own age, and without much regard to symmetry. but these incongruities of architecture were so graduated and happily mingled, that the eye, far from being displeased with the combinations of various styles, saw nothing but what was interesting in the varied and intricate pile which they displayed. fruit-trees displayed on the southern wall, outer staircases, various places of entrance, a combination of roofs and chimneys of different ages, united to render the front, not indeed beautiful or grand, but intricate, perplexed, or, to use mr. price's appropriate phrase, picturesque. the most considerable addition was that of the present rector, who, "being a bookish man," as the beadle was at the pains to inform jeanie, to augment, perhaps, her reverence for the person before whom she was to appear, had built a handsome library and parlour, and no less than two additional bedrooms. "mony men would hae scrupled such expense," continued the parochial officer, "seeing as the living mun go as it pleases sir edmund to will it; but his reverence has a canny bit land of his own, and need not look on two sides of a penny." jeanie could not help comparing the irregular yet extensive and commodious pile of building before her to the "manses" in her own country, where a set of penurious heritors, professing all the while the devotion of their lives and fortunes to the presbyterian establishment, strain their inventions to discover what may be nipped, and clipped, and pared from a building which forms but a poor accommodation even for the present incumbent, and, despite the superior advantage of stone-masonry, must, in the course of forty or fifty years, again burden their descendants with an expense, which, once liberally and handsomely employed, ought to have freed their estates from a recurrence of it for more than a century at least. behind the rector's house the ground sloped down to a small river, which, without possessing the romantic vivacity and rapidity of a northern stream, was, nevertheless, by its occasional appearance through the ranges of willows and poplars that crowned its banks, a very pleasing accompaniment to the landscape. "it was the best trouting stream," said the beadle, whom the patience of jeanie, and especially the assurance that she was not about to become a burden to the parish, had rendered rather communicative, "the best trouting stream in all lincolnshire; for when you got lower, there was nought to be done wi' fly-fishing." turning aside from the principal entrance, he conducted jeanie towards a sort of portal connected with the older part of the building, which was chiefly occupied by servants, and knocking at the door, it was opened by a servant in grave purple livery, such as befitted a wealthy and dignified clergyman. "how dost do, tummas?" said the beadle--"and how's young measter staunton?" "why, but poorly--but poorly, measter stubbs.--are you wanting to see his reverence?" "ay, ay, tummas; please to say i ha' brought up the young woman as came to service to-day with mad madge murdockson seems to be a decentish koind o' body; but i ha' asked her never a question. only i can tell his reverence that she is a scotchwoman, i judge, and as flat as the fens of holland." tummas honoured jeanie deans with such a stare, as the pampered domestics of the rich, whether spiritual or temporal, usually esteem it part of their privilege to bestow upon the poor, and then desired mr. stubbs and his charge to step in till he informed his master of their presence. the room into which he showed them was a sort of steward's parlour, hung with a county map or two, and three or four prints of eminent persons connected with the county, as sir william monson, james york the blacksmith of lincoln,* and the famous peregrine, lord willoughby, in complete armour, looking as when he said in the words of the legend below the engraving,-- * [author of the _union of honour,_ a treatise on english heraldry. london, .] "stand to it, noble pikemen, and face ye well about; and shoot ye sharp, bold bowmen, and we will keep them out. "ye musquet and calliver-men, do you prove true to me, i'll be the foremost man in fight, said brave lord willoughbee." [illustration: a "summat" to eat and drink-- ] when they had entered this apartment, tummas as a matter of course offered, and as a matter of course mr. stubbs accepted, a "summat" to eat and drink, being the respectable relies of a gammon of bacon, and a _whole whiskin,_ or black pot of sufficient double ale. to these eatables mr. beadle seriously inclined himself, and (for we must do him justice) not without an invitation to jeanie, in which tummas joined, that his prisoner or charge would follow his good example. but although she might have stood in need of refreshment, considering she had tasted no food that day, the anxiety of the moment, her own sparing and abstemious habits, and a bashful aversion to eat in company of the two strangers, induced her to decline their courtesy. so she sate in a chair apart, while mr. stubbs and mr. tummas, who had chosen to join his friend in consideration that dinner was to be put back till after the afternoon service, made a hearty luncheon, which lasted for half-an-hour, and might not then have concluded, had not his reverence rung his bell, so that tummas was obliged to attend his master. then, and no sooner, to save himself the labour of a second journey to the other end of the house, he announced to his master the arrival of mr. stubbs, with the other madwoman, as he chose to designate jeanie, as an event which had just taken place. he returned with an order that mr. stubbs and the young woman should be instantly ushered up to the library. the beadle bolted in haste his last mouthful of fat bacon, washed down the greasy morsel with the last rinsings of the pot of ale, and immediately marshalled jeanie through one or two intricate passages which led from the ancient to the more modern buildings, into a handsome little hall, or anteroom, adjoining to the library, and out of which a glass door opened to the lawn. "stay here," said stubbs, "till i tell his reverence you are come." so saying, he opened a door and entered the library. without wishing to hear their conversation, jeanie, as she was circumstanced, could not avoid it; for as stubbs stood by the door, and his reverence was at the upper end of a large room, their conversation was necessarily audible in the anteroom. "so you have brought the young woman here at last, mr. stubbs. i expected you some time since. you know i do not wish such persons to remain in custody a moment without some inquiry into their situation." "very true, your reverence," replied the beadle; "but the young woman had eat nought to-day, and so measter tummas did set down a drap of drink and a morsel, to be sure." "thomas was very right, mr. stubbs; and what has, become of the other most unfortunate being?" "why," replied mr. stubbs, "i did think the sight on her would but vex your reverence, and soa i did let her go her ways back to her mother, who is in trouble in the next parish." "in trouble!--that signifies in prison, i suppose?" said mr. staunton. "ay, truly; something like it, an it like your reverence." "wretched, unhappy, incorrigible woman!" said the clergyman. "and what sort of person is this companion of hers?" "why, decent enow, an it like your reverence," said stubbs; "for aught i sees of her, there's no harm of her, and she says she has cash enow to carry her out of the county." "cash! that is always what you think of, stubbs--but, has she sense?--has she her wits?--has she the capacity of taking care of herself?" "why, your reverence," replied stubbs, "i cannot just say--i will be sworn she was not born at witt-ham;* for gaffer gibbs looked at her all the time of service, and he says, she could not turn up a single lesson like a christian, even though she had madge murdockson to help her--but then, as to fending for herself, why, she's a bit of a scotchwoman, your reverence, and they say the worst donnot of them can look out for their own turn--and she is decently put on enow, and not bechounched like t'other." * a proverbial and punning expression in that county, to intimate that a person is not very clever. "send her in here, then, and do you remain below, mr. stubbs." this colloquy had engaged jeanie's attention so deeply, that it was not until it was over that she observed that the sashed door, which, we have said, led from the anteroom into the garden, was opened, and that there entered, or rather was borne in by two assistants, a young man, of a very pale and sickly appearance, whom they lifted to the nearest couch, and placed there, as if to recover from the fatigue of an unusual exertion. just as they were making this arrangement, stubbs came out of the library, and summoned jeanie to enter it. she obeyed him, not without tremor; for, besides the novelty of the situation, to a girl of her secluded habits, she felt also as if the successful prosecution of her journey was to depend upon the impression she should be able to make on mr. staunton. it is true, it was difficult to suppose on what pretext a person travelling on her own business, and at her own charge, could be interrupted upon her route. but the violent detention she had already undergone, was sufficient to show that there existed persons at no great distance who had the interest, the inclination, and the audacity, forcibly to stop her journey, and she felt the necessity of having some countenance and protection, at least till she should get beyond their reach. while these things passed through her mind, much faster than our pen and ink can record, or even the reader's eye collect the meaning of its traces, jeanie found herself in a handsome library, and in presence of the rector of willingham. the well-furnished presses and shelves which surrounded the large and handsome apartment, contained more books than jeanie imagined existed in the world, being accustomed to consider as an extensive collection two fir shelves, each about three feet long, which contained her father's treasured volumes, the whole pith and marrow, as he used sometimes to boast, of modern divinity. an orrery, globes, a telescope, and some other scientific implements, conveyed to jeanie an impression of admiration and wonder, not unmixed with fear; for, in her ignorant apprehension, they seemed rather adapted for magical purposes than any other; and a few stuffed animals (as the rector was fond of natural history) added to the impressive character of the apartment. mr. staunton spoke to her with great mildness. he observed, that, although her appearance at church had been uncommon, and in strange, and he must add, discreditable society, and calculated, upon the whole, to disturb the congregation during divine worship, he wished, nevertheless, to hear her own account of herself before taking any steps which his duty might seem to demand. he was a justice of peace, he informed her, as well as a clergyman. "his honour" (for she would not say his reverence) "was very civil and kind," was all that poor jeanie could at first bring out. "who are you, young woman?" said the clergyman, more peremptorily--"and what do you do in this country, and in such company?--we allow no strollers or vagrants here." "i am not a vagrant or a stroller, sir," said jeanie, a little roused by the supposition. "i am a decent scots lass, travelling through the land on my own business and my own expenses and i was so unhappy as to fall in with bad company, and was stopped a' night on my journey. and this puir creature, who is something light-headed, let me out in the morning." "bad company!" said the clergyman. "i am afraid, young woman, you have not been sufficiently anxious to avoid them." "indeed, sir," returned jeanie, "i have been brought up to shun evil communication. but these wicked people were thieves, and stopped me by violence and mastery." "thieves!" said mr. staunton; "then you charge them with robbery, i suppose?" "no, sir; they did not take so much as a boddle from me," answered jeanie; "nor did they use me ill, otherwise than by confining me." the clergyman inquired into the particulars of her adventure, which she told him from point to point. "this is an extraordinary, and not a very probable tale, young woman," resumed mr. staunton. "here has been, according to your account, a great violence committed without any adequate motive. are you aware of the law of this country--that if you lodge this charge, you will be bound over to prosecute this gang?" jeanie did not understand him, and he explained, that the english law, in addition to the inconvenience sustained by persons who have been robbed or injured, has the goodness to intrust to them the care and the expense of appearing as prosecutors. jeanie said, "that her business at london was express; all she wanted was, that any gentleman would, out of christian charity, protect her to some town where she could hire horses and a guide; and finally," she thought, "it would be her father's mind that she was not free to give testimony in an english court of justice, as the land was not under a direct gospel dispensation." mr. staunton stared a little, and asked if her father was a quaker. "god forbid, sir," said jeanie--"he is nae schismatic nor sectary, nor ever treated for sic black commodities as theirs, and that's weel kend o' him." "and what is his name, pray?" said mr. staunton. "david deans, sir, the cowfeeder at saint leonard's crags, near edinburgh." a deep groan from the anteroom prevented the rector from replying, and, exclaiming, "good god! that unhappy boy!" he left jeanie alone, and hastened into the outer apartment. some noise and bustle was heard, but no one entered the library for the best part of an hour. chapter ninth. fantastic passions' maddening brawl! and shame and terror over all! deeds to be hid which were not hid, which, all confused, i could not know whether i suffer'd or i did, for all seem'd guilt, remorse, or woe; my own, or others, still the same life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame. coleridge. during the interval while she was thus left alone, jeanie anxiously revolved in her mind what course was best for her to pursue. she was impatient to continue her journey, yet she feared she could not safely adventure to do so while the old hag and her assistants were in the neighbourhood, without risking a repetition of their violence. she thought she could collect from the conversation which she had partly overheard, and also from the wild confessions of madge wildfire, that her mother had a deep and revengeful motive for obstructing her journey if possible. and from whom could she hope for assistance if not from mr. staunton? his whole appearance and demeanour seemed to encourage her hopes. his features were handsome, though marked with a deep cast of melancholy; his tone and language were gentle and encouraging; and, as he had served in the army for several years during his youth, his air retained that easy frankness which is peculiar to the profession of arms. he was, besides, a minister of the gospel; and, although a worshipper, according to jeanie's notions, in the court of the gentiles, and so benighted as to wear a surplice; although he read the common prayer, and wrote down every word of his sermon before delivering it; and although he was, moreover, in strength of lungs, as well as pith and marrow of doctrine, vastly inferior to boanerges stormheaven, jeanie still thought he must be a very different person from curate kilstoup, and other prelatical divines of her father's earlier days, who used to get drunk in their canonical dress, and hound out the dragoons against the wandering cameronians. the house seemed to be in some disturbance, but as she could not suppose she was altogether forgotten, she thought it better to remain quiet in the apartment where she had been left, till some one should take notice of her. the first who entered was, to her no small delight, one of her own sex, a motherly-looking aged person of a housekeeper. to her jeanie explained her situation in a few words, and begged her assistance. the dignity of a housekeeper did not encourage too much familiarity with a person who was at the rectory on justice-business, and whose character might seem in her eyes somewhat precarious; but she was civil, although distant. "her young master," she said, "had had a bad accident by a fall from his horse, which made him liable to fainting fits; he had been taken very ill just now, and it was impossible his reverence could see jeanie for some time; but that she need not fear his doing all that was just and proper in her behalf the instant he could get her business attended to."--she concluded by offering to show jeanie a room, where she might remain till his reverence was at leisure. our heroine took the opportunity to request the means of adjusting and changing her dress. the housekeeper, in whose estimation order and cleanliness ranked high among personal virtues, gladly complied with a request so reasonable; and the change of dress which jeanie's bundle furnished made so important an improvement in her appearance, that the old lady hardly knew the soiled and disordered traveller, whose attire showed the violence she had sustained, in the neat, clean, quiet-looking little scotch-woman, who now stood before her. encouraged by such a favourable alteration in her appearance, mrs. dalton ventured to invite jeanie to partake of her dinner, and was equally pleased with the decent propriety of her conduct during the meal. "thou canst read this book, canst thou, young woman?" said the old lady, when their meal was concluded, laying her hand upon a large bible. "i hope sae, madam," said jeanie, surprised at the question "my father wad hae wanted mony a thing ere i had wanted _that_ schuling." "the better sign of him, young woman. there are men here, well to pass in the world, would not want their share of a leicester plover, and that's a bag-pudding, if fasting for three hours would make all their poor children read the bible from end to end. take thou the book, then, for my eyes are something dazed, and read where thou listest--it's the only book thou canst not happen wrong in." jeanie was at first tempted to turn up the parable of the good samaritan, but her conscience checked her, as if it were a use of scripture, not for her own edification, but to work upon the mind of others for the relief of her worldly afflictions; and under this scrupulous sense of duty, she selected, in preference, a chapter of the prophet isaiah, and read it, notwithstanding her northern' accent and tone, with a devout propriety, which greatly edified mrs. dalton. "ah," she said, "an all scotchwomen were sic as thou but it was our luck to get born devils of thy country, i think--every one worse than t'other. if thou knowest of any tidy lass like thysell that wanted a place, and could bring a good character, and would not go laiking about to wakes and fairs, and wore shoes and stockings all the day round--why, i'll not say but we might find room for her at the rectory. hast no cousin or sister, lass, that such an offer would suit?" this was touching upon a sore point, but jeanie was spared the pain of replying by the entrance of the same man-servant she had seen before. "measter wishes to see the young woman from scotland," was tummas's address. "go to his reverence, my dear, as fast as you can, and tell him all your story--his reverence is a kind man," said mrs. dalton. "i will fold down the leaf, and wake you a cup of tea, with some nice muffin, against you come down, and that's what you seldom see in scotland, girl." "measter's waiting for the young woman," said tummas impatiently. "well, mr. jack-sauce, and what is your business to put in your oar?--and how often must i tell you to call mr. staunton his reverence, seeing as he is a dignified clergyman, and not be meastering, meastering him, as if he were a little petty squire?" as jeanie was now at the door, and ready to accompany tummas, the footman said nothing till he got into the passage, when he muttered, "there are moe masters than one in this house, and i think we shall have a mistress too, an dame dalton carries it thus." tummas led the way through a more intricate range of passages than jeanie had yet threaded, and ushered her into an apartment which was darkened by the closing of most of the window-shutters, and in which was a bed with the curtains partly drawn. "here is the young woman, sir," said tummas. "very well," said a voice from the bed, but not that of his reverence; "be ready to answer the bell, and leave the room." "there is some mistake," said jeanie, confounded at finding herself in the apartment of an invalid; "the servant told me that the minister" "don't trouble yourself," said the invalid, "there is no mistake. i know more of your affairs than my father, and i can manage them better.--leave the room, tom." the servant obeyed.--"we must not," said the invalid, "lose time, when we have little to lose. open the shutters of that window." she did so, and as he drew aside the curtain of his bed, the light fell on his pale countenance, as, turban'd with bandages, and dressed in a night-gown, he lay, seemingly exhausted, upon the bed. "look at me," he said, "jeanie deans; can you not recollect me?" "no, sir," said she, full of surprise. "i was never in this country before." "but i may have been in yours. think--recollect. i should faint did i name the name you are most dearly bound to loathe and to detest. think--remember!" a terrible recollection flashed on jeanie, which every tone of the speaker confirmed, and which his next words rendered certainty. "be composed--remember muschat's cairn, and the moonlight night!" jeanie sunk down on a chair with clasped hands, and gasped in agony. "yes, here i lie," he said, "like a crushed snake, writhing with impatience at my incapacity of motion--here i lie, when i ought to have been in edinburgh, trying every means to save a life that is dearer to me than my own.--how is your sister?--how fares it with her?--condemned to death, i know it, by this time! o, the horse that carried me safely on a thousand errands of folly and wickedness, that he should have broke down with me on the only good mission i have undertaken for years! but i must rein in my passion--my frame cannot endure it, and i have much to say. give me some of the cordial which stands on that table.--why do you tremble? but you have too good cause.--let it stand--i need it not." jeanie, however reluctant, approached him with the cup into which she had poured the draught, and could not forbear saying, "there is a cordial for the mind, sir, if the wicked will turn from their transgressions, and seek to the physician of souls." "silence!" he said sternly--"and yet i thank you. but tell me, and lose no time in doing so, what you are doing in this country? remember, though i have been your sister's worst enemy, yet i will serve her with the best of my blood, and i will serve you for her sake; and no one can serve you to such purpose, for no one can know the circumstances so well--so speak without fear." "i am not afraid, sir," said jeanie, collecting her spirits. "i trust in god; and if it pleases him to redeem my sister's captivity, it is all i seek, whosoever be the instrument. but, sir, to be plain with you, i dare not use your counsel, unless i were enabled to see that it accords with the law which i must rely upon." "the devil take the puritan!" cried george staunton, for so we must now call him--"i beg your pardon; but i am naturally impatient, and you drive me mad! what harm can it possibly do to tell me in what situation your sister stands, and your own expectations of being able to assist her? it is time enough to refuse my advice when i offer any which you may think improper. i speak calmly to you, though 'tis against my nature; but don't urge me to impatience--it will only render me incapable of serving effie." there was in the looks and words of this unhappy young man a sort of restrained eagerness and impetuosity which seemed to prey upon itself, as the impatience of a fiery steed fatigues itself with churning upon the bit. after a moment's consideration, it occurred to jeanie that she was not entitled to withhold from him, whether on her sister's account or her own, the fatal account of the consequences of the crime which he had committed, nor to reject such advice, being in itself lawful and innocent, as he might be able to suggest in the way of remedy. accordingly, in as few words as she could express it, she told the history of her sister's trial and condemnation, and of her own journey as far as newark. he appeared to listen in the utmost agony of mind, yet repressed every violent symptom of emotion, whether by gesture or sound, which might have interrupted the speaker, and, stretched on his couch like the mexican monarch on his bed of live coals, only the contortions of his cheek, and the quivering of his limbs, gave indication of his sufferings. to much of what she said he listened with stifled groans, as if he were only hearing those miseries confirmed, whose fatal reality he had known before; but when she pursued her tale through the circumstances which had interrupted her journey, extreme surprise and earnest attention appeared to succeed to the symptoms of remorse which he had before exhibited. he questioned jeanie closely concerning the appearance of the two men, and the conversation which she had overheard between the taller of them and the woman. when jeanie mentioned the old woman having alluded to her foster-son--"it is too true," he said; "and the source from which i derived food, when an infant, must have communicated to me the wretched--the fated--propensity to vices that were strangers in my own family.--but go on." jeanie passed slightly over her journey in company with madge, having no inclination to repeat what might be the effect of mere raving on the part of her companion, and therefore her tale was now closed. young staunton lay for a moment in profound meditation and at length spoke with more composure than he had yet displayed during their interview.--"you are a sensible, as well as a good young woman, jeanie deans, and i will tell you more of my story than i have told to any one.-- story did i call it?--it is a tissue of folly, guilt, and misery.--but take notice--i do it because i desire your confidence in return--that is, that you will act in this dismal matter by my advice and direction. therefore do i speak." "i will do what is fitting for a sister, and a daughter, and a christian woman to do," said jeanie; "but do not tell me any of your secrets.--it is not good that i should come into your counsel, or listen to the doctrine which causeth to err." "simple fool!" said the young man. "look at me. my head is not horned, my foot is not cloven, my hands are not garnished with talons; and, since i am not the very devil himself, what interest can any one else have in destroying the hopes with which you comfort or fool yourself? listen to me patiently, and you will find that, when you have heard my counsel, you may go to the seventh heaven with it in your pocket, if you have a mind, and not feel yourself an ounce heavier in the ascent." at the risk of being somewhat heavy, as explanations usually prove, we must here endeavour to combine into a distinct narrative, information which the invalid communicated in a manner at once too circumstantial, and too much broken by passion, to admit of our giving his precise words. part of it indeed he read from a manuscript, which he had perhaps drawn up for the information of his relations after his decease. "to make my tale short--this wretched hag--this margaret murdockson, was the wife of a favourite servant of my father--she had been my nurse--her husband was dead--she resided in a cottage near this place--she had a daughter who grew up, and was then a beautiful but very giddy girl; her mother endeavoured to promote her marriage with an old and wealthy churl in the neighbourhood--the girl saw me frequently--she was familiar with me, as our connection seemed to permit--and i--in a word, i wronged her cruelly--it was not so bad as your sister's business, but it was sufficiently villanous--her folly should have been her protection. soon after this i was sent abroad--to do my father justice, if i have turned out a fiend it is not his fault--he used the best means. when i returned, i found the wretched mother and daughter had fallen into disgrace, and were chased from this country.--my deep share in their shame and misery was discovered--my father used very harsh language--we quarrelled. i left his house, and led a life of strange adventure, resolving never again to see my father or my father's home. "and now comes the story!--jeanie, i put my life into your hands, and not only my own life, which, god knows, is not worth saving, but the happiness of a respectable old man, and the honour of a family of consideration. my love of low society, as such propensities as i was cursed with are usually termed, was, i think of an uncommon kind, and indicated a nature, which, if not depraved by early debauchery, would have been fit for better things. i did not so much delight in the wild revel, the low humour, the unconfined liberty of those with whom i associated as in the spirit of adventure, presence of mind in peril, and sharpness of intellect which they displayed in prosecuting their maraudings upon the revenue, or similar adventures.--have you looked round this rectory?--is it not a sweet and pleasant retreat?" jeanie, alarmed at this sudden change of subject, replied in the affirmative. "well! i wish it had been ten thousand fathoms under ground, with its church-lands, and tithes, and all that belongs to it. had it not been for this cursed rectory, i should have been permitted to follow the bent of my own inclinations and the profession of arms, and half the courage and address that i have displayed among smugglers and deer-stealers would have secured me an honourable rank among my contemporaries. why did i not go abroad when i left this house!--why did i leave it at all!--why--but it came to that point with me that it is madness to look back, and misery to look forward!" he paused, and then proceeded with more composure. "the chances of a wandering life brought me unhappily to scotland, to embroil myself in worse and more criminal actions than i had yet been concerned in. it was now i became acquainted with wilson, a remarkable man in his station of life; quiet, composed, and resolute, firm in mind, and uncommonly strong in person, gifted with a sort of rough eloquence which raised him above his companions. hitherto i had been as dissolute as desperate, yet through both were seen some sparkles of a better hope. "but it was this man's misfortune, as well as mine, that, notwithstanding the difference of our rank and education, he acquired an extraordinary and fascinating influence over me, which i can only account for by the calm determination of his character being superior to the less sustained impetuosity of mine. where he led i felt myself bound to follow; and strange was the courage and address which he displayed in his pursuits. while i was engaged in desperate adventures, under so strange and dangerous a preceptor, i became acquainted with your unfortunate sister at some sports of the young people in the suburbs, which she frequented by stealth--and her ruin proved an interlude to the tragic scenes in which i was now deeply engaged. yet this let me say--the villany was not premeditated, and i was firmly resolved to do her all the justice which marriage could do, so soon as i should be able to extricate myself from my unhappy course of life, and embrace some one more suited to my birth. i had wild visions--visions of conducting her as if to some poor retreat, and introducing her at once to rank and fortune she never dreamt of. a friend, at my request, attempted a negotiation with my father, which was protracted for some time, and renewed at different intervals. at length, and just when i expected my father's pardon, he learned by some means or other my infamy, painted in even exaggerated colours, which was, god knows, unnecessary. he wrote me a letter--how it found me out i know not--enclosing me a sum of money, and disowning me for ever. i became desperate--i became frantic--i readily joined wilson in a perilous smuggling adventure in which we miscarried, and was willingly blinded by his logic to consider the robbery of the officer of the customs in fife as a fair and honourable reprisal. hitherto i had observed a certain line in my criminality, and stood free of assaults upon personal property, but now i felt a wild pleasure in disgracing myself as much as possible. "the plunder was no object to me. i abandoned that to my comrades, and only asked the post of danger. i remember well that when i stood with my drawn sword guarding the door while they committed the felony, i had not a thought of my own safety. i was only meditating on my sense of supposed wrong from my family, my impotent thirst of vengeance, and how it would sound in the haughty cars of the family of willingham, that one of their descendants, and the heir apparent of their honours, should perish by the hands of the hangman for robbing a scottish gauger of a sum not equal to one-fifth part of the money i had in my pocket-book. we were taken--i expected no less. we were condemned--that also i looked for. but death, as he approached nearer, looked grimly; and the recollection of your sister's destitute condition determined me on an effort to save my life.-- i forgot to tell you, that in edinburgh i again met the woman murdockson and her daughter. she had followed the camp when young, and had now, under pretence of a trifling traffic, resumed predatory habits, with which she had already been too familiar. our first meeting was stormy; but i was liberal of what money i had, and she forgot, or seemed to forget, the injury her daughter had received. the unfortunate girl herself seemed hardly even to know her seducer, far less to retain any sense of the injury she had received. her mind is totally alienated, which, according to her mother's account, is sometimes the consequence of an unfavourable confinement. but it was _my doing._ here was another stone knitted round my neck to sink me into the pit of perdition. every look--every word of this poor creature--her false spirits--her imperfect recollections--her allusions to things which she had forgotten, but which were recorded in my conscience, were stabs of a poniard--stabs did i say?--they were tearing with hot pincers, and scalding the raw wound with burning sulphur--they were to be endured however, and they were endured.-- i return to my prison thoughts. "it was not the least miserable of them that your sister's time approached. i knew her dread of you and of her father. she often said she would die a thousand deaths ere you should know her shame--yet her confinement must be provided for. i knew this woman murdockson was an infernal hag, but i thought she loved me, and that money would make her true. she had procured a file for wilson, and a spring-saw for me; and she undertook readily to take charge of effie during her illness, in which she had skill enough to give the necessary assistance. i gave her the money which my father had sent me. it was settled that she should receive effie into her house in the meantime, and wait for farther directions from me, when i should effect my escape. i communicated this purpose, and recommended the old hag to poor effie by a letter, in which i recollect that i endeavoured to support the character of macheath under condemnation-a fine, gay, bold-faced ruffian, who is game to the last. such, and so wretchedly poor, was my ambition! yet i had resolved to forsake the courses i had been engaged in, should i be so fortunate as to escape the gibbet. my design was to marry your sister, and go over to the west indies. i had still a considerable sum of money left, and i trusted to be able, in one way or other, to provide for myself and my wife. "we made the attempt to escape, and by the obstinacy of wilson, who insisted upon going first, it totally miscarried. the undaunted and self-denied manner in which he sacrificed himself to redeem his error, and accomplish my escape from the tolbooth church, you must have heard of--all scotland rang with it. it was a gallant and extraordinary deed--all men spoke of it--all men, even those who most condemned the habits and crimes of this self-devoted man, praised the heroism of his friendship. i have many vices, but cowardice or want of gratitude, are none of the number. i resolved to requite his generosity, and even your sister's safety became a secondary consideration with me for the time. to effect wilson's liberation was my principal object, and i doubted not to find the means. "yet i did not forget effie neither. the bloodhounds of the law were so close after me, that i dared not trust myself near any of my old haunts, but old murdockson met me by appointment, and informed me that your sister had happily been delivered of a boy. i charged the hag to keep her patient's mind easy, and let her want for nothing that money could purchase, and i retreated to fife, where, among my old associates of wilson's gang, i hid myself in those places of concealment where the men engaged in that desperate trade are used to find security for themselves and their uncustomed goods. men who are disobedient both to human and divine laws are not always insensible to the claims of courage and generosity. we were assured that the mob of edinburgh, strongly moved with the hardship of wilson's situation, and the gallantry of his conduct, would back any bold attempt that might be made to rescue him even from the foot of the gibbet. desperate as the attempt seemed, upon my declaring myself ready to lead the onset on the guard, i found no want of followers who engaged to stand by me, and returned to lothian, soon followed by some steady associates, prepared to act whenever the occasion might require. "i have no doubt i should have rescued him from the very noose that dangled over his head," he continued with animation, which seemed a flash of the interest which he had taken in such exploits; "but amongst other precautions, the magistrates had taken one, suggested, as we afterwards learned, by the unhappy wretch porteous, which effectually disconcerted my measures. they anticipated, by half-an-hour, the ordinary period for execution; and, as it had been resolved amongst us, that, for fear of observation from the officers of justice, we should not show ourselves upon the street until the time of action approached, it followed, that all was over before our attempt at a rescue commenced. it did commence, however, and i gained the scaffold and cut the rope with my own hand. it was too late! the bold, stouthearted, generous criminal was no more--and vengeance was all that remained to us--a vengeance, as i then thought, doubly due from my hand, to whom wilson had given life and liberty when he could as easily have secured his own." "o sir," said jeanie, "did the scripture never come into your mind, 'vengeance is mine, and i will repay it?'" "scripture! why, i had not opened a bible for five years," answered staunton. "wae's me, sirs," said jeanie--"and a minister's son too!" "it is natural for you to say so; yet do not interrupt me, but let me finish my most accursed history. the beast, porteous, who kept firing on the people long after it had ceased to be necessary, became the object of their hatred for having overdone his duty, and of mine for having done it too well. we that is, i and the other determined friends of wilson, resolved to be avenged--but caution was necessary. i thought i had been marked by one of the officers, and therefore continued to lurk about the vicinity of edinburgh, but without daring to venture within the walls. at length i visited, at the hazard of my life, the place where i hoped to find my future wife and my son--they were both gone. dame murdockson informed me, that so soon as effie heard of the miscarriage of the attempt to rescue wilson, and the hot pursuit after me, she fell into a brain fever; and that being one day obliged to go out on some necessary business and leave her alone, she had taken that opportunity to escape, and she had not seen her since. i loaded her with reproaches, to which she listened with the most provoking and callous composure; for it is one of her attributes, that, violent and fierce as she is upon most occasions, there are some in which she shows the most imperturbable calmness. i threatened her with justice; she said i had more reason to fear justice than she had. i felt she was right, and was silenced. i threatened her with vengeance; she replied in nearly the same words, that, to judge by injuries received, i had more reason to fear her vengeance, than she to dread mine. she was again right, and i was left without an answer. i flung myself from her in indignation, and employed a comrade to make inquiry in the neighbourhood of saint leonard's concerning your sister; but ere i received his answer, the opening quest of a well-scented terrier of the law drove me from the vicinity of edinburgh, to a more distant and secluded place of concealment. a secret and trusty emissary at length brought me the account of porteous's condemnation, and of your sister's imprisonment on a criminal charge; thus astounding one of mine ears, while he gratified the other. "i again ventured to the pleasance--again charged murdockson with treachery to the unfortunate effie and her child, though i could conceive no reason, save that of appropriating the whole of the money i had lodged with her. your narrative throws light on this, and shows another motive, not less powerful because less evident--the desire of wreaking vengeance on the seducer of her daughter,--the destroyer at once of her reason and reputation. great god! how i wish that, instead of the revenge she made choice of, she had delivered me up to the cord!" "but what account did the wretched woman give of effie and the bairn?" said jeanie, who, during this long and agitating narrative, had firmness and discernment enough to keep her eye on such points as might throw light on her sister's misfortunes. "she would give none," said staunton; "she said the mother made a moonlight flitting from her house, with the infant in her arms--that she had never seen either of them since--that the lass might have thrown the child into the north loch or the quarry holes for what she knew, and it was like enough she had done so." "and how came you to believe that she did not speak the fatal truth?" said jeanie, trembling. "because, on this second occasion, i saw her daughter, and i understood from her, that, in fact, the child had been removed or destroyed during the illness of the mother. but all knowledge to be got from her is so uncertain and indirect, that i could not collect any farther circumstances. only the diabolical character of old murdockson makes me augur the worst." "the last account agrees with that given by my poor sister," said jeanie; "but gang on wi' your ain tale, sir." "of this i am certain," said staunton, "that effie, in her senses, and with her knowledge, never injured living creature.--but what could i do in her exculpation?--nothing--and, therefore, my whole thoughts were turned toward her safety. i was under the cursed necessity of suppressing my feelings towards murdockson; my life was in the hag's hand--that i cared not for; but on my life hung that of your sister. i spoke the wretch fair; i appeared to confide in her; and to me, so far as i was personally concerned, she gave proofs of extraordinary fidelity. i was at first uncertain what measures i ought to adopt for your sister's liberation, when the general rage excited among the citizens of edinburgh on account of the reprieve, of porteous, suggested to me the daring idea of forcing the jail, and at once carrying off your sister from the clutches of the law, and bringing to condign punishment a miscreant, who had tormented the unfortunate wilson, even in the hour of death as if he had been a wild indian taken captive by a hostile tribe. i flung myself among the multitude in the moment of fermentation--so did others among wilson's mates, who had, like me, been disappointed in the hope of glutting their eyes with porteous's execution. all was organised, and i was chosen for the captain. i felt not--i do not now feel, compunction for what was to be done, and has since been executed." "o, god forgive ye, sir, and bring ye to a better sense of your ways!" exclaimed jeanie, in horror at the avowal of such violent sentiments. "amen," replied staunton, "if my sentiments are wrong. but i repeat, that, although willing to aid the deed, i could have wished them to have chosen another leader; because i foresaw that the great and general duty of the night would interfere with the assistance which i proposed to render effie. i gave a commission however, to a trusty friend to protect her to a place of safety, so soon as the fatal procession had left the jail. but for no persuasions which i could use in the hurry of the moment, or which my comrade employed at more length, after the mob had taken a different direction, could the unfortunate girl be prevailed upon to leave the prison. his arguments were all wasted upon the infatuated victim, and he was obliged to leave her in order to attend to his own safety. such was his account; but, perhaps, he persevered less steadily in his attempts to persuade her than i would have done." "effie was right to remain," said jeanie; "and i love her the better for it." "why will you say so?" said staunton. "you cannot understand my reasons, sir, if i should render them," answered jeanie composedly; "they that thirst for the blood of their enemies have no taste for the well-spring of life." "my hopes," said staunton, "were thus a second time disappointed. my next efforts were to bring her through her trial by means of yourself. how i urged it, and where, you cannot have forgotten. i do not blame you for your refusal; it was founded, i am convinced, on principle, and not on indifference to your sister's fate. for me, judge of me as a man frantic; i knew not what hand to turn to, and all my efforts were unavailing. in this condition, and close beset on all sides, i thought of what might be done by means of my family, and their influence. i fled from scotland--i reached this place--my miserably wasted and unhappy appearance procured me from my father that pardon, which a parent finds it so hard to refuse, even to the most undeserving son. and here i have awaited in anguish of mind, which the condemned criminal might envy, the event of your sister's trial." "without taking any steps for her relief?" said jeanie. "to the last i hoped her ease might terminate more favourably; and it is only two days since that the fatal tidings reached me. my resolution was instantly taken. i mounted my best horse with the purpose of making the utmost haste to london and there compounding with sir robert walpole for your sister's safety, by surrendering to him, in the person of the heir of the family of willingham, the notorious george robertson, the accomplice of wilson, the breaker of the tolbooth prison, and the well-known leader of the porteous mob." "but would that save my sister?" said jeanie, in astonishment. "it would, as i should drive my bargain," said staunton. "queens love revenge as well as their subjects--little as you seem to esteem it, it is a poison which pleases all palates, from the prince to the peasant. prime ministers love no less the power of gratifying sovereigns by gratifying their passions.--the life of an obscure village girl! why, i might ask the best of the crown-jewels for laying the head of such an insolent conspiracy at the foot of her majesty, with a certainty of being gratified. all my other plans have failed, but this could not--heaven is just, however, and would not honour me with making this voluntary atonement for the injury i have done your sister. i had not rode ten miles, when my horse, the best and most sure-footed animal in this country, fell with me on a level piece of road, as if he had been struck by a cannon-shot. i was greatly hurt, and was brought back here in the condition in which you now see me." as young staunton had come to the conclusion, the servant opened the door, and, with a voice which seemed intended rather for a signal, than merely the announcing of a visit, said, "his reverence, sir, is coming up stairs to wait upon you." "for god's sake, hide yourself, jeanie," exclaimed staunton, "in that dressing closet!" "no, sir," said jeanie; "as i am here for nae ill, i canna take the shame of hiding mysell frae the master of the house." "but, good heavens!" exclaimed george staunton, "do but consider--" ere he could complete the sentence, his father entered the apartment. chapter tenth. and now, will pardon, comfort, kindness, draw the youth from vice? will honour, duty, law? crabbe. jeanie arose from her seat, and made her quiet reverence, when the elder mr. staunton entered the apartment. his astonishment was extreme at finding his son in such company. "i perceive, madam, i have made a mistake respecting you, and ought to have left the task of interrogating you, and of righting your wrongs, to this young man, with whom, doubtless, you have been formerly acquainted." "it's unwitting on my part that i am here;" said jeanie; "the servant told me his master wished to speak with me." "there goes the purple coat over my ears," murmured tummas. "d--n her, why must she needs speak the truth, when she could have as well said anything else she had a mind?" "george," said mr. staunton, "if you are still, as you have ever been,--lost to all self-respect, you might at least have spared your father and your father's house, such a disgraceful scene as this." "upon my life--upon my soul, sir!" said george, throwing his feet over the side of the bed, and starting from his recumbent posture. "your life, sir?" interrupted his father, with melancholy sternness,--"what sort of life has it been?--your soul! alas! what regard have you ever paid to it? take care to reform both ere offering either as pledges of your sincerity." "on my honour, sir, you do me wrong," answered george staunton; "i have been all that you can call me that's bad, but in the present instance you do me injustice. by my honour you do!" "your honour!" said his father, and turned from him, with a look of the most upbraiding contempt, to jeanie. "from you, young woman, i neither ask nor expect any explanation; but as a father alike and as a clergyman, i request your departure from this house. if your romantic story has been other than a pretext to find admission into it (which, from the society in which you first appeared, i may be permitted to doubt), you will find a justice of peace within two miles, with whom, more properly than with me, you may lodge your complaint." "this shall not be," said george staunton, starting up to his feet. "sir, you are naturally kind and humane--you shall not become cruel and inhospitable on my account. turn out that eaves-dropping rascal," pointing to thomas, "and get what hartshorn drops, or what better receipt you have against fainting, and i will explain to you in two words the connection betwixt this young woman and me. she shall not lose her fair character through me. i have done too much mischief to her family already, and i know too well what belongs to the loss of fame." "leave the room, sir," said the rector to the servant; and when the man had obeyed, he carefully shut the door behind him. then, addressing his son, he said sternly, "now, sir, what new proof of your infamy have you to impart to me?" young staunton was about to speak, but it was one of those moments when those, who, like jeanie deans, possess the advantage of a steady courage and unruffled temper, can assume the superiority over more ardent but less determined spirits. "sir," she said to the elder staunton, "ye have an undoubted right to ask your ain son to render a reason of his conduct. but respecting me, i am but a wayfaring traveller, no ways obligated or indebted to you, unless it be for the meal of meat which, in my ain country, is willingly gien by rich or poor, according to their ability, to those who need it; and for which, forby that, i am willing to make payment, if i didna think it would be an affront to offer siller in a house like this--only i dinna ken the fashions of the country." "this is all very well, young woman," said the rector, a good deal surprised, and unable to conjecture whether to impute jeanie's language to simplicity or impertinence; "this may be all very well--but let me bring it to a point. why do you stop this young man's mouth, and prevent his communicating to his father and his best friend, an explanation (since he says he has one) of circumstances which seem in themselves not a little suspicious?" "he may tell of his ain affairs what he likes," answered jeanie; "but my family and friends have nae right to hae ony stories told anent them without their express desire; and, as they canna be here to speak for themselves, i entreat ye wadna ask mr. george rob--i mean staunton, or whatever his name is, ony questions anent me or my folk; for i maun be free to tell you, that he will neither have the bearing of a christian or a gentleman, if he answers you against my express desire." "this is the most extraordinary thing i ever met with," said the rector, as, after fixing his eyes keenly on the placid, yet modest countenance of jeanie, he turned them suddenly upon his son. "what have you to say, sir?" "that i feel i have been too hasty in my promise, sir," answered george staunton; "i have no title to make any communications respecting the affairs of this young person's family without her assent." the elder mr. staunton turned his eyes from one to the other with marks of surprise. "this is more, and worse, i fear," he said, addressing his son, "than one of your frequent and disgraceful connections--i insist upon knowing the mystery." "i have already said, sir," replied his son, rather sullenly, "that i have no title to mention the affairs of this young woman's family without her consent." "and i hae nae mysteries to explain, sir," said jeanie, "but only to pray you, as a preacher of the gospel and a gentleman, to permit me to go safe to the next public-house on the lunnon road." "i shall take care of your safety," said young staunton "you need ask that favour from no one." "do you say so before my face?" said the justly-incensed father. "perhaps, sir, you intend to fill up the cup of disobedience and profligacy by forming a low and disgraceful marriage? but let me bid you beware." "if you were feared for sic a thing happening wi' me, sir," said jeanie, "i can only say, that not for all the land that lies between the twa ends of the rainbow wad i be the woman that should wed your son." "there is something very singular in all this," said the elder staunton; "follow me into the next room, young woman." "hear me speak first," said the young man. "i have but one word to say. i confide entirely in your prudence; tell my father as much or as little of these matters as you will, he shall know neither more nor less from me." his father darted at him a glance of indignation, which softened into sorrow as he saw him sink down on the couch, exhausted with the scene he had undergone. he left the apartment, and jeanie followed him, george staunton raising himself as she passed the door-way, and pronouncing the word, "remember!" in a tone as monitory as it was uttered by charles i. upon the scaffold. the elder staunton led the way into a small parlour, and shut the door. "young woman," said he, "there is something in your face and appearance that marks both sense and simplicity, and, if i am not deceived, innocence also--should it be otherwise, i can only say, you are the most accomplished hypocrite i have ever seen.--i ask to know no secret that you have unwillingness to divulge, least of all those which concern my son. his conduct has given me too much unhappiness to permit me to hope comfort or satisfaction from him. if you are such as i suppose you, believe me, that whatever unhappy circumstances may have connected you with george staunton, the sooner you break them through the better." "i think i understand your meaning, sir," replied jeanie; "and as ye are sae frank as to speak o' the young gentleman in sic a way, i must needs say that it is but the second time of my speaking wi' him in our lives, and what i hae heard frae him on these twa occasions has been such that i never wish to hear the like again." "then it is your real intention to leave this part of the country, and proceed to london?" said the rector. "certainly, sir; for i may say, in one sense, that the avenger of blood is behind me; and if i were but assured against mischief by the way" "i have made inquiry," said the clergyman, "after the suspicious characters you described. they have left their place of rendezvous; but as they may be lurking in the neighbourhood, and as you say you have special reason to apprehend violence from them, i will put you under the charge of a steady person, who will protect you as far as stamford, and see you into a light coach, which goes from thence to london." "a coach is not for the like of me, sir," said jeanie, to whom the idea of a stage-coach was unknown, as, indeed, they were then only used in the neighbourhood of london. mr. staunton briefly explained that she would find that mode of conveyance more commodious, cheaper, and more safe, than travelling on horseback. she expressed her gratitude with so much singleness of heart, that he was induced to ask her whether she wanted the pecuniary means of prosecuting her journey. she thanked him, but said she had enough for her purpose; and, indeed, she had husbanded her stock with great care. this reply served also to remove some doubts, which naturally enough still floated in mr. staunton's mind, respecting her character and real purpose, and satisfied him, at least, that money did not enter into her scheme of deception, if an impostor she should prove. he next requested to know what part of the city she wished to go to. "to a very decent merchant, a cousin o' my ain, a mrs. glass, sir, that sells snuff and tobacco, at the sign o' the thistle, somegate in the town." jeanie communicated this intelligence with a feeling that a connection so respectable ought to give her consequence in the eyes of mr. staunton; and she was a good deal surprised when he answered-- "and is this woman your only acquaintance in london, my poor girl? and have you really no better knowledge where she is to be found?" "i was gaun to see the duke of argyle, forby mrs. glass," said jeanie; "and if your honour thinks it would be best to go there first, and get some of his grace's folk to show me my cousin's shop" "are you acquainted with any of the duke of argyle's people?" said the rector. "no, sir." "her brain must be something touched after all, or it would be impossible for her to rely on such introductions.--well," said he aloud, "i must not inquire into the cause of your journey, and so i cannot be fit to give you advice how to manage it. but the landlady of the house where the coach stops is a very decent person; and as i use her house sometimes, i will give you a recommendation to her." jeanie thanked him for his kindness with her best courtesy, and said, "that with his honour's line, and ane from worthy mrs. bickerton, that keeps the seven stars at york, she did not doubt to be well taken out in lunnon." "and now," said he, "i presume you will be desirous to set out immediately." "if i had been in an inn, sir, or any suitable resting-place," answered jeanie, "i wad not have presumed to use the lord's day for travelling but as i am on a journey of mercy, i trust my doing so will not be imputed." "you may, if you choose, remain with mrs. dalton for the evening; but i desire you will have no farther correspondence with my son, who is not a proper counsellor for a person of your age, whatever your difficulties may be." "your honour speaks ower truly in that," said jeanie; "it was not with my will that i spoke wi' him just now, and--not to wish the gentleman onything but gude--i never wish to see him between the een again." "if you please," added the rector, "as you seem to be a seriously disposed young woman, you may attend family worship in the hall this evening." "i thank your honour," said jeanie; "but i am doubtful if my attendance would be to edification." "how!" said the rector; "so young, and already unfortunate enough to have doubts upon the duties of religion!" "god forbid, sir," replied jeanie; "it is not for that; but i have been bred in the faith of the suffering remnant of the presbyterian doctrine in scotland, and i am doubtful if i can lawfully attend upon your fashion of worship, seeing it has been testified against by many precious souls of our kirk, and specially by my worthy father." "well, my good girl," said the rector, with a good-humoured smile, "far be it from me to put any force upon your conscience; and yet you ought to recollect that the same divine grace dispenses its streams to other kingdoms as well as to scotland. as it is as essential to our spiritual, as water to our earthly wants, its springs, various in character, yet alike efficacious in virtue, are to be found in abundance throughout the christian world." "ah, but," said jeanie, "though the waters may be alike, yet, with your worship's leave, the blessing upon them may not be equal. it would have been in vain for naaman the syrian leper to have bathed in pharpar and abana, rivers of damascus, when it was only the waters of jordon that were sanctified for the cure." "well," said the rector, "we will not enter upon the great debate betwixt our national churches at present. we must endeavour to satisfy you, that, at least, amongst our errors, we preserve christian charity, and a desire to assist our brethren." he then ordered mrs. dalton into his presence, and consigned jeanie to her particular charge, with directions to be kind to her, and with assurances, that, early in the morning, a trusty guide and a good horse should be ready to conduct her to stamford. he then took a serious and dignified, yet kind leave of her, wishing her full success in the objects of her journey, which he said he doubted not were laudable, from the soundness of thinking which she had displayed in conversation. jeanie was again conducted by the housekeeper to her own apartment. but the evening was not destined to pass over without farther torment from young staunton. a paper was slipped into her hand by the faithful tummas, which intimated his young master's desire, or rather demand, to see her instantly, and assured her he had provided against interruption. "tell your young master," said jeanie, openly, and regardless of all the winks and signs by which tummas strove to make her comprehend that mrs. dalton was not to be admitted into the secret of the correspondence, "that i promised faithfully to his worthy father that i would not see him again." "tummas," said mrs. dalton, "i think you might be much more creditably employed, considering the coat you wear, and the house you live in, than to be carrying messages between your young master and girls that chance to be in this house." "why, mrs. dalton, as to that, i was hired to carry messages, and not to ask any questions about them; and it's not for the like of me to refuse the young gentleman's bidding, if he were a little wildish or so. if there was harm meant, there's no harm done, you see." "however," said mrs. dalton, "i gie you fair warning, tummas ditton, that an i catch thee at this work again, his reverence shall make a clear house of you." thomas retired, abashed and in dismay. the rest of the evening passed away without anything worthy of notice. jeanie enjoyed the comforts of a good bed and a sound sleep with grateful satisfaction, after the perils and hardships of the preceding day; and such was her fatigue, that she slept soundly until six o'clock, when she was awakened by mrs. dalton, who acquainted her that her guide and horse were ready, and in attendance. she hastily rose, and, after her morning devotions, was soon ready to resume her travels. the motherly care of the housekeeper had provided an early breakfast, and, after she had partaken of this refreshment, she found herself safe seated on a pillion behind a stout lincolnshire peasant, who was, besides, armed with pistols, to protect her against any violence which might be offered. they trudged along in silence for a mile or two along a country road, which conducted them, by hedge and gate-way, into the principal highway, a little beyond grantham. at length her master of the horse asked her whether her name was not jean, or jane, deans. she answered in the affirmative, with some surprise. "then here's a bit of a note as concerns you," said the man, handing it over his left shoulder. "it's from young master, as i judge, and every man about willingham is fain to pleasure him either for love or fear; for he'll come to be landlord at last, let them say what they like." jeanie broke the seal of the note, which was addressed to her, and read as follows:-- "you refuse to see me. i suppose you are shocked at my character: but, in painting myself such as i am, you should give me credit for my sincerity. i am, at least, no hypocrite. you refuse, however, to see me, and your conduct may be natural--but is it wise? i have expressed my anxiety to repair your sister's misfortunes at the expense of my honour,--my family's honour--my own life, and you think me too debased to be admitted even to sacrifice what i have remaining of honour, fame, and life, in her cause. well, if the offerer be despised, the victim is still equally at hand; and perhaps there may be justice in the decree of heaven, that i shall not have the melancholy credit of appearing to make this sacrifice out of my own free good-will. you, as you have declined my concurrence, must take the whole upon yourself. go, then, to the duke of argyle, and, when other arguments fail you, tell him you have it in your power to bring to condign punishment the most active conspirator in the porteous mob. he will hear you on this topic, should he be deaf to every other. make your own terms, for they will be at your own making. you know where i am to be found; and you may be assured i will not give you the dark side of the hill, as at muschat's cairn; i have no thoughts of stirring from the house i was born in; like the hare, i shall be worried in the seat i started from. i repeat it--make your own terms. i need not remind you to ask your sister's life, for that you will do of course; but make terms of advantage for yourself--ask wealth and reward--office and income for butler--ask anything--you will get anything--and all for delivering to the hands of the executioner a man most deserving of his office;--one who, though young in years, is old in wickedness, and whose most earnest desire is, after the storms of an unquiet life, to sleep and be at rest." this extraordinary letter was subscribed with the initials g. s. jeanie read it over once or twice with great attention, which the slow pace of the horse, as he stalked through a deep lane, enabled her to do with facility. when she had perused this billet, her first employment was to tear it into as small pieces as possible, and disperse these pieces in the air by a few at a time, so that a document containing so perilous a secret might not fall into any other person's hand. the question how far, in point of extremity, she was entitled to save her sister's life by sacrificing that of a person who, though guilty towards the state, had done her no injury, formed the next earnest and most painful subject of consideration. in one sense, indeed, it seemed as if denouncing the guilt of staunton, the cause of her sister's errors and misfortunes, would have been an act of just, and even providential retribution. but jeanie, in the strict and severe tone of morality in which she was educated, had to consider not only the general aspect of a proposed action, but its justness and fitness in relation to the actor, before she could be, according to her own phrase, free to enter upon it. what right had she to make a barter between the lives of staunton and of effie, and to sacrifice the one for the safety of the other? his guilt--that guilt for which he was amenable to the laws--was a crime against the public indeed, but it was not against her. neither did it seem to her that his share in the death of porteous, though her mind revolted at the idea of using violence to any one, was in the relation of a common murder, against the perpetrator of which every one is called to aid the public magistrate. that violent action was blended with many circumstances, which, in the eyes of those in jeanie's rank of life, if they did not altogether deprive it of the character of guilt, softened, at least, its most atrocious features. the anxiety of the government to obtain conviction of some of the offenders, had but served to increase the public feeling which connected the action, though violent and irregular, with the idea of ancient national independence. the rigorous measures adopted or proposed against the city of edinburgh, the ancient metropolis of scotland--the extremely unpopular and injudicious measure of compelling the scottish clergy, contrary to their principles and sense of duty, to promulgate from the pulpit the reward offered for the discovery of the perpetrators of this slaughter, had produced on the public mind the opposite consequences from what were intended; and jeanie felt conscious, that whoever should lodge information concerning that event, and for whatsoever purpose it might be done, it would be considered as an act of treason against the independence of scotland. with the fanaticism of the scottish presbyterians, there was always mingled a glow of national feeling, and jeanie, trembled at the idea of her name being handed down to posterity with that of the "fause monteath," and one or two others, who, having deserted and betrayed the cause of their country, are damned to perpetual remembrance and execration among its peasantry. yet, to part with effie's life once more, when a word spoken might save it, pressed severely on the mind of her affectionate sister. "the lord support and direct me!" said jeanie, "for it seems to be his will to try me with difficulties far beyond my ain strength." while this thought passed through jeanie's mind, her guard, tired of silence, began to show some inclination to be communicative. he seemed a sensible, steady peasant, but not having more delicacy or prudence than is common to those in his situation, he, of course, chose the willingham family as the subject of his conversation. from this man jeanie learned some particulars of which she had hitherto been ignorant, and which we will briefly recapitulate for the information of the reader. the father of george staunton had been bred a soldier, and during service in the west indies, had married the heiress of a wealthy planter. by this lady he had an only child, george staunton, the unhappy young, man who has been so often mentioned in this narrative. he passed the first part of his early youth under the charge of a doting mother, and in the society of negro slaves, whose study it was to gratify his every caprice. his father was a man of worth and sense; but as he alone retained tolerable health among the officers of the regiment he belonged to, he was much engaged with his duty. besides, mrs. staunton was beautiful and wilful, and enjoyed but delicate health; so that it was difficult for a man of affection, humanity, and a quiet disposition, to struggle with her on the point of her over-indulgence to an only child. indeed, what mr. staunton did do towards counteracting the baneful effects of his wife's system, only tended to render it more pernicious; for every restraint imposed on the boy in his father's presence, was compensated by treble license during his absence. so that george staunton acquired, even in childhood, the habit of regarding his father as a rigid censor, from whose severity he was desirous of emancipating himself as soon and absolutely as possible. when he was about ten years old, and when his mind had received all the seeds of those evil weeds which afterwards grew apace, his mother died, and his father, half heart-broken, returned to england. to sum up her imprudence and unjustifiable indulgence, she had contrived to place a considerable part of her fortune at her son's exclusive control or disposal, in consequence of which management, george staunton had not been long in england till he learned his independence, and how to abuse it. his father had endeavoured to rectify the defects of his education by placing him in a well-regulated seminary. but although he showed some capacity for learning, his riotous conduct soon became intolerable to his teachers. he found means (too easily afforded to all youths who have certain expectations) of procuring such a command of money as enabled him to anticipate in boyhood the frolics and follies of a more mature age, and, with these accomplishments, he was returned on his father's hands as a profligate boy, whose example might ruin a hundred. the elder mr. staunton, whose mind, since his wife's death, had been tinged with a melancholy, which certainly his son's conduct did not tend to dispel, had taken orders, and was inducted by his brother sir william staunton into the family living of willingham. the revenue was a matter of consequence to him, for he derived little advantage from the estate of his late wife; and his own fortune was that of a younger brother. he took his son to reside with him at the rectory, but he soon found that his disorders rendered him an intolerable inmate. and as the young men of his own rank would not endure the purse-proud insolence of the creole, he fell into that taste for low society, which is worse than "pressing to death, whipping, or hanging." his father sent him abroad, but he only returned wilder and more desperate than before. it is true, this unhappy youth was not without his good qualities. he had lively wit, good temper, reckless generosity, and manners, which, while he was under restraint, might pass well in society. but all these availed him nothing. he was so well acquainted with the turf, the gaming-table, the cock-pit, and every worse rendezvous of folly and dissipation, that his mother's fortune was spent before he was twenty-one, and he was soon in debt and in distress. his early history may be concluded in the words of our british juvenal, when describing a similar character:-- headstrong, determined in his own career, he thought reproof unjust, and truth severe. the soul's disease was to its crisis come, he first abused, and then abjured, his home; and when he chose a vagabond to be, he made his shame his glory, "i'll be free!"* [crabbe's _borough,_ letter xii.] "and yet 'tis pity on measter george, too," continued the honest boor, "for he has an open hand, and winna let a poor body want an he has it." the virtue of profuse generosity, by which, indeed, they themselves are most directly advantaged, is readily admitted by the vulgar as a cloak for many sins. at stamford our heroine was deposited in safety by her communicative guide. she obtained a place in the coach, which, although termed a light one, and accommodated with no fewer than six horses, only reached london on the afternoon of the second day. the recommendation of the elder mr. staunton procured jeanie a civil reception at the inn where the carriage stopped, and, by the aid of mrs. bickerton's correspondent, she found out her friend and relative mrs. glass, by whom she was kindly received and hospitably entertained. chapter eleventh. my name is argyle, you may well think it strange, to live at the court and never to change. ballad. few names deserve more honourable mention in the history of scotland, during this period, than that of john, duke of argyle and greenwich. his talents as a statesman and a soldier were generally admitted; he was not without ambition, but "without the illness that attends it"--without that irregularity of thought and aim, which often excites great men, in his peculiar situation, (for it was a very peculiar one), to grasp the means of raising themselves to power, at the risk of throwing a kingdom into confusion. pope has distinguished him as argyle, the state's whole thunder born to wield, and shake alike the senate and the field. he was alike free from the ordinary vices of statesmen, falsehood, namely, and dissimulation; and from those of warriors, inordinate and violent thirst after self-aggrandisement. scotland, his native country, stood at this time in a very precarious and doubtful situation. she was indeed united to england, but the cement had not had time to acquire consistence. the irritation of ancient wrongs still subsisted, and betwixt the fretful jealousy of the scottish, and the supercilious disdain of the english, quarrels repeatedly occurred, in the course of which the national league, so important to the safety of both, was in the utmost danger of being dissolved. scotland had, besides, the disadvantage of being divided into intestine factions, which hated each other bitterly, and waited but a signal to break forth into action. in such circumstances, another man, with the talents and rank of argyle, but without a mind so happily regulated, would have sought to rise from the earth in the whirlwind, and direct its fury. he chose a course more safe and more honourable. soaring above the petty distinctions of faction, his voice was raised, whether in office or opposition, for those measures which were at once just and lenient. his high military talents enabled him, during the memorable year , to render such services to the house of hanover, as, perhaps, were too great to be either acknowledged or repaid. he had employed, too, his utmost influence in softening the consequences of that insurrection to the unfortunate gentlemen whom a mistaken sense of loyalty had engaged in the affair, and was rewarded by the esteem and affection of his country in an uncommon degree. this popularity, with a discontented and warlike people, was supposed to be a subject of jealousy at court, where the power to become dangerous is sometimes of itself obnoxious, though the inclination is not united with it. besides, the duke of argyle's independent and somewhat haughty mode of expressing himself in parliament, and acting in public, were ill calculated to attract royal favour. he was, therefore, always respected, and often employed; but he was not a favourite of george the second, his consort, or his ministers. at several different periods in his life, the duke might be considered as in absolute disgrace at court, although he could hardly be said to be a declared member of opposition. this rendered him the dearer to scotland, because it was usually in her cause that he incurred the displeasure of his sovereign; and upon this very occasion of the porteous mob, the animated and eloquent opposition which he had offered to the severe measures which were about to be adopted towards the city of edinburgh, was the more gratefully received in that metropolis, as it was understood that the duke's interposition had given personal offence to queen caroline. his conduct upon this occasion, as, indeed, that of all the scottish members of the legislature, with one or two unworthy exceptions, had been in the highest degree spirited. the popular tradition, concerning his reply to queen caroline, has been given already, and some fragments of his speech against the porteous bill are still remembered. he retorted upon the chancellor, lord hardwicke, the insinuation that he had stated himself in this case rather as a party than as a judge:--"i appeal," said argyle, "to the house--to the nation, if i can be justly branded with the infamy of being a jobber or a partisan. have i been a briber of votes?--a buyer of boroughs?--the agent of corruption for any purpose, or on behalf of any party?--consider my life; examine my actions in the field and in the cabinet, and see where there lies a blot that can attach to my honour. i have shown myself the friend of my country--the loyal subject of my king. i am ready to do so again, without an instant's regard to the frowns or smiles of a court. i have experienced both, and am prepared with indifference for either. i have given my reasons for opposing this bill, and have made it appear that it is repugnant to the international treaty of union, to the liberty of scotland, and, reflectively, to that of england, to common justice, to common sense, and to the public interest. shall the metropolis of scotland, the capital of an independent nation, the residence of a long line of monarchs, by whom that noble city was graced and dignified--shall such a city, for the fault of an obscure and unknown body of rioters, be deprived of its honours and its privileges--its gates and its guards?--and shall a native scotsman tamely behold the havoc? i glory, my lords, in opposing such unjust rigour, and reckon it my dearest pride and honour to stand up in defence of my native country while thus laid open to undeserved shame, and unjust spoliation." other statesmen and orators, both scottish and english, used the same arguments, the bill was gradually stripped of its most oppressive and obnoxious clauses, and at length ended in a fine upon the city of edinburgh in favour of porteous's widow. so that, as somebody observed at the time, the whole of these fierce debates ended in making the fortune of an old cook-maid, such having been the good woman's original capacity. the court, however, did not forget the baffle they had received in this affair, and the duke of argyle, who had contributed so much to it, was thereafter considered as a person in disgrace. it is necessary to place these circumstances under the reader's observation, both because they are connected with the preceding and subsequent part of our narrative. the duke was alone in his study, when one of his gentlemen acquainted him, that a country-girl, from scotland, was desirous of speaking with his grace. "a country-girl, and from scotland!" said the duke; "what can have brought the silly fool to london?--some lover pressed and sent to sea, or some stock sank in the south-sea funds, or some such hopeful concern, i suppose, and then nobody to manage the matter but maccallummore,--well, this same popularity has its inconveniences.--however, show our countrywoman up, archibald--it is ill manners to keep her in attendance." a young woman of rather low stature, and whose countenance might be termed very modest and pleasing in expression, though sun-burnt, somewhat freckled, and not possessing regular features, was ushered into the splendid library. she wore the tartan plaid of her country, adjusted so as partly to cover her head, and partly to fall back over her shoulders. a quantity of fair hair, disposed with great simplicity and neatness, appeared in front of her round and good-humoured face, to which the solemnity of her errand, and her sense of the duke's rank and importance, gave an appearance of deep awe, but not of slavish fear, or fluttered bashfulness. the rest of jeanie's dress was in the style of scottish maidens of her own class; but arranged with that scrupulous attention to neatness and cleanliness, which we often find united with that purity of mind, of which it is a natural emblem. she stopped near the entrance of the room, made her deepest reverence, and crossed her hands upon her bosom, without uttering a syllable. the duke of argyle advanced towards her; and, if she admired his graceful deportment and rich dress, decorated with the orders which had been deservedly bestowed on him, his courteous manner, and quick and intelligent cast of countenance, he on his part was not less, or less deservedly, struck with the quiet simplicity and modesty expressed in the dress, manners, and countenance of his humble countrywoman. "did you wish to speak with me, my bonny lass?" said the duke, using the encouraging epithet which at once acknowledged the connection betwixt them as country-folk; "or did you wish to see the duchess?" "my business is with your honour, my lord--i mean your lordship's grace." "and what is it, my good girl?" said the duke, in the same mild and encouraging tone of voice. jeanie looked at the attendant. "leave us, archibald," said the duke, "and wait in the anteroom." the domestic retired. "and now sit down, my good lass," said the duke; "take your breath--take your time, and tell me what you have got to say. i guess by your dress, you are just come up from poor scotland--did you come through the streets in your tartan plaid?" "no, sir," said jeanie; "a friend brought me in ane o' their street coaches--a very decent woman," she added, her courage increasing as she became familiar with the sound of her own voice in such a presence; "your lordship's grace kens her--it's mrs. glass, at the sign o' the thistle." "o, my worthy snuff-merchant--i have always a chat with mrs. glass when i purchase my scots high-dried. well, but your business, my bonny woman--time and tide, you know, wait for no one." "your honour--i beg your lordship's pardon--i mean your grace,"--for it must be noticed, that this matter of addressing the duke by his appropriate title had been anxiously inculcated upon jeanie by her friend mrs. glass, in whose eyes it was a matter of such importance, that her last words, as jeanie left the coach, were, "mind to say your grace;" and jeanie, who had scarce ever in her life spoke to a person of higher quality than the laird of dumbiedikes, found great difficulty in arranging her language according to the rules of ceremony. the duke, who saw her embarrassment, said, with his usual affability, "never mind my grace, lassie; just speak out a plain tale, and show you have a scots tongue in your head." "sir, i am muckle obliged--sir, i am the sister of that poor unfortunate criminal, effie deans, who is ordered for execution at edinburgh."' "ah!" said the duke, "i have heard of that unhappy story, i think--a case of child-murder, under a special act of parliament--duncan forbes mentioned it at dinner the other day." "and i was come up frae the north, sir, to see what could be done for her in the way of getting a reprieve or pardon, sir, or the like of that." "alas! my poor girl," said the duke; "you have made a long and a sad journey to very little purpose--your sister is ordered for execution." "but i am given to understand that there is law for reprieving her, if it is in the king's pleasure," said jeanie. "certainly, there is," said the duke; "but that is purely in the king's breast. the crime has been but too common--the scots crown-lawyers think it is right there should be an example. then the late disorders in edinburgh have excited a prejudice in government against the nation at large, which they think can only be managed by measures of intimidation and severity. what argument have you, my poor girl, except the warmth of your sisterly affection, to offer against all this?--what is your interest?--what friends have you at court?" "none, excepting god and your grace," said jeanie, still keeping her ground resolutely, however. "alas!" said the duke, "i could almost say with old ormond, that there could not be any, whose influence was smaller with kings and ministers. it is a cruel part of our situation, young woman--i mean of the situation of men in my circumstances, that the public ascribe to them influence which they do not possess; and that individuals are led to expect from them assistance which we have no means of rendering. but candour and plain dealing is in the power of every one, and i must not let you imagine you have resources in my influence, which do not exist, to make your distress the heavier--i have no means of averting your sister's fate--she must die." "we must a' die, sir," said jeanie; "it is our common doom for our father's transgression; but we shouldna hasten ilk other out o' the world, that's what your honour kens better than me." "my good young woman," said the duke, mildly, "we are all apt to blame the law under which we immediately suffer; but you seem to have been well educated in your line of life, and you must know that it is alike the law of god and man, that the murderer shall surely die." "but, sir, effie--that is, my poor sister, sir--canna be proved to be a murderer; and if she be not, and the law take her life notwithstanding, wha is it that is the murderer then?" "i am no lawyer," said the duke; "and i own i think the statute a very severe one." "you are a law-maker, sir, with your leave; and, therefore, ye have power over the law," answered jeanie. "not in my individual capacity," said the duke; "though, as one of a large body, i have a voice in the legislation. but that cannot serve you--nor have i at present, i care not who knows it, so much personal influence with the sovereign, as would entitle me to ask from him the most insignificant favour. what could tempt you, young woman, to address yourself to me?" "it was yourself, sir." "myself?" he replied--"i am sure you have never seen me before." "no, sir; but a' the world kens that the duke of argyle is his country's friend; and that ye fight for the right, and speak for the right, and that there's nane like you in our present israel, and so they that think themselves wranged draw to refuge under your shadow; and if ye wunna stir to save the blood of an innocent countrywoman of your ain, what should we expect frae southerns and strangers? and maybe i had another reason for troubling your honour." "and what is that?" asked the duke. "i hae understood from my father, that your honour's house, and especially your gudesire and his father, laid down their lives on the scaffold in the persecuting time. and my father was honoured to gie his testimony baith in the cage and in the pillory, as is specially mentioned in the books of peter walker the packman, that your honour, i dare say, kens, for he uses maist partly the westland of scotland. and, sir, there's ane that takes concern in me, that wished me to gang to your grace's presence, for his gudesire had done your gracious gudesire some good turn, as ye will see frae these papers." with these words, she delivered to the duke the little parcel which she had received from butler. he opened it, and, in the envelope, read with some surprise, "'musterroll of the men serving in the troop of that godly gentleman, captain salathiel bangtext.--obadiah muggleton, sin-despise double-knock, stand-fast-in-faith gipps, turn-to-the-right thwack-away'-- what the deuce is this? a list of praise-god barebone's parliament i think, or of old noll's evangelical army--that last fellow should understand his wheelings, to judge by his name.--but what does all this mean, my girl?" "it was the other paper, sir," said jeanie, somewhat abashed at the mistake. "o, this is my unfortunate grandfather's hand sure enough--'to all who may have friendship for the house of argyle, these are to certify, that benjamin butler, of monk's regiment of dragoons, having been, under god, the means of saving my life from four english troopers who were about, to slay me, i, having no other present means of recompense in my power, do give him this acknowledgment, hoping that it may be useful to him or his during these troublesome times; and do conjure my friends, tenants, kinsmen, and whoever will do aught for me, either in the highlands or lowlands, to protect and assist the said benjamin butler, and his friends or family, on their lawful occasions, giving them such countenance, maintenance, and supply, as may correspond with the benefit he hath bestowed on me; witness my hand--lorne.' "this is a strong injunction--this benjamin butler was your grandfather, i suppose?--you seem too young to have been his daughter." "he was nae akin to me, sir--he was grandfather to ane--to a neighbour's son--to a sincere weel-wisher of mine, sir," dropping her little courtesy as she spoke. "o, i understand," said the duke--"a true-love affair. he was the grandsire of one you are engaged to?" "one i _was_ engaged to, sir," said jeanie, sighing; "but this unhappy business of my poor sister" "what!" said the duke, hastily--"he has not deserted you on that account, has he?" "no, sir; he wad be the last to leave a friend in difficulties," said jeanie; "but i maun think for him as weel as for mysell. he is a clergyman, sir, and it would not beseem him to marry the like of me, wi' this disgrace on my kindred." "you are a singular young woman," said the duke. "you seem to me to think of every one before yourself. and have you really come up from edinburgh on foot, to attempt this hopeless solicitation for your sister's life?" "it was not a'thegither on foot, sir," answered jeanie; "for i sometimes got a cast in a waggon, and i had a horse from ferrybridge, and then the coach" "well, never mind all that," interrupted the duke--"what reason have you for thinking your sister innocent?" "because she has not been proved guilty, as will appear from looking at these papers." she put into his hand a note of the evidence, and copies of her sister's declaration. these papers butler had procured after her departure, and saddletree had them forwarded to london, to mrs. glass's care, so that jeanie found the documents, so necessary for supporting her suit, lying in readiness at her arrival. "sit down in that chair, my good girl," said the duke,--"until i glance over the papers." she obeyed, and watched with the utmost anxiety each change in his countenance as he cast his eye through the papers briefly, yet with attention, and making memoranda as he went along. after reading them hastily over, he looked up, and seemed about to speak, yet changed his purpose, as if afraid of committing himself by giving too hasty an opinion, and read over again several passages which he had marked as being most important. all this he did in shorter time than can be supposed by men of ordinary talents; for his mind was of that acute and penetrating character which discovers, with the glance of intuition, what facts bear on the particular point that chances to be subjected to consideration. at length he rose, after a few minutes' deep reflection.-- "young woman," said he, "your sister's case must certainly be termed a hard one." "god bless you, sir, for that very word!" said jeanie. "it seems contrary to the genius of british law," continued the duke, "to take that for granted which is not proved, or to punish with death for a crime, which, for aught the prosecutor has been able to show, may not have been committed at all." "god bless you, sir!" again said jeanie, who had risen from her seat, and, with clasped hands, eyes glittering through tears, and features which trembled with anxiety, drank in every word which the duke uttered. "but, alas! my poor girl," he continued, "what good will my opinion do you, unless i could impress it upon those in whose hands your sister's life is placed by the law? besides, i am no lawyer; and i must speak with some of our scottish gentlemen of the gown about the matter." "o, but, sir, what seems reasonable to your honour, will certainly be the same to them," answered jeanie. "i do not know that," replied the duke; "ilka man buckles his belt his ain gate--you know our old scots proverb?--but you shall not have placed this reliance on me altogether in vain. leave these papers with me, and you shall hear from me to-morrow or next day. take care to be at home at mrs. glass's, and ready to come to me at a moment's warning. it will be unnecessary for you to give mrs. glass the trouble to attend you;--and by the by, you will please to be dressed just as you are at present." "i wad hae putten on a cap, sir," said jeanie, "but your honour kens it isna the fashion of my country for single women; and i judged that, being sae mony hundred miles frae hame, your grace's heart wad warm to the tartan," looking at the corner of her plaid. "you judged quite right," said the duke. "i know the full value of the snood; and maccallummore's heart will be as cold as death can make it, when it does _not_ warm to the tartan. now, go away, and don't be out of the way when i send." jeanie replied,--"there is little fear of that, sir, for i have little heart to go to see sights amang this wilderness of black houses. but if i might say to your gracious honour, that if ye ever condescend to speak to ony ane that is of greater degree than yoursell, though maybe it isna civil in me to say sae, just if you would think there can be nae sic odds between you and them, as between poor jeanie deans from st. leonard's and the duke of argyle; and so dinna be chappit back or cast down wi' the first rough answer." "i am not apt," said the duke, laughing, "to mind rough answers much--do not you hope too much from what i have promised. i will do my best, but god has the hearts of kings in his own hand." jeanie courtesied reverently and withdrew, attended by the duke's gentleman, to her hackney-coach, with a respect which her appearance did not demand, but which was perhaps paid to the length of the interview with which his master had honoured her. chapter twelfth. ascend while radiant summer opens all its pride, thy hill, delightful shene! here let us sweep the boundless landscape. thomson. from her kind and officious, but somewhat gossiping friend, mrs. glass, jeanie underwent a very close catechism on their road to the strand, where the thistle of the good lady flourished in full glory, and, with its legend of _nemo me impune,_ distinguished a shop then well known to all scottish folk of high and low degree. "and were you sure aye to _say your_ grace to him?" said the good old lady; "for ane should make a distinction between maccallummore and the bits o' southern bodies that they ca' lords here--there are as mony o' them, jeanie, as would gar ane think they maun cost but little fash in the making--some of them i wadna trust wi' six pennies-worth of black-rappee--some of them i wadna gie mysell the trouble to put up a hapnyworth in brown paper for--but i hope you showed your breeding to the duke of argyle, for what sort of folk would he think your friends in london, if you had been lording him, and him a duke?" "he didna seem muckle to mind," said jeanie; "he kend that i was landward bred." "weel, weel," answered the good lady. "his grace kens me weel; so i am the less anxious about it. i never fill his snug-box but he says, 'how d'ye do, good mrs. glass?--how are all our friends in the north?' or it may be--'have ye heard from the north lately?' and you may be sure, i make my best courtesy, and answer, 'my lord duke, i hope your grace's noble duchess, and your grace's young ladies, are well; and i hope the snuff continues to give your grace satisfaction.' and then ye will see the people in the shop begin to look about them; and if there's a scotsman, as there may be three or half-a-dozen, aff go the hats, and mony a look after him, and 'there goes the prince of scotland, god bless him!' but ye have not told me yet the very words he said t'ye." jeanie had no intention to be quite so communicative. she had, as the reader may have observed, some of the caution and shrewdness, as well as of the simplicity of her country. she answered generally, that the duke had received her very compassionately, and had promised to interest himself in her sister's affair, and to let her hear from him in the course of the next day, or the day after. she did not choose to make any mention of his having desired her to be in readiness to attend him, far less of his hint, that she should not bring her landlady. so that honest mrs. glass was obliged to remain satisfied with the general intelligence above mentioned, after having done all she could to extract more. it may easily be conceived, that, on the next day, jeanie declined all invitations and inducements, whether of exercise or curiosity, to walk abroad, and continued to inhale the close, and somewhat professional atmosphere of mrs. glass's small parlour. the latter flavour it owed to a certain cupboard, containing, among other articles, a few canisters of real havannah, which, whether from respect to the manufacture, or out of a reverend fear of the exciseman, mrs. glass did not care to trust in the open shop below, and which communicated to the room a scent, that, however fragrant to the nostrils of the connoisseur, was not very agreeable to those of jeanie. "dear sirs," she said to herself, "i wonder how my cousin's silk manty, and her gowd watch, or ony thing in the world, can be worth sitting sneezing all her life in this little stilling room, and might walk on green braes if she liked." mrs. glass was equally surprised at her cousin's reluctance to stir abroad, and her indifference to the fine sights of london. "it would always help to pass away the time," she said, "to have something to look at, though ane was in distress." but jeanie was unpersuadable. the day after her interview with the duke was spent in that "hope delayed, which maketh the heart sick." minutes glided after minutes--hours fled after hours--it became too late to have any reasonable expectation of hearing from the duke that day; yet the hope which she disowned, she could not altogether relinquish, and her heart throbbed, and her ears tingled, with every casual sound in the shop below. it was in vain. the day wore away in the anxiety of protracted and fruitless expectation. the next morning commenced in the same manner. but before noon, a well-dressed gentleman entered mrs. glass's shop, and requested to see a young woman from scotland. "that will be my cousin jeanie deans, mr. archibald," said mrs. glass, with a courtesy of recognisance. "have you any message for her from his grace the duke of argyle, mr. archibald? i will carry it to her in a moment." "i believe i must give her the trouble of stepping down, mrs. glass." "jeanie--jeanie deans!" said mrs. glass, screaming at the bottom of the little staircase, which ascended from the corner of the shop to the higher regions. "jeanie--jeanie deans, i say! come down stairs instantly; here is the duke of argyle's groom of the chambers desires to see you directly." this was announced in a voice so loud, as to make all who chanced to be within hearing aware of the important communication. it may easily be supposed, that jeanie did not tarry long in adjusting herself to attend the summons, yet her feet almost failed her as she came down stairs. "i must ask the favour of your company a little way," said archibald, with civility. "i am quite ready, sir," said jeanie. "is my cousin going out, mr. archibald? then i will hae to go wi' her, no doubt.--james rasper--look to the shop, james.--mr. archibald," pushing a jar towards him, "you take his grace's mixture, i think. please to fill your box, for old acquaintance' sake, while i get on my things." mr. archibald transferred a modest parcel of snuff from the jar to his own mull, but said he was obliged to decline the pleasure of mrs. glass's company, as his message was particularly to the young person. "particularly to the young person?" said mrs. glass; "is not that uncommon, mr. archibald? but his grace is the best judge; and you are a steady person, mr. archibald. it is not every one that comes from a great man's house i would trust my cousin with.--but, jeanie, you must not go through the streets with mr. archibald with your tartan what-d'ye-call-it there upon your shoulders, as if you had come up with a drove of highland cattle. wait till i bring down my silk cloak. why, we'll have the mob after you!" "i have a hackney-coach in waiting, madam," said mr. archibald, interrupting the officious old lady, from whom jeanie might otherwise have found it difficult to escape; "and, i believe, i must not allow her time for any change of dress." so saying, he hurried jeanie into the coach, while she internally praised and wondered at the easy manner in which he shifted off mrs. glass's officious offers and inquiries, without mentioning his master's orders, or entering into any explanation, on entering the coach, mr. archibald seated himself in the front seat opposite to our heroine, and they drove on in silence. after they had driven nearly half-an-hour, without a word on either side, it occurred to jeanie, that the distance and time did not correspond with that which had been occupied by her journey on the former occasion, to and from the residence of the duke of argyle. at length she could not help asking her taciturn companion, "whilk way they were going?" "my lord duke will inform you himself, madam," answered archibald, with the same solemn courtesy which marked his whole demeanour. almost as he spoke, the hackney-coach drew up, and the coachman dismounted and opened the door. archibald got out, and assisted jeanie to get down. she found herself in a large turnpike road, without the bounds of london, upon the other side of which road was drawn up a plain chariot and four horses, the panels without arms, and the servants without liveries. "you have been punctual, i see, jeanie," said the duke of argyle, as archibald opened the carriage-door. "you must be my companion for the rest of the way. archibald will remain here with the hackney-coach till your return." ere jeanie could make answer, she found herself, to her no small astonishment, seated by the side of a duke, in a carriage which rolled forward at a rapid yet smooth rate, very different in both particulars from the lumbering, jolting vehicle which she had just left; and which, lumbering and jolting as it was, conveyed to one who had seldom been in a coach before a certain feeling of dignity and importance. "young woman," said the duke, "after thinking as attentively on your sister's case as is in my power, i continue to be impressed with the belief that great injustice may be done by the execution of her sentence. so are one or two liberal and intelligent lawyers of both countries whom i have spoken with.--nay, pray hear me out before you thank me.--i have already told you my personal conviction is of little consequence, unless i could impress the same upon others. now i have done for you what i would certainly not have done to serve any purpose of my own--i have asked an audience of a lady whose interest with the king is deservedly very high. it has been allowed me, and i am desirous that you should see her and speak for yourself. you have no occasion to be abashed; tell your story simply, as you did to me." "i am much obliged to your grace," said jeanie, remembering mrs. glass's charge, "and i am sure, since i have had the courage to speak to your grace in poor effie's cause, i have less reason to be shame-faced in speaking to a leddy. but, sir, i would like to ken what to ca' her, whether your grace or your honour, or your leddyship, as we say to lairds and leddies in scotland, and i will take care to mind it; for i ken leddies are full mair particular than gentlemen about their titles of honour." "you have no occasion to call her anything but madam. just say what you think is likely to make the best impression--look at me from time to time--and if i put my hand to my cravat so--(showing her the motion)--you will stop; but i shall only do this when you say anything that is not likely to please." "but, sir, your grace," said jeanie, "if it wasna ower muckle trouble, wad it no be better to tell me what i should say, and i could get it by heart?" "no, jeanie, that would not have the same effect--that would be like reading a sermon, you know, which we good presbyterians think has less unction than when spoken without book," replied the duke. "just speak as plainly and boldly to this lady, as you did to me the day before yesterday, and if you can gain her consent, i'll wad ye a plack, as we say in the north, that you get the pardon from the king." as he spoke, he took a pamphlet from his pocket, and began to read. jeanie had good sense and tact, which constitute betwixt them that which is called natural good breeding. she interpreted the duke's manoeuvre as a hint that she was to ask no more questions, and she remained silent accordingly. the carriage rolled rapidly onwards through fertile meadows, ornamented with splendid old oaks, and catching occasionally a glance of the majestic mirror of a broad and placid river. after passing through a pleasant village, the equipage stopped on a commanding eminence, where the beauty of english landscape was displayed in its utmost luxuriance. here the duke alighted, and desired jeanie to follow him. they paused for a moment on the brow of a hill, to gaze on the unrivalled landscape which it presented. a huge sea of verdure, with crossing and intersecting promontories of massive and tufted groves, was tenanted by numberless flocks and herds, which seemed to wander unrestrained and unbounded through the rich pastures. the thames, here turreted with villas, and there garlanded with forests, moved on slowly and placidly, like the mighty monarch of the scene, to whom all its other beauties were but accessories, and bore on its bosom an hundred barks and skiffs, whose white sails and gaily fluttering pennons gave life to the whole. the duke of argyle was, of course, familiar with this scene; but to a man of taste it must be always new. yet, as he paused and looked on this inimitable landscape, with the feeling of delight which it must give to the bosom of every admirer of nature, his thoughts naturally reverted to his own more grand, and scarce less beautiful, domains of inverary.-- "this is a fine scene," he said to his companion, curious, perhaps, to draw out her sentiments; "we have nothing like it in scotland." "it's braw rich feeding for the cows, and they have a fine breed o' cattle here," replied jeanie; "but i like just as weel to look at the craigs of arthur's seat, and the sea coming in ayont them as at a' thae muckle trees." the duke smiled at a reply equally professional and national, and made a signal for the carriage to remain where it was. then adopting an unfrequented footpath, he conducted jeanie through several complicated mazes to a postern-door in a high brick wall. it was shut; but as the duke tapped slightly at it, a person in waiting within, after reconnoitring through a small iron grate, contrived for the purpose, unlocked the door and admitted them. they entered, and it was immediately closed and fastened behind them. this was all done quickly, the door so instantly closing, and the person who opened it so suddenly disappearing, that jeanie could not even catch a glimpse of his exterior. they found themselves at the extremity of a deep and narrow alley, carpeted with the most verdant and close-shaven turf, which felt like velvet under their feet, and screened from the sun by the branches of the lofty elms which united over the path, and caused it to resemble, in the solemn obscurity of the light which they admitted, as well as from the range of columnar stems, and intricate union of their arched branches, one of the narrow side aisles in an ancient gothic cathedral. chapter thirteeth i beseech you-- these tears beseech you, and these chaste hands woo you that never yet were heaved but to things holy-- things like yourself--you are a god above us; be as a god, then, full of saving mercy! the bloody brother. encouraged as she was by the courteous manners of her noble countryman, it was not without a feeling of something like terror that jeanie felt herself in a place apparently so lonely with a man of such high rank. that she should have been permitted to wait on the duke in his own house, and have been there received to a private interview, was in itself an uncommon and distinguished event in the annals of a life so simple as hers; but to find herself his travelling companion in a journey, and then suddenly to be left alone with him in so secluded a situation, had something in it of awful mystery. a romantic heroine might have suspected and dreaded the power of her own charms; but jeanie was too wise to let such a silly thought intrude on her mind. still, however, she had a most eager desire to know where she now was, and to whom she was to be presented. she remarked that the duke's dress, though still such as indicated rank and fashion (for it was not the custom of men of quality at that time to dress themselves like their own coachmen or grooms), was nevertheless plainer than that in which she had seen him upon a former occasion, and was divested, in particular, of all those badges of external decoration which intimated superior consequence. in short, he was attired as plainly as any gentleman of fashion could appear in the streets of london in a morning; and this circumstance helped to shake an opinion which jeanie began to entertain, that, perhaps, he intended she should plead her cause in the presence of royalty itself. "but surely," said she to, herself, "he wad hae putten on his braw star and garter, an he had thought o' coming before the face of majesty--and after a', this is mair like a gentleman's policy than a royal palace." there was some sense in jeanie's reasoning; yet she was not sufficiently mistress either of the circumstances of etiquette, or the particular relations which existed betwixt the government and the duke of argyle, to form an accurate judgment. the duke, as we have said, was at this time in open opposition to the administration of sir robert walpole, and was understood to be out of favour with the royal family, to whom he had rendered such important services. but it was a maxim of queen caroline to bear herself towards her political friends with such caution, as if there was a possibility of their one day being her enemies, and towards political opponents with the same degree of circumspection, as if they might again become friendly to her measures, since margaret of anjou, no queen-consort had exercised such weight in the political affairs of england, and the personal address which she displayed on many occasions, had no small share in reclaiming from their political heresy many of those determined tories, who, after the reign of the stuarts had been extinguished in the person of queen anne, were disposed rather to transfer their allegiance to her brother the chevalier de st. george, than to acquiesce in the settlement of the crown on the hanover family. her husband, whose most shining quality was courage in the field of battle, and who endured the office of king of england, without ever being able to acquire english habits, or any familiarity with english dispositions, found the utmost assistance from the address of his partner, and while he jealously affected to do everything according to his own will and pleasure, was in secret prudent enough to take and follow the advice of his more adroit consort. he intrusted to her the delicate office of determining the various degrees of favour necessary to attach the wavering, or to confirm such as were already friendly, or to regain those whose good-will had been lost. with all the winning address of an elegant, and, according to the times, an accomplished woman, queen caroline possessed the masculine soul of the other sex. she was proud by nature, and even her policy could not always temper her expressions of displeasure, although few were more ready at repairing any false step of this kind, when her prudence came up to the aid of her passions. she loved the real possession of power rather than the show of it, and whatever she did herself that was either wise or popular, she always desired that the king should have the full credit as well as the advantage of the measure, conscious that, by adding to his respectability, she was most likely to maintain her own. and so desirous was she to comply with all his tastes, that, when threatened with the gout, she had repeatedly had recourse to checking the fit, by the use of the cold bath, thereby endangering her life, that she might be able to attend the king in his walks. it was a very consistent part of queen caroline's character, to keep up many private correspondences with those to whom in public she seemed unfavourable, or who, for various reasons, stood ill with the court. by this means she kept in her hands the thread of many a political intrigue, and, without pledging herself to anything, could often prevent discontent from becoming hatred, and opposition from exaggerating itself into rebellion. if by any accident her correspondence with such persons chanced to be observed or discovered, which she took all possible pains to prevent, it was represented as a mere intercourse of society, having no reference to politics; an answer with which even the prime minister, sir robert walpole, was compelled to remain satisfied, when he discovered that the queen had given a private audience to pulteney, afterwards earl of bath, his most formidable and most inveterate enemy. in thus maintaining occasional intercourse with several persons who seemed most alienated from the crown, it may readily be supposed that queen caroline had taken care not to break entirely with the duke of argyle. his high birth, his great talents, the estimation in which he was held in his own country, the great services which he had rendered the house of brunswick in , placed him high in that rank of persons who were not to be rashly neglected. he had, almost by his single and unassisted talents, stopped the irruption of the banded force of all the highland chiefs; there was little doubt, that, with the slightest encouragement, he could put them all in motion, and renew the civil war; and it was well known that the most flattering overtures had been transmitted to the duke from the court of st. germains. the character and temper of scotland was still little known, and it was considered as a volcano, which might, indeed, slumber for a series of years, but was still liable, at a moment the least expected, to break out into a wasteful irruption. it was, therefore, of the highest importance to retain come hold over so important a personage as the duke of argyle, and caroline preserved the power of doing so by means of a lady, with whom, as wife of george ii., she might have been supposed to be on less intimate terms. it was not the least instance of the queen's address, that she had contrived that one of her principal attendants, lady suffolk, should unite in her own person the two apparently inconsistent characters, of her husband's mistress, and her own very obsequious and complaisant confidant. by this dexterous management the queen secured her power against the danger which might most have threatened it--the thwarting influence of an ambitious rival; and if she submitted to the mortification of being obliged to connive at her husband's infidelity, she was at least guarded against what she might think its most dangerous effects, and was besides at liberty, now and then, to bestow a few civil insults upon "her good howard," whom, however, in general, she treated with great decorum.* * see horace walpole's reminiscences. lady suffolk lay under strong obligations to the duke of argyle, for reasons which may be collected from horace walpole's reminiscences of that reign, and through her means the duke had some occasional correspondence with queen caroline, much interrupted, however, since the part he had taken in the debate concerning the porteous mob, an affair which the queen, though somewhat unreasonably, was disposed to resent, rather as an intended and premeditated insolence to her own person and authority, than as a sudden ebullition of popular vengeance. still, however, the communication remained open betwixt them, though it had been of late disused on both sides. these remarks will be found necessary to understand the scene which is about to be presented to the reader. from the narrow alley which they had traversed, the duke turned into one of the same character, but broader and still longer. here, for the first time since they had entered these gardens, jeanie saw persons approaching them. they were two ladies; one of whom walked a little behind the other, yet not so much as to prevent her from hearing and replying to whatever observation was addressed to her by the lady who walked foremost, and that without her having the trouble to turn her person. as they advanced very slowly, jeanie had time to study their features and appearance. the duke also slackened his pace, as if to give her time to collect herself, and repeatedly desired her not to be afraid. the lady who seemed the principal person had remarkably good features, though somewhat injured by the small-pox, that venomous scourge which each village esculapius (thanks to jenner) can now tame as easily as their tutelary deity subdued the python. the lady's eyes were brilliant, her teeth good, and her countenance formed to express at will either majesty or courtesy. her form, though rather _embonpoint,_ was nevertheless graceful; and the elasticity and firmness of her step gave no room to suspect, what was actually the case, that she suffered occasionally from a disorder the most unfavourable to pedestrian exercise. her dress was rather rich than gay, and her manner commanding and noble. her companion was of lower stature, with light brown hair and expressive blue eyes. her features, without being absolutely regular, were perhaps more pleasing than if they had been critically handsome. a melancholy, or at least a pensive expression, for which her lot gave too much cause, predominated when she was silent, but gave way to a pleasing and good-humoured smile when she spoke to any one. when they were within twelve or fifteen yards of these ladies, the duke made a sign that jeanie should stand still, and stepping forward himself, with the grace which was natural to him, made a profound obeisance, which was formally, yet in a dignified manner, returned by the personage whom he approached. "i hope," she said, with an affable and condescending smile, "that i see so great a stranger at court, as the duke of argyle has been of late, in as good health as his friends there and elsewhere could wish him to enjoy." the duke replied, "that he had been perfectly well;" and added, "that the necessity of attending to the public business before the house, as well as the time occupied by a late journey to scotland, had rendered him less assiduous in paying his duty at the levee and drawing-room than he could have desired." "when your grace _can_ find time for a duty so frivolous," replied the queen, "you are aware of your title to be well received. i hope my readiness to comply with the wish which you expressed yesterday to lady suffolk, is, a sufficient proof that one of the royal family, at least, has not forgotten ancient and important services, in resenting something which resembles recent neglect." this was said apparently with great good humour, and in a tone which expressed a desire of conciliation. the duke replied, "that he would account himself the most unfortunate of men, if he could be supposed capable of neglecting his duty, in modes and circumstances when it was expected, and would have been agreeable. he was deeply gratified by the honour which her majesty was now doing to him personally; and he trusted she would soon perceive that it was in a matter essential to his majesty's interest that he had the boldness to give her this trouble." "you cannot oblige me more, my lord duke," replied the queen, "than by giving me the advantage of your lights and experience on any point of the king's service. your grace is aware, that i can only be the medium through which the matter is subjected to his majesty's superior wisdom; but if it is a suit which respects your grace personally, it shall lose no support by being preferred through me." "it is no suit of mine, madam," replied the duke; "nor have i any to prefer for myself personally, although i feel in full force my obligation to your majesty. it is a business which concerns his majesty, as a lover of justice and of mercy, and which, i am convinced, may be highly useful in conciliating the unfortunate irritation which at present subsists among his majesty's good subjects in scotland." there were two parts of this speech disagreeable to caroline. in the first place, it removed the flattering notion she had adopted, that argyle designed to use her personal intercession in making his peace with the administration, and recovering the employments of which he had been deprived; and next, she was displeased that he should talk of the discontents in scotland as irritations to be conciliated, rather than suppressed. under the influence of these feelings, she answered hastily, "that his majesty has good subjects in england, my lord duke, he is bound to thank god and the laws--that he has subjects in scotland, i think he may thank god and his sword." the duke, though a courtier, coloured slightly, and the queen, instantly sensible of her error, added, without displaying the least change of countenance, and as if the words had been an original branch of the sentence--"and the swords of those real scotchmen who are friends to the house of brunswick, particularly that of his grace of argyle." "my sword, madam," replied the duke, "like that of my fathers, has been always at the command of my lawful king, and of my native country--i trust it is impossible to separate their real rights and interests. but the present is a matter of more private concern, and respects the person of an obscure individual." "what is the affair, my lord?" said the queen. "let us find out what we are talking about, lest we should misconstrue and misunderstand each other." "the matter, madam," answered the duke of argyle, "regards the fate of an unfortunate young woman in scotland, now lying under sentence of death, for a crime of which i think it highly probable that she is innocent. and my humble petition to your majesty is, to obtain your powerful intercession with the king for a pardon." it was now the queen's turn to colour, and she did so over cheek and brow, neck and bosom. she paused a moment as if unwilling to trust her voice with the first expression of her displeasure; and on assuming the air of dignity and an austere regard of control, she at length replied, "my lord duke, i will not ask your motives for addressing to me a request, which circumstances have rendered such an extraordinary one. your road to the king's closet, as a peer and a privy-councillor, entitled to request an audience, was open, without giving me the pain of this discussion. _i,_ at least, have had enough of scotch pardons." the duke was prepared for this burst of indignation, and he was not shaken by it. he did not attempt a reply while the queen was in the first heat of displeasure, but remained in the same firm, yet respectful posture, which he had assumed during the interview. the queen, trained from her situation to self-command, instantly perceived the advantage she might give against herself by yielding to passion; and added, in the same condescending and affable tone in which she had opened the interview, "you must allow me some of the privileges of the sex, my lord; and do not judge uncharitably of me, though i am a little moved at the recollection of the gross insult and outrage done in your capital city to the royal authority, at the very time when it was vested in my unworthy person. your grace cannot be surprised that i should both have felt it at the time, and recollected it now." "it is certainly a matter not speedily to be forgotten," answered the duke. "my own poor thoughts of it have been long before your majesty, and i must have expressed myself very ill if i did not convey my detestation of the murder which was committed under such extraordinary circumstances. i might, indeed, be so unfortunate as to differ with his majesty's advisers on the degree in which it was either just or politic to punish the innocent instead of the guilty. but i trust your majesty will permit me to be silent on a topic in which my sentiments have not the good fortune to coincide with those of more able men." "we will not prosecute a topic on which we may probably differ," said the queen. "one word, however, i may say in private--you know our good lady suffolk is a little deaf--the duke of argyle, when disposed to renew his acquaintance with his master and mistress, will hardly find many topics on which we should disagree." "let me hope," said the duke, bowing profoundly to so flattering an intimation, "that i shall not be so unfortunate as to have found one on the present occasion." "i must first impose on your grace the duty of confession," said the queen, "before i grant you absolution. what is your particular interest in this young woman? she does not seem" (and she scanned jeanie, as she said this, with the eye of a connoisseur) "much qualified to alarm my friend the duchess's jealousy." "i think your majesty," replied the duke, smiling in his turn, "will allow my taste may be a pledge for me on that score." "then, though she has not much the air _d'une grande dame,_ i suppose she is some thirtieth cousin in the terrible chapter of scottish genealogy?" "no, madam," said the duke; "but i wish some of my nearer relations had half her worth, honesty, and affection." "her name must be campbell, at least?" said queen caroline. "no, madam; her name is not quite so distinguished, if i may be permitted to say so," answered the duke. "ah! but she comes from inverary or argyleshire?" said the sovereign. "she has never been farther north in her life than edinburgh, madam." "then my conjectures are all ended," said the queen, "and your grace must yourself take the trouble to explain the affair of your prote'ge'e." with that precision and easy brevity which is only acquired by habitually conversing in the higher ranks of society, and which is the diametrical opposite of that protracted style of disquisition, which squires call potter, and which men call prose, the duke explained the singular law under which effie deans had received sentence of death, and detailed the affectionate exertions which jeanie had made in behalf of a sister, for whose sake she was willing to sacrifice all but truth and conscience. queen caroline listened with attention; she was rather fond, it must be remembered, of an argument, and soon found matter in what the duke told her for raising difficulties to his request. "it appears to me, my lord," she replied, "that this is a severe law. but still it is adopted upon good grounds, i am bound to suppose, as the law of the country, and the girl has been convicted under it. the very presumptions which the law construes into a positive proof of guilt exist in her case; and all that your grace has said concerning the possibility of her innocence may be a very good argument for annulling the act of parliament, but cannot, while it stands good, be admitted in favour of any individual convicted upon the statute." the duke saw and avoided the snare, for he was conscious, that, by replying to the argument, he must have been inevitably led to a discussion, in the course of which the queen was likely to be hardened in her own opinion, until she became obliged, out of mere respect to consistency, to let the criminal suffer. [illustration: jeanie and queen caroline-- ] "if your majesty," he said, "would condescend to hear my poor countrywoman herself, perhaps she may find an advocate in your own heart, more able than i am, to combat the doubts suggested by your understanding." the queen seemed to acquiesce, and the duke made a signal for jeanie to advance from the spot where she had hitherto remained watching countenances, which were too long accustomed to suppress all apparent signs of emotion, to convey to her any interesting intelligence. her majesty could not help smiling at the awe-struck manner in which the quiet demure figure of the little scotchwoman advanced towards her, and yet more at the first sound of her broad northern accent. but jeanie had a voice low and sweetly toned, an admirable thing in woman, and eke besought "her leddyship to have pity on a poor misguided young creature," in tones so affecting, that, like the notes of some of her native songs, provincial vulgarity was lost in pathos. "stand up, young woman," said the queen, but in a kind tone, "and tell me what sort of a barbarous people your country-folk are, where child-murder is become so common as to require the restraint of laws like yours?" "if your leddyship pleases," answered jeanie, "there are mony places besides scotland where mothers are unkind to their ain flesh and blood." it must be observed, that the disputes between george the second and frederick prince of wales were then at the highest, and that the good-natured part of the public laid the blame on the queen. she coloured highly, and darted a glance of a most penetrating character first at jeanie, and then at the duke. both sustained it unmoved; jeanie from total unconsciousness of the offence she had given, and the duke from his habitual composure. but in his heart he thought, my unlucky _protegee_ has with this luckless answer shot dead, by a kind of chance-medley, her only hope of success. lady suffolk, good-humouredly and skilfully, interposed in this awkward crisis. "you should tell this lady," she said to jeanie, "the particular causes which render this crime common in your country." "some thinks it's the kirk-session--that is--it's the--it's the cutty-stool, if your leddyship pleases," said jeanie, looking down and courtesying. "the what?" said lady suffolk, to whom the phrase was new, and who besides was rather deaf. "that's the stool of repentance, madam, if it please your leddyship," answered jeanie, "for light life and conversation, and for breaking the seventh command." here she raised her eyes to the duke, saw his hand at his chin, and, totally unconscious of what she had said out of joint, gave double effect to the innuendo, by stopping short and looking embarrassed. as for lady suffolk, she retired like a covering party, which, having interposed betwixt their retreating friends and the enemy, have suddenly drawn on themselves a fire unexpectedly severe. the deuce take the lass, thought the duke of argyle to himself; there goes another shot--and she has hit with both barrels right and left! indeed the duke had himself his share of the confusion, for, having acted as master of ceremonies to this innocent offender, he felt much in the circumstances of a country squire, who, having introduced his spaniel into a well-appointed drawing-room, is doomed to witness the disorder and damage which arises to china and to dress-gowns, in consequence of its untimely frolics. jeanie's last chance-hit, however, obliterated the ill impression which had arisen from the first; for her majesty had not so lost the feelings of a wife in those of a queen, but that she could enjoy a jest at the expense of "her good suffolk." she turned towards the duke of argyle with a smile, which marked that she enjoyed the triumph, and observed, "the scotch are a rigidly moral people." then, again applying herself to jeanie, she asked how she travelled up from scotland. "upon my foot mostly, madam," was the reply. "what, all that immense way upon foot?--how far can you walk in a day." "five-and-twenty miles and a bittock." "and a what?" said the queen, looking towards the duke of argyle. "and about five miles more," replied the duke. "i thought i was a good walker," said the queen, "but this shames me sadly." "may your leddyship never hae sae weary a heart, that ye canna be sensible of the weariness of the limbs," said jeanie. that came better off, thought the duke; it's the first thing she has said to the purpose. "and i didna just a'thegither walk the haill way neither, for i had whiles the cast of a cart; and i had the cast of a horse from ferrybridge--and divers other easements," said jeanie, cutting short her story, for she observed the duke made the sign he had fixed upon. "with all these accommodations," answered the queen, "you must have had a very fatiguing journey, and, i fear, to little purpose; since, if the king were to pardon your sister, in all probability it would do her little good, for i suppose your people of edinburgh would hang her out of spite." she will sink herself now outright, thought the duke. but he was wrong. the shoals on which jeanie had touched in this delicate conversation lay under ground, and were unknown to her; this rock was above water, and she avoided it. "she was confident," she said, "that baith town and country wad rejoice to see his majesty taking compassion on a poor unfriended creature." "his majesty has not found it so in a late instance," said the queen; "but i suppose my lord duke would advise him to be guided by the votes of the rabble themselves, who should be hanged and who spared?" "no, madam," said the duke; "but i would advise his majesty to be guided by his own feelings, and those of his royal consort; and then i am sure punishment will only attach itself to guilt, and even then with cautious reluctance." "well, my lord," said her majesty, "all these fine speeches do not convince me of the propriety of so soon showing any mark of favour to your--i suppose i must not say rebellious?--but, at least, your very disaffected and intractable metropolis. why, the whole nation is in a league to screen the savage and abominable murderers of that unhappy man; otherwise, how is it possible but that, of so many perpetrators, and engaged in so public an action for such a length of time, one at least must have been recognised? even this wench, for aught i can tell, may be a depositary of the secret.--hark you, young woman, had you any friends engaged in the porteous mob?" "no, madam," answered jeanie, happy that the question was so framed that she could, with a good conscience, answer it in the negative. "but i suppose," continued the queen, "if you were possessed of such a secret, you would hold it a matter of conscience to keep it to yourself?" "i would pray to be directed and guided what was the line of duty, madam," answered jeanie. "yes, and take that which suited your own inclinations," replied her majesty. "if it like you, madam," said jeanie, "i would hae gaen to the end of the earth to save the life of john porteous, or any other unhappy man in his condition; but i might lawfully doubt how far i am called upon to be the avenger of his blood, though it may become the civil magistrate to do so. he is dead and gane to his place, and they that have slain him must answer for their ain act. but my sister, my puir sister, effie, still lives, though her days and hours are numbered! she still lives, and a word of the king's mouth might restore her to a brokenhearted auld man, that never in his daily and nightly exercise, forgot to pray that his majesty might be blessed with a long and a prosperous reign, and that his throne, and the throne of his posterity, might be established in righteousness. o madam, if ever ye kend what it was to sorrow for and with a sinning and a suffering creature, whose mind is sae tossed that she can be neither ca'd fit to live or die, have some compassion on our misery!--save an honest house from dishonour, and an unhappy girl, not eighteen years of age, from an early and dreadful death! alas! it is not when we sleep soft and wake merrily ourselves that we think on other people's sufferings. our hearts are waxed light within us then, and we are for righting our ain wrangs and fighting our ain battles. but when the hour of trouble comes to the mind or to the body--and seldom may it visit your leddyship--and when the hour of death comes, that comes to high and low--lang and late may it be yours!--oh, my leddy, then it isna what we hae dune for oursells, but what we hae dune for others, that we think on maist pleasantly. and the thoughts that ye hae intervened to spare the puir thing's life will be sweeter in that hour, come when it may, than if a word of your mouth could hang the haill porteous mob at the tail of ae tow." tear followed tear down jeanie's cheeks, as, her features glowing and quivering with emotion, she pleaded her sister's cause with a pathos which was at once simple and solemn. "this is eloquence," said her majesty to the duke of argyle. "young woman," she continued, addressing herself to jeanie, "_i_ cannot grant a pardon to your sister--but you shall not want my warm intercession with his majesty. take this house-wife case," she continued, putting a small embroidered needle-case into jeanie's hands; "do not open it now, but at your leisure--you will find something in it which will remind you that you have had an interview with queen caroline." jeanie, having her suspicions thus confirmed, dropped on her knees, and would have expanded herself in gratitude; but the duke who was upon thorns lest she should say more or less than just enough, touched his chin once more. "our business is, i think, ended for the present, my lord duke," said the queen, "and, i trust, to your satisfaction. hereafter i hope to see your grace more frequently, both at richmond and st. james's.--come lady suffolk, we must wish his grace good-morning." they exchanged their parting reverences, and the duke, so soon as the ladies had turned their backs, assisted jeanie to rise from the ground, and conducted her back through the avenue, which she trode with the feeling of one who walks in her sleep. chapter fourteenth. so soon as i can win the offended king, i will be known your advocate. cymbeline. the duke of argyle led the way in silence to the small postern by which they had been admitted into richmond park, so long the favourite residence of queen caroline. it was opened by the same half-seen janitor, and they found themselves beyond the precincts of the royal demesne. still not a word was spoken on either side. the duke probably wished to allow his rustic prote'ge'e time to recruit her faculties, dazzled and sunk with colloquy sublime; and betwixt what she had guessed, had heard, and had seen, jeanie deans's mind was too much agitated to permit her to ask any questions. they found the carriage of the duke in the place where they had left it; and when they resumed their places, soon began to advance rapidly on their return to town. "i think, jeanie," said the duke, breaking silence, "you have every reason to congratulate yourself on the issue of your interview with her majesty." "and that leddy was the queen herself?" said jeanie; "i misdoubted it when i saw that your honour didna put on your hat--and yet i can hardly believe it, even when i heard her speak it herself." "it was certainly queen caroline," replied the duke. "have you no curiosity to see what is in the little pocket-book?" "do you think the pardon will be in it, sir?" said jeanie, with the eager animation of hope. "why, no," replied the duke; "that is unlikely. they seldom carry these things about them, unless they were likely to be wanted; and, besides, her majesty told you it was the king, not she, who was to grant it." "that is true, too," said jeanie; "but i am so confused in my mind--but does your honour think there is a certainty of effie's pardon then?" continued she, still holding in her hand the unopened pocket-book. "why, kings are kittle cattle to shoe behind, as we say in the north," replied the duke; "but his wife knows his trim, and i have not the least doubt that the matter is quite certain." "oh, god be praised! god be praised!" ejaculated jeanie; "and may the gude leddy never want the heart's ease she has gien me at this moment!-- and god bless you too, my lord!--without your help i wad ne'er hae won near her." the duke let her dwell upon this subject for a considerable time, curious, perhaps, to see how long the feelings of gratitude would continue to supersede those of curiosity. but so feeble was the latter feeling in jeanie's mind, that his grace, with whom, perhaps, it was for the time a little stronger, was obliged once more to bring forward the subject of the queen's present. it was opened accordingly. in the inside of the case was the usual assortment of silk and needles, with scissors, tweezers, etc.; and in the pocket was a bank-bill for fifty pounds. the duke had no sooner informed jeanie of the value of this last document, for she was unaccustomed to see notes for such sums, than she expressed her regret at the mistake which had taken place. "for the hussy itsell," she said, "was a very valuable thing for a keepsake, with the queen's name written in the inside with her ain hand doubtless--_caroline_--as plain as could be, and a crown drawn aboon it." she therefore tendered the bill to the duke, requesting him to find some mode of returning it to the royal owner. "no, no, jeanie," said the duke, "there is no mistake in the case. her majesty knows you have been put to great expense, and she wishes to make it up to you." "i am sure she is even ower gude," said jeanie, "and it glads me muckle that i can pay back dumbiedikes his siller, without distressing my father, honest man." "dumbiedikes! what, a freeholder of mid-lothian, is he not?" said his grace, whose occasional residence in that county made him acquainted with most of the heritors, as landed persons are termed in scotland.--"he has a house not far from dalkeith, wears a black wig and a laced hat?" "yes sir," answered jeanie, who had her reasons for being brief in her answers upon this topic. "ah, my old friend dumbie!" said the duke; "i have thrice seen him fou, and only once heard the sound of his voice--is he a cousin of yours, jeanie?" "no, sir,--my lord." "then he must be a well-wisher, i suspect?" "ye--yes,--my lord, sir," answered jeanie, blushing, and with hesitation. "aha! then, if the laird starts, i suppose my friend butler must be in some danger?" "o no, sir," answered jeanie, much more readily, but at the same time blushing much more deeply. "well, jeanie," said the duke, "you are a girl may be safely trusted with your own matters, and i shall inquire no farther about them. but as to this same pardon, i must see to get it passed through the proper forms; and i have a friend in office who will for auld lang syne, do me so much favour. and then, jeanie, as i shall have occasion to send an express down to scotland, who will travel with it safer and more swiftly than you can do, i will take care to have it put into the proper channel; meanwhile you may write to your friends by post of your good success." "and does your honour think," said jeanie, "that will do as weel as if i were to take my tap in my lap, and slip my ways hame again on my ain errand?" "much better, certainly," said the duke. "you know the roads are not very safe for a single woman to travel." jeanie internally acquiesced in this observation. "and i have a plan for you besides. one of the duchess's attendants, and one of mine--your acquaintance archibald--are going down to inverary in a light calash, with four horses i have bought, and there is room enough in the carriage for you to go with them as far as glasgow, where archibald will find means of sending you safely to edinburgh.--and in the way i beg you will teach the woman as much as you can of the mystery of cheese-making, for she is to have a charge in the dairy, and i dare swear you are as tidy about your milk-pail as about your dress." "does your honour like cheese?" said jeanie, with a gleam of conscious delight as she asked the question. "like it?" said the duke, whose good-nature anticipated what was to follow,--"cakes and cheese are a dinner for an emperor, let alone a highlandman." "because," said jeanie, with modest confidence, and great and evident self-gratulation, "we have been thought so particular in making cheese, that some folk think it as gude as the real dunlop; and if your honour's grace wad but accept a stane or twa, blithe, and fain, and proud it wad make us? but maybe ye may like the ewe-milk, that is, the buckholmside* cheese better; or maybe the gait-milk, as ye come frae the highlands--and i canna pretend just to the same skeel o' them; but my cousin jean, that lives at lockermachus in lammermuir, i could speak to her, and--" * the hilly pastures of buckholm, which the author now surveys,--"not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye,"--are famed for producing the best ewe-milk cheese in the south of scotland. "quite unnecessary," said the duke; "the dunlop is the very cheese of which i am so fond, and i will take it as the greatest favour you can do me to send one to caroline park. but remember, be on honour with it, jeanie, and make it all yourself, for i am a real good judge." "i am not feared," said jeanie, confidently, "that i may please your honour; for i am sure you look as if you could hardly find fault wi' onybody that did their best; and weel is it my part, i trow, to do mine." this discourse introduced a topic upon which the two travellers, though so different in rank and education, found each a good deal to say. the duke, besides his other patriotic qualities, was a distinguished agriculturist, and proud of his knowledge in that department. he entertained jeanie with his observations on the different breeds of cattle in scotland, and their capacity for the dairy, and received so much information from her practical experience in return, that he promised her a couple of devonshire cows in reward for the lesson. in short his mind was so transported back to his rural employments and amusements, that he sighed when his carriage stopped opposite to the old hackney-coach, which archibald had kept in attendance at the place where they had left it. while the coachman again bridled his lean cattle, which had been indulged with a bite of musty hay, the duke cautioned jeanie not to be too communicative to her landlady concerning what had passed. "there is," he said, "no use of speaking of matters till they are actually settled; and you may refer the good lady to archibald, if she presses you hard with questions. she is his old acquaintance, and he knows how to manage with her." he then took a cordial farewell of jeanie, and told her to be ready in the ensuing week to return to scotland--saw her safely established in her hackney-coach, and rolled of in his own carriage, humming a stanza of the ballad which he is said to have composed:-- "at the sight of dumbarton once again, i'll cock up my bonnet and march amain, with my claymore hanging down to my heel, to whang at the bannocks of barley meal." perhaps one ought to be actually a scotsman to conceive how ardently, under all distinctions of rank and situation, they feel their mutual connection with each other as natives of the same country. there are, i believe, more associations common to the inhabitants of a rude and wild, than of a well-cultivated and fertile country; their ancestors have more seldom changed their place of residence; their mutual recollection of remarkable objects is more accurate; the high and the low are more interested in each other's welfare; the feelings of kindred and relationship are more widely extended, and in a word, the bonds of patriotic affection, always honourable even when a little too exclusively strained, have more influence on men's feelings and actions. the rumbling hackney-coach, which tumbled over the (then) execrable london pavement, at a rate very different from that which had conveyed the ducal carriage to richmond, at length deposited jeanie deans and her attendant at the national sign of the thistle. mrs. glass, who had been in long and anxious expectation, now rushed, full of eager curiosity and open-mouthed interrogation, upon our heroine, who was positively unable to sustain the overwhelming cataract of her questions, which burst forth with the sublimity of a grand gardyloo:-- "had she seen the duke, god bless him--the duchess--the young ladies?-- had she seen the king, god bless him--the queen--the prince of wales--the princess--or any of the rest of the royal family?--had she got her sister's pardon?--was it out and out--or was it only a commutation of punishment?--how far had she gone--where had she driven to--whom had she seen--what had been said--what had kept her so long?" such were the various questions huddled upon each other by a curiosity so eager, that it could hardly wait for its own gratification. jeanie would have been more than sufficiently embarrassed by this overbearing tide of interrogations, had not archibald, who had probably received from his master a hint to that purpose, advanced to her rescue. "mrs. glass," said archibald, "his grace desired me particularly to say, that he would take it as a great favour if you would ask the young woman no questions, as he wishes to explain to you more distinctly than she can do how her affairs stand, and consult you on some matters which she cannot altogether so well explain. the duke will call at the thistle to-morrow or next day for that purpose." "his grace is very condescending," said mrs. glass, her zeal for inquiry slaked for the present by the dexterous administration of this sugar plum--"his grace is sensible that i am in a manner accountable for the conduct of my young kinswoman, and no doubt his grace is the best judge how far he should intrust her or me with the management of her affairs." "his grace is quite sensible of that," answered archibald, with national gravity, "and will certainly trust what he has to say to the most discreet of the two; and therefore, mrs. glass, his grace relies you will speak nothing to mrs. jean deans, either of her own affairs or her sister's, until he sees you himself. he desired me to assure you, in the meanwhile, that all was going on as well as your kindness could wish, mrs. glass." "his grace is very kind--very considerate, certainly, mr. archibald--his grace's commands shall be obeyed, and--but you have had a far drive, mr. archibald, as i guess by the time of your absence, and i guess" (with an engaging smile) "you winna be the waur o' a glass of the right rosa solis." "i thank you, mrs. glass," said the great man's great man, "but i am under the necessity of returning to my lord directly." and, making his adieus civilly to both cousins, he left the shop of the lady of the thistle. "i am glad your affairs have prospered so well, jeanie, my love," said mrs. glass; "though, indeed, there was little fear of them so soon as the duke of argyle was so condescending as to take them into hand. i will ask you no questions about them, because his grace, who is most considerate and prudent in such matters, intends to tell me all that you ken yourself, dear, and doubtless a great deal more; so that anything that may lie heavily on your mind may be imparted to me in the meantime, as you see it is his grace's pleasure that i should be made acquainted with the whole matter forthwith, and whether you or he tells it, will make no difference in the world, ye ken. if i ken what he is going to say beforehand, i will be much more ready to give my advice, and whether you or he tell me about it, cannot much signify after all, my dear. so you may just say whatever you like, only mind i ask you no questions about it." jeanie was a little embarrassed. she thought that the communication she had to make was perhaps the only means she might have in her power to gratify her friendly and hospitable kinswoman. but her prudence instantly suggested that her secret interview with queen caroline, which seemed to pass under a certain sort of mystery, was not a proper subject for the gossip of a woman like mrs. glass, of whose heart she had a much better opinion than of her prudence. she, therefore, answered in general, that the duke had had the extraordinary kindness to make very particular inquiries into her sister's bad affair, and that he thought he had found the means of putting it a' straight again, but that he proposed to tell all that he thought about the matter to mrs. glass herself. this did not quite satisfy the penetrating mistress of the thistle. searching as her own small rappee, she, in spite of her promise, urged jeanie with still farther questions. "had she been a' that time at argyle house? was the duke with her the whole time? and had she seen the duchess? and had she seen the young ladies--and specially lady caroline campbell?"--to these questions jeanie gave the general reply, that she knew so little of the town that she could not tell exactly where she had been; that she had not seen the duchess to her knowledge; that she had seen two ladies, one of whom, she understood, bore the name of caroline; and more, she said, she could not tell about the matter. "it would be the duke's eldest daughter, lady caroline campbell, there is no doubt of that," said mrs. glass; "but doubtless, i shall know more particularly through his grace.--and so, as the cloth is laid in the little parlour above stairs, and it is past three o'clock, for i have been waiting this hour for you, and i have had a snack myself; and, as they used to say in scotland in my time--i do not ken if the word be used now--there is ill talking between a full body and a fasting." chapter fifteenth. heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid,-- some banished lover or some captive maid. pope. by dint of unwonted labour with the pen, jeanie deans contrived to indite, and give to the charge of the postman on the ensuing day, no less than three letters, an exertion altogether strange to her habits; insomuch so, that, if milk had been plenty, she would rather have made thrice as many dunlop cheeses. the first of them was very brief. it was addressed to george staunton, esq., at the rectory, willingham, by grantham; the address being part of the information she had extracted from the communicative peasant who rode before her to stamford. it was in these words:-- "sir,--to prevent farder mischieves, whereof there hath been enough, comes these: sir, i have my sister's pardon from the queen's majesty, whereof i do not doubt you will be glad, having had to say naut of matters whereof you know the purport. so, sir, i pray for your better welfare in bodie and soul, and that it will please the fisycian to visit you in his good time. alwaies, sir, i pray you will never come again to see my sister, whereof there has been too much. and so, wishing you no evil, but even your best good, that you may be turned from your iniquity (for why suld ye die?) i rest your humble servant to command, "_ye ken wha._" the next letter was to her father. it is too long altogether for insertion, so we only give a few extracts. it commenced-- "dearest and truly honoured father,--this comes with my duty to inform you, that it has pleased god to redeem that captivitie of my poor sister, in respect the queen's blessed majesty, for whom we are ever bound to pray, hath redeemed her soul from the slayer, granting the ransom of her, whilk is ane pardon or reprieve. and i spoke with the queen face to face and yet live; for she is not muckle differing from other grand leddies, saying that she has a stately presence, and een like a blue huntin' hawk's, whilk gaed throu' and throu' me like a highland durk--and all this good was, alway under the great giver, to whom all are but instruments, wrought forth for us by the duk of argile, wha is ane native true-hearted scotsman, and not pridefu', like other folk we ken of--and likewise skeely enow in bestial, whereof he has promised to gie me twa devonshire kye, of which he is enamoured, although i do still haud by the real hawlit airshire breed--and i have promised him a cheese; and i wad wuss ye, if gowans, the brockit cow, has a quey, that she suld suck her fill of milk, as i am given to understand he has none of that breed, and is not scornfu' but will take a thing frae a puir body, that it may lighten their heart of the loading of debt that they awe him. also his honour the duke will accept ane of our dunlop cheeses, and it sall be my faut if a better was ever yearned in lowden."--[here follow some observations respecting the breed of cattle, and the produce of the dairy, which it is our intention to forward to the board of agriculture.]--"nevertheless, these are but matters of the after-harvest, in respect of the great good which providence hath gifted us with--and, in especial, poor effie's life. and oh, my dear father, since it hath pleased god to be merciful to her, let her not want your free pardon, whilk will make her meet to be ane vessel of grace, and also a comfort to your ain graie hairs. dear father, will ye let the laird ken that we have had friends strangely raised up to us, and that the talent whilk he lent me will be thankfully repaid. i hae some of it to the fore; and the rest of it is not knotted up in ane purse or napkin, but in ane wee bit paper, as is the fashion heir, whilk i am assured is gude for the siller. and, dear father, through mr. butler's means i hae gude friendship with the duke, for their had been kindness between their forbears in the auld troublesome time bye-past. and mrs. glass has been kind like my very mother. she has a braw house here, and lives bien and warm, wi' twa servant lasses, and a man and a callant in the shop. and she is to send you doun a pound of her hie-dried, and some other tobaka, and we maun think of some propine for her, since her kindness hath been great. and the duk is to send the pardun doun by an express messenger, in respect that i canna travel sae fast; and i am to come doun wi' twa of his honour's servants--that is, john archibald, a decent elderly gentleman, that says he has seen you lang syne, when ye were buying beasts in the west frae the laird of aughtermuggitie--but maybe ye winna mind him--ony way, he's a civil man--and mrs. dolly dutton, that is to be dairy-maid at inverara; and they bring me on as far as glasgo, whilk will make it nae pinch to win hame, whilk i desire of all things. may the giver of all good things keep ye in your outgauns and incomings, whereof devoutly prayeth your loving dauter, "jean deans." the third letter was to butler, and its tenor as follows:-- "master butler.--sir,--it will be pleasure to you to ken, that all i came for is, thanks be to god, weel dune and to the gude end, and that your forbear's letter was right welcome to the duke of argile, and that he wrote your name down with a kylevine pen in a leathern book, whereby it seems like he will do for you either wi' a scule or a kirk; he has enow of baith, as i am assured. and i have seen the queen, which gave me a hussy-case out of her own hand. she had not her crown and skeptre, but they are laid by for her, like the bairns' best claise, to be worn when she needs them. and they are keepit in a tour, whilk is not like the tour of libberton, nor yet craigmillar, but mair like to the castell of edinburgh, if the buildings were taen and set down in the midst of the nor'-loch. also the queen was very bounteous, giving me a paper worth fiftie pounds, as i am assured, to pay my expenses here and back agen. sae, master butler, as we were aye neebours' bairns, forby onything else that may hae been spoken between us, i trust you winna skrimp yoursell for what is needfu' for your health, since it signifies not muckle whilk o' us has the siller, if the other wants it. and mind this is no meant to haud ye to onything whilk ye wad rather forget, if ye suld get a charge of a kirk or a scule, as above said. only i hope it will be a scule, and not a kirk, because of these difficulties anent aiths and patronages, whilk might gang ill down wi' my honest father. only if ye could compass a harmonious call frae the parish of skreegh-me-dead, as ye anes had hope of, i trow it wad please him weel; since i hae heard him say, that the root of the matter was mair deeply hafted in that wild muirland parish than in the canongate of edinburgh. i wish i had whaten books ye wanted, mr. butler, for they hae haill houses of them here, and they are obliged to set sum out in the street, whilk are sald cheap, doubtless, to get them out of the weather. it is a muckle place, and i hae seen sae muckle of it, that my poor head turns round. and ye ken langsyne, i am nae great pen-woman, and it is near eleven o'clock o' the night. i am cumming down in good company, and safe--and i had troubles in gaun up whilk makes me blither of travelling wi' kend folk. my cousin, mrs. glass, has a braw house here, but a' thing is sae poisoned wi' snuff, that i am like to be scomfished whiles. but what signifies these things, in comparison of the great deliverance whilk has been vouchsafed to my father's house, in whilk you, as our auld and dear well-wisher, will, i dout not, rejoice and be exceedingly glad. and i am, dear mr. butler, your sincere well-wisher in temporal and eternal things, "j. d." after these labours of an unwonted kind, jeanie retired to her bed, yet scarce could sleep a few minutes together, so often was she awakened by the heart-stirring consciousness of her sister's safety, and so powerfully urged to deposit her burden of joy, where she had before laid her doubts and sorrows, in the warm and sincere exercises of devotion. all the next, and all the succeeding day, mrs. glass fidgeted about her shop in the agony of expectation, like a pea (to use a vulgar simile which her profession renders appropriate) upon one of her own tobacco pipes. with the third morning came the expected coach, with four servants clustered behind on the footboard, in dark brown and yellow liveries; the duke in person, with laced coat, gold-headed cane, star and garter, all, as the story-book says, very grand. he inquired for his little countrywoman of mrs. glass, but without requesting to see her, probably because he was unwilling to give an appearance of personal intercourse betwixt them, which scandal might have misinterpreted. "the queen," he said to mrs. glass, "had taken the case of her kinswoman into her gracious consideration, and being specially moved by the affectionate and resolute character of the elder sister, had condescended to use her powerful intercession with his majesty, in consequence of which a pardon had been despatched to scotland to effie deans, on condition of her banishing herself forth of scotland for fourteen years. the king's advocate had insisted," he said, "upon this qualification of the pardon, having pointed out to his majesty's ministers, that, within the course of only seven years, twenty-one instances of child-murder had occurred in scotland. "weary on him!" said mrs. glass, "what for needed he to have telled that of his ain country, and to the english folk abune a'? i used aye to think the advocate a douce decent man, but it is an ill bird*--begging your grace's pardon for speaking of such a coorse by-word. * [it's an ill bird that fouls its own pest.] and then what is the poor lassie to do in a foreign land?--why, wae's me, it's just sending her to play the same pranks ower again, out of sight or guidance of her friends." "pooh! pooh!" said the duke, "that need not be anticipated. why, she may come up to london, or she may go over to america, and marry well for all that is come and gone." "in troth, and so she may, as your grace is pleased to intimate," replied mrs. glass; "and now i think upon it, there is my old correspondent in virginia, ephraim buckskin, that has supplied the thistle this forty years with tobacco, and it is not a little that serves our turn, and he has been writing to me this ten years to send him out a wife. the carle is not above sixty, and hale and hearty, and well to pass in the world, and a line from my hand would settle the matter, and effie deans's misfortune (forby that there is no special occasion to speak about it) would be thought little of there." "is she a pretty girl?" said the duke; "her sister does not get beyond a good comely sonsy lass." "oh, far prettier is effie than jeanie," said mrs. glass; "though it is long since i saw her mysell, but i hear of the deanses by all my lowden friends when they come--your grace kens we scots are clannish bodies." "so much the better for us," said the duke, "and the worse for those who meddle with us, as your good old-fashioned sign says, mrs. glass. and now i hope you will approve of the measures i have taken for restoring your kinswoman to her friends." these he detailed at length, and mrs. glass gave her unqualified approbation, with a smile and a courtesy at every sentence. "and now, mrs. glass, you must tell jeanie, i hope, she will not forget my cheese when she gets down to scotland. archibald has my orders to arrange all her expenses." "begging your grace's humble pardon," said mrs. glass, "it is a pity to trouble yourself about them; the deanses are wealthy people in their way, and the lass has money in her pocket." "that's all very true," said the duke; "but you know, where maccallummore travels he pays all; it is our highland privilege to take from all what _we_ want, and to give to all what _they_ want." "your grace is better at giving than taking," said mrs. glass. "to show you the contrary," said the duke, "i will fill my box out of this canister without paying you a bawbee;" and again desiring to be remembered to jeanie, with his good wishes for her safe journey, he departed, leaving mrs. glass uplifted in heart and in countenance, the proudest and happiest of tobacco and snuff dealers. reflectively, his grace's good humour and affability had a favourable effect upon jeanie's situation.--her kinswoman, though civil and kind to her, had acquired too much of london breeding to be perfectly satisfied with her cousin's rustic and national dress, and was, besides, something scandalised at the cause of her journey to london. mrs. glass might, therefore, have been less sedulous in her attentions towards jeanie, but for the interest which the foremost of the scottish nobles (for such, in all men's estimation, was the duke of argyle) seemed to take in her fate. now, however, as a kinswoman whose virtues and domestic affections had attracted the notice and approbation of royalty itself, jeanie stood to her relative in a light very different and much more favourable, and was not only treated with kindness, but with actual observance and respect. it depended on herself alone to have made as many visits, and seen as many sights, as lay within mrs. glass's power to compass. but, excepting that she dined abroad with one or two "far away kinsfolk," and that she paid the same respect, on mrs. glass's strong urgency, to mrs. deputy dabby, wife of the worshipful mr. deputy dabby, of farringdon without, she did not avail herself of the opportunity. as mrs. dabby was the second lady of great rank whom jeanie had seen in london, she used sometimes afterwards to draw a parallel betwixt her and the queen, in which she observed, "that mrs. dabby was dressed twice as grand, and was twice as big, and spoke twice as loud, and twice as muckle, as the queen did, but she hadna the same goss-hawk glance that makes the skin creep, and the knee bend; and though she had very kindly gifted her with a loaf of sugar and twa punds of tea, yet she hadna a'thegither the sweet look that the queen had when she put the needle-book into her hand." jeanie might have enjoyed the sights and novelties of this great city more, had it not been for the qualification added to her sister's pardon, which greatly grieved her affectionate disposition. on this subject, however, her mind was somewhat relieved by a letter which she received in return of post, in answer to that which she had written to her father. with his affectionate blessing, it brought his full approbation of the step which she had taken, as one inspired by the immediate dictates of heaven, and which she had been thrust upon in order that she might become the means of safety to a perishing household. "if ever a deliverance was dear and precious, this," said the letter, "is a dear and precious deliverance--and if life saved can be made more sweet and savoury, it is when it cometh by the hands of those whom we hold in the ties of affection. and do not let your heart be disquieted within you, that this victim, who is rescued from the horns of the altar, whereuntil she was fast bound by the chains of human law, is now to be driven beyond the bounds of our land. scotland is a blessed land to those who love the ordinances of christianity, and it is a faer land to look upon, and dear to them who have dwelt in it a' their days; and weel said that judicious christian, worthy john livingstone, a sailor in borrowstouness, as the famous patrick walker reporteth his words, that howbeit he thought scotland was a gehennah of wickedness when he was at home, yet when he was abroad, he accounted it ane paradise; for the evils of scotland he found everywhere, and the good of scotland he found nowhere. but we are to hold in remembrance that scotland, though it be our native land, and the land of our fathers, is not like goshen, in egypt, on whilk the sun of the heavens and of the gospel shineth allenarly, and leaveth the rest of the world in utter darkness. therefore, and also because this increase of profit at saint leonard's crags may be a cauld waff of wind blawing from the frozen land of earthly self, where never plant of grace took root or grew, and because my concerns make me take something ower muckle a grip of the gear of the warld in mine arms, i receive this dispensation anent effie as a call to depart out of haran, as righteous abraham of old, and leave my father's kindred and my mother's house, and the ashes and mould of them who have gone to sleep before me, and which wait to be mingled with these auld crazed bones of mine own. and my heart is lightened to do this, when i call to mind the decay of active and earnest religion in this land, and survey the height and the depth, the length and the breadth, of national defections, and how the love of many is waxing lukewarm and cold; and i am strengthened in this resolution to change my domicile likewise, as i hear that store-farms are to be set at an easy mail in northumberland, where there are many precious souls that are of our true though suffering persuasion. and sic part of the kye or stock as i judge it fit to keep, may be driven thither without incommodity--say about wooler, or that gate, keeping aye a shouther to the hills,--and the rest may be sauld to gude profit and advantage, if we had grace weel to use and guide these gifts of the warld. the laird has been a true friend on our unhappy occasions, and i have paid him back the siller for effie's misfortune, whereof mr. nichil novit returned him no balance, as the laird and i did expect he wad hae done. but law licks up a', as the common folk say. i have had the siller to borrow out of sax purses. mr. saddletree advised to give the laird of lounsbeck a charge on his hand for a thousand merks. but i hae nae broo' of charges, since that awfu' morning that a tout of a horn, at the cross of edinburgh, blew half the faithfu' ministers of scotland out of their pulpits. however, i sall raise an adjudication, whilk mr. saddletree says comes instead of the auld apprisings, and will not lose weel-won gear with the like of him, if it may be helped. as for the queen, and the credit that she hath done to a poor man's daughter, and the mercy and the grace ye found with her, i can only pray for her weel-being here and hereafter, for the establishment of her house now and for ever, upon the throne of these kingdoms. i doubt not but what you told her majesty, that i was the same david deans of whom there was a sport at the revolution, when i noited thegither the heads of twa false prophets, these ungracious graces the prelates, as they stood on the hie street, after being expelled from the convention-parliament.* * note p. expulsion of the scotch bishops. the duke of argyle is a noble and true-hearted nobleman, who pleads the cause of the poor, and those who have none to help them; verily his reward shall not be lacking unto him.--i have, been writing of many things, but not of that whilk lies nearest mine heart. i have seen the misguided thing, she will be at freedom the morn, on enacted caution that she shall leave scotland in four weeks. her mind is in an evil frame,--casting her eye backward on egypt, i doubt, as if the bitter waters of the wilderness were harder to endure than the brick furnaces, by the side of which there were savoury flesh-pots. i need not bid you make haste down, for you are, excepting always my great master, my only comfort in these straits. i charge you to withdraw your feet from the delusion of that vanity-fair in whilk ye are a sojourner, and not to go to their worship, whilk is an ill-mumbled mass, as it was weel termed by james the sext, though he afterwards, with his unhappy son, strove to bring it ower back and belly into his native kingdom, wherethrough their race have been cut off as foam upon the water, and shall be as wanderers among the nations-see the prophecies of hosea, ninth and seventeenth, and the same, tenth and seventh. but us and our house, let us say with the same prophet, 'let us return to the lord, for he hath torn, and he will heal us--he hath smitten, and he will bind us up.'" he proceeded to say, that he approved of her proposed mode of returning by glasgow, and entered into sundry minute particulars not necessary to be quoted. a single line in the letter, but not the least frequently read by the party to whom it was addressed, intimated, that "reuben butler had been as a son to him in his sorrows." as david deans scarce ever mentioned butler before, without some gibe, more or less direct, either at his carnal gifts and learning, or at his grandfather's heresy, jeanie drew a good omen from no such qualifying clause being added to this sentence respecting him. a lover's hope resembles the bean in the nursery tale,--let it once take root, and it will grow so rapidly, that in the course of a few hours the giant imagination builds a castle on the top, and by and by comes disappointment with the "curtal axe," and hews down both the plant and the superstructure. jeanie's fancy, though not the most powerful of her faculties, was lively enough to transport her to a wild farm in northumberland, well stocked with milk-cows, yeald beasts, and sheep; a meeting-house, hard by, frequented by serious presbyterians, who had united in a harmonious call to reuben butler to be their spiritual guide--effie restored, not to gaiety, but to cheerfulness at least--their father, with his grey hairs smoothed down, and spectacles on his nose--herself, with the maiden snood exchanged for a matron's curch--all arranged in a pew in the said meeting-house, listening to words of devotion, rendered sweeter and more powerful by the affectionate ties which combined them with the preacher. she cherished such visions from day to day, until her residence in london began to become insupportable and tedious to her; and it was with no ordinary satisfaction that she received a summons from argyle house, requiring her in two days to be prepared to join their northward party. chapter sixteenth. one was a female, who had grievous ill wrought in revenge, and she enjoy'd it still; sullen she was, and threatening; in her eye glared the stern triumph that she dared to die. crabbe. the summons of preparation arrived after jeanie deans had resided in the metropolis about three weeks. on the morning appointed she took a grateful farewell of mrs. glass, as that good woman's attention to her particularly required, placed herself and her movable goods, which purchases and presents had greatly increased, in a hackney-coach, and joined her travelling companions in the housekeeper's apartment at argyle house. while the carriage was getting ready, she was informed that the duke wished to speak with her; and being ushered into a splendid saloon, she was surprised to find that he wished to present her to his lady and daughters. "i bring you my little countrywoman, duchess," these were the words of the introduction. "with an army of young fellows, as gallant and steady as she is, and, a good cause, i would not fear two to one." "ah, papa!" said a lively young lady, about twelve years old, "remember you were full one to two at sheriffmuir, and yet" (singing the well-known ballad)-- "some say that we wan, and some say that they wan, and some say that nane wan at a', man but of ae thing i'm sure, that on sheriff-muir a battle there was that i saw, man." "what, little mary turned tory on my hands?--this will be fine news for our countrywoman to carry down to scotland!" "we may all turn tories for the thanks we have got for remaining whigs," said the second young lady. "well, hold your peace, you discontented monkeys, and go dress your babies; and as for the bob of dunblane, 'if it wasna weel bobbit, weel bobbit, weel bobbit, if it wasna weel bobbit, we'll bob it again.'" "papa's wit is running low," said lady mary: "the poor gentleman is repeating himself--he sang that on the field of battle, when he was told the highlanders had cut his left wing to pieces with their claymores." a pull by the hair was the repartee to this sally. "ah! brave highlanders and bright claymores," said the duke, "well do i wish them, 'for a' the ill they've done me yet,' as the song goes.--but come, madcaps, say a civil word to your countrywoman--i wish ye had half her canny hamely sense; i think you may be as leal and true-hearted." the duchess advanced, and, in a few words, in which there was as much kindness as civility, assured jeanie of the respect which she had for a character so affectionate, and yet so firm, and added, "when you get home, you will perhaps hear from me." "and from me." "and from me." "and from me, jeanie," added the young ladies one after the other, "for you are a credit to the land we love so well." jeanie, overpowered by these unexpected compliments, and not aware that the duke's investigation had made him acquainted with her behaviour on her sister's trial, could only answer by blushing, and courtesying round and round, and uttering at intervals, "mony thanks! mony thanks!" "jeanie," said the duke, "you must have _doch an' dorroch,_ or you will be unable to travel." there was a salver with cake and wine on the table. he took up a glass, drank "to all true hearts that lo'ed scotland," and offered a glass to his guest. jeanie, however, declined it, saying, "that she had never tasted wine in her life." "how comes that, jeanie?" said the duke,--"wine maketh glad the heart, you know." "ay, sir, but my father is like jonadab the son of rechab, who charged his children that they should drink no wine." "i thought your father would have had more sense," said the duke, "unless indeed he prefers brandy. but, however, jeanie, if you will not drink, you must eat, to save the character of my house." he thrust upon her a large piece of cake, nor would he permit her to break off a fragment, and lay the rest on a salver. "put it in your pouch, jeanie," said he; "you will be glad of it before you see st. giles's steeple. i wish to heaven i were to see it as soon as you! and so my best service to all my friends at and about auld reekie, and a blithe journey to you." and, mixing the frankness of a soldier with his natural affability, he shook hands with his prote'ge'e, and committed her to the charge of archibald, satisfied that he had provided sufficiently for her being attended to by his domestics, from the unusual attention with which he had himself treated her. accordingly, in the course of her journey, she found both her companions disposed to pay her every possible civility, so that her return, in point of comfort and safety, formed a strong contrast to her journey to london. her heart also was disburdened of the weight of grief, shame, apprehension, and fear, which had loaded her before her interview with the queen at richmond. but the human mind is so strangely capricious, that, when freed from the pressure of real misery, it becomes open and sensitive to the apprehension of ideal calamities. she was now much disturbed in mind, that she had heard nothing from reuben butler, to whom the operation of writing was so much more familiar than it was to herself. "it would have cost him sae little fash," she said to herself; "for i hae seen his pen gan as fast ower the paper, as ever it did ower the water when it was in the grey goose's wing. wae's me! maybe he may be badly--but then my father wad likely hae said somethin about it--or maybe he may hae taen the rue, and kensna how to let me wot of his change of mind. he needna be at muckle fash about it,"--she went on, drawing herself up, though the tear of honest pride and injured affection gathered in her eye, as she entertained the suspicion,-- "jeanie deans is no the lass to pu' him by the sleeve, or put him in mind of what he wishes to forget. i shall wish him weel and happy a' the same; and if he has the luck to get a kirk in our country, i sall gang and hear him just the very same, to show that i bear nae malice." and as she imagined the scene, the tear stole over her eye. in these melancholy reveries, jeanie had full time to indulge herself; for her travelling companions, servants in a distinguished and fashionable family, had, of course, many topics of conversation, in which it was absolutely impossible she could have either pleasure or portion. she had, therefore, abundant leisure for reflection, and even for self-tormenting, during the several days which, indulging the young horses the duke was sending down to the north with sufficient ease and short stages, they occupied in reaching the neighbourhood of carlisle. in approaching the vicinity of that ancient city, they discerned a considerable crowd upon an eminence at a little distance from the high road, and learned from some passengers who were gathering towards that busy scene from the southward, that the cause of the concourse was, the laudable public desire "to see a doomed scotch witch and thief get half of her due upo' haribeebroo' yonder, for she was only to be hanged; she should hae been boorned aloive, an' cheap on't." "dear mr. archibald," said the dame of the dairy elect, "i never seed a woman hanged in a' my life, and only four men, as made a goodly spectacle." mr. archibald, however, was a scotchman, and promised himself no exuberant pleasure in seeing his countrywoman undergo "the terrible behests of law." moreover, he was a man of sense and delicacy in his way, and the late circumstances of jeanie's family, with the cause of her expedition to london, were not unknown to him; so that he answered drily, it was impossible to stop, as he must be early at carlisle on some business of the duke's, and he accordingly bid the postilions get on. the road at that time passed at about a quarter of a mile's distance from the eminence, called haribee or harabee-brow, which, though it is very moderate in size and height, is nevertheless seen from a great distance around, owing to the flatness of the country through which the eden flows. here many an outlaw, and border-rider of both kingdoms, had wavered in the wind during the wars, and scarce less hostile truces, between the two countries. upon harabee, in latter days, other executions had taken place with as little ceremony as compassion; for these frontier provinces remained long unsettled, and, even at the time of which we write, were ruder than those in the centre of england. the postilions drove on, wheeling as the penrith road led them, round the verge of the rising ground. yet still the eyes of mrs. dolly dutton, which, with the head and substantial person to which they belonged, were all turned towards the scene of action, could discern plainly the outline of the gallows-tree, relieved against the clear sky, the dark shade formed by the persons of the executioner and the criminal upon the light rounds of the tall aerial ladder, until one of the objects, launched into the air, gave unequivocal signs of mortal agony, though appearing in the distance not larger than a spider dependent at the extremity of his invisible thread, while the remaining form descended from its elevated situation, and regained with all speed an undistinguished place among the crowd. this termination of the tragic scene drew forth of course a squall from mrs. dutton, and jeanie, with instinctive curiosity, turned her head in the same direction. the sight of a female culprit in the act of undergoing the fatal punishment from which her beloved sister had been so recently rescued, was too much, not perhaps for her nerves, but for her mind and feelings. she turned her head to the other side of the carriage, with a sensation of sickness, of loathing, and of fainting. her female companion overwhelmed her with questions, with proffers of assistance, with requests that the carriage might be stopped--that a doctor might be fetched--that drops might be gotten--that burnt feathers and asafoetida, fair water, and hartshorn, might be procured, all at once, and without one instant's delay. archibald, more calm and considerate, only desired the carriage to push forward; and it was not till they had got beyond sight of the fatal spectacle, that, seeing the deadly paleness of jeanie's countenance, he stopped the carriage, and jumping out himself, went in search of the most obvious and most easily procured of mrs. dutton's pharmacopoeia--a draught, namely, of fair water. while archibald was absent on this good-natured piece of service, damning the ditches which produced nothing but mud, and thinking upon the thousand bubbling springlets of his own mountains, the attendants on the execution began to pass the stationary vehicle in their way back to carlisle. from their half-heard and half-understood words, jeanie, whose attention was involuntarily rivetted by them, as that of children is by ghost stories, though they know the pain with which they will afterwards remember them, jeanie, i say, could discern that the present victim of the law had died game, as it is termed by those unfortunates; that is, sullen, reckless, and impenitent, neither fearing god nor regarding man. "a sture woife, and a dour," said one cumbrian peasant, as he clattered by in his wooden brogues, with a noise like the trampling of a dray-horse. "she has gone to ho master, with ho's name in her mouth," said another; "shame the country should be harried wi' scotch witches and scotch bitches this gate--but i say hang and drown." "ay, ay, gaffer tramp, take awa yealdon, take awa low--hang the witch, and there will be less scathe amang us; mine owsen hae been reckan this towmont." "and mine bairns hae been crining too, mon," replied his neighbour. "silence wi' your fule tongues, ye churls," said an old woman, who hobbled past them, as they stood talking near the carriage; "this was nae witch, but a bluidy-fingered thief and murderess." "ay? was it e'en sae, dame hinchup?" said one in a civil tone, and stepping out of his place to let the old woman pass along the footpath--"nay, you know best, sure--but at ony rate, we hae but tint a scot of her, and that's a thing better lost than found." the old woman passed on without making any answer. "ay, ay, neighbour," said gaffer tramp, "seest thou how one witch will speak for t'other--scots or english, the same to them." his companion shook his head, and replied in the same subdued tone, "ay, ay, when a sark-foot wife gets on her broomstick, the dames of allonby are ready to mount, just as sure as the by-word gangs o' the hills,-- if skiddaw hath a cap, criffel, wots full weel of that." "but," continued gager tramp, "thinkest thou the daughter o' yon hangit body isna as rank a witch as ho?" "i kenna clearly," returned the fellow, "but the folk are speaking o' swimming her i' the eden." and they passed on their several roads, after wishing each other good-morning. just as the clowns left the place, and as mr. archibald returned with some fair water, a crowd of boys and girls, and some of the lower rabble of more mature age, came up from the place of execution, grouping themselves with many a yell of delight around a tall female fantastically dressed, who was dancing, leaping, and bounding in the midst of them. a horrible recollection pressed on jeanie as she looked on this unfortunate creature; and the reminiscence was mutual, for by a sudden exertion of great strength and agility, madge wildfire broke out of the noisy circle of tormentors who surrounded her, and clinging fast to the door of the calash, uttered, in a sound betwixt laughter and screaming, "eh, d'ye ken, jeanie deans, they hae hangit our mother?" then suddenly changing her tone to that of the most piteous entreaty, she added, "o gar them let me gang to cut her down!--let me but cut her down!--she is my mother, if she was waur than the deil, and she'll be nae mair kenspeckle than half-hangit maggie dickson,* that cried saut mony a day after she had been hangit; her voice was roupit and hoarse, and her neck was a wee agee, or ye wad hae kend nae odds on her frae ony other saut-wife." * note q. half-hanged maggie dickson. mr. archibald, embarrassed by the madwoman's clinging to the carriage, and detaining around them her noisy and mischievous attendants, was all this while looking out for a constable or beadle, to whom he might commit the unfortunate creature. but seeing no such person of authority, he endeavoured to loosen her hold from the carriage, that they might escape from her by driving on. this, however, could hardly be achieved without some degree of violence; madge held fast, and renewed her frantic entreaties to be permitted to cut down her mother. "it was but a tenpenny tow lost," she said, "and what was that to a woman's life?" there came up, however, a parcel of savage-looking fellows, butchers and graziers chiefly, among whose cattle there had been of late a very general and fatal distemper, which their wisdom imputed to witchcraft. they laid violent hands on madge, and tore her from the carriage, exclaiming-- "what, doest stop folk o' king's high-way? hast no done mischief enow already, wi' thy murders and thy witcherings?" "oh, jeanie deans--jeanie deans!" exclaimed the poor maniac, "save my mother, and i will take ye to the interpreter's house again,--and i will teach ye a' my bonny sangs,--and i will tell ye what came o' the." the rest of her entreaties were drowned in the shouts of the rabble. "save her, for god's sake!--save her from those people!" exclaimed jeanie to archibald. "she is mad, but quite innocent; she is mad, gentlemen," said archibald; "do not use her ill, take her before the mayor." "ay, ay, we'se hae care enow on her," answered one of the fellows; "gang thou thy gate, man, and mind thine own matters." "he's a scot by his tongue," said another; "and an he will come out o' his whirligig there, i'se gie him his tartan plaid fu' o' broken banes." it was clear nothing could be done to rescue madge; and archibald, who was a man of humanity, could only bid the postilions hurry on to carlisle, that he might obtain some assistance to the unfortunate woman. as they drove off, they heard the hoarse roar with which the mob preface acts of riot or cruelty, yet even above that deep and dire note, they could discern the screams of the unfortunate victim. they were soon out of hearing of the cries, but had no sooner entered the streets of carlisle, than archibald, at jeanie's earnest and urgent entreaty, went to a magistrate, to state the cruelty which was likely to be exercised on this unhappy creature. in about an hour and a half he returned, and reported to jeanie, that the magistrate had very readily gone in person, with some assistance, to the rescue of the unfortunate woman, and that he had himself accompanied him; that when they came to the muddy pool, in which the mob were ducking her, according to their favourite mode of punishment, the magistrate succeeded in rescuing her from their hands, but in a state of insensibility, owing to the cruel treatment which she had received. he added, that he had seen her carried to the workhouse, and understood that she had been brought to herself, and was expected to do well. this last averment was a slight alteration in point of fact, for madge wildfire was not expected to survive the treatment she had received; but jeanie seemed so much agitated, that mr. archibald did not think it prudent to tell her the worst at once. indeed, she appeared so fluttered and disordered by this alarming accident, that, although it had been their intention to proceed to longtown that evening, her companions judged it most advisable to pass the night at carlisle. this was particularly agreeable to jeanie, who resolved, if possible, to procure an interview with madge wildfire. connecting some of her wild flights with the narrative of george staunton, she was unwilling to omit the opportunity of extracting from her, if possible, some information concerning the fate of that unfortunate infant which had cost her sister so dear. her acquaintance with the disordered state of poor madge's mind did not permit her to cherish much hope that she could acquire from her any useful intelligence; but then, since madge's mother had suffered her deserts, and was silent for ever, it was her only chance of obtaining any kind of information, and she was loath to lose the opportunity. she coloured her wish to mr. archibald by saying that she had seen madge formerly, and wished to know, as a matter of humanity, how she was attended to under her present misfortunes. that complaisant person immediately went to the workhouse, or hospital, in which he had seen the sufferer lodged, and brought back for reply, that the medical attendants positively forbade her seeing any one. when the application for admittance was repeated next day, mr. archibald was informed that she had been very quiet and composed, insomuch that the clergyman who acted as chaplain to the establishment thought it expedient to read prayers beside her bed, but that her wandering fit of mind had returned soon after his departure; however, her countrywoman might see her if she chose it. she was not expected to live above an hour or two. jeanie had no sooner received this information than she hastened to the hospital, her companions attending her. they found the dying person in a large ward, where there were ten beds, of which the patient's was the only one occupied. madge was singing when they entered--singing her own wild snatches of songs and obsolete airs, with a voice no longer overstrained by false spirits, but softened, saddened, and subdued by bodily exhaustion. she was still insane, but was no longer able to express her wandering ideas in the wild notes of her former state of exalted imagination. there was death in the plaintive tones of her voice, which yet, in this moderated and melancholy mood, had something of the lulling sound with which a mother sings her infant asleep. as jeanie entered she heard first the air, and then a part of the chorus and words, of what had been, perhaps, the song of a jolly harvest-home. "our work is over--over now, the goodman wipes his weary brow, the last long wain wends slow away, and we are free to sport and play. "the night comes on when sets the sun, and labour ends when day is done. when autumn's gone and winter's come, we hold our jovial harvest-home." jeanie advanced to the bedside when the strain was finished, and addressed madge by her name. but it produced no symptoms of recollection. on the contrary, the patient, like one provoked by interruption, changed her posture, and called out with an impatient tone, "nurse--nurse, turn my face to the wa', that i may never answer to that name ony mair, and never see mair of a wicked world." the attendant on the hospital arranged her in her bed as she desired, with her face to the wall and her back to the light. so soon as she was quiet in this new position, she began again to sing in the same low and modulated strains, as if she was recovering the state of abstraction which the interruption of her visitants had disturbed. the strain, however, was different, and rather resembled the music of the methodist hymns, though the measure of the song was similar to that of the former: "when the fight of grace is fought-- when the marriage vest is wrought-- when faith hath chased cold doubt away, and hope but sickens at delay-- "when charity, imprisoned here, longs for a more expanded sphere, doff thy robes of sin and clay; christian, rise, and come away." the strain was solemn and affecting, sustained as it was by the pathetic warble of a voice which had naturally been a fine one, and which weakness, if it diminished its power, had improved in softness. archibald, though a follower of the court, and a pococurante by profession, was confused, if not affected; the dairy-maid blubbered; and jeanie felt the tears rise spontaneously to her eyes. even the nurse, accustomed to all modes in which the spirit can pass, seemed considerably moved. the patient was evidently growing weaker, as was intimated by an apparent difficulty of breathing, which seized her from time to time, and by the utterance of low listless moans, intimating that nature was succumbing in the last conflict. but the spirit of melody, which must originally have so strongly possessed this unfortunate young woman, seemed, at every interval of ease, to triumph over her pain and weakness. and it was remarkable that there could always be traced in her songs something appropriate, though perhaps only obliquely or collaterally so, to her present situation. her next seemed the fragment of some old ballad: "cauld is my bed, lord archibald, and sad my sleep of sorrow; but thine sall be as sad and cauld, my fause true-love! to-morrow. "and weep ye not, my maidens free, though death your mistress borrow; for he for whom i die to-day shall die for me to-morrow." again she changed the tune to one wilder, less monotonous, and less regular. but of the words, only a fragment or two could be collected by those who listened to this singular scene "proud maisie is in the wood, walking so early; sweet robin sits on the bush, singing so rarely. "'tell me, thou bonny bird. when shall i marry me?' 'when six braw gentlemen kirkward shall carry ye.' "'who makes the bridal bed, birdie, say truly?'-- 'the grey-headed sexton, that delves the grave duly. "the glow-worm o'er grave and stone shall light thee steady; the owl from the steeple sing, 'welcome, proud lady.'" her voice died away with the last notes, and she fell into a slumber, from which the experienced attendant assured them that she never would awake at all, or only in the death agony. the nurse's prophecy proved true. the poor maniac parted with existence, without again uttering a sound of any kind. but our travellers did not witness this catastrophe. they left the hospital as soon as jeanie had satisfied herself that no elucidation of her sister's misfortunes was to be hoped from the dying person.* * note r. madge wildfire. chapter seventeenth. wilt thou go on with me? the moon is bright, the sea is calm, and i know well the ocean paths . . . thou wilt go on with me! thalaba. the fatigue and agitation of these various scenes had agitated jeanie so much, notwithstanding her robust strength of constitution, that archibald judged it necessary that she should have a day's repose at the village of longtown. it was in vain that jeanie protested against any delay. the duke of argyle's man of confidence was of course consequential; and as he had been bred to the medical profession in his youth (at least he used this expression to describe his having, thirty years before, pounded for six months in the mortar of old mungo mangleman, the surgeon at greenock), he was obstinate whenever a matter of health was in question. in this case he discovered febrile symptoms, and having once made a happy application of that learned phrase to jeanie's case, all farther resistance became in vain; and she was glad to acquiesce, and even to go to bed, and drink water-gruel, in order that she might possess her soul in quiet and without interruption. mr. archibald was equally attentive in another particular. he observed that the execution of the old woman, and the miserable fate of her daughter, seemed to have had a more powerful effect upon jeanie's mind, than the usual feelings of humanity might naturally have been expected to occasion. yet she was obviously a strong-minded, sensible young woman, and in no respect subject to nervous affections; and therefore archibald, being ignorant of any special connection between his master's prote'ge'e and these unfortunate persons, excepting that she had seen madge formerly in scotland, naturally imputed the strong impression these events had made upon her, to her associating them with the unhappy circumstances in which her sister had so lately stood. he became anxious, therefore, to prevent anything occurring which might recall these associations to jeanie's mind. archibald had speedily an opportunity of exercising this precaution. a pedlar brought to longtown that evening, amongst other wares, a large broad-side sheet, giving an account of the "last speech and execution of margaret murdockson, and of the barbarous murder of her daughter, magdalene or madge murdockson, called madge wildfire; and of her pious conversation with his reverence archdeacon fleming;" which authentic publication had apparently taken place on the day they left carlisle, and being an article of a nature peculiarly acceptable to such country-folk as were within hearing of the transaction, the itinerant bibliopolist had forthwith added them to his stock in trade. he found a merchant sooner than he expected; for archibald, much applauding his own prudence, purchased the whole lot for two shillings and ninepence; and the pedlar, delighted with the profit of such a wholesale transaction, instantly returned to carlisle to supply himself with more. the considerate mr. archibald was about to commit his whole purchase to the flames, but it was rescued by the yet more considerate dairy-damsel, who said, very prudently, it was a pity to waste so much paper, which might crepe hair, pin up bonnets, and serve many other useful purposes; and who promised to put the parcel into her own trunk, and keep it carefully out of the sight of mrs. jeanie deans: "though, by-the-bye, she had no great notion of folk being so very nice. mrs. deans might have had enough to think about the gallows all this time to endure a sight of it, without all this to-do about it." archibald reminded the dame of the dairy of the duke's particular charge, that they should be attentive and civil to jeanie as also that they were to part company soon, and consequently would not be doomed to observing any one's health or temper during the rest of the journey. with which answer mrs. dolly dutton was obliged to hold herself satisfied. on the morning they resumed their journey, and prosecuted it successfully, travelling through dumfriesshire and part of lanarkshire, until they arrived at the small town of rutherglen, within about four miles of glasgow. here an express brought letters to archibald from the principal agent of the duke of argyle in edinburgh. he said nothing of their contents that evening; but when they were seated in the carriage the next day, the faithful squire informed jeanie, that he had received directions from the duke's factor, to whom his grace had recommended him to carry her, if she had no objection, for a stage or two beyond glasgow. some temporary causes of discontent had occasioned tumults in that city and the neighbourhood, which would render it unadvisable for mrs. jeanie deans to travel alone and unprotected betwixt that city and edinburgh; whereas, by going forward a little farther, they would meet one of his grace's subfactors, who was coming down from the highlands to edinburgh with his wife, and under whose charge she might journey with comfort and in safety. jeanie remonstrated against this arrangement. "she had been lang," she said, "frae hame--her father and her sister behoved to be very anxious to see her--there were other friends she had that werena weel in health. she was willing to pay for man and horse at glasgow, and surely naebody wad meddle wi' sae harmless and feckless a creature as she was.--she was muckle obliged by the offer; but never hunted deer langed for its resting-place as i do to find myself at saint leonard's." the groom of the chambers exchanged a look with his female companion, which seemed so full of meaning, that jeanie screamed aloud--"o mr. archibald--mrs. dutton, if ye ken of onything that has happened at saint leonard's, for god's sake--for pity's sake, tell me, and dinna keep me in suspense!" "i really know nothing, mrs. deans," said the groom of the chambers. "and i--i--i am sure, i knows as little," said the dame of the dairy, while some communication seemed to tremble on her lips, which, at a glance of archibald's eye, she appeared to swallow down, and compressed her lips thereafter into a state of extreme and vigilant firmness, as if she had been afraid of its bolting out before she was aware. jeanie saw there was to be something concealed from her, and it was only the repeated assurances of archibald that her father--her sister--all her friends were, as far as he knew, well and happy, that at all pacified her alarm. from such respectable people as those with whom she travelled she could apprehend no harm, and yet her distress was so obvious, that archibald, as a last resource, pulled out, and put into her hand, a slip of paper, on which these words were written:-- "jeanie deans--you will do me a favour by going with archibald and my female domestic a day's journey beyond glasgow, and asking them no questions, which will greatly oblige your friend, 'argyle & greenwich.'" although this laconic epistle, from a nobleman to whom she was bound by such inestimable obligations, silenced all jeanie's objections to the proposed route, it rather added to than diminished the eagerness of her curiosity. the proceeding to glasgow seemed now no longer to be an object with her fellow-travellers. on the contrary, they kept the left-hand side of the river clyde, and travelled through a thousand beautiful and changing views down the side of that noble stream, till, ceasing to hold its inland character, it began to assume that of a navigable river. "you are not for gaun intill glasgow then?" said jeanie, as she observed that the drivers made no motion for inclining their horses' heads towards the ancient bridge, which was then the only mode of access to st. mungo's capital. "no," replied archibald; "there is some popular commotion, and as our duke is in opposition to the court, perhaps we might be too well received; or they might take it in their heads to remember that the captain of carrick came down upon them with his highlandmen in the time of shawfield's mob in , and then we would be too ill received.* and, at any rate, it is best for us, and for me in particular, who may be supposed to possess his grace's mind upon many particulars, to leave the good people of the gorbals to act according to their own imaginations, without either provoking or encouraging them by my presence." * in , there was a great riot in glasgow on account of the malt-tax. among the troops brought in to restore order, was one of the independent companies of highlanders levied in argyleshire, and distinguished, in a lampoon of the period, as "campbell of carrick and his highland thieves." it was called shawfield's mob, because much of the popular violence was directed against daniel campbell, esq. of shawfield, m. p., provost of the town. to reasoning of such tone and consequence jeanie had nothing to reply, although it seemed to her to contain fully as much self-importance as truth. the carriage meantime rolled on; the river expanded itself, and gradually assumed the dignity of an estuary or arm of the sea. the influence of the advancing and retiring tides became more and more evident, and in the beautiful words of him of the laurel wreath, the river waxed-- a broader and yet broader stream. the cormorant stands upon its shoals, his black and dripping wings half open'd to the wind. [from southey's _thalaba,_ book xi. stanza .] "which way lies inverary?" said jeanie, gazing on the dusky ocean of highland hills, which now, piled above each other, and intersected by many a lake, stretched away on the opposite side of the river to the northward. "is yon high castle the duke's hoose?" "that, mrs. deans?--lud help thee," replied archibald, "that's the old castle of dumbarton, the strongest place in europe, be the other what it may. sir william wallace was governor of it in the old war with the english, and his grace is governor just now. it is always entrusted to the best man in scotland." "and does the duke live on that high rock, then?" demanded jeanie. "no, no, he has his deputy-governor, who commands in his absence; he lives in the white house you see at the bottom of the rock--his grace does not reside there himself." "i think not, indeed," said the dairy-woman, upon whose mind the road, since they had left dumfries, had made no very favourable impression, "for if he did, he might go whistle for a dairy-woman, an he were the only duke in england. i did not leave my place and my friends to come down to see cows starve to death upon hills as they be at that pig-stye of elfinfoot, as you call it, mr. archibald, or to be perched upon the top of a rock, like a squirrel in his cage, hung out of a three pair of stairs' window." inwardly chuckling that these symptoms of recalcitration had not taken place until the fair malcontent was, as he mentally termed it, under his thumb, archibald coolly replied, "that the hills were none of his making, nor did he know how to mend them; but as to lodging, they would soon be in a house of the duke's in a very pleasant island called roseneath, where they went to wait for shipping to take them to inverary, and would meet the company with whom jeanie was to return to edinburgh." "an island?" said jeanie, who, in the course of her various and adventurous travels, had never quitted terra firma, "then i am doubting we maun gang in ane of these boats; they look unco sma', and the waves are something rough, and" "mr. archibald," said mrs. dutton, "i will not consent to it; i was never engaed to leave the country, and i desire you will bid the boys drive round the other way to the duke's house." "there is a safe pinnace belonging to his grace, ma'am, close by," replied archibald, "and you need be under no apprehensions whatsoever." "but i am under apprehensions," said the damsel; "and i insist upon going round by land, mr. archibald, were it ten miles about." "i am sorry i cannot oblige you, madam, as roseneath happens to be an island." "if it were ten islands," said the incensed dame, "that's no reason why i should be drowned in going over the seas to it." "no reason why you should be drowned certainly, ma'am," answered the unmoved groom of the chambers, "but an admirable good one why you cannot proceed to it by land." and, fixed his master's mandates to perform, he pointed with his hand, and the drivers, turning off the high-road, proceeded towards a small hamlet of fishing huts, where a shallop, somewhat more gaily decorated than any which they had yet seen, having a flag which displayed a boar's head, crested with a ducal coronet, waited with two or three seamen, and as many highlanders. the carriage stopped, and the men began to unyoke their horses, while mr. archibald gravely superintended the removal of the baggage from the carriage to the little vessel. "has the caroline been long arrived?" said archibald to one of the seamen. "she has been here in five days from liverpool, and she's lying down at greenock," answered the fellow. "let the horses and carriage go down to greenock then," said archibald, "and be embarked there for inverary when i send notice--they may stand in my cousin's, duncan archibald the stabler's.--ladies," he added, "i hope you will get yourselves ready; we must not lose the tide." "mrs. deans," said the cowslip of inverary, "you may do as you please--but i will sit here all night, rather than go into that there painted egg-shell.--fellow--fellow!" (this was addressed to a highlander who was lifting a travelling trunk), "that trunk is _mine,_ and that there band-box, and that pillion mail, and those seven bundles, and the paper-bag; and if you venture to touch one of them, it shall be at your peril." the celt kept his eye fixed on the speaker, then turned his head towards archibald, and receiving no countervailing signal, he shouldered the portmanteau, and without farther notice of the distressed damsel, or paying any attention to remonstrances, which probably he did not understand, and would certainly have equally disregarded whether he understood them or not, moved off with mrs. dutton's wearables, and deposited the trunk containing them safely in the boat. the baggage being stowed in safety, mr. archibald handed jeanie out of the carriage, and, not without some tremor on her part, she was transported through the surf and placed in the boat. he then offered the same civility to his fellow-servant, but she was resolute in her refusal to quit the carriage, in which she now remained in solitary state, threatening all concerned or unconcerned with actions for wages and board-wages, damages and expenses, and numbering on her fingers the gowns and other habiliments, from which she seemed in the act of being separated for ever. mr. archibald did not give himself the trouble of making many remonstrances, which, indeed, seemed only to aggravate the damsel's indignation, but spoke two or three words to the highlanders in gaelic; and the wily mountaineers, approaching the carriage cautiously, and without giving the slightest intimation of their intention, at once seized the recusant so effectually fast that she could neither resist nor struggle, and hoisting her on their shoulders in nearly a horizontal posture, rushed down with her to the beach, and through the surf, and with no other inconvenience than ruffling her garments a little, deposited her in the boat; but in a state of surprise, mortification, and terror, at her sudden transportation, which rendered her absolutely mute for two or three minutes. the men jumped in themselves; one tall fellow remained till he had pushed off the boat, and then tumbled in upon his companions. they took their oars and began to pull from the shore, then spread their sail, and drove merrily across the firth. "you scotch villain!" said the infuriated damsel to archibald, "how dare you use a person like me in this way?" "madam," said archibald, with infinite composure, "it's high time you should know you are in the duke's country, and that there is not one of these fellows but would throw you out of the boat as readily as into it, if such were his grace's pleasure." "then the lord have mercy on me!" said mrs. dutton. "if i had had any on myself, i would never have engaged with you." "it's something of the latest to think of that now, mrs. dutton," said archibald; "but i assure you, you will find the highlands have their pleasures. you will have a dozen of cow-milkers under your own authority at inverary, and you may throw any of them into the lake, if you have a mind, for the duke's head people are almost as great as himself." "this is a strange business, to be sure, mr. archibald," said the lady; "but i suppose i must make the best on't.--are you sure the boat will not sink? it leans terribly to one side, in my poor mind." "fear nothing," said mr. archibald, taking a most important pinch of snuff; "this same ferry on clyde knows us very well, or we know it, which is all the same; no fear of any of our people meeting with any accident. we should have crossed from the opposite shore, but for the disturbances at glasgow, which made it improper for his grace's people to pass through the city." "are you not afeard, mrs. deans," said the dairy-vestal, addressing jeanie, who sat, not in the most comfortable state of mind, by the side of archibald, who himself managed the helm.--"are you not afeard of these wild men with their naked knees, and of this nut-shell of a thing, that seems bobbing up and down like a skimming-dish in a milk-pail?" "no--no--madam," answered jeanie with some hesitation, "i am not feared; for i hae seen hielandmen before, though never was sae near them; and for the danger of the deep waters, i trust there is a providence by sea as well as by land." "well," said mrs. dutton, "it is a beautiful thing to have learned to write and read, for one can always say such fine words whatever should befall them." archibald, rejoicing in the impression which his vigorous measures had made upon the intractable dairymaid, now applied himself, as a sensible and good-natured man, to secure by fair means the ascendency which he had obtained by some wholesome violence; and he succeeded so well in representing to her the idle nature of her fears, and the impossibility of leaving her upon the beach enthroned in an empty carriage, that the good understanding of the party was completely revived ere they landed at roseneath. chapter eighteenth. did fortune guide, or rather destiny, our bark, to which we could appoint no port, to this best place? fletcher. the islands in the firth of clyde, which the daily passage of so many smoke-pennoned steamboats now renders so easily accessible, were in our fathers' times secluded spots, frequented by no travellers, and few visitants of any kind. they are of exquisite, yet varied beauty. arran, a mountainous region, or alpine island, abounds with the grandest and most romantic scenery. bute is of a softer and more woodland character. the cumbrays, as if to exhibit a contrast to both, are green, level, and bare, forming the links of a sort of natural bar which is drawn along the mouth of the firth, leaving large intervals, however, of ocean. roseneath, a smaller isle, lies much higher up the firth, and towards its western shore, near the opening of the lake called the gare loch, and not far from loch long and loch scant, or the holy loch, which wind from the mountains of the western highlands to join the estuary of the clyde. in these isles the severe frost winds which tyrannise over the vegetable creation during a scottish spring, are comparatively little felt; nor, excepting the gigantic strength of arran, are they much exposed to the atlantic storms, lying landlocked and protected to the westward by the shores of ayrshire. accordingly, the weeping-willow, the weeping-birch, and other trees of early and pendulous shoots, flourish in these favoured recesses in a degree unknown in our eastern districts; and the air is also said to possess that mildness which is favourable to consumptive cases. the picturesque beauty of the island of roseneath, in particular, had such recommendations, that the earls and dukes of argyle, from an early period, made it their occasional residence, and had their temporary accommodation in a fishing or hunting-lodge, which succeeding improvements have since transformed into a palace. it was in its original simplicity when the little bark which we left traversing the firth at the end of last chapter approached the shores of the isle. when they touched the landing-place, which was partly shrouded by some old low but wide-spreading oak-trees, intermixed with hazel-bushes, two or three figures were seen as if awaiting their arrival. to these jeanie paid little attention, so that it was with a shock of surprise almost electrical, that, upon being carried by the rowers out of the boat to the shore, she was received in the arms of her father! it was too wonderful to be believed--too much like a happy dream to have the stable feeling of reality--she extricated herself from his close and affectionate embrace, and held him at arm's length, to satisfy her mind that it was no illusion. but the form was indisputable--douce david deans himself, in his best light-blue sunday's coat, with broad metal buttons, and waistcoat and breeches of the same, his strong gramashes or leggins of thick grey cloth--the very copper buckles--the broad lowland blue bonnet, thrown back as he lifted his eyes to heaven in speechless gratitude--the grey locks that straggled from beneath it down his weather-beaten "haffets"--the bald and furrowed forehead--the clear blue eye, that, undimmed by years, gleamed bright and pale from under its shaggy grey pent-house--the features, usually so stern and stoical, now melted into the unwonted expression of rapturous joy, affection, and gratitude--were all those of david deans; and so happily did they assort together, that, should i ever again see my friends wilkie or allan, i will try to borrow or steal from them a sketch of this very scene. "jeanie--my ain jeanie--my best--my maist dutiful bairn--the lord of israel be thy father, for i am hardly worthy of thee! thou hast redeemed our captivity--brought back the honour of our house--bless thee, my bairn, with mercies promised and purchased! but he _has_ blessed thee, in the good of which he has made thee the instrument." these words broke from him not without tears, though david was of no melting mood. archibald had, with delicate attention, withdrawn the spectators from the interview, so that the wood and setting sun alone were witnesses of the expansion of their feelings. "and effie?--and effie, dear father?" was an eager interjectional question which jeanie repeatedly threw in among her expressions of joyful thankfulness. "ye will hear--ye will hear," said david hastily, and over and anon renewed his grateful acknowledgments to heaven for sending jeanie safe down from the land of prelatic deadness and schismatic heresy; and had delivered her from the dangers of the way, and the lions that were in the path. "and effie?" repeated her affectionate sister again and again. "and--and" (fain would she have said butler, but she modified the direct inquiry)--"and mr. and mrs. saddletree--and dumbiedikes--and a' friends?" "a' weel--a' weel, praise to his name!" "and--mr. butler--he wasna weel when i gaed awa?" "he is quite mended--quite weel," replied her father. "thank god--but o, dear father, effie?--effie?" "you will never see her mair, my bairn," answered deans in a solemn tone-- "you are the ae and only leaf left now on the auld tree--hale be your portion!" "she is dead!--she is slain!--it has come ower late!" exclaimed jeanie, wringing her hands. "no, jeanie," returned deans, in the same grave melancholy tone. "she lives in the flesh, and is at freedom from earthly restraint, if she were as much alive in faith, and as free from the bonds of satan." "the lord protect us!" said jeanie.--"can the unhappy bairn hae left you for that villain?" "it is ower truly spoken," said deans--"she has left her auld father, that has wept and prayed for her--she has left her sister, that travailed and toiled for her like a mother--she has left the bones of her mother, and the land of her people, and she is ower the march wi' that son of belial--she has made a moonlight flitting of it." he paused, for a feeling betwixt sorrow and strong resentment choked his utterance. "and wi' that man?--that fearfu' man?" said jeanie. "and she has left us to gang aff wi' him?--o effie, effie, wha could hae thought it, after sic a deliverance as you had been gifted wi'!" "she went out from us, my bairn, because she was not of us," replied david. "she is a withered branch will never bear fruit of grace--a scapegoat gone forth into the wilderness of the world, to carry wi' her, as i trust, the sins of our little congregation. the peace of the warld gang wi' her, and a better peace when she has the grace to turn to it! if she is of his elected, his ain hour will come. what would her mother have said, that famous and memorable matron, rebecca macnaught, whose memory is like a flower of sweet savour in newbattle, and a pot of frankincense in lugton? but be it sae--let her part--let her gang her gate--let her bite on her ain bridle--the lord kens his time--she was the bairn of prayers, and may not prove an utter castaway. but never, jeanie, never more let her name be spoken between you and me--she hath passed from us like the brook which vanisheth when the summer waxeth warm, as patient job saith--let her pass, and be forgotten." there was a melancholy pause which followed these expressions. jeanie would fain have asked more circumstances relating to her sister's departure, but the tone of her father's prohibition was positive. she was about to mention her interview with staunton at his father's rectory; but, on hastily running over the particulars in her memory, she thought that, on the whole, they were more likely to aggravate than diminish his distress of mind. she turned, therefore, the discourse from this painful subject, resolving to suspend farther inquiry until she should see butler, from whom she expected to learn the particulars of her sister's elopement. but when was she to see butler? was a question she could not forbear asking herself, especially while her father, as if eager to escape from the subject of his youngest daughter, pointed to the opposite shore of dumbartonshire, and asking jeanie "if it werena a pleasant abode?" declared to her his intention of removing his earthly tabernacle to that country, "in respect he was solicited by his grace the duke of argyle, as one well skilled in country labour, and a' that appertained to flocks and herds, to superintend a store-farm, whilk his grace had taen into his ain hand for the improvement of stock." jeanie's heart sunk within her at this declaration. "she allowed it was a goodly and pleasant land, and sloped bonnily to the western sun; and she doubtedna that the pasture might be very gude, for the grass looked green, for as drouthy as the weather had been. but it was far frae hame, and she thought she wad be often thinking on the bonny spots of turf, sae fu' of gowans and yellow king-cups, amang the crags at st. leonard's." "dinna speak on't, jeanie," said her father; "i wish never to hear it named mair--that is, after the rouping is ower, and the bills paid. but i brought a' the beasts owerby that i thought ye wad like best. there is gowans, and there's your ain brockit cow, and the wee hawkit ane, that ye ca'd--i needna tell ye how ye ca'd it--but i couldna bid them sell the petted creature, though the sight o' it may sometimes gie us a sair heart--it's no the poor dumb creature's fault--and ane or twa beasts mair i hae reserved, and i caused them to be driven before the other beasts, that men might say, as when the son of jesse returned from battle, 'this is david's spoil.'" upon more particular inquiry, jeanie found new occasion to admire the active beneficence of her friend the duke of argyle. while establishing a sort of experimental farm on the skirts of his immense highland estates, he had been somewhat at a loss to find a proper person in whom to vest the charge of it. the conversation his grace had upon country matters with jeanie deans during their return from richmond, had impressed him with a belief that the father, whose experience and success she so frequently quoted, must be exactly the sort of person whom he wanted. when the condition annexed to effie's pardon rendered it highly probable that david deans would choose to change his place of residence, this idea again occurred to the duke more strongly, and as he was an enthusiast equally in agriculture and in benevolence, he imagined he was serving the purposes of both, when he wrote to the gentleman in edinburgh entrusted with his affairs, to inquire into the character of david deans, cowfeeder, and so forth, at st. leonard's crags; and if he found him such as he had been represented, to engage him without delay, and on the most liberal terms, to superintend his fancy-farm in dumbartonshire. the proposal was made to old david by the gentleman so commissioned, on the second day after his daughter's pardon had reached edinburgh. his resolution to leave st. leonard's had been already formed; the honour of an express invitation from the duke of argyle to superintend a department where so much skill and diligence was required, was in itself extremely flattering; and the more so, because honest david, who was not without an exeellent opinion of his own talents, persuaded himself that, by accepting this charge, he would in some sort repay the great favour he had received at the hands of the argyle family. the appointments, including the right of sufficient grazing for a small stock of his own, were amply liberal; and david's keen eye saw that the situation was convenient for trafficking to advantage in highland cattle. there was risk of "her'ship"* from the neighbouring mountains, indeed, but the awful name of the duke of argyle would be a great security, and a trifle of _black-mail_ would, david was aware, assure his safety. * her'ship, a scottish word which may be said to be now obsolete; because, fortunately, the practice of "plundering by armed force," which is its meaning, does not require to be commonly spoken of. still however, there were two points on which he haggled. the first was the character of the clergyman with whose worship he was to join; and on this delicate point he received, as we will presently show the reader, perfect satisfaction. the next obstacle was the condition of his youngest daughter, obliged as she was to leave scotland for so many years. the gentleman of the law smiled, and said, "there was no occasion to interpret that clause very strictly--that if the young woman left scotland for a few months, or even weeks, and came to her father's new residence by sea from the western side of england, nobody would know of her arrival, or at least nobody who had either the right or inclination to give her disturbance. the extensive heritable jurisdictions of his grace excluded the interference of other magistrates with those living on his estates, and they who were in immediate dependence on him would receive orders to give the young woman no disturbance. living on the verge of the highlands, she might, indeed, be said to be out of scotland, that is, beyond the bounds of ordinary law and civilisation." old deans was not quite satisfied with this reasoning; but the elopement of effie, which took place on the third night after her liberation, rendered his residence at st. leonard's so detestable to him, that he closed at once with the proposal which had been made him, and entered with pleasure into the idea of surprising jeanie, as had been proposed by the duke, to render the change of residence more striking to her. the duke had apprised archibald of these circumstances, with orders to act according to the instructions he should receive from edinburgh, and by which accordingly he was directed to bring jeanie to roseneath. the father and daughter communicated these matters to each other, now stopping, now walking slowly towards the lodge, which showed itself among the trees, at about half-a-mile's distance from the little bay in which they had landed. as they approached the house, david deans informed his daughter, with somewhat like a grim smile, which was the utmost advance he ever made towards a mirthful expression of visage, that "there was baith a worshipful gentleman, and ane reverend gentleman, residing therein. the worshipful gentleman was his honour the laird of knocktarlitie, who was bailie of the lordship under the duke of argyle, ane highland gentleman, tarr'd wi' the same stick," david doubted, "as mony of them, namely, a hasty and choleric temper, and a neglect of the higher things that belong to salvation, and also a gripping unto the things of this world, without muckle distinction of property; but, however, ane gude hospitable gentleman, with whom it would be a part of wisdom to live on a gude understanding (for hielandmen were hasty, ower hasty). as for the reverend person of whom he had spoken, he was candidate by favour of the duke of argyle (for david would not for the universe have called him presentee) for the kirk of the parish in which their farm was situated, and he was likely to be highly acceptable unto the christian souls of the parish, who were hungering for spiritual manna, having been fed but upon sour hieland sowens by mr. duncan macdonought, the last minister, who began the morning duly, sunday and saturday, with a mutchkin of usquebaugh. but i need say the less about the present lad," said david, again grimly grimacing, "as i think ye may hae seen him afore; and here he is come to meet us." she had indeed seen him before, for it was no other than reuben butler himself. chapter nineteenth. no more shalt thou behold thy sister's face; thou hast already had her last embrace. elegy on mrs. anne killigrew. this second surprise had been accomplished for jeanie deans by the rod of the same benevolent enchanter, whose power had transplanted her father from the crags of st. leonard's to the banks of the gare loch. the duke of argyle was not a person to forget the hereditary debt of gratitude, which had been bequeathed to him by his grandfather, in favour of the grandson of old bible butler. he had internally resolved to provide for reuben butler in this kirk of knocktarlitie, of which the incumbent had just departed this life. accordingly, his agent received the necessary instructions for that purpose, under the qualifying condition always, that the learning and character of mr. butler should be found proper for the charge. upon inquiry, these were found as highly satisfactory as had been reported in the case of david deans himself. by this preferment, the duke of argyle more essentially benefited his friend and _protegee_, jeanie, than he himself was aware of, since he contributed to remove objections in her father's mind to the match, which he had no idea had been in existence. we have already noticed that deans had something of a prejudice against butler, which was, perhaps, in some degree owing to his possessing a sort of consciousness that the poor usher looked with eyes of affection upon his eldest daughter. this, in david's eyes, was a sin of presumption, even although it should not be followed by any overt act, or actual proposal. but the lively interest which butler had displayed in his distresses, since jeanie set forth on her london expedition, and which, therefore, he ascribed to personal respect for himself individually, had greatly softened the feelings of irritability with which david had sometimes regarded him. and, while he was in this good disposition towards butler, another incident took place which had great influence on the old man's mind. so soon as the shock of effie's second elopement was over, it was deans's early care to collect and refund to the laird of dumbiedikes the money which he had lent for effie's trial, and for jeanie's travelling expenses. the laird, the pony, the cocked hat, and the tabacco-pipe, had not been seen at st. leonard's crags for many a day; so that, in order to pay this debt, david was under the necessity of repairing in person to the mansion of dumbiedikes. he found it in a state of unexpected bustle. there were workmen pulling down some of the old hangings, and replacing them with others, altering, repairing, scrubbing, painting, and white-washing. there was no knowing the old house, which had been so long the mansion of sloth and silence. the laird himself seemed in some confusion, and his reception, though kind, lacked something of the reverential cordiality, with which he used to greet david deans. there was a change also, david did not very well know of what nature, about the exterior of this landed proprietor--an improvement in the shape of his garments, a spruceness in the air with which they were put on, that were both novelties. even the old hat looked smarter; the cock had been newly pointed, the lace had been refreshed, and instead of slouching backward or forward on the laird's head, as it happened to be thrown on, it was adjusted with a knowing inclination over one eye. david deans opened his business, and told down the cash. dumbiedikes steadily inclined his ear to the one, and counted the other with great accuracy, interrupting david, while he was talking of the redemption of the captivity of judah, to ask him whether he did not think one or two of the guineas looked rather light. when he was satisfied on this point, had pocketed his money, and had signed a receipt, he addressed david with some little hesitation,--"jeanie wad be writing ye something, gudeman?" "about the siller?" replied david--"nae doubt, she did." "and did she say nae mair about me?" asked the laird. "nae mair but kind and christian wishes--what suld she hae said?" replied david, fully expecting that the laird's long courtship (if his dangling after jeanie deserves so active a name) was now coming to a point. and so indeed it was, but not to that point which he wished or expected. "aweel, she kens her ain mind best, gudeman. i hae made a clean house o' jenny balchristie, and her niece. they were a bad pack--steal'd meat and mault, and loot the carters magg the coals--i'm to be married the morn, and kirkit on sunday." whatever david felt, he was too proud and too steady-minded to show any unpleasant surprise in his countenance and manner. "i wuss ye happy, sir, through him that gies happiness--marriage is an honourable state." "and i am wedding into an honourable house, david--the laird of lickpelf's youngest daughter--she sits next us in the kirk, and that's the way i came to think on't." there was no more to be said but again to wish the laird joy, to taste a cup of his liquor, and to walk back again to st. leonard's, musing on the mutability of human affairs and human resolutions. the expectation that one day or other jeanie would be lady dumbiedikes, had, in spite of himself, kept a more absolute possession of david's mind than he himself was aware of. at least, it had hitherto seemed a union at all times within his daughter's reach, whenever she might choose to give her silent lover any degree of encouragement, and now it was vanished for ever. david returned, therefore, in no very gracious humour for so good a man. he was angry with jeanie for not having encouraged the laird--he was angry with the laird for requiring encouragement--and he was angry with himself for being angry at all on the occasion. on his return he found the gentleman who managed the duke of argyle's affairs was desirous of seeing him, with a view to completing the arrangement between them. thus, after a brief repose, he was obliged to set off anew for edinburgh, so that old may hettly declared, "that a' this was to end with the master just walking himself aff his feet." when the business respecting the farm had been talked over and arranged, the professional gentleman acquainted david deans, in answer to his inquiries concerning the state of public worship, that it was the pleasure of the duke to put an excellent young clergyman, called reuben butler, into the parish, which was to be his future residence. "reuben butler!" exclaimed david--"reuben butler, the usher at liberton?" "the very same," said the duke's commissioner; "his grace has heard an excellent character of him, and has some hereditary obligations to him besides--few ministers will be so comfortable as i am directed to make mr. butler." "obligations?--the duke?--obligations to reuben butler--reuben butler a placed minister of the kirk of scotland?" exclaimed david, in interminable astonishment, for somehow he had been led by the bad success which butler had hitherto met with in all his undertakings, to consider him as one of those step-sons of fortune, whom she treats with unceasing rigour, and ends with disinheriting altogether. there is, perhaps, no time at which we are disposed to think so highly of a friend, as when we find him standing higher than we expected in the esteem of others. when assured of the reality of butler's change of prospects, david expressed his great satisfaction at his success in life, which, he observed, was entirely owing to himself (david). "i advised his puir grand-mother, who was but a silly woman, to breed him up to the ministry; and i prophesied that, with a blessing on his endeavours, he would become a polished shaft in the temple. he may be something ower proud o' his carnal learning, but a gude lad, and has the root of the matter--as ministers gang now, where yell find ane better, ye'll find ten waur, than reuben butler." he took leave of the man of business, and walked homeward, forgetting his weariness in the various speculations to which this wonderful piece of intelligence gave rise. honest david had now, like other great men, to go to work to reconcile his speculative principles with existing circumstances; and, like other great men, when they set seriously about that task, he was tolerably successful. ought reuben butler in conscience to accept of this preferment in the kirk of scotland, subject as david at present thought that establishment was to the erastian encroachments of the civil power? this was the leading question, and he considered it carefully. "the kirk of scotland was shorn of its beams, and deprived of its full artillery and banners of authority; but still it contained zealous and fructifying pastors, attentive congregations, and, with all her spots and blemishes, the like of this kirk was nowhere else to be seen upon earth." david's doubts had been too many and too critical to permit him ever unequivocally to unite himself with any of the dissenters, who upon various accounts absolutely seceded from the national church. he had often joined in communion with such of the established clergy as approached nearest to the old presbyterian model and principles of . and although there were many things to be amended in that system, yet he remembered that he, david deans, had himself ever been an humble pleader for the good old cause in a legal way, but without rushing into right-hand excesses, divisions and separations. but, as an enemy to separation, he might join the right-hand of fellowship with a minister of the kirk of scotland in its present model. _ergo,_ reuben butler might take possession of the parish of knocktarlitie, without forfeiting his friendship or favour--q. e. d. but, secondly, came the trying point of lay-patronage, which david deans had ever maintained to be a coming in by the window, and over the wall, a cheating and starving the souls of a whole parish, for the purpose of clothing the back and filling the belly of the incumbent. this presentation, therefore, from the duke of argyle, whatever was the worth and high character of that nobleman, was a limb of the brazen image, a portion of the evil thing, and with no kind of consistency could david bend his mind to favour such a transaction. but if the parishioners themselves joined in a general call to reuben butler to be their pastor, it did not seem quite so evident that the existence of this unhappy presentation was a reason for his refusing them the comforts of his doctrine. if the presbytery admitted him to the kirk, in virtue rather of that act of patronage than of the general call of the congregation, that might be their error, and david allowed it was a heavy one. but if reuben butler accepted of the cure as tendered to him by those whom he was called to teach, and who had expressed themselves desirous to learn, david, after considering and reconsidering the matter, came, through the great virtue of if, to be of opinion that he might safely so act in that matter. there remained a third stumbling-block--the oaths to government exacted from the established clergymen, in which they acknowledge an erastian king and parliament, and homologate the incorporating union between england and scotland, through which the latter kingdom had become part and portion of the former, wherein prelacy, the sister of popery, had made fast her throne, and elevated the horns of her mitre. these were symptoms of defection which had often made david cry out, "my bowels--my bowels!--i am pained at the very heart!" and he remembered that a godly bow-head matron had been carried out of the tolbooth church in a swoon, beyond the reach of brandy and burnt feathers, merely on hearing these fearful words, "it is enacted by the lords _spiritual_ and temporal," pronounced from a scottish pulpit, in the proem to the porteous proclamation. these oaths were, therefore, a deep compliance and dire abomination--a sin and a snare, and a danger and a defection. but this shibboleth was not always exacted. ministers had respect to their own tender consciences, and those of their brethren; and it was not till a later period that the reins of discipline were taken up tight by the general assemblies and presbyteries. the peacemaking particle came again to david's assistance. _if_ an incumbent was not called upon to make such compliances, and _if_ he got a right entry into the church without intrusion, and by orderly appointment, why, upon the whole, david deans came to be of opinion, that the said incumbent might lawfully enjoy the spirituality and temporality of the cure of souls at knocktarlitie, with stipend, manse, glebe, and all thereunto appertaining. the best and most upright-minded men are so strongly influenced by existing circumstances, that it would be somewhat cruel to inquire too nearly what weight parental affection gave to these ingenious trains of reasoning. let david deans's situation be considered. he was just deprived of one daughter, and his eldest, to whom he owed so much, was cut off, by the sudden resolution of dumbiedikes, from the high hope which david had entertained, that she might one day be mistress of that fair lordship. just while this disappointment was bearing heavy on his spirits, butler comes before his imagination--no longer the half-starved threadbare usher, but fat and sleek and fair, the beneficed minister of knocktarlitie, beloved by his congregation--exemplary in his life--powerful in his doctrine--doing the duty of the kirk as never highland minister did before--turning sinners as a colley dog turns sheep--a favourite of the duke of argyle, and drawing a stipend of eight hundred punds scots, and four chalders of victual. here was a match, making up in david's mind, in a tenfold degree, the disappointment in the case of dumbiedikes, in so far as the goodman of st. leonard's held a powerful minister in much greater admiration than a mere landed proprietor. it did not occur to him, as an additional reason in favour of the match, that jeanie might herself have some choice in the matter; for the idea of consulting her feelings never once entered into the honest man's head, any more than the possibility that her inclination might perhaps differ from his own. the result of his meditations was, that he was called upon to take the management of the whole affair into his own hand, and give, if it should be found possible without sinful compliance, or backsliding, or defection of any kind, a worthy pastor to the kirk of knocktarlitie. accordingly, by the intervention of the honest dealer in butter-milk who dwelt in liberton, david summoned to his presence reuben butler. even from this worthy messenger he was unable to conceal certain swelling emotions of dignity, insomuch, that, when the carter had communicated his message to the usher, he added, that "certainly the gudeman of st. leonard's had some grand news to tell him, for he was as uplifted as a midden-cock upon pattens." butler, it may readily be conceived, immediately obeyed the summons. he was a plain character, in which worth and good sense and simplicity were the principal ingredients; but love, on this occasion, gave him a certain degree of address. he had received an intimation of the favour designed him by the duke of argyle, with what feelings those only can conceive who have experienced a sudden prospect of being raised to independence and respect from penury and toil. he resolved, however, that the old man should retain all the consequence of being, in his own opinion, the first to communicate the important intelligence. at the same time, he also determined that in the expected conference he would permit david deans to expatiate at length upon the proposal, in all its bearings, without irritating him either by interruption or contradiction. this last was the most prudent plan he could have adopted; because, although there were many doubts which david deans could himself clear up to his own satisfaction, yet he might have been by no means disposed to accept the solution of any other person; and to engage him in an argument would have been certain to confirm him at once and for ever in the opinion which butler chanced to impugn. he received his friend with an appearance of important gravity, which real misfortune had long compelled him to lay aside, and which belonged to those days of awful authority in which he predominated over widow butler, and dictated the mode of cultivating the crofts of beersheba. he made known to reuben, with great prolixity, the prospect of his changing his present residence for the charge of the duke of argyle's stock-farm in dumbartonshire, and enumerated the various advantages of the situation with obvious self-congratulation; but assured the patient hearer, that nothing had so much moved him to acceptance, as the sense that, by his skill in bestial, he could render the most important services to his grace the duke of argyle, to whom, "in the late unhappy circumstance" (here a tear dimmed the sparkle of pride in the old man's eye), "he had been sae muckle obliged." "to put a rude hielandman into sic a charge," he continued, "what could be expected but that he suld be sic a chiefest herdsman, as wicked doeg the edomite? whereas, while this grey head is to the fore, not a clute o' them but sall be as weel cared for as if they were the fatted kine of pharaoh.--and now, reuben, lad, seeing we maun remove our tent to a strange country, ye will be casting a dolefu' look after us, and thinking with whom ye are to hold counsel anent your government in thae slippery and backsliding times; and nae doubt remembering, that the auld man, david deans, was made the instrument to bring you out of the mire of schism and heresy, wherein your father's house delighted to wallow; aften also, nae doubt, when ye are pressed wi' ensnaring trials and tentations and heart-plagues, you, that are like a recruit that is marching for the first time to the touk of drum, will miss the auld, bauld, and experienced veteran soldier that has felt the brunt of mony a foul day, and heard the bullets whistle as aften as he has hairs left on his auld pow." it is very possible that butler might internally be of opinion, that the reflection on his ancestor's peculiar tenets might have been spared, or that he might be presumptuous enough even to think, that, at his years, and with his own lights, he might be able to hold his course without the pilotage of honest david. but he only replied, by expressing his regret, that anything should separate him from an ancient, tried, and affectionate friend. "but how can it be helped, man?" said david, twisting his features into a sort of smile--"how can we help it?--i trow, ye canna tell me that--ye maun leave that to ither folk--to the duke of argyle and me, reuben. it's a gude thing to hae friends in this warld--how muckle better to hae an interest beyond it!" and david, whose piety, though not always quite rational, was as sincere as it was habitual and fervent, looked reverentially upward and paused. mr. butler intimated the pleasure with which he would receive his friend's advice on a subject so important, and david resumed. "what think ye now, reuben, of a kirk--a regular kirk under the present establishment?--were sic offered to ye, wad ye be free to accept it, and under whilk provisions?--i am speaking but by way of query." butler replied, "that if such a prospect were held out to him, he would probably first consult whether he was likely to be useful to the parish he should be called to; and if there appeared a fair prospect of his proving so, his friend must be aware, that in every other point of view, it would be highly advantageous for him." "right, reuben, very right, lad," answered the monitor, "your ain conscience is the first thing to be satisfied--for how sall he teach others that has himself sae ill learned the scriptures, as to grip for the lucre of foul earthly preferment, sic as gear and manse, money and victual, that which is not his in a spiritual sense--or wha makes his kirk a stalking-horse, from behind which he may tak aim at his stipend? but i look for better things of you--and specially ye maun be minded not to act altogether on your ain judgment, for therethrough comes sair mistakes, backslidings and defections, on the left and on the right. if there were sic a day of trial put to you, reuben. you, who are a young lad, although it may be ye are gifted wi' the carnal tongues, and those whilk were spoken at rome, whilk is now the seat of the scarlet abomination, and by the greeks, to whom the gospel was as foolishness, yet nae-the-less ye may be entreated by your weel-wisher to take the counsel of those prudent and resolved and weather-withstanding professors, wha hae kend what it was to lurk on banks and in mosses, in bogs and in caverns, and to risk the peril of the head rather than renounce the honesty of the heart." butler replied, "that certainly, possessing such a friend as he hoped and trusted he had in the goodman himself, who had seen so many changes in the preceding century, he should be much to blame if he did not avail himself of his experience and friendly counsel." "eneugh said--eneugh said, reuben," said david deans, with internal exultation; "and say that ye were in the predicament whereof i hae spoken, of a surety i would deem it my duty to gang to the root o' the matter, and lay bare to you the ulcers and imposthumes, and the sores and the leprosies, of this our time, crying aloud and sparing not." david deans was now in his element. he commenced his examination of the doctrines and belief of the christian church with the very culdees, from whom he passed to john knox,--from john knox to the recusants in james the sixth's time--bruce, black, blair, livingstone,--from them to the brief, and at length triumphant period of the presbyterian church's splendour, until it was overrun by the english independents. then followed the dismal times of prelacy, the indulgences, seven in number, with all their shades and bearings, until he arrived at the reign of king james the second, in which he himself had been, in his own mind, neither an obscure actor nor an obscure sufferer. then was butler doomed to hear the most detailed and annotated edition of what he had so often heard before,--david deans's confinement, namely, in the iron cage in the canongate tolbooth, and the cause thereof. we should be very unjust to our friend david deans, if we should "pretermit"--to use his own expression--a narrative which he held essential to his fame. a drunken trooper of the royal guards, francis gordon by name, had chased five or six of the skulking whigs, among whom was our friend david; and after he had compelled them to stand, and was in the act of brawling with them, one of their number fired a pocket-pistol, and shot him dead. david used to sneer and shake his head when any one asked him whether _he_ had been the instrument of removing this wicked persecutor from the face of the earth. in fact the merit of the deed lay between him and his friend, patrick walker, the pedlar, whose words he was so fond of quoting. neither of them cared directly to claim the merit of silencing mr. francis gordon of the life-guards, there being some wild cousins of his about edinburgh, who might have been even yet addicted to revenge, but yet neither of them chose to disown or yield to the other the merit of this active defence of their religious rights. david said, that if he had fired a pistol then, it was what he never did after or before. and as for mr. patrick walker, he has left it upon record, that his great surprise was, that so small a pistol could kill so big a man. these are the words of that venerable biographer, whose trade had not taught him by experience, that an inch was as good as an ell. "he," (francis gordon) "got a shot in his head out of a pocket-pistol, rather fit for diverting a boy than killing such a furious, mad, brisk man, which notwithstanding killed him dead!"* * note s. death of francis gordon. upon the extensive foundation which the history of the kirk afforded, during its short-lived triumph and long tribulation, david, with length of breath and of narrative, which would have astounded any one but a lover of his daughter, proceeded to lay down his own rules for guiding the conscience of his friend, as an aspirant to serve in the ministry. upon this subject, the good man went through such a variety of nice and casuistical problems, supposed so many extreme cases, made the distinctions so critical and nice betwixt the right hand and the left hand--betwixt compliance and defection--holding back and stepping aside--slipping and stumbling--snares and errors--that at length, after having limited the path of truth to a mathematical line, he was brought to the broad admission, that each man's conscience, after he had gained a certain view of the difficult navigation which he was to encounter, would be the best guide for his pilotage. he stated the examples and arguments for and against the acceptance of a kirk on the present revolution model, with much more impartiality to butler than he had been able to place them before his own view. and he concluded, that his young friend ought to think upon these things, and be guided by the voice of his own conscience, whether he could take such an awful trust as the charge of souls without doing injury to his own internal conviction of what is right or wrong. when david had finished his very long harangue, which was only interrupted by monosyllables, or little more, on the part of butler, the orator himself was greatly astonished to find that the conclusion, at which he very naturally wished to arrive, seemed much less decisively attained than when he had argued the case in his own mind. in this particular, david's current of thinking and speaking only illustrated the very important and general proposition, concerning the excellence of the publicity of debate. for, under the influence of any partial feeling, it is certain, that most men can more easily reconcile themselves to any favourite measure, when agitating it in their own mind, than when obliged to expose its merits to a third party, when the necessity of seeming impartial procures for the opposite arguments a much more fair statement than that which he affords it in tacit meditation. having finished what he had to say, david thought himself obliged to be more explicit in point of fact, and to explain that this was no hypothetical case, but one on which (by his own influence and that of the duke of argyle) reuben butler would soon be called to decide. it was even with something like apprehension that david deans heard butler announce, in return to this communication, that he would take that night to consider on what he had said with such kind intentions, and return him an answer the next morning. the feelings of the father mastered david on this occasion. he pressed butler to spend the evening with him--he produced, most unusual at his meals, one, nay, two bottles of aged strong ale.--he spoke of his daughter--of her merits--her housewifery--her thrift--her affection. he led butler so decidedly up to a declaration of his feelings towards jeanie, that, before nightfall, it was distinctly understood she was to be the bride of reuben butler; and if they thought it indelicate to abridge the period of deliberation which reuben had stipulated, it seemed to be sufficiently understood betwixt them, that there was a strong probability of his becoming minister of knocktarlitie, providing the congregation were as willing to accept of him, as the duke to grant him the presentation. the matter of the oaths, they agreed, it was time enough to dispute about, whenever the shibboleth should be tendered. many arrangements were adopted that evening, which were afterwards ripened by correspondence with the duke of argyle's man of business, who intrusted deans and butler with the benevolent wish of his principal, that they should all meet with jeanie, on her return from england, at the duke's hunting-lodge in roseneath. this retrospect, so far as the placid loves of jeanie deans and reuben butler are concerned, forms a full explanation of the preceding narrative up to their meeting on the island, as already mentioned. chapter twentieth. "i come," he said, "my love, my life, and--nature's dearest name--my wife: thy father's house and friends resign, my home, my friends, my sire, are thine." logan. the meeting of jeanie and butler, under circumstances promising to crown an affection so long delayed, was rather affecting, from its simple sincerity than from its uncommon vehemence of feeling. david deans, whose practice was sometimes a little different from his theory, appalled them at first, by giving them the opinion of sundry of the suffering preachers and champions of his younger days, that marriage, though honourable by the laws of scripture, was yet a state over-rashly coveted by professors, and specially by young ministers, whose desire, he said, was at whiles too inordinate for kirks, stipends, and wives, which had frequently occasioned over-ready compliance with the general defections of the times. he endeavoured to make them aware also, that hasty wedlock had been the bane of many a savoury professor--that the unbelieving wife had too often reversed the text and perverted the believing husband--that when the famous donald cargill, being then hiding in lee-wood, in lanarkshire, it being killing-time, did, upon importunity, marry robert marshal of starry shaw, he had thus expressed himself: "what hath induced robert to marry this woman? her ill will overcome his good--he will not keep the way long--his thriving days are done." to the sad accomplishment of which prophecy david said he was himself a living witness, for robert marshal, having fallen into foul compliances with the enemy, went home, and heard the curates, declined into other steps of defection, and became lightly esteemed. indeed, he observed, that the great upholders of the standard, cargill, peden, cameron, and renwick, had less delight in tying the bonds of matrimony than in any other piece of their ministerial work; and although they would neither dissuade the parties, nor refuse their office, they considered the being called to it as an evidence of indifference, on the part of those between whom it was solemnised, to the many grievous things of the day. notwithstanding, however, that marriage was a snare unto many, david was of opinion (as, indeed, he had showed in his practice) that it was in itself honourable, especially if times were such that honest men could be secure against being shot, hanged, or banished, and had ane competent livelihood to maintain themselves, and those that might come after them. "and, therefore," as he concluded something abruptly, addressing jeanie and butler, who, with faces as high-coloured as crimson, had been listening to his lengthened argument for and against the holy state of matrimony, "i will leave you to your ain cracks." as their private conversation, however interesting to themselves, might probably be very little so to the reader, so far as it respected their present feelings and future prospects, we shall pass it over, and only mention the information which jeanie received from butler concerning her sister's elopement, which contained many particulars that she had been unable to extract from her father. jeanie learned, therefore, that, for three days after her pardon had arrived, effie had been the inmate of her father's house at st. leonard's--that the interviews betwixt david and his erring child, which had taken place before she was liberated from prison, had been touching in the extreme; but butler could not suppress his opinion, that, when he was freed from the apprehension of losing her in a manner so horrible, her father had tightened the bands of discipline, so as, in some degree, to gall the feelings, and aggravate the irritability of a spirit naturally impatient and petulant, and now doubly so from the sense of merited disgrace. on the third night, effie disappeared from st. leonard's, leaving no intimation whatever of the route she had taken. butler, however, set out in pursuit of her, and with much trouble traced her towards a little landing-place, formed by a small brook which enters the sea betwixt musselburgh and edinburgh. this place, which has been since made into a small harbour, surrounded by many villas and lodging-houses, is now termed portobello. at this time it was surrounded by a waste common, covered with furze, and unfrequented, save by fishing-boats, and now and then a smuggling lugger. a vessel of this description had been hovering in the firth at the time of effie's elopement, and, as butler ascertained, a boat had come ashore in the evening on which the fugitive had disappeared, and had carried on board a female. as the vessel made sail immediately, and landed no part of their cargo, there seemed little doubt that they were accomplices of the notorious robertson, and that the vessel had only come into the firth to carry off his paramour. this was made clear by a letter which butler himself soon afterwards received by post, signed e. d., but without bearing any date of place or time. it was miserably ill written and spelt; sea-sickness having apparently aided the derangement of effie's very irregular orthography and mode of expression. in this epistle, however, as in all that unfortunate girl said or did, there was something to praise as well as to blame. she said in her letter, "that she could not endure that her father and her sister should go into banishment, or be partakers of her shame,--that if her burden was a heavy one, it was of her own binding, and she had the more right to bear it alone,--that in future they could not be a comfort to her, or she to them, since every look and word of her father put her in mind of her transgression, and was like to drive her mad,--that she had nearly lost her judgment during the three days she was at st. leonard's--her father meant weel by her, and all men, but he did not know the dreadful pain he gave her in casting up her sins. if jeanie had been at hame, it might hae dune better--jeanie was ane, like the angels in heaven, that rather weep for sinners, than reckon their transgressions. but she should never see jeanie ony mair, and that was the thought that gave her the sairest heart of a' that had come and gane yet. on her bended knees would she pray for jeanie night and day, baith for what she had done, and what she had scorned to do, in her behalf; for what a thought would it have been to her at that moment o' time, if that upright creature had made a fault to save her! she desired her father would give jeanie a' the gear--her ain (_i.e._ effie's) mother's and a'--she had made a deed, giving up her right, and it was in mr. novit's hand--warld's gear was henceforward the least of her care, nor was it likely to be muckle her mister--she hoped this would make it easy for her sister to settle;" and immediately after this expression, she wished butler himself all good things, in return for his kindness to her. "for herself," she said, "she kend her lot would be a waesome ane, but it was of her own framing, sae she desired the less pity. but, for her friends' satisfaction, she wished them to know that she was gaun nae ill gate--that they who had done her maist wrong were now willing to do her what justice was in their power; and she would, in some warldly respects, be far better off than she deserved. but she desired her family to remain satisfied with this assurance, and give themselves no trouble in making farther inquiries after her." to david deans and to butler this letter gave very little comfort; for what was to be expected from this unfortunate girl's uniting her fate to that of a character so notorious as robertson, who they readily guessed was alluded to in the last sentence, excepting that she should become the partner and victim of his future crimes? jeanie, who knew george staunton's character and real rank, saw her sister's situation under a ray of better hope. she augured well of the haste he had shown to reclaim his interest in effie, and she trusted he had made her his wife. if so, it seemed improbable that, with his expected fortune, and high connections, he should again resume the life of criminal adventure which he had led, especially since, as matters stood, his life depended upon his keeping his own secret, which could only be done by an entire change of his habits, and particularly by avoiding all those who had known the heir of willingham under the character of the audacious, criminal, and condemned robertson. she thought it most likely that the couple would go abroad for a few years, and not return to england until the affair of porteous was totally forgotten. jeanie, therefore, saw more hopes for her sister than butler or her father had been able to perceive; but she was not at liberty to impart the comfort which she felt in believing that she would be secure from the pressure of poverty, and in little risk of being seduced into the paths of guilt. she could not have explained this without making public what it was essentially necessary for effie's chance of comfort to conceal, the identity, namely, of george staunton and george robertson. after all, it was dreadful to think that effie had united herself to a man condemned for felony, and liable to trial for murder, whatever might be his rank in life, and the degree of his repentance. besides, it was melancholy to reflect, that, she herself being in possession of the whole dreadful secret, it was most probable he would, out of regard to his own feelings, and fear for his safety, never again permit her to see poor effie. after perusing and re-perusing her sister's valedictory letter, she gave ease to her feelings in a flood of tears, which butler in vain endeavoured to check by every soothing attention in his power. she was obliged, however, at length to look up and wipe her eyes, for her father, thinking he had allowed the lovers time enough for conference, was now advancing towards them from the lodge, accompanied by the captain of knockdunder, or, as his friends called him for brevity's sake, duncan knock, a title which some youthful exploits had rendered peculiarly appropriate. this duncan of knockdunder was a person of first-rate importance in the island of roseneath,* and the continental parishes of knocktarlitie, kilmun, and so forth; nay, his influence extended as far as cowal, where, however, it was obscured by that of another factor. * [this is, more correctly speaking, a peninsula.] the tower of knockdunder still occupies, with its remains, a cliff overhanging the holy loch. duncan swore it had been a royal castle; if so, it was one of the smallest, the space within only forming a square of sixteen feet, and bearing therefore a ridiculous proportion to the thickness of the walls, which was ten feet at least. such as it was, however, it had long given the title of captain, equivalent to that of chatellain, to the ancestors of duncan, who were retainers of the house of argyle, and held a hereditary jurisdiction under them, of little extent indeed, but which had great consequence in their own eyes, and was usually administered with a vigour somewhat beyond the law. the present representative of that ancient family was a stout short man about fifty, whose pleasure it was to unite in his own person the dress of the highlands and lowlands, wearing on his head a black tie-wig, surmounted by a fierce cocked-hat, deeply guarded with gold lace, while the rest of his dress consisted of the plaid and philabeg. duncan superintended a district which was partly highland, partly lowland, and therefore might be supposed to combine their national habits, in order to show his impartiality to trojan or tyrian. the incongruity, however, had a whimsical and ludicrous effect, as it made his head and body look as if belonging to different individuals; or, as some one said who had seen the executions of the insurgent prisoners in , it seemed as if some jacobite enchanter, having recalled the sufferers to life, had clapped, in his haste, an englishman's head on a highlander's body. to finish the portrait, the bearing of the gracious duncan was brief, bluff, and consequential, and the upward turn of his short copper-coloured nose indicated that he was somewhat addicted to wrath and usquebaugh. when this dignitary had advanced up to butler and to jeanie, "i take the freedom, mr. deans," he said in a very consequential manner, "to salute your daughter, whilk i presume this young lass to be--i kiss every pretty girl that comes to roseneath, in virtue of my office." having made this gallant speech, he took out his quid, saluted jeanie with a hearty smack, and bade her welcome to argyle's country. then addressing butler, he said, "ye maun gang ower and meet the carle ministers yonder the morn, for they will want to do your job, and synd it down with usquebaugh doubtless--they seldom make dry wark in this kintra." "and the laird"--said david deans, addressing butler in farther explanation-- "the captain, man," interrupted duncan; "folk winna ken wha ye are speaking aboot, unless ye gie shentlemens their proper title." "the captain, then," said david, "assures me that the call is unanimous on the part of the parishioners--a real harmonious call, reuben." "i pelieve," said duncan, "it was as harmonious as could pe expected, when the tae half o' the bodies were clavering sassenach, and the t'other skirting gaelic, like sea-maws and clackgeese before a storm. ane wad hae needed the gift of tongues to ken preceesely what they said--but i pelieve the best end of it was, 'long live maccallummore and knockdunder!'--and as to its being an unanimous call, i wad be glad to ken fat business the carles have to call ony thing or ony body but what the duke and mysell likes!" "nevertheless," said mr. butler, "if any of the parishioners have any scruples, which sometimes happen in the mind of sincere professors, i should be happy of an opportunity of trying to remove" "never fash your peard about it, man," interrupted duncan knock--"leave it a' to me.--scruple! deil ane o' them has been bred up to scruple onything that they're bidden to do. and if sic a thing suld happen as ye speak o', ye sall see the sincere professor, as ye ca' him, towed at the stern of my boat for a few furlongs. i'll try if the water of the haly loch winna wash off scruples as weel as fleas--cot tam!" the rest of duncan's threat was lost in a growling gargling sort of sound, which he made in his throat, and which menaced recusants with no gentle means of conversion. david deans would certainly have given battle in defence of the right of the christian congregation to be consulted in the choice of their own pastor, which, in his estimation, was one of the choicest and most inalienable of their privileges; but he had again engaged in close conversation with jeanie, and, with more interest than he was in use to take in affairs foreign alike to his occupation and to his religious tenets, was inquiring into the particulars of her london journey. this was, perhaps, fortunate for the newformed friendship betwixt him and the captain of knockdunder, which rested, in david's estimation, upon the proofs he had given of his skill in managing stock; but, in reality, upon the special charge transmitted to duncan from the duke and his agent, to behave with the utmost attention to deans and his family. "and now, sirs," said duncan, in a commanding tone, "i am to pray ye a' to come in to your supper, for yonder is mr. archibald half famished, and a saxon woman, that looks as if her een were fleeing out o' her head wi' fear and wonder, as if she had never seen a shentleman in a philabeg pefore." "and reuben butler," said david, "will doubtless desire instantly to retire, that he may prepare his mind for the exercise of to-morrow, that his work may suit the day, and be an offering of a sweet savour in the nostrils of the reverend presbytery!" "hout tout, man, it's but little ye ken about them," interrupted the captain. "teil a ane o' them wad gie the savour of the hot venison pasty which i smell" (turning his squab nose up in the air) "a' the way frae the lodge, for a' that mr. putler, or you either, can say to them." david groaned; but judging he had to do with a gallio, as he said, did not think it worth his while to give battle. they followed the captain to the house, and arranged themselves with great ceremony round a well-loaded supper-table. the only other circumstance of the evening worthy to be recorded is, that butler pronounced the blessing; that knockdunder found it too long, and david deans censured it as too short, from which the charitable reader may conclude it was exactly the proper length. chapter twenty-first. now turn the psalms of david ower, and lilt wi' holy clangor; of double verse come gie us four, and skirl up the bangor. burns. the next was the important day, when, according to the forms and ritual of the scottish kirk, reuben butler was to be ordained minister of knocktarlitie, by the presbytery of ------. and so eager were the whole party, that all, excepting mrs. dutton, the destined cowslip of inverary, were stirring at an early hour. their host, whose appetite was as quick and keen as his temper, was not long in summoning them to a substantial breakfast, where there were at least a dozen of different preparations of milk, plenty of cold meat, scores boiled and roasted eggs, a huge cag of butter, half-a-firkin herrings boiled and broiled, fresh and salt, and tea and coffee for them that liked it, which, as their landlord assured them, with a nod and a wink, pointing, at the same time, to a little cutter which seemed dodging under the lee of the island, cost them little beside the fetching ashore. "is the contraband trade permitted here so openly?" said butler. "i should think it very unfavourable to the people's morals." "the duke, mr. putler, has gien nae orders concerning the putting of it down," said the magistrate, and seemed to think that he had said all that was necessary to justify his connivance. butler was a man of prudence, and aware that real good can only be obtained by remonstrance when remonstrance is well-timed; so for the present he said nothing more on the subject. when breakfast was half over, in flounced mrs. dolly, as fine as a blue sacque and cherry-coloured ribands could make her. "good morrow to you, madam," said the master of ceremonies; "i trust your early rising will not skaith ye." the dame apologised to captain knockunder, as she was pleased to term their entertainer; "but, as we say in cheshire," she added, "i was like the mayor of altringham, who lies in bed while his breeches are mending, for the girl did not bring up the right bundle to my room, till she had brought up all the others by mistake one after t'other--well, i suppose we are all for church to-day, as i understand--pray may i be so bold as to ask, if it is the fashion for your north country gentlemen to go to church in your petticoats, captain knockunder?" "captain of knockdunder, madam, if you please, for i knock under to no man; and in respect of my garb, i shall go to church as i am, at your service, madam; for if i were to lie in bed like your major what-d'ye-callum, till my preeches were mended, i might be there all my life, seeing i never had a pair of them on my person but twice in my life, which i am pound to remember, it peing when the duke brought his duchess here, when her grace pehoved to be pleasured; so i e'en porrowed the minister's trews for the twa days his grace was pleased to stay--but i will put myself under sic confinement again for no man on earth, or woman either, but her grace being always excepted, as in duty pound." the mistress of the milking-pail stared but, making no answer to this round declaration, immediately proceeded to show, that the alarm of the preceding evening had in no degree injured her appetite. when the meal was finished, the captain proposed to them to take boat, in order that mrs. jeanie might see her new place of residence, and that he himself might inquire whether the necessary preparations had been made there, and at the manse, for receiving the future inmates of these mansions. the morning was delightful, and the huge mountain-shadows slept upon the mirrored wave of the firth, almost as little disturbed as if it had been an inland lake. even mrs. dutton's fears no longer annoyed her. she had been informed by archibald, that there was to be some sort of junketting after the sermon, and that was what she loved dearly; and as for the water, it was so still that it would look quite like a pleasuring on the thames. the whole party being embarked, therefore, in a large boat, which the captain called his coach and six, and attended by a smaller one termed his gig, the gallant duncan steered straight upon the little tower of the old-fashioned church of knocktarlitie, and the exertions of six stout rowers sped them rapidly on their voyage. as they neared the land, the hills appeared to recede from them, and a little valley, formed by the descent of a small river from the mountains, evolved itself as it were upon their approach. the style of the country on each side was simply pastoral, and resembled, in appearance and character, the description of a forgotten scottish poet, which runs nearly thus:-- the water gently down a level slid, with little din, but couthy what it made; on ilka side the trees grew thick and lang, and wi' the wild birds' notes were a' in sang; on either side, a full bow-shot and mair, the green was even, gowany, and fair; with easy slope on every hand the braes to the hills' feet with scatter'd bushes raise; with goats and sheep aboon, and kye below, the bonny banks all in a swarm did go.* * ross's _fortunate shepherdess._ edit. , p. . they landed in this highland arcadia, at the mouth of the small stream which watered the delightful and peaceable valley. inhabitants of several descriptions came to pay their respects to the captain of knockdunder, a homage which he was very peremptory in exacting, and to see the new settlers. some of these were men after david deans's own heart, elders of the kirk-session, zealous professors, from the lennox, lanarkshire, and ayrshire, to whom the preceding duke of argyle had given _rooms_ in this corner of his estate, because they had suffered for joining his father, the unfortunate earl, during his ill-fated attempt in . these were cakes of the right leaven for david regaling himself with; and, had it not been for this circumstance, he has been heard to say, "that the captain of knockdunder would have swore him out of the country in twenty-four hours, sae awsome it was to ony thinking soul to hear his imprecations, upon the slightest temptation that crossed his humour." besides these, there were a wilder set of parishioners, mountaineers from the upper glen and adjacent hill, who spoke gaelic, went about armed, and wore the highland dress. but the strict commands of the duke had established such good order in this part of his territories, that the gael and saxons lived upon the best possible terms of good neighbourhood. they first visited the manse, as the parsonage is termed in scotland. it was old, but in good repair, and stood snugly embosomed in a grove of sycamore, with a well-stocked garden in front, bounded by the small river, which was partly visible from the windows, partly concealed by the bushes, trees, and bounding hedge. within, the house looked less comfortable than it might have been, for it had been neglected by the late incumbent; but workmen had been labouring, under the directions of the captain of knockdunder, and at the expense of the duke of argyle, to put it into some order. the old "plenishing" had been removed, and neat, but plain household furniture had been sent down by the duke in a brig of his own called the caroline, and was now ready to be placed in order in the apartments. the gracious duncan, finding matters were at a stand among the workmen, summoned before him the delinquents, and impressed all who heard him with a sense of his authority, by the penalties with which he threatened them for their delay. mulcting them in half their charge, he assured them, would be the least of it; for, if they were to neglect his pleasure and the duke's, "he would be tamn'd if he paid them the t'other half either, and they might seek law for it where they could get it." the work-people humbled themselves before the offended dignitary, and spake him soft and fair; and at length, upon mr. butler recalling to his mind that it was the ordination-day, and that the workmen were probably thinking of going to church, knockdunder agreed to forgive them, out of respect to their new minister. "but an i catch them neglecking my duty again, mr. putler, the teil pe in me if the kirk shall be an excuse; for what has the like o' them rapparees to do at the kirk ony day put sundays, or then either, if the duke and i has the necessitous uses for them?" it may be guessed with what feelings of quiet satisfaction and delight butler looked forward to spending his days, honoured and useful as he trusted to be, in this sequestered valley, and how often an intelligent glance was exchanged betwixt him and jeanie, whose good-humoured face looked positively handsome, from the expression of modesty, and, at the same time, of satisfaction, which she wore when visiting the apartments of which she was soon to call herself mistress. she was left at liberty to give more open indulgence to her feelings of delight and admiration, when, leaving the manse, the company proceeded to examine the destined habitation of david deans. jeanie found with pleasure that it was not above a musket-shot from the manse; for it had been a bar to her happiness to think she might be obliged to reside at a distance from her father, and she was aware that there were strong objections to his actually living in the same house with butler. but this brief distance was the very thing which she could have wished. the farmhouse was on the plan of an improved cottage, and contrived with great regard to convenience; an excellent little garden, an orchard, and a set of offices complete, according to the best ideas of the time, combined to render it a most desirable habitation for the practical farmer, and far superior to the hovel at woodend, and the small house at saint leonard's crags. the situation was considerably higher than that of the manse, and fronted to the west. the windows commanded an enchanting view of the little vale over which the mansion seemed to preside, the windings of the stream, and the firth, with its associated lakes and romantic islands. the hills of dumbartonshire, once possessed by the fierce clan of macfarlanes, formed a crescent behind the valley, and far to the right were seen the dusky and more gigantic mountains of argyleshire, with a seaward view of the shattered and thunder-splitten peaks of arran. but to jeanie, whose taste for the picturesque, if she had any by nature, had never been awakened or cultivated, the sight of the faithful old may hettly, as she opened the door to receive them in her clean toy, sunday's russet-gown, and blue apron, nicely smoothed down before her, was worth the whole varied landscape. the raptures of the faithful old creature at seeing jeanie were equal to her own, as she hastened to assure her, "that baith the gudeman and the beasts had been as weel seen after as she possibly could contrive." separating her from the rest of the company, may then hurried her young mistress to the offices, that she might receive the compliments she expected for her care of the cows. jeanie rejoiced, in the simplicity of her heart, to see her charge once more; and the mute favourites of our heroine, gowans, and the others, acknowledged her presence by lowing, turning round their broad and decent brows when they heard her well-known "pruh, my leddy--pruh, my woman," and, by various indications, known only to those who have studied the habits of the milky mothers, showing sensible pleasure as she approached to caress them in their turn. "the very brute beasts are glad to see ye again," said may; "but nae wonder, jeanie, for ye were aye kind to beast and body. and i maun learn to ca' ye _mistress_ now, jeanie, since ye hae been up to lunnon, and seen the duke, and the king, and a' the braw folk. but wha kens," added the old dame slily, "what i'll hae to ca' ye forby mistress, for i am thinking it wunna lang be deans." "ca' me your ain jeanie, may, and then ye can never gang wrang." in the cow-house which they examined, there was one animal which jeanie looked at till the tears gushed from her eyes. may, who had watched her with a sympathising expression, immediately observed, in an under-tone, "the gudeman aye sorts that beast himself, and is kinder to it than ony beast in the byre; and i noticed he was that way e'en when he was angriest, and had maist cause to be angry.--eh, sirs! a parent's heart's a queer thing!--mony a warsle he has had for that puir lassie--i am thinking he petitions mair for her than for yoursell, hinny; for what can he plead for you but just to wish you the blessing ye deserve? and when i sleepit ayont the hallan, when we came first here, he was often earnest a' night, and i could hear him come ower and ower again wi', 'effie--puir blinded misguided thing!' it was aye 'effie! effie!'--if that puir wandering lamb comena into the sheepfauld in the shepherd's ain time, it will be an unco wonder, for i wot she has been a child of prayers. oh, if the puir prodigal wad return, sae blithely as the goodman wad kill the fatted calf!--though brockie's calf will no be fit for killing this three weeks yet." and then, with the discursive talent of persons of her description, she got once more afloat in her account of domestic affairs, and left this delicate and affecting topic. having looked at every thing in the offices and the dairy, and expressed her satisfaction with the manner in which matters had been managed in her absence, jeanie rejoined the rest of the party, who were surveying the interior of the house, all excepting david deans and butler, who had gone down to the church to meet the kirk-session and the clergymen of the presbytery, and arrange matters for the duty of the day. in the interior of the cottage all was clean, neat, and suitable to the exterior. it had been originally built and furnished by the duke, as a retreat for a favourite domestic of the higher class, who did not long enjoy it, and had been dead only a few months, so that every thing was in excellent taste and good order. but in jeanie's bedroom was a neat trunk, which had greatly excited mrs. dutton's curiosity, for she was sure that the direction, "for mrs. jean deans, at auchingower, parish of knocktarlitie," was the writing of mrs. semple, the duchess's own woman. may hettly produced the key in a sealed parcel, which bore the same address, and attached to the key was a label, intimating that the trunk and its contents were "a token of remembrance to jeanie deans, from her friends the duchess of argyle and the young ladies." the trunk, hastily opened, as the reader will not doubt, was found to be full of wearing apparel of the best quality, suited to jeanie's rank in life; and to most of the articles the names of the particular donors were attached, as if to make jeanie sensible not only of the general, but of the individual interest she had excited in the noble family. to name the various articles by their appropriate names, would be to attempt things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme; besides that the old-fashioned terms of manteaus, sacques, kissing-strings, and so forth, would convey but little information even to the milliners of the present day. i shall deposit, however, an accurate inventory of the contents of the trunk with my kind friend, miss martha buskbody, who has promised, should the public curiosity seem interested in the subject, to supply me with a professional glossary and commentary. suffice it to say, that the gift was such as became the donors, and was suited to the situation of the receiver; that every thing was handsome and appropriate, and nothing forgotten which belonged to the wardrobe of a young person in jeanie's situation in life, the destined bride of a respectable clergyman. article after article was displayed, commented upon, and admired, to the wonder of may, who declared, "she didna think the queen had mair or better claise," and somewhat to the envy of the northern cowslip. this unamiable, but not very unnatural, disposition of mind, broke forth in sundry unfounded criticisms to the disparagement of the articles, as they were severally exhibited. but it assumed a more direct character, when, at the bottom of all, was found a dress of white silk, very plainly made, but still of white silk, and french silk to boot, with a paper pinned to it, bearing that it was a present from the duke of argyle to his travelling companion, to be worn on the day when she should change her name. mrs. dutton could forbear no longer, but whispered into mr. archibald's ear, that it was a clever thing to be a scotchwoman: "she supposed all _her_ sisters, and she had half-a-dozen, might have been hanged, without any one sending her a present of a pocket handkerchief." "or without your making any exertion to save them, mrs. dolly," answered archibald drily.--"but i am surprised we do not hear the bell yet," said he, looking at his watch. "fat ta deil, mr. archibald," answered the captain of knockdunder, "wad ye hae them ring the bell before i am ready to gang to kirk?--i wad gar the bedral eat the bell-rope, if he took ony sic freedom. but if ye want to hear the bell, i will just show mysell on the knowe-head, and it will begin jowing forthwith." accordingly, so soon as they sallied out, and that the gold-laced hat of the captain was seen rising like hesper above the dewy verge of the rising ground, the clash (for it was rather a clash than a clang) of the bell was heard from the old moss-grown tower, and the clapper continued to thump its cracked sides all the while they advanced towards the kirk, duncan exhorting them to take their own time, "for teil ony sport wad be till he came."* * note t. tolling to service in scotland. accordingly, the bell only changed to the final and impatient chime when they crossed the stile; and "rang in," that is, concluded its mistuned summons, when they had entered the duke's seat, in the little kirk, where the whole party arranged themselves, with duncan at their head, excepting david deans, who already occupied a seat among the elders. the business of the day, with a particular detail of which it is unnecessary to trouble the reader, was gone through according to the established form, and the sermon pronounced upon the occasion had the good fortune to please even the critical david deans, though it was only an hour and a quarter long, which david termed a short allowance of spiritual provender. the preacher, who was a divine that held many of david's opinions, privately apologised for his brevity by saying, "that he observed the captain was gaunting grievously, and that if he had detained him longer, there was no knowing how long he might be in paying the next term's victual stipend." david groaned to find that such carnal motives could have influence upon the mind of a powerful preacher. he had, indeed, been scandalised by another circumstance during the service. so soon as the congregation were seated after prayers, and the clergyman had read his text, the gracious duncan, after rummaging the leathern purse which hung in front of his petticoat, produced a short tobacco-pipe made of iron, and observed, almost aloud, "i hae forgotten my spleuchan--lachlan, gang down to the clachan, and bring me up a pennyworth of twist." six arms, the nearest within reach, presented, with an obedient start, as many tobacco-pouches to the man of office. he made choice of one with an nod of acknowledgment, filled his pipe, lighted it with the assistance of his pistol-flint, and smoked with infinite composure during the whole time of the sermon. when the discourse was finished, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, replaced it in his sporran, returned the tobacco-pouch or spleuchan to its owner, and joined in the prayer with decency and attention. [illustration: the captain of knockdunder-- ] at the end of the service, when butler had been admitted minister of the kirk of knocktarlitie, with all its spiritual immunities and privileges, david, who had frowned, groaned, and murmured at knockdunder's irreverent demeanour, communicated his plain thoughts of the matter to isaac meiklehose, one of the elders, with whom a reverential aspect and huge grizzle wig had especially disposed him to seek fraternisation. "it didna become a wild indian," david said, "much less a christian, and a gentleman, to sit in the kirk puffing tobacco-reek, as if he were in a change-house." meiklehose shook his head, and allowed it was "far frae beseeming--but what will ye say? the captain's a queer hand, and to speak to him about that or onything else that crosses the maggot, wad be to set the kiln a-low. he keeps a high hand ower the country, and we couldna deal wi' the hielandmen without his protection, sin' a' the keys o' the kintray hings at his belt; and he's no an ill body in the main, and maistry, ye ken, maws the meadows doun." "that may be very true, neighbour," said david; "but reuben butler isna the man i take him to be, if he disna learn the captain to fuff his pipe some other gate than in god's house, or the quarter be ower." "fair and softly gangs far," said meiklehose; "and if a fule may gie a wise man a counsel, i wad hae him think twice or he mells with knockdunder--he auld hae a lang-shankit spune that wad sup kail wi' the deil. but they are a' away to their dinner to the change-house, and if we dinna mend our pace, we'll come short at meal-time." david accompanied his friend without answer; but began to feel from experience, that the glen of knocktarlitie, like the rest of the world, was haunted by its own special subjects of regret and discontent. his mind was, so much occupied by considering the best means of converting duncan of knock to a sense of reverend decency during public worship, that he altogether forgot to inquire whether butler was called upon to subscribe the oaths to government. some have insinuated, that his neglect on this head was, in some degree, intentional; but i think this explanation inconsistent with the simplicity of my friend david's character. neither have i ever been able, by the most minute inquiries, to know whether the _formula,_ at which he so much scrupled, had been exacted from butler, ay or no. the books of the kirk-session might have thrown some light on this matter; but unfortunately they were destroyed in the year , by one donacha dhu na dunaigh, at the instance, it was said, or at least by the connivance, of the gracious duncan of knock, who had a desire to obliterate the recorded foibles of a certain kate finlayson. chapter twenty-second. now butt and ben the change-house fills wi' yill-caup commentators, here's crying out for bakes and gills, and there the pint-stoup clatters. wi' thick and thrang, and loud and lang,-- wi' logic and wi' scripture, they raise a din that in the end is like to breed a rupture, o' wrath that day. burns. a plentiful entertainment, at the duke of argyle's cost, regaled the reverend gentlemen who had assisted at the ordination of reuben butler, and almost all the respectable part of the parish. the feast was, indeed, such as the country itself furnished; for plenty of all the requisites for "a rough and round dinner" were always at duncan of knock's command. there was the beef and mutton on the braes, the fresh and salt-water fish in the lochs, the brooks, and firth; game of every kind, from the deer to the leveret, were to be had for the killing, in the duke's forests, moors, heaths, and mosses; and for liquor, home-brewed ale flowed as freely as water; brandy and usquebaugh both were had in those happy times without duty; even white wine and claret were got for nothing, since the duke's extensive rights of admiralty gave him a title to all the wine in cask which is drifted ashore on the western coast and isles of scotland, when shipping have suffered by severe weather. in short, as duncan boasted, the entertainment did not cost maccallummore a plack out of his sporran, and was nevertheless not only liberal, but overflowing. the duke's health was solemnised in a _bona fide_ bumper, and david deans himself added perhaps the first huzza that his lungs had ever uttered, to swell the shout with which the pledge was received. nay, so exalted in heart was he upon this memorable occasion, and so much disposed to be indulgent, that, he expressed no dissatisfaction when three bagpipers struck up, "the campbells are coming." the health of the reverend minister of knocktarlitie was received with similar honours; and there was a roar of laughter, when one of his brethren slily subjoined the addition of, "a good wife to our brother, to keep the manse in order." on this occasion david deans was delivered of his first-born joke; and apparently the parturition was accompanied with many throes, for sorely did he twist about his physiognomy, and much did he stumble in his speech, before he could express his idea, "that the lad being now wedded to his spiritual bride, it was hard to threaten him with ane temporal spouse in the same day." he then laughed a hoarse and brief laugh, and was suddenly grave and silent, as if abashed at his own vivacious effort. after another toast or two, jeanie, mrs. dolly, and such of the female natives as had honoured the feast with their presence, retired to david's new dwelling at auchingower, and left the gentlemen to their potations. the feast proceeded with great glee. the conversation, where duncan had it under his direction, was not indeed always strictly canonical, but david deans escaped any risk of being scandalised, by engaging with one of his neighbours in a recapitulation of the sufferings of ayrshire and lanarkshire, during what was called the invasion of the highland host; the prudent mr. meiklehose cautioning them from time to time to lower their voices, "for that duncan knock's father had been at that onslaught, and brought back muckle gude plenishing, and that duncan was no unlikely to hae been there himself, for what he kend." meanwhile, as the mirth grew fast and furious, the graver members of the party began to escape as well as they could. david deans accomplished his retreat, and butler anxiously watched an opportunity to follow him. knockdunder, however, desirous, he said, of knowing what stuff was in the new minister, had no intention to part with him so easily, but kept him pinned to his side, watching him sedulously, and with obliging violence filling his glass to the brim, as often as he could seize an opportunity of doing so. at length, as the evening was wearing late, a venerable brother chanced to ask mr. archibald when they might hope to see the duke, _tam carum caput,_ as he would venture to term him, at the lodge of roseneath. duncan of knock, whose ideas were somewhat conglomerated, and who, it may be believed, was no great scholar, catching up some imperfect sound of the words, conceived the speaker was drawing a parallel between the duke and sir donald gorme of sleat; and being of opinion that such comparison was odious, snorted thrice, and prepared himself to be in a passion. to the explanation of the venerable divine the captain answered, "i heard the word gorme myself, sir, with my ain ears. d'ye think i do not know gaelic from latin?" "apparently not, sir;"--so the clergyman, offended in his turn, and taking a pinch of snuff, answered with great coolness. the copper nose of the gracious duncan now became heated like the bull of phalaris, and while mr. archibald mediated betwixt the offended parties, and the attention of the company was engaged by their dispute, butler took an opportunity to effect his retreat. he found the females at auchingower very anxious for the breaking up of the convivial party; for it was a part of the arrangement, that although david deans was to remain at auchingower, and butler was that night to take possession of the manse, yet jeanie, for whom complete accommodations were not yet provided in her father's house, was to return for a day or two to the lodge at roseneath, and the boats had been held in readiness accordingly. they waited, therefore, for knockdunder's return, but twilight came, and they still waited in vain. at length mr. archibald, who was a man of decorum, had taken care not to exceed in his conviviality, made his appearance, and advised the females strongly to return to the island under his escort; observing, that, from the humour in which he had left the captain, it was a great chance whether he budged out of the public-house that night, and it was absolutely certain that he would not be very fit company for ladies. the gig was at their disposal, he said, and there was still pleasant twilight for a party on the water. jeanie, who had considerable confidence in archibald's prudence, immediately acquiesced in this proposal; but mrs. dolly positively objected to the small boat. if the big boat could be gotten, she agreed to set out, otherwise she would sleep on the floor, rather than stir a step. reasoning with dolly was out of the question, and archibald did not think the difficulty so pressing as to require compulsion. he observed, it was not using the captain very politely to deprive him of his coach and six; "but as it was in the ladies' service," he gallantly said, "he would use so much freedom--besides the gig would serve the captain's purpose better, as it could come off at any hour of the tide; the large boat should, therefore, be at mrs. dolly's service." they walked to the beach accordingly, accompanied by butler. it was some time before the boatmen could be assembled, and ere they were well embarked, and ready to depart, the pale moon was come over the hill, and flinging a trembling reflection on the broad and glittering waves. but so soft and pleasant was the night, that butler, in bidding farewell to jeanie, had no apprehension for her safety; and what is yet more extraordinary, mrs. dolly felt no alarm for her own. the air was soft, and came over the cooling wave with something of summer fragrance. the beautiful scene of headlands, and capes, and bays, around them, with the broad blue chain of mountains, were dimly visible in the moonlight; while every dash of the oars made the waters glance and sparkle with the brilliant phenomenon called the sea fire. this last circumstance filled jeanie with wonder, and served to amuse the mind of her companion, until they approached the little bay, which seemed to stretch its dark and wooded arms into the sea as if to welcome them. the usual landing-place was at a quarter of a mile's distance from the lodge, and although the tide did not admit of the large boat coming quite close to the jetty of loose stones which served as a pier, jeanie, who was both bold and active, easily sprung ashore; but mrs., dolly positively refusing to commit herself to the same risk, the complaisant mr. archibald ordered the boat round to a more regular landing-place, at a considerable distance along the shore. he then prepared to land himself, that he might, in the meanwhile, accompany jeanie to the lodge. but as there was no mistaking the woodland lane, which led from thence to the shore, and as the moonlight showed her one of the white chimneys rising out of the wood which embosomed the building, jeanie declined this favour with thanks, and requested him to proceed with mrs. dolly, who, being "in a country where the ways were so strange to her, had mair need of countenance." this, indeed, was a fortunate circumstance, and might even be said to save poor cowslip's life, if it was true, as she herself used solemnly to aver, that she must positively have expired for fear, if she had been left alone in the boat with six wild highlanders in kilts. the night was so exquisitely beautiful, that jeanie, instead of immediately directing her course towards the lodge, stood looking after the boat as it again put off from the side, and rowed into the little bay, the dark figures of her companions growing less and less distinct as they diminished in the distance, and the jorram, or melancholy boat-song of the rowers, coming on the ear with softened and sweeter sound, until the boat rounded the headland, and was lost to her observation. still jeanie remained in the same posture, looking out upon the sea. it would, she was aware, be some time ere her companions could reach the lodge, as the distance by the more convenient landing-place was considerably greater than from the point where she stood, and she was not sorry to have an opportunity to spend the interval by herself. the wonderful change which a few weeks had wrought in her situation, from shame and grief, and almost despair, to honour, joy, and a fair prospect of future happiness, passed before her eyes with a sensation which brought the tears into them. yet they flowed at the same time from another source. as human happiness is never perfect, and as well-constructed minds are never more sensible of the distresses of those whom they love, than when their own situation forms a contrast with them, jeanie's affectionate regrets turned to the fate of her poor sister--the child of so many hopes--the fondled nursling of so many years--now an exile, and, what was worse, dependent on the will of a man, of whose habits she had every reason to entertain the worst opinion, and who, even in his strongest paroxysms of remorse, had appeared too much a stranger to the feelings of real penitence. while her thoughts were occupied with these melancholy reflections, a shadowy figure seemed to detach itself from the copsewood on her right hand. jeanie started, and the stories of apparitions and wraiths, seen by solitary travellers in wild situations, at such times, and in such an hour, suddenly came full upon her imagination. the figure glided on, and as it came betwixt her and the moon, she was aware that it had the appearance of a woman. a soft voice twice repeated, "jeanie--jeanie!"-- was it indeed--could it be the voice of her sister?--was she still among the living, or had the grave given uly its tenant?--ere she could state these questions to her own mind, effie, alive, and in the body, had clasped her in her arms and was straining her to her bosom, and devouring her with kisses. "i have wandered here," she said, "like a ghaist, to see you, and nae wonder you take me for ane--i thought but to see you gang by, or to hear the sound of your voice; but to speak to yoursell again, jeanie, was mair than i deserved, and mair than i durst pray for." "o effie! how came ye here alone, and at this hour, and on the wild seabeach?--are you sure it's your ain living sell?" there was something of effie's former humour in her practically answering the question by a gentle pinch, more beseeming the fingers of a fairy than of a ghost. and again the sisters embraced, and laughed, and wept by turns. "but ye maun gang up wi' me to the lodge, effie," said jeanie, "and tell me a' your story--i hae gude folk there that will make ye welcome for my sake." "na, na, jeanie," replied her sister sorrowfully,--"ye hae forgotten what i am--a banished outlawed creature, scarce escaped the gallows by your being the bauldest and the best sister that ever lived--i'll gae near nane o' your grand friends, even if there was nae danger to me." "there is nae danger--there shall be nae danger," said jeanie eagerly. "o effie, dinna be wilfu'--be guided for ance--we will be sae happy a' thegither!" "i have a' the happiness i deserve on this side of the grave, now that i hae seen you," answered effie; "and whether there were danger to mysell or no, naebody shall ever say that i come with my cheat-the-gallows face to shame my sister among her grand friends." "i hae nae grand friends," said jeanie; "nae friends but what are friends of yours--reuben butler and my father.--o unhappy lassie, dinna be dour, and turn your back on your happiness again! we wunna see another acquaintance--come hame to us, your ain dearest friends--it's better sheltering under an auld hedge than under a new-planted wood." "it's in vain speaking, jeanie,--i maun drink as i hae brewed--i am married, and i maun follow my husband for better for worse." "married, effie!" exclaimed jeanie--"misfortunate creature! and to that awfu'" "hush, hush," said effie, clapping one hand on her mouth, and pointing to the thicket with the other, "he is yonder." she said this in a tone which showed that her husband had found means to inspire her with awe, as well as affection. at this moment a man issued from the wood. it was young staunton. even by the imperfect light of the moon, jeanie could observe that he was handsomely dressed, and had the air of a person of rank. "effie," he said, "our time is well-nigh spent--the skiff will be aground in the creek, and i dare not stay longer.--i hope your sister will allow me to salute her?" but jeanie shrunk back from him with a feeling of internal abhorrence. "well," he said, "it does not much signify; if you keep up the feeling of ill-will, at least you do not act upon it, and i thank you for your respect to my secret, when a word (which in your place i would have spoken at once) would have cost me my life. people say, you should keep from the wife of your bosom the secret that concerns your neck--my wife and her sister both know mine, and i shall not sleep a wink the less sound." "but are you really married to my sister, sir?" asked jeanie, in great doubt and anxiety; for the haughty, careless tone in which he spoke seemed to justify her worst apprehensions. "i really am legally married, and by my own name," replied staunton, more gravely. "and your father--and your friends?" "and my father and my friends must just reconcile themselves to that which is done and cannot be undone," replied staunton. "however, it is my intention, in order to break off dangerous connections, and to let my friends come to their temper, to conceal my marriage for the present, and stay abroad for some years. so that you will not hear of us for some time, if ever you hear of us again at all. it would be dangerous, you must be aware, to keep up the correspondence; for all would guess that the husband of effie was the--what shall i call myself?--the slayer of porteous." hard-hearted light man! thought jeanie--to what a character she has intrusted her happiness!--she has sown the wind, and maun reap the whirlwind. "dinna think ill o' him," said effie, breaking away from her husband, and leading jeanie a step or two out of hearing--"dinna think very ill o' him--he's gude to me, jeanie--as gude as i deserve--and he is determined to gie up his bad courses--sae, after a', dinna greet for effie; she is better off than she has wrought for.--but you--oh, you!--how can you be happy eneugh! never till ye get to heaven, where a'body is as gude as yoursell.--jeanie, if i live and thrive, ye shall hear of me--if not, just forget that sic a creature ever lived to vex ye--fare ye weel--fare--fare ye weel!" she tore herself from her sister's arms--rejoined her husband--they plunged into the copsewood, and she saw them no more. the whole scene had the effect of a vision, and she could almost have believed it such, but that very soon after they quitted her, she heard the sound of oars, and a skiff was seen on the firth, pulling swiftly towards the small smuggling sloop which lay in the offing. it was on board of such a vessel that effie had embarked at portobello, and jeanie had no doubt that the same conveyance was destined, as staunton had hinted, to transport them to a foreign country. although it was impossible to determine whether this interview, while it was passing, gave more pain or pleasure to jeanie deans, yet the ultimate impression which remained on her mind was decidedly favourable. effie was married--made, according to the common phrase, an honest woman--that was one main point; it seemed also as if her husband were about to abandon the path of gross vice in which he had run so long and so desperately--that was another. for his final and effectual conversion he did not want understanding, and god knew his own hour. such were the thoughts with which jeanie endeavoured to console her anxiety respecting her sister's future fortune. on her arrival at the lodge, she found archibald in some anxiety at her stay, and about to walk out in quest of her. a headache served as an apology for retiring to rest, in order to conceal her visible agitation of mind from her companions. by this secession also she escaped a scene of a different sort. for, as if there were danger in all gigs, whether by sea or land, that of knockdunder had been run down by another boat, an accident owing chiefly to the drunkenness of the captain, his crew, and passengers. knockdunder, and two or three guests, whom he was bringing along with him to finish the conviviality of the evening at the lodge, got a sound ducking; but, being rescued by the crew of the boat which endangered them, there was no ultimate loss, excepting that of the captain's laced hat, which, greatly to the satisfaction of the highland part of the district, as well as to the improvement of the conformity of his own personal appearance, he replaced by a smart highland bonnet next day. many were the vehement threats of vengeance which, on the succeeding morning, the gracious duncan threw out against the boat which had upset him; but as neither she, nor the small smuggling vessel to which she belonged, was any longer to be seen in the firth, he was compelled to sit down with the affront. this was the more hard, he said, as he was assured the mischief was done on purpose, these scoundrels having lurked about after they had landed every drop of brandy, and every bag of tea they had on board; and he understood the coxswain had been on shore, making particular inquiries concerning the time when his boat was to cross over, and to return, and so forth. "put the neist time they meet me on the firth," said duncan, with great majesty, "i will teach the moonlight rapscallions and vagabonds to keep their ain side of the road, and pe tamn'd to them!" chapter twenty-third. lord! who would live turmoiled in a court, and may enjoy such quiet walks as these? shakespeare. within a reasonable time after butler was safely and comfortably settled in his living, and jeanie had taken up her abode at auchingower with her father,--the precise extent of which interval we request each reader to settle according to his own sense of what is decent and proper upon the occasion,--and after due proclamation of banns, and all other formalities, the long wooing of this worthy pair was ended by their union in the holy bands of matrimony. on this occasion, david deans stoutly withstood the iniquities of pipes, fiddles, and promiscuous dancing, to the great wrath of the captain of knockdunder, who said, if he "had guessed it was to be sic a tamn'd quakers' meeting, he wad hae seen them peyont the cairn before he wad hae darkened their doors." and so much rancour remained on the spirits of the gracious duncan upon this occasion, that various "picqueerings," as david called them, took place upon the same and similar topics and it was only in consequence of an accidental visit of the duke to his lodge at roseneath, that they were put a stop to. but upon that occasion his grace showed such particular respect to mr. and mrs. butler, and such favour even to old david, that knockdunder held it prudent to change his course towards the latter. he, in future, used to express himself among friends, concerning the minister and his wife, as "very worthy decent folk, just a little over strict in their notions; put it was pest for thae plack cattle to err on the safe side." and respecting david, he allowed that "he was an excellent judge of nowte and sheep, and a sensible eneugh carle, an it werena for his tamn'd cameronian nonsense, whilk it is not worth while of a shentleman to knock out of an auld silly head, either by force of reason or otherwise." so that, by avoiding topics of dispute, the personages of our tale lived in great good habits with the gracious duncan, only that he still grieved david's soul, and set a perilous example to the congregation, by sometimes bringing his pipe to the church during a cold winter day, and almost always sleeping during sermon in the summer time. mrs. butler, whom we must no longer, if we can help it, term by the familiar name of jeanie, brought into the married state the same firm mind and affectionate disposition--the same natural and homely good sense, and spirit of useful exertion--in a word, all the domestic good qualities of which she had given proof during her maiden life. she did not indeed rival butler in learning; but then no woman more devoutly venerated the extent of her husband's erudition. she did not pretend to understand his expositions of divinity; but no minister of the presbytery had his humble dinner so well arranged, his clothes and linen in equal good order, his fireside so neatly swept, his parlour so clean, and his books so well dusted. if he talked to jeanie of what she did not understand--and (for the man was mortal, and had been a schoolmaster) he sometimes did harangue more scholarly and wisely than was necessary--she listened in placid silence; and whenever the point referred to common life, and was such as came under the grasp of a strong natural understanding, her views were more forcible, and her observations more acute, than his own. in acquired politeness of manners, when it happened that she mingled a little in society, mrs. butler was, of course, judged deficient. but then she had that obvious wish to oblige, and that real and natural good-breeding depending on, good sense and good humour, which, joined to a considerable degree of archness and liveliness of manner, rendered her behaviour acceptable to all with whom she was called upon to associate. notwithstanding her strict attention to all domestic affairs, she always appeared the clean well-dressed mistress of the house, never the sordid household drudge. when complimented on this occasion by duncan knock, who swore "that he thought the fairies must help her, since her house was always clean, and nobody ever saw anybody sweeping it," she modestly replied, "that much might be dune by timing ane's turns." duncan replied, "he heartily wished she could teach that art to the huzzies at the lodge, for he could never discover that the house was washed at a', except now and then by breaking his shins over the pail-- cot tamn the jauds!" of lesser matters there is not occasion to speak much. it may easily be believed that the duke's cheese was carefully made, and so graciously accepted, that the offering became annual. remembrances and acknowledgments of past favours were sent to mrs. bickerton and mrs. glass, and an amicable intercourse maintained from time to time with these two respectable and benevolent persons. it is especially necessary to mention that, in the course of five years, mrs. butler had three children, two boys and a girl, all stout healthy babes of grace, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and strong-limbed. the boys were named david and reuben, an order of nomenclature which was much to the satisfaction of the old hero of the covenant, and the girl, by her mother's special desire, was christened euphemia, rather contrary to the wish both of her father and husband, who nevertheless loved mrs. butler too well, and were too much indebted to her for their hours of happiness, to withstand any request which she made with earnestness, and as a gratification to herself. but from some feeling, i know not of what kind, the child was never distinguished by the name of effie, but by the abbreviation of femie, which in scotland is equally commonly applied to persons called euphemia. in this state of quiet and unostentatious enjoyment, there were, besides the ordinary rubs and ruffles which disturb even the most uniform life, two things which particularly chequered mrs. butler's happiness. "without these," she said to our informer, "her life would have been but too happy; and perhaps," she added, "she had need of some crosses in this world to remind her that there was a better to come behind it." the first of these related to certain polemical skirmishes betwixt her father and her husband, which, notwithstanding the mutual respect and affection they entertained for each other, and their great love for her--notwithstanding, also, their general agreement in strictness, and even severity, of presbyterian principle--often threatened unpleasant weather between them. david deans, as our readers must be aware, was sufficiently opinionative and intractable, and having prevailed on himself to become a member of a kirk-session under the established church, he felt doubly obliged to evince that, in so doing, he had not compromised any whit of his former professions, either in practice or principle. now mr. butler, doing all credit to his father-in-law's motives, was frequently of opinion that it were better to drop out of memory points of division and separation, and to act in the manner most likely to attract and unite all parties who were serious in religion. moreover, he was not pleased, as a man and a scholar, to be always dictated to by his unlettered father-in-law; and as a clergyman, he did not think it fit to seem for ever under the thumb of an elder of his own kirk-session. a proud but honest thought carried his opposition now and then a little farther than it would otherwise have gone. "my brethren," he said, "will suppose i am flattering and conciliating the old man for the sake of his succession, if i defer and give way to him on every occasion; and, besides, there are many on which i neither can nor will conscientiously yield to his notions. i cannot be persecuting old women for witches, or ferreting out matter of scandal among the young ones, which might otherwise have remained concealed." from this difference of opinion it happened that, in many cases of nicety, such as in owning certain defections, and failing to testify against certain backslidings of the time, in not always severely tracing forth little matters of scandal and _fama clamosa,_ which david called a loosening of the reins of discipline, and in failing to demand clear testimonies in other points of controversy which had, as it were, drifted to leeward with the change of times, butler incurred the censure of his father-in-law; and sometimes the disputes betwixt them became eager and almost unfriendly. in all such cases mrs butler was a mediating spirit, who endeavoured, by the alkaline smoothness of her own disposition, to neutralise the acidity of theological controversy. to the complaints of both she lent an unprejudiced and attentive ear, and sought always rather to excuse than absolutely to defend the other party. she reminded her father that butler had not "his experience of the auld and wrastling times, when folk were gifted wi' a far look into eternity, to make up for the oppressions whilk they suffered here below in time. she freely allowed that many devout ministers and professors in times past had enjoyed downright revelation, like the blessed peden, and lundie, and cameron, and renwick, and john caird the tinkler, wha entered into the secrets, and elizabeth melvil, lady culross, wha prayed in her bed, surrounded by a great many christians in a large room, in whilk it was placed on purpose, and that for three hours' time, with wonderful assistance; and lady robertland, whilk got six sure outgates of grace, and mony other in times past; and of a specially, mr. john scrimgeour, minister of kinghorn, who, having a beloved child sick to death of the crewels, was free to expostulate with his maker with such impatience of displeasure, and complaining so bitterly, that at length it was said unto him, that he was heard for this time, but that he was requested to use no such boldness in time coming; so that when he returned he found the child sitting up in the bed hale and fair, with all its wounds closed, and supping its parritch, whilk babe he had left at the time of death. but though these things might be true in these needful times, she contended that those ministers who had not seen such vouchsafed and especial mercies, were to seek their rule in the records of ancient times; and therefore reuben was carefu' both to search the scriptures and the books written by wise and good men of old; and sometimes in this way it wad happen that twa precious saints might pu' sundry wise, like twa cows riving at the same hayband." to this david used to reply, with a sigh, "ah, hinny, thou kenn'st little o't; but that saam john scrimgeour, that blew open the gates of heaven as an it had been wi' a sax-pund cannonball, used devoutly to wish that most part of books were burnt, except the bible. reuben's a gude lad and a kind--i have aye allowed that; but as to his not allowing inquiry anent the scandal of marjory kittlesides and rory macrand, under pretence that they have southered sin wi' marriage, it's clear agane the christian discipline o' the kirk. and then there's aily macclure of deepheugh, that practises her abominations, spacing folks' fortunes wi' egg-shells, and mutton-banes, and dreams and divinations, whilk is a scandal to ony christian land to suffer sic a wretch to live; and i'll uphaud that, in a' judicatures, civil or ecclesiastical." "i daresay ye are very right, father," was the general style of jeanie's answer; "but ye maun come down to the manse to your dinner the day. the bits o' bairns, puir things, are wearying to see their luckie dad; and reuben never sleeps weel, nor i neither, when you and he hae had ony bit outcast." "nae outcast, jeanie; god forbid i suld cast out wi' thee, or aught that is dear to thee!" and he put on his sundays coat, and came to the manse accordingly. with her husband, mrs. butler had a more direct conciliatory process. reuben had the utmost respect for the old man's motives, and affection for his person, as well as gratitude for his early friendship. so that, upon any such occasion of accidental irritation, it was only necessary to remind him with delicacy of his father-in-law's age, of his scanty education, strong prejudices, and family distresses. the least of these considerations always inclined butler to measures of conciliation, in so far as he could accede to them without compromising principle; and thus our simple and unpretending heroine had the merit of those peacemakers, to whom it is pronounced as a benediction, that they shall inherit the earth. the second crook in mrs. butler's lot, to use the language of her father, was the distressing circumstance, that she had never heard of her sister's safety, or of the circumstances in which she found herself, though betwixt four and five years had elapsed since they had parted on the beach of the island of roseneath. frequent intercourse was not to be expected--not to be desired, perhaps, in their relative situations; but effie had promised, that, if she lived and prospered, her sister should hear from her. she must then be no more, or sunk into some abyss of misery, since she had never redeemed her pledge. her silence seemed strange and portentous, and wrung from jeanie, who could never forget the early years of their intimacy, the most painful anticipation concerning her fate. at length, however, the veil was drawn aside. one day, as the captain of knockdunder had called in at the manse, on his return from some business in the highland part of the parish, and had been accommodated, according to his special request, with a mixture of milk, brandy, honey, and water, which he said mrs. butler compounded "potter than ever a woman in scotland,"--for, in all innocent matters, she studied the taste of every one around her,--he said to butler, "py the py, minister, i have a letter here either for your canny pody of a wife or you, which i got when i was last at glasco; the postage comes to fourpence, which you may either pay me forthwith, or give me tooble or quits in a hit at packcammon." the playing at backgammon and draughts had been a frequent amusement of mr. whackbairn, butler's principal, when at liberton school. the minister, therefore, still piqued himself on his skill at both games, and occasionally practised them, as strictly canonical, although david deans, whose notions of every kind were more rigorous, used to shake his head, and groan grievously, when he espied the tables lying in the parlour, or the children playing with the dice boxes or backgammon men. indeed, mrs. butler was sometimes chidden for removing these implements of pastime into some closet or corner out of sight. "let them be where they are, jeanie," would butler say upon such occasions; "i am not conscious of following this, or any other trifling relaxation, to the interruption of my more serious studies, and still more serious duties. i will not, therefore, have it supposed that i am indulging by stealth, and against my conscience, in an amusement which, using it so little as i do, i may well practise openly, and without any check of mind--_nil conscire sibi,_ jeanie, that is my motto; which signifies, my love, the honest and open confidence which a man ought to entertain when he is acting openly, and without any sense of doing wrong." such being butler's humour, he accepted the captain's defiance to a twopenny hit at backgammon, and handed the letter to his wife, observing the post-mark was york, but, if it came from her friend mrs. bickerton, she had considerably improved her handwriting, which was uncommon at her years. leaving the gentlemen to their game, mrs. butler went to order something for supper, for captain duncan had proposed kindly to stay the night with them, and then carelessly broke open her letter. it was not from mrs. bickerton; and, after glancing over the first few lines, she soon found it necessary to retire to her own bedroom, to read the document at leisure. chapter twenty-fourth. happy thou art! then happy be, nor envy me my lot; thy happy state i envy thee, and peaceful cot. lady charlotte campbell. the letter, which mrs. butler, when retired into her own apartment, perused with anxious wonder, was certainly from effie, although it had no other signature than the letter e.; and although the orthography, style, and penmanship, were very far superior not only to anything which effie could produce, who, though a lively girl, had been a remarkably careless scholar, but even to her more considerate sister's own powers of composition and expression. the manuscript was a fair italian hand, though something stiff and constrained--the spelling and the diction that of a person who had been accustomed to read good composition, and mix in good society. the tenor of the letter was as follows:-- "my dearest sister,--at many risks i venture to write to you, to inform you that i am still alive, and, as to worldly situation, that i rank higher than i could expect or merit. if wealth, and distinction, and an honourable rank, could make a woman happy, i have them all; but you, jeanie, whom the world might think placed far beneath me in all these respects, are far happier than i am. i have had means of hearing of your welfare, my dearest jeanie, from time to time--i think i should have broken my heart otherwise. i have learned with great pleasure of your increasing family. we have not been worthy of such a blessing; two infants have been successively removed, and we are now childless--god's will be done! but, if we had a child, it would perhaps divert him from the gloomy thoughts which make him terrible to himself and others. yet do not let me frighten you, jeanie; he continues to be kind, and i am far better off than i deserve. you will wonder at my better scholarship; but when i was abroad, i had the best teachers, and i worked hard, because my progress pleased him. he is kind, jeanie, only he has much to distress him, especially when he looks backward. when i look backward myself, i have always a ray of comfort: it is in the generous conduct of a sister, who forsook me not when i was forsaken by every one. you have had your reward. you live happy in the esteem and love of all who know you, and i drag on the life of a miserable impostor, indebted for the marks of regard i receive to a tissue of deceit and lies, which the slightest accident may unravel. he has produced me to his friends, since the estate opened to him, as a daughter of a scotchman of rank, banished on account of the viscount of dundee's wars--that is, our fr's old friend clavers, you know--and he says i was educated in a scotch convent; indeed, i lived in such a place long enough to enable me to support the character. but when a countryman approaches me, and begins to talk, as they all do, of the various families engaged in dundee's affair, and to make inquiries into my connections, and when i see his eye bent on mine with such an expression of agony, my terror brings me to the very risk of detection. good-nature and politeness have hitherto saved me, as they prevented people from pressing on me with distressing questions. but how long--o how long, will this be the case!--and if i bring this disgrace on him, he will hate me--he will kill me, for as much as he loves me; he is as jealous of his family honour now, as ever he was careless about it. i have been in england four months, and have often thought of writing to you; and yet, such are the dangers that might arise from an intercepted letter, that i have hitherto forborne. but now i am obliged to run the risk. last week i saw your great friend, the d. of a. he came to my box, and sate by me; and something in the play put him in mind of you--gracious heaven! he told over your whole london journey to all who were in the box, but particularly to the wretched creature who was the occasion of it all. if he had known--if he could have conceived, beside whom he was sitting, and to whom the story was told!--i suffered with courage, like an indian at the stake, while they are rending his fibres and boring his eyes, and while he smiles applause at each well-imagined contrivance of his torturers. it was too much for me at last, jeanie--i fainted; and my agony was imputed partly to the heat of the place, and partly to my extreme sensibility; and, hypocrite all over, i encouraged both opinions--anything but discovery! luckily, _he_ was not there. but the incident has more alarms. i am obliged to meet your great man often; and he seldom sees me without talking of e. d. and j. d., and r. b. and d. d., as persons in whom my amiable sensibility is interested. my amiable sensibility!!!--and then the cruel tone of light indifference with which persons in the fashionable world speak together on the most affecting subjects! to hear my guilt, my folly, my agony, the foibles and weaknesses of my friends--even your heroic exertions, jeanie, spoken of in the drolling style which is the present tone in fashionable life--scarce all that i formerly endured is equal to this state of irritation--then it was blows and stabs--now it is pricking to death with needles and pins.--he--i mean the d.--goes down next month to spend the shooting-season in scotland--he says, he makes a point of always dining one day at the manse--be on your guard, and do not betray yourself, should he mention me--yourself, alas! _you_ have nothing to betray--nothing to fear; you, the pure, the virtuous, the heroine of unstained faith, unblemished purity, what can you have to fear from the world or its proudest minions? it is e. whose life is once more in your hands--it is e. whom you are to save from being plucked of her borrowed plumes, discovered, branded, and trodden down, first by him, perhaps, who has raised her to this dizzy pinnacle!--the enclosure will reach you twice a-year--do not refuse it--it is out of my own allowance, and may be twice as much when you want it. with you it may do good--with me it never can. "write to me soon, jeanie, or i shall remain in the agonising apprehension that this has fallen into wrong hands--address simply to l. s., under cover, to the reverend george whiterose, in the minster-close, york. he thinks i correspond with some of my noble jacobite relations who are in scotland. how high-church and jacobitical zeal would burn in his checks, if he knew he was the agent, not of euphemia setoun, of the honourable house of winton, but of e. d., daughter of a cameronian cowfeeder!--jeanie, i can laugh yet sometimes--but god protect you from such mirth.--my father--i mean your father, would say it was like the idle crackling of thorns; but the thorns keep their poignancy, they remain unconsumed. farewell, my dearest jeanie--do not show this even to mr. butler, much less to any one else. i have every respect for him, but his principles are over strict, and my case will not endure severe handling.--i rest your affectionate sister, e." in this long letter there was much to surprise as well as to distress mrs. butler. that effie--her sister effie, should be mingling freely in society, and apparently on not unequal terms, with the duke of argyle, sounded like something so extraordinary, that she even doubted if she read truly. not was it less marvellous, that, in the space of four years, her education should have made such progress. jeanie's humility readily allowed that effie had always, when she chose it, been smarter at her book than she herself was, but then she was very idle, and, upon the whole, had made much less proficiency. love, or fear, or necessity, however, had proved an able school-mistress, and completely supplied all her deficiencies. what jeanie least liked in the tone of the letter, was a smothered degree of egotism. "we should have heard little about her," said jeanie to herself, "but that she was feared the duke might come to learn wha she was, and a' about her puir friends here; but effie, puir thing, aye looks her ain way, and folk that do that think mair o' themselves than of their neighbours.--i am no clear about keeping her siller," she added, taking up a l note which had fallen out of the paper to the floor. "we hae eneugh, and it looks unco like theftboot, or hushmoney, as they ca' it; she might hae been sure that i wad say naething wad harm her, for a' the gowd in lunnon. and i maun tell the minister about it. i dinna see that she suld be sae feared for her ain bonny bargain o' a gudeman, and that i shouldna reverence mr. butler just as much; and sae i'll e'en tell him, when that tippling body the captain has ta'en boat in the morning.--but i wonder at my ain state of mind," she added, turning back, after she had made a step or two to the door to join the gentlemen; "surely i am no sic a fule as to be angry that effie's a braw lady, while i am only a minister's wife?--and yet i am as petted as a bairn, when i should bless god, that has redeemed her from shame, and poverty, and guilt, as ower likely she might hae been plunged into." sitting down upon a stool at the foot of the bed, she folded her arms upon her bosom, saying within herself, "from this place will i not rise till i am in a better frame of mind;" and so placed, by dint of tearing the veil from the motives of her little temporary spleen against her sister, she compelled herself to be ashamed of them, and to view as blessings the advantages of her sister's lot, while its embarrassments were the necessary consequences of errors long since committed. and thus she fairly vanquished the feeling of pique which she naturally enough entertained, at seeing effie, so long the object of her care and her pity, soar suddenly so high above her in life, as to reckon amongst the chief objects of her apprehension the risk of their relationship being discovered. when this unwonted burst of _amour propre_ was thoroughly subdued, she walked down to the little parlour where the gentlemen were finishing their game, and heard from the captain a confirmation of the news intimated in her letter, that the duke of argyle was shortly expected at roseneath. "he'll find plenty of moor-fowls and plack-cock on the moors of auchingower, and he'll pe nae doubt for taking a late dinner, and a ped at the manse, as he has done pefore now." "he has a gude right, captain," said jeanie. "teil ane potter to ony ped in the kintra," answered the captain. "and ye had potter tell your father, puir body, to get his beasts a' in order, and put his tamn'd cameronian nonsense out o' his head for twa or three days, if he can pe so opliging; for fan i speak to him apout prute pestil, he answers me out o' the pible, whilk is not using a shentleman weel, unless it be a person of your cloth, mr. putler." no one understood better than jeanie the merit of the soft answer, which turneth away wrath; and she only smiled, and hoped that his grace would find everything that was under her father's care to his entire satisfaction. but the captain, who had lost the whole postage of the letter at backgammon, was in the pouting mood not unusual to losers, and which, says the proverb, must be allowed to them. "and, master putler, though you know i never meddle with the things of your kirk-sessions, yet i must pe allowed to say that i will not be pleased to allow ailie macclure of deepheugh to be poonished as a witch, in respect she only spaes fortunes, and does not lame, or plind, or pedevil any persons, or coup cadger's carts, or ony sort of mischief; put only tells people good fortunes, as anent our poats killing so many seals and doug-fishes, whilk is very pleasant to hear." "the woman," said butler, "is, i believe, no witch, but a cheat: and it is only on that head that she is summoned to the kirk-session, to cause her to desist in future from practising her impostures upon ignorant persons." "i do not know," replied the gracious duncan, "what her practices or postures are, but i pelieve that if the poys take hould on her to duck her in the clachan purn, it will be a very sorry practice--and i pelieve, moreover, that if i come in thirdsman among you at the kirk-sessions, you will be all in a tamn'd pad posture indeed." without noticing this threat, mr. butler replied, "that he had not attended to the risk of ill-usage which the poor woman might undergo at the hands of the rabble, and that he would give her the necessary admonition in private, instead of bringing her before the assembled session." "this," duncan said, "was speaking like a reasonable shentleman;" and so the evening passed peaceably off. next morning, after the captain had swallowed his morning draught of athole brose, and departed in his coach and six, mrs. butler anew deliberated upon communicating to her husband her sister's letter. but she was deterred by the recollection, that, in doing so, she would unveil to him the whole of a dreadful secret, of which, perhaps, his public character might render him an unfit depositary. butler already had reason to believe that effie had eloped with that same robertson who had been a leader in the porteous mob, and who lay under sentence of death for the robbery at kirkcaldy. but he did not know his identity with george staunton, a man of birth and fortune, who had now apparently reassumed his natural rank in society. jeanie had respected staunton's own confession as sacred, and upon reflection she considered the letter of her sisteras equally so, and resolved to mention the contents to no one. on reperusing the letter, she could not help observing the staggering and unsatisfactory condition of those who have risen to distinction by undue paths, and the outworks and bulwarks of fiction and falsehood, by which they are under the necessity of surrounding and defending their precarious advantages. but she was not called upon, she thought, to unveil her sister's original history--it would restore no right to any one, for she was usurping none--it would only destroy her happiness, and degrade her in the public estimation. had she been wise, jeanie thought she would have chosen seclusion and privacy, in place of public life and gaiety; but the power of choice might not be hers. the money, she thought, could not be returned without her seeming haughty and unkind. she resolved, therefore, upon reconsidering this point, to employ it as occasion should serve, either in educating her children better than her own means could compass, or for their future portion. her sister had enough, was strongly bound to assist jeanie by any means in her power, and the arrangement was so natural and proper, that it ought not to be declined out of fastidious or romantic delicacy. jeanie accordingly wrote to her sister, acknowledging her letter, and requesting to hear from her as often as she could. in entering into her own little details of news, chiefly respecting domestic affairs, she experienced a singular vacillation of ideas; for sometimes she apologised for mentioning things unworthy the notice of a lady of rank, and then recollected that everything which concerned her should be interesting to effie. her letter, under the cover of mr. whiterose, she committed to the post-office at glasgow, by the intervention of a parishioner who had business at that city. the next week brought the duke to roseneath, and shortly afterwards he intimated his intention of sporting in their neighbourhood, and taking his bed at the manse; an honour which he had once or twice done to its inmates on former occasions. effie proved to be perfectly right in her auticipations. the duke had hardly set himself down at mrs. butler's right hand, and taken upon himself the task of carving the excellent "barn-door chucky," which had been selected as the high dishes upon this honourable occasion, before he began to speak of lady staunton of willingham, in lincolnshire, and the great noise which her wit and beauty made in london. for much of this jeanie was, in some measure, prepared--but effie's wit! that would never have entered into her imagination, being ignorant how exactly raillery in the higher rank resembles flippancy among their inferiors. "she has been the ruling belle--the blazing star--the universal toast of the winter," said the duke; "and is really the most beautiful creature that was seen at court upon the birth-day." the birthday! and at court!--jeanie was annihilated, remembering well her own presentation, all its extraordinary circumstances, and particularly the cause of it. "i mention this lady particularly to you, mrs. butler," said the duke, "because she has something in the sound of her voice, and cast of her countenance, that reminded me of you--not when you look so pale though--you have over-fatigued yourself--you must pledge me in a glass of wine." she did so, and butler observed, "it was dangerous flattery in his grace to tell a poor minister's wife that she was like a court-beauty." "oho, mr. butler," said the duke, "i find you are growing jealous; but it's rather too late in the day, for you know how long i have admired your wife. but seriously, there is betwixt them one of those inexplicable likenesses which we see in countenances, that do not otherwise resemble each other." "the perilous part of the compliment has flown off," thought mr. butler. his wife, feeling the awkwardness of silence, forced herself to say, "that, perhaps, the lady might be her countrywoman, and the language might have made some resemblance." "you are quite right," replied the duke. "she is a scotch-woman, and speaks with a scotch accent, and now and then a provincial word drops out so prettily, that it is quite doric, mr. butler." "i should have thought," said the clergyman, "that would have sounded vulgar in the great city." "not at all," replied the duke; "you must suppose it is not the broad coarse scotch that is spoken in the cowgate of edinburgh, or in the gorbals. this lady has been very little in scotland, in fact she was educated in a convent abroad, and speaks that pure court-scotch, which was common in my younger days; but it is so generally disused now, that it sounds like a different dialect, entirely distinct from our modern _patois._" notwithstanding her anxiety, jeanie could not help admiring within herself, how the most correct judges of life and manners can be imposed on by their own preconceptions, while the duke proceeded thus: "she is of the unfortunate house of winton, i believe; but, being bred abroad, she had missed the opportunity of learning her own pedigree, and was obliged to me for informing her, that she must certainly come of the setons of windygoul. i wish you could have seen how prettily she blushed at her own ignorance. amidst her noble and elegant manners, there is now and then a little touch of bashfulness and conventual rusticity, if i may call it so, that makes her quite enchanting. you see at once the rose that had bloomed untouched amid the chaste precincts of the cloister, mr. butler." true to the hint, mr. butler failed not to start with his "ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis," etc., while his wife could hardly persuade herself that all this was spoken of effie deans, and by so competent a judge as the duke of argyle; and had she been acquainted with catullus, would have thought the fortunes of her sister had reversed the whole passage. she was, however, determined to obtain some indemnification for the anxious feelings of the moment, by gaining all the intelligence she could; and therefore ventured to make some inquiry about the husband of the lady his grace admired so much. "he is very rich," replied the duke; "of an ancient family, and has good manners: but he is far from being such a general favourite as his wife. some people say he can be very pleasant--i never saw him so; but should rather judge him reserved, and gloomy, and capricious. he was very wild in his youth, they say, and has bad health; yet he is a good-looking man enough--a great friend of your lord high commissioner of the kirk, mr. butler." "then he is the friend of a very worthy and honourable nobleman," said butler. "does he admire his lady as much as other people do?" said jeanie, in a low voice. "who--sir george? they say he is very fond of her," said the duke; "but i observe she trembles a little when he fixes his eye on her, and that is no good sign--but it is strange how i am haunted by this resemblance of yours to lady staunton, in look and tone of voice. one would almost swear you were sisters." jeanie's distress became uncontrollable, and beyond concealment. the duke of argyle was much disturbed, good-naturedly ascribing it to his having unwittingly recalled, to her remembrance her family misfortunes. he was too well-bred to attempt to apologise; but hastened to change the subject, and arrange certain points of dispute which had occurred betwixt duncan of knock and the minister, acknowledging that his worthy substitute was sometimes a little too obstinate, as well as too energetic, in his executive measures. mr. butler admitted his general merits; but said, "he would presume to apply to the worthy gentleman the words of the poet to marrucinus asinius, manu non belle uteris in joco atque vino." the discourse being thus turned on parish business, nothing farther occurred that can interest the reader. chapter twenty-fifth. upon my head they placed a fruitless crown, and put a barren sceptre in my gripe, thence to be wrench'd by an unlineal hand, no son of mine succeeding. macbeth. after this period, but under the most strict precautions against discovery, the sisters corresponded occasionally, exchanging letters about twice every year. those of lady staunton spoke of her husband's health and spirits as being deplorably uncertain; her own seemed also to be sinking, and one of the topics on which she most frequently dwelt was their want of family. sir george staunton, always violent, had taken some aversion at the next heir, whom he suspected of having irritated his friends against him during his absence; and he declared, he would bequeath willingham and all its lands to an hospital, ere that fetch-and-carry tell-tale should inherit an acre of it. "had he but a child," said the unfortunate wife, "or had that luckless infant survived, it would be some motive for living and for exertion. but heaven has denied us a blessing which we have not deserved." such complaints, in varied form, but turning frequently on the same topic, filled the letters which passed from the spacious but melancholy halls of willingham, to the quiet and happy parsonage at knocktarlitie. years meanwhile rolled on amid these fruitless repinings. john, duke of argyle and greenwich, died in the year , universally lamented, but by none more than by the butlers, to whom his benevolence had been so distinguished. he was succeeded by his brother duke archibald, with whom they had not the same intimacy; but who continued the protection which his brother had extended towards them. this, indeed, became more necessary than ever; for, after the breaking out and suppression of the rebellion in , the peace of the country, adjacent to the highlands, was considerably disturbed. marauders, or men that had been driven to that desperate mode of life, quartered themselves in the fastnesses nearest to the lowlands, which were their scene of plunder; and there is scarce a glen in the romantic and now peaceable highlands of perth, stirling, and dumbartonshire, where one or more did not take up their residence. the prime pest of the parish of knocktarlitie was a certain donacha dhu na dunaigh, or black duncan the mischievous, whom we have already casually mentioned. this fellow had been originally a tinkler, or _caird,_ many of whom stroll about these districts; but when all police was disorganised by the civil war, he threw up his profession, and from half thief became whole robber; and being generally at the head of three or four active young fellows, and he himself artful, bold, and well acquainted with the passes, he plied his new profession with emolument to himself, and infinite plague to the country. all were convinced that duncan of knock could have put down his namesake donacha any morning he had a mind; for there were in the parish a set of stout young men, who had joined argyle's banner in the war under his old friend, and behaved very well on several occasions. and as for their leader, as no one doubted his courage, it was generally supposed that donacha had found out the mode of conciliating his favour, a thing not very uncommon in that age and country. this was the more readily believed, as david deans's cattle (being the property of the duke) were left untouched, when the minister's cows were carried off by the thieves. another attempt was made to renew the same act of rapine, and the cattle were in the act of being driven off, when butler, laying his profession aside in a case of such necessity, put himself at the head of some of his neighbours, and rescued the creagh, an exploit at which deans attended in person, notwithstanding his extreme old age, mounted on a highland pony, and girded with an old broadsword, likening himself (for he failed not to arrogate the whole merit of the expedition) to david, the son of jesse, when he recovered the spoil of ziklag from the amalekites. this spirited behaviour had so far a good effect, that donacha dhu na dunaigh kept his distance for some time to come; and, though his distant exploits were frequently spoken of, he did not exercise any depredations in that part of the country. he continued to flourish, and to be heard of occasionally, until the year , when, if the fear of the second david had kept him in check, fate released him from that restraint, for the venerable patriarch of st. leonard's was that year gathered to his fathers. david deans died full of years and of honour. he is believed, for the exact time of his birth is not known, to have lived upwards of ninety years; for he used to speak of events as falling under his own knowledge, which happened about the time of the battle of bothwell bridge. it was said that he even bore arms there; for once, when a drunken jacobite laird wished for a bothwell brigg whig, that "he might stow the lugs out of his head," david informed him with a peculiar austerity of countenance, that, if he liked to try such a prank, there was one at his elbow; and it required the interference of butler to preserve the peace. he expired in the arms of his beloved daughter, thankful for all the blessings which providence had vouchsafed to him while in this valley of strife and toil--and thankful also for the trials he had been visited with; having found them, he said, needful to mortify that spiritual pride and confidence in his own gifts, which was the side on which the wily enemy did most sorely beset him. he prayed in the most affecting manner for jeanie, her husband, and her family, and that her affectionate duty to the puir auld man might purchase her length of days here, and happiness hereafter; then, in a pathetic petition, too well understood by those who knew his family circumstances, he besought the shepherd of souls, while gathering his flock, not to forget the little one that had strayed from the fold, and even then might be in the hands of the ravening wolf.--he prayed for the national jerusalem, that peace might be in her land, and prosperity in her palaces--for the welfare of the honourable house of argyle, and for the conversion of duncan of knockdunder. after this he was silent, being exhausted, nor did he again utter anything distinctly. he was heard, indeed, to mutter something about national defections, right-hand extremes, and left-hand failings off; but, as may hettly observed, his head was carried at the time; and it is probable that these expressions occurred to him merely out of general habit, and that he died in the full spirit of charity with all men. about an hour afterwards he slept in the lord. notwithstanding her father's advanced age, his death was a severe shock to mrs. butler. much of her time had been dedicated to attending to his health and his wishes, and she felt as if part of her business in the world was ended, when the good old man was no more. his wealth, which came nearly to fifteen hundred pounds, in disposable capital, served to raise the fortunes of the family at the manse. how to dispose of this sum for the best advantage of his family, was matter of anxious consideration to butler. "if we put it on heritable bond, we shall maybe lose the interest; for there's that bond over lounsbeck's land, your father could neither get principal nor interest for it--if we bring it into the funds, we shall maybe lose the principal and all, as many did in the south sea scheme. the little estate of craigsture is in the market--it lies within two miles of the manse, and knock says his grace has no thought to buy it. but they ask l , and they may, for it is worth the money; and were i to borrow the balance, the creditor might call it up suddenly, or in case of my death my family might be distressed." "and so if we had mair siller, we might buy that bonny pasture-ground, where the grass comes so early?" asked jeanie. "certainly, my dear; and knockdunder, who is a good judge, is strongly advising me to it. to be sure it is his nephew that is selling it." "aweel, reuben," said jeanie, "ye maun just look up a text in scripture, as ye did when ye wanted siller before--just look up a text in the bible." "ah, jeanie," said butler, laughing and pressing her hand at the same time, "the best people in these times can only work miracles once." "we will see," said jeanie composedly; and going to the closet in which she kept her honey, her sugar, her pots of jelly, her vials of the more ordinary medicines, and which served her, in short, as a sort of store-room, she jangled vials and gallipots, till, from out the darkest nook, well flanked by a triple row of bottles and jars, which she was under the necessity of displacing, she brought a cracked brown cann, with a piece of leather tied over the top. its contents seemed to be written papers, thrust in disorder into this uncommon _secre'taire._ but from among these jeanie brought an old clasped bible, which had been david deans's companion in his earlier wanderings, and which he had given to his daughter when the failure of his eyes had compelled him to use one of a larger print. this she gave to butler, who had been looking at her motions with some surprise, and desired him to see what that book could do for him. he opened the clasps, and to his astonishment a parcel of l bank-notes dropped out from betwixt the leaves, where they had been separately lodged, and fluttered upon the floor. "i didna think to hae tauld you o' my wealth, reuben," said his wife, smiling at his surprise, "till on my deathbed, or maybe on some family pinch; but it wad be better laid out on yon bonny grass-holms, than lying useless here in this auld pigg." "how on earth came ye by that siller, jeanie?--why, here is more than a thousand pounds," said butler, lifting up and counting the notes. "if it were ten thousand, it's a' honestly come by," said jeanie; "and troth i kenna how muckle there is o't, but it's a' there that ever i got.--and as for how i came by it, reuben--it's weel come by, and honestly, as i said before--and it's mair folk's secret than mine, or ye wad hae kend about it lang syne; and as for onything else, i am not free to answer mair questions about it, and ye maun just ask me nane." "answer me but one," said butler. "is it all freely and indisputably your own property, to dispose of it as you think fit?--is it possible no one has a claim in so large a sum except you?" "it _was_ mine, free to dispose of it as i like," answered jeanie; "and i have disposed of it already, for now it is yours, reuben--you are bible butler now, as well as your forbear, that my puir father had sic an ill will at. only, if ye like, i wad wish femie to get a gude share o't when we are gane." "certainly, it shall be as you choose--but who on earth ever pitched on such a hiding-place for temporal treasures?" "that is just ane o' my auld-fashioned gates, as you ca' them, reuben. i thought if donacha dhu was to make an outbreak upon us, the bible was the last thing in the house he wad meddle wi'--but an ony mair siller should drap in, as it is not unlikely, i shall e'en pay it ower to you, and ye may lay it out your ain way." "and i positively must not ask you how you have come by all this money?" said the clergyman. "indeed, reuben, you must not; for if you were asking me very sair i wad maybe tell you, and then i am sure i would do wrong." "but tell me," said butler, "is it anything that distresses your own mind?" "there is baith weal and woe come aye wi' world's gear, reuben; but ye maun ask me naething mair--this siller binds me to naething, and can never be speered back again." "surely," said mr. butler, when he had again counted over the money, as if to assure himself that the notes were real, "there was never man in the world had a wife like mine--a blessing seems to follow her." "never," said jeanie, "since the enchanted princess in the bairn's fairy tale, that kamed gold nobles out o' the tae side of her haffit locks, and dutch dollars out o' the tother. but gang away now, minister, and put by the siller, and dinna keep the notes wampishing in your hand that gate, or i shall wish them in the brown pigg again, for fear we get a black cast about them--we're ower near the hills in these times to be thought to hae siller in the house. and, besides, ye maun gree wi' knockdunder, that has the selling o' the lands; and dinna you be simple and let him ken o' this windfa', but keep him to the very lowest penny, as if ye had to borrow siller to make the price up." in the last admonition, jeanie showed distinctly, that, although she did not understand how to secure the money which came into her hands otherwise than by saving and hoarding it, yet she had some part of her father david's shrewdness, even upon worldly subjects. and reuben butler was a prudent man, and went and did even as his wife had advised him. the news quickly went abroad into the parish that the minister had bought craigsture; and some wished him joy, and some "were sorry it had gane out of the auld name." however, his clerical brethren, understanding that he was under the necessity of going to edinburgh about the ensuing whitsunday, to get together david deans's cash to make up the purchase-money of his new acquisition, took the opportunity to name him their delegate to the general assembly, or convocation of the scottish church, which takes place usually in the latter end of the month of may. chapter twenty-sixth. but who is this? what thing of sea or land-- female of sex it seems-- that so bedeck'd, ornate, and gay, comes this way sailing? milton. not long after the incident of the bible and the bank-notes, fortune showed that she could surprise mrs butler as well as her husband. the minister, in order to accomplish the various pieces of business which his unwonted visit to edinburgh rendered necessary, had been under the necessity of setting out from home in the latter end of the month of february, concluding justly that he would find the space betwixt his departure and the term of whitsunday ( th may) short enough for the purpose of bringing forward those various debtors of old david deans, out of whose purses a considerable part of the price of his new purchase was to be made good. jeanie was thus in the unwonted situation of inhabiting a lonely house, and she felt yet more solitary from the death of the good old man who used to divide her cares with her husband. her children were her principal resource, and to them she paid constant attention. it happened a day or two after butler's departure that, while she was engaged in some domestic duties, she heard a dispute among the young folk, which, being maintained with obstinacy, appeared to call for her interference. all came to their natural umpire with their complaints. femie, not yet ten years old, charged davie and reubie with an attempt to take away her book by force; and david and reuben replied, the elder, "that it was not a book for femie to read," and reuben, "that it was about a bad woman." "where did you get the book, ye little hempie?" said mrs. butler. "how dare ye touch papa's books when he is away?" but the little lady, holding fast a sheet of crumpled paper, declared "it was nane o' papa's books, and may hettly had taken it off the muckle cheese which came from inverara;" for, as was very natural to suppose, a friendly intercourse, with interchange of mutual civilities, was kept up from time to time between mrs. dolly dutton, now mrs. maccorkindale, and her former friends. jeanie took the subject of contention out of the child's hand, to satisfy herself of the propriety of her studies; but how much was she struck when she read upon the title of the broadside-sheet, "the last speech, confession, and dying words of margaret maccraw, or murdockson, executed on harabee hill, near carlisle, the day of ." it was, indeed, one of those papers which archibald had bought at longtown, when he monopolised the pedlar's stock, which dolly had thrust into her trunk out of sheer economy. one or two copies, it seems, had remained in her repositories at inverary, till she chanced to need them in packing a cheese, which, as a very superior production, was sent, in the way of civil challenge, to the dairy at knocktarlitie. the title of this paper, so strangely fallen into the very hands from which, in well-meant respect to her feelings, it had been so long detained, was of itself sufficiently startling; but the narrative itself was so interesting, that jeanie, shaking herself loose from the children, ran upstairs to her own apartment, and bolted the door, to peruse it without interruption. the narrative, which appeared to have been drawn up, or at least corrected, by the clergyman who attended this unhappy woman, stated the crime for which she suffered to have been "her active part in that atrocious robbery and murder, committed near two years since near haltwhistle, for which the notorious frank levitt was committed for trial at lancaster assizes. it was supposed the evidence of the accomplice thomas tuck, commonly called tyburn tom, upon which the woman had been convicted, would weigh equally heavy against him; although many were inclined to think it was tuck himself who had struck the fatal blow, according to the dying statement of meg murdockson." after a circumstantial account of the crime for which she suffered, there was a brief sketch of margaret's life. it was stated that she was a scotchwoman by birth, and married a soldier in the cameronian regiment--that she long followed the camp, and had doubtless acquired in fields of battle, and similar scenes, that ferocity and love of plunder for which she had been afterwards distinguished--that her husband, having obtained his discharge, became servant to a beneficed clergyman of high situation and character in lincolnshire, and that she acquired the confidence and esteem of that honourable family. she had lost this many years after her husband's death, it was stated, in consequence of conniving at the irregularities of her daughter with the heir of the family, added to the suspicious circumstances attending the birth of a child, which was strongly suspected to have met with foul play, in order to preserve, if possible, the girl's reputation. after this she had led a wandering life both in england and scotland, under colour sometimes of telling fortunes, sometimes of driving a trade in smuggled wares, but, in fact, receiving stolen goods, and occasionally actively joining in the exploits by which they were obtained. many of her crimes she had boasted of after conviction, and there was one circumstance for which she seemed to feel a mixture of joy and occasional compunction. when she was residing in the suburbs of edinburgh during the preceding summer, a girl, who had been seduced by one of her confederates, was intrusted to her charge, and in her house delivered of a male infant. her daughter, whose mind was in a state of derangement ever since she had lost her own child, according to the criminal's account, carried off the poor girl's infant, taking it for her own, of the reality of whose death she at times could not be persuaded. margaret murdockson stated that she, for some time, believed her daughter had actually destroyed the infant in her mad fits, and that she gave the father to understand so, but afterwards learned that a female stroller had got it from her. she showed some compunction at having separated mother and child, especially as the mother had nearly suffered death, being condemned, on the scotch law, for the supposed murder of her infant. when it was asked what possible interest she could have had in exposing the unfortunate girl to suffer for a crime she had not committed, she asked, if they thought she was going to put her own daughter into trouble to save another? she did not know what the scotch law would have done to her for carrying the child away. this answer was by no means satisfactory to the clergyman, and he discovered, by close examination, that she had a deep and revengeful hatred against the young person whom she had thus injured. but the paper intimated, that, whatever besides she had communicated upon this subject was confided by her in private to the worthy and reverend archdeacon who had bestowed such particular pains in affording her spiritual assistance. the broadside went on to intimate, that, after her execution, of which the particulars were given, her daughter, the insane person mentioned more than once, and who was generally known by the name of madge wildfire, had been very ill-used by the populace, under the belief that she was a sorceress, and an accomplice in her mother's crimes, and had been with difficulty rescued by the prompt interference of the police. such (for we omit moral reflections, and all that may seem unnecessary to the explanation of our story) was the tenor of the broadside. to mrs. butler it contained intelligence of the highest importance, since it seemed to afford the most unequivocal proof of her sister's innocence respecting the crime for which she had so nearly suffered. it is true, neither she nor her husband, nor even her father, had ever believed her capable of touching her infant with an unkind hand when in possession of her reason; but there was a darkness on the subject, and what might have happened in a moment of insanity was dreadful to think upon. besides, whatever was their own conviction, they had no means of establishing effie's innocence to the world, which, according to the tenor of this fugitive publication, was now at length completely manifested by the dying confession of the person chiefly interested in concealing it. after thanking god for a discovery so dear to her feelings, mrs. butler began to consider what use she should make of it. to have shown it to her husband would have been her first impulse; but, besides that he was absent from home, and the matter too delicate to be the subject of correspondence by an indifferent penwoman, mrs. butler recollected that he was not possessed of the information necessary to form a judgment upon the occasion; and that, adhering to the rule which she had considered as most advisable, she had best transmit the information immediately to her sister, and leave her to adjust with her husband the mode in which they should avail themselves of it. accordingly, she despatched a special messenger to glasgow with a packet, enclosing the confession of margaret murdockson, addressed, as usual, under cover, to mr. whiterose of york. she expected, with anxiety, an answer, but none arrived in the usual course of post, and she was left to imagine how many various causes might account for lady staunton's silence. she began to be half sorry that she had parted with the printed paper, both for fear of its having fallen into bad hands, and from the desire of regaining the document which might be essential to establish her sister's innocence. she was even doubting whether she had not better commit the whole matter to her husband's consideration, when other incidents occurred to divert her purpose. jeanie (she is a favourite, and we beg her pardon for still using the familiar title) had walked down to the sea-side with her children one morning after breakfast, when the boys, whose sight was more discriminating than hers, exclaimed, that "the captain's coach and six was coming right for the shore, with ladies in it." jeanie instinctively bent her eyes on the approaching boat, and became soon sensible that there were two females in the stern, seated beside the gracious duncan, who acted as pilot. it was a point of politeness to walk towards the landing-place, in order to receive them, especially as she saw that the captain of knockdunder was upon honour and ceremony. his piper was in the bow of the boat, sending forth music, of which one half sounded the better that the other was drowned by the waves and the breeze. moreover, he himself had his brigadier wig newly frizzed, his bonnet (he had abjured the cocked-hat) decorated with saint george's red cross, his uniform mounted as a captain of militia, the duke's flag with the boar's head displayed--all intimated parade and gala. as mrs. butler approached the landing-place, she observed the captain hand the ladies ashore with marks of great attention, and the parties advanced towards her, the captain a few steps before the two ladies, of whom the taller and elder leaned on the shoulder of the other, who seemed to be an attendant or servant. as they met, duncan, in his best, most important, and deepest tone of highland civility, "pegged leave to introduce to mrs. putler, lady--eh--eh--i hae forgotten your leddyship's name!" "never mind my name, sir," said the lady; "i trust mrs. butler will be at no loss. the duke's letter"--and, as she observed mrs. butler look confused, she said again to duncan somethin sharply, "did you not send the letter last night, sir?" "in troth and i didna, and i crave your leddyship's pardon; but you see, matam, i thought it would do as weel to-tay, pecause mrs. putler is never taen out o'sorts--never--and the coach was out fishing--and the gig was gane to greenock for a cag of prandy--and--put here's his grace's letter." "give it me, sir," said the lady, taking it out of his hand; "since you have not found it convenient to do me the favour to send it before me, i will deliver it myself." mrs. butler looked with great attention, and a certain dubious feeling of deep interest, on the lady, who thus expressed herself with authority over the man of authority, and to whose mandates he seemed to submit, resigning the letter with a "just as your leddyship is pleased to order it." the lady was rather above the middle size, beautifully made, though something _embonpoint,_ with a hand and arm exquisitely formed. her manner was easy, dignified, and commanding, and seemed to evince high birth and the habits of elevated society. she wore a travelling dress--a grey beaver hat, and a veil of flanders lace. two footmen, in rich liveries, who got out of the barge, and lifted out a trunk and portmanteau, appeared to belong to her suite. "as you did not receive the letter, madam, which should have served for my introduction--for i presume you are mrs. butler--i will not present it to you till you are so good as to admit me into your house without it." "to pe sure, matam," said knockdunder, "ye canna doubt mrs. putler will do that.--mrs. putler, this is lady--lady--these tamned southern names rin out o' my head like a stane trowling down hill--put i believe she is a scottish woman porn--the mair our credit--and i presume her leddyship is of the house of" "the duke of argyle knows my family very well, sir," said the lady, in a tone which seemed designed to silence duncan, or, at any rate, which had that effect completely. there was something about the whole of this stranger's address, and tone, and manner, which acted upon jeanie's feelings like the illusions of a dream, that tease us with a puzzling approach to reality. something there was of her sister in the gait and manner of the stranger, as well as in the sound of her voice, and something also, when, lifting her veil, she showed features, to which, changed as they were in expression and complexion, she could not but attach many remembrances. the stranger was turned of thirty certainly; but so well were her personal charms assisted by the power of dress, and arrangement of ornament, that she might well have passed for one-and-twenty. and her behaviour was so steady and so composed, that, as often as mrs. butler perceived anew some point of resemblance to her unfortunate sister, so often the sustained self-command and absolute composure of the stranger destroyed the ideas which began to arise in her imagination. she led the way silently towards the manse, lost in a confusion of reflections, and trusting the letter with which she was to be there intrusted, would afford her satisfactory explanation of what was a most puzzling and embarrassing scene. the lady maintained in the meanwhile the manners of a stranger of rank. she admired the various points of view like one who has studied nature, and the best representations of art. at length she took notice of the children. "these are two fine young mountaineers--yours, madam, i presume?" jeanie replied in the affirmative. the stranger sighed, and sighed once more as they were presented to her by name. "come here, femie," said mrs. butler, "and hold your head up." "what is your daughter's name, madam?" said the lady. "euphemia, madam," answered mrs. butler. "i thought the ordinary scottish contraction of the name had been effie;" replied the stranger, in a tone which went to jeanie's heart; for in that single word there was more of her sister--more of _lang syne_ ideas--than in all the reminiscences which her own heart had anticipated, or the features and manner of the stranger had suggested. when they reached the manse, the lady gave mrs. butler the letter which she had taken out of the hands of knockdunder; and as she gave it she pressed her hand, adding aloud, "perhaps, madam, you will have the goodness to get me a little milk!" "and me a drap of the grey-peard, if you please, mrs. putler," added duncan. mrs. butler withdrew; but, deputing to may hettly and to david the supply of the strangers' wants, she hastened into her own room to read the letter. the envelope was addressed in the duke of argyle's hand, and requested mrs. butler's attentions and civility to a lady of rank, a particular friend of his late brother, lady staunton of willingham, who, being recommended to drink goats' whey by the physicians, was to honour the lodge at roseneath with her residence, while her husband made a short tour in scotland. but within the same cover, which had been given to lady staunton unsealed, was a letter from that lady, intended to prepare her sister for meeting her, and which, but for the captain's negligence, she ought to have received on the preceding evening. it stated that the news in jeanie's last letter had been so interesting to her husband, that he was determined to inquire farther into the confession made at carlisle, and the fate of that poor innocent, and that, as he had been in some degree successful, she had, by the most earnest entreaties, extorted rather than obtained his permission, under promise of observing the most strict incognito, to spend a week or two with her sister, or in her neighbourhood, while he was prosecuting researches, to which (though it appeared to her very vainly) he seemed to attach some hopes of success. there was a postscript, desiring that jeanie would trust to lady s. the management of their intercourse, and be content with assenting to what she should propose. after reading and again reading the letter, mrs. butler hurried down stairs, divided betwixt the fear of betraying her secret, and the desire to throw herself upon her sister's neck. effie received her with a glance at once affectionate and cautionary, and immediately proceeded to speak. "i have been telling mr. ------, captain , this gentleman, mrs. butler, that if you could accommodate me with an apartment in your house, and a place for ellis to sleep, and for the two men, it would suit me better than the lodge, which his grace has so kindly placed at my disposal. i am advised i should reside as near where the goats feed as possible." "i have peen assuring my leddy, mrs. putler," said duncan, "that though it could not discommode you to receive any of his grace's visitors or mine, yet she had mooch petter stay at the lodge; and for the gaits, the creatures can be fetched there, in respect it is mair fitting they suld wait upon her leddyship, than she upon the like o' them." "by no means derange the goats for me," said lady staunton; "i am certain the milk must be much better here." and this she said with languid negligence, as one whose slightest intimation of humour is to bear down all argument. mrs. butler hastened to intimate, that her house, such as it was, was heartily at the disposal of lady staunton; but the captain continued to remonstrate.. "the duke," he said, "had written" "i will settle all that with his grace" "and there were the things had been sent down frae glasco" "anything necessary might be sent over to the parsonage--she would beg the favour of mrs. butler to show her an apartment, and of the captain to have her trunks, etc., sent over from roseneath." so she courtesied off poor duncan, who departed, saying in his secret soul, "cot tamn her english impudence!--she takes possession of the minister's house as an it were her ain--and speaks to shentlemens as if they were pounden servants, and per tamned to her!--and there's the deer that was shot too--but we will send it ower to the manse, whilk will pe put civil, seeing i hae prought worthy mrs. putler sic a fliskmahoy."-- and with these kind intentions, he went to the shore to give his orders accordingly. in the meantime, the meeting of the sisters was as affectionate as it was extraordinary, and each evinced her feelings in the way proper to her character. jeanie was so much overcome by wonder, and even by awe, that her feelings were deep, stunning, and almost overpowering. effie, on the other hand, wept, laughed, sobbed, screamed, and clapped her hands for joy, all in the space of five minutes, giving way at once, and without reserve, to a natural excessive vivacity of temper, which no one, however, knew better how to restrain under the rules of artificial breeding. after an hour had passed like a moment in their expressions of mutual affection, lady staunton observed the captain walking with impatient steps below the window. "that tiresome highland fool has returned upon our hands," she said. "i will pray him to grace us with his absence." "hout no! hout no!" said mrs. butler, in a tone of entreaty; "ye maunna affront the captain." "affront?" said lady staunton; "nobody is ever affronted at what i do or say, my dear. however, i will endure him, since you think it proper." the captain was accordingly graciously requested by lady staunton to remain during dinner. during this visit his studious and punctilious complaisance towards the lady of rank was happily contrasted by the cavalier air of civil familiarity in which he indulged towards the minister's wife. "i have not been able to persuade mrs. butler," said lady staunton to the captain, during the interval when jeanie had left the parlour, "to let me talk of making any recompense for storming her house, and garrisoning it in the way i have done." "doubtless, matam," said the captain, "it wad ill pecome mrs. putler, wha is a very decent pody, to make any such sharge to a lady who comes from my house, or his grace's, which is the same thing.--and speaking of garrisons, in the year forty-five, i was poot with a garrison of twenty of my lads in the house of inver-garry, whilk had near been unhappily, for" "i beg your pardon, sir--but i wish i could think of some way of indemnifying this good lady." "o, no need of intemnifying at all--no trouble for her, nothing at all-- so, peing in the house of inver-garry, and the people about it being uncanny, i doubted the warst, and" "do you happen to know, sir," said lady staunton, "if any of these two lads, these young butlers, i mean, show any turn for the army?" "could not say, indeed, my leddy," replied knockdunder--"so, i knowing the people to pe unchancy, and not to lippen to, and hearing a pibroch in the wood, i pegan to pid my lads look to their flints, and then" "for," said lady staunton, with the most ruthless disregard to the narrative which she mangled by these interruptions, "if that should be the case, it should cost sir george but the asking a pair of colours for one of them at the war-office, since we have always supported government, and never had occasion to trouble ministers." "and if you please, my leddy," said duncan, who began to find some savour in this proposal, "as i hae a braw weel-grown lad of a nevoy, ca'd duncan macgilligan, that is as pig as paith the putler pairns putten thegither, sir george could ask a pair for him at the same time, and it wad pe put ae asking for a'." lady staunton only answered this hint with a well-bred stare, which gave no sort of encouragement. jeanie, who now returned, was lost in amazement at the wonderful difference betwixt the helpless and despairing girl, whom she had seen stretched on a flock-bed in a dungeon, expecting a violent and disgraceful death, and last as a forlorn exile upon the midnight beach, with the elegant, well-bred, beautiful woman before her. the features, now that her sister's veil was laid aside, did not appear so extremely different, as the whole manner, expression, look, and bearing. in outside show, lady staunton seemed completely a creature too soft and fair for sorrow to have touched; so much accustomed to have all her whims complied with by those around her, that she seemed to expect she should even be saved the trouble of forming them; and so totally unacquainted with contradiction, that she did not even use the tone of self-will, since to breathe a wish was to have it fulfilled. she made no ceremony of ridding herself of duncan as soon as the evening approached; but complimented him out of the house under pretext of fatigue, with the utmost _nonchalance._ when they were alone, her sister could not help expressing her wonder at the self-possession with which lady staunton sustained her part. "i daresay you are surprised at it," said lady staunton composedly; "for you, my dear jeanie, have been truth itself from your cradle upwards; but you must remember that i am a liar of fifteen years' standing, and therefore must by this time be used to my character." in fact, during the feverish tumult of feelings excited during the two or three first days, mrs. butler thought her sister's manner was completely contradictory of the desponding tone which pervaded her correspondence. she was moved to tears, indeed, by the sight of her father's grave, marked by a modest stone recording his piety and integrity; but lighter impressions and associations had also power over her. she amused herself with visiting the dairy, in which she had so long been assistant, and was so near discovering herself to may hettly, by betraying her acquaintance with the celebrated receipt for dunlop cheese, that she compared herself to bedreddin hassan, whom the vizier, his father-in-law, discovered by his superlative skill in composing cream-tarts with pepper in them. but when the novelty of such avocations ceased to amuse her, she showed to her sister but too plainly, that the gaudy colouring with which she veiled her unhappiness afforded as little real comfort, as the gay uniform of the soldier when it is drawn over his mortal wound. there were moods and moments, in which her despondence seemed to exceed even that which she herself had described in her letters, and which too well convinced mrs. butler how little her sister's lot, which in appearance was so brilliant, was in reality to be envied. there was one source, however, from which lady staunton derived a pure degree of pleasure. gifted in every particular with a higher degree of imagination than that of her sister, she was an admirer of the beauties of nature, a taste which compensates many evils to those who happen to enjoy it. here her character of a fine lady stopped short, where she ought to have scream'd at ilk cleugh, and screech'd at ilka how, as loud as she had seen the worrie-cow. on the contrary, with the two boys for her guides, she undertook long and fatiguing walks among the neighbouring mountains, to visit glens, lakes, waterfalls, or whatever scenes of natural wonder or beauty lay concealed among their recesses. it is wordsworth, i think, who, talking of an old man under difficulties, remarks, with a singular attention to nature, whether it was care that spurr'd him, god only knows; but to the very last, he had the lightest foot in ennerdale. in the same manner, languid, listless, and unhappy, within doors, at times even indicating something which approached near to contempt of the homely accommodations of her sister's house, although she instantly endeavoured, by a thousand kindnesses, to atone for such ebullitions of spleen, lady staunton appeared to feel interest and energy while in the open air, and traversing the mountain landscapes in society with the two boys, whose ears she delighted with stories of what she had seen in other countries, and what she had to show them at willingham manor. and they, on the other hand, exerted themselves in doing the honours of dumbartonshire to the lady who seemed so kind, insomuch that there was scarce a glen in the neighbouring hills to which they did not introduce her. upon one of these excursions, while reuben was otherwise employed, david alone acted as lady staunton's guide, and promised to show her a cascade in the hills, grander and higher than any they had yet visited. it was a walk of five long miles, and over rough ground, varied, however, and cheered, by mountain views, and peeps now of the firth and its islands, now of distant lakes, now of rocks and precipices. the scene itself, too, when they reached it, amply rewarded the labour of the walk. a single shoot carried a considerable stream over the face of a black rock, which contrasted strongly in colour with the white foam of the cascade, and, at the depth of about twenty feet, another rock intercepted the view of the bottom of the fall. the water, wheeling out far beneath, swept round the crag, which thus bounded their view, and tumbled down the rocky glen in a torrent of foam. those who love nature always desire to penetrate into its utmost recesses, and lady staunton asked david whether there was not some mode of gaining a view of the abyss at the foot of the fall. he said that he knew a station on a shelf on the farther side of the intercepting rock, from which the whole waterfall was visible, but that the road to it was steep and slippery and dangerous. bent, however, on gratifying her curiosity, she desired him to lead the way; and accordingly he did so over crag and stone, anxiously pointing out to her the resting-places where she ought to step, for their mode of advancing soon ceased to be walking, and became scrambling. in this manner, clinging like sea-birds to the face of the rock, they were enabled at length to turn round it, and came full in front of the fall, which here had a most tremendous aspect, boiling, roaring, and thundering with unceasing din, into a black cauldron, a hundred feet at least below them, which resembled the crater of a volcano. the noise, the dashing of the waters, which gave an unsteady appearance to all around them, the trembling even of the huge crag on which they stood, the precariousness of their footing, for there was scarce room for them to stand on the shelf of rock which they had thus attained, had so powerful an effect on the senses and imagination of lady staunton, that she called out to david she was falling, and would in fact have dropped from the crag had he not caught hold of her. the boy was bold and stout of his age--still he was but fourteen years old, and as his assistance gave no confidence to lady staunton, she felt her situation become really perilous. the chance was, that, in the appalling novelty of the circumstances, he might have caught the infection of her panic, in which case it is likely that both must have perished. she now screamed with terror, though without hope of calling any one to her assistance. to her amazement, the scream was answered by a whistle from above, of a tone so clear and shrill, that it was heard even amid the noise of the waterfall. in this moment of terror and perplexity, a human face, black, and having grizzled hair hanging down over the forehead and cheeks, and mixing with mustaches and a beard of the same colour, and as much matted and tangled, looked down on them from a broken part of the rock above. "it is the enemy!" said the boy, who had very nearly become incapable of supporting lady staunton. "no, no," she exclaimed, inaccessible to supernatural terrors, and restored to the presence of mind of which she had been deprived by the danger of her situation, "it is a man--for god's sake, my friend, help us!" the face glared at them, but made no answer; in a second or two afterwards, another, that of a young lad, appeared beside the first, equally swart and begrimed, but having tangled black hair, descending in elf-locks, which gave an air of wildness and ferocity to the whole expression of the countenance. lady staunton repeated her entreaties, clinging to the rock with more energy, as she found that, from the superstitious terror of her guide, he became incapable of supporting her. her words were probably drowned in the roar of the falling stream, for, though she observed the lips of the young being whom she supplicated move as he spoke in reply, not a word reached her ear. a moment afterwards it appeared he had not mistaken the nature of her supplication, which, indeed, was easy to be understood from her situation and gestures. the younger apparition disappeared, and immediately after lowered a ladder of twisted osiers, about eight feet in length, and made signs to david to hold it fast while the lady ascended. despair gives courage, and finding herself in this fearful predicament, lady staunton did not hesitate to risk the ascent by the precarious means which this accommodation afforded; and, carefully assisted by the person who had thus providentially come to her aid, she reached the summit in safety. she did not, however, even look around her until she saw her nephew lightly and actively follow her examples although there was now no one to hold the ladder fast. when she saw him safe she looked round, and could not help shuddering at the place and company in which she found herself. they were on a sort of platform of rock, surrounded on every side by precipices, or overhanging cliffs, and which it would have been scarce possible for any research to have discovered, as it did not seem to be commanded by any accessible position. it was partly covered by a huge fragment of stone, which, having fallen from the cliffs above, had been intercepted by others in its descent, and jammed so as to serve for a sloping roof to the farther part of the broad shelf or platform on which they stood. a quantity of withered moss and leaves, strewed beneath this rude and wretched shelter, showed the lairs,--they could not be termed the beds,--of those who dwelt in this eyrie, for it deserved no other name. of these, two were before lady staunton. one, the same who had afforded such timely assistance, stood upright before them, a tall, lathy, young savage; his dress a tattered plaid and philabeg, no shoes, no stockings, no hat or bonnet, the place of the last being supplied by his hair, twisted and matted like the _glibbe_ of the ancient wild irish, and, like theirs, forming a natural thick-set stout enough to bear off the cut of a sword. yet the eyes of the lad were keen and sparkling; his gesture free and noble, like that of all savages. he took little notice of david butler, but gazed with wonder on lady staunton, as a being different probably in dress, and superior in beauty, to anything he had ever beheld. the old man, whose face they had first seen, remained recumbent in the same posture as when he had first looked down on them, only his face was turned towards them as he lay and looked up with a lazy and listless apathy, which belied the general expression of his dark and rugged features. he seemed a very tall man, but was scarce better clad than the younger. he had on a loose lowland greatcoat, and ragged tartan trews or pantaloons. all around looked singularly wild and unpropitious. beneath the brow of the incumbent rock was a charcoal fire, on which there was a still working, with bellows, pincers, hammers, a movable anvil, and other smith's tools; three guns, with two or three sacks and barrels, were disposed against the wall of rock, under shelter of the superincumbent crag; a dirk and two swords, and a lochaber axe, lay scattered around the fire, of which the red glare cast a ruddy tinge on the precipitous foam and mist of the cascade. the lad, when he had satisfied his curiosity with staring at lady staunton, fetched an earthen jar and a horn-cup, into which he poured some spirits, apparently hot from the still, and offered them successively to the lady and to the boy. both declined, and the young savage quaffed off the draught, which could not amount to less than three ordinary glasses. he then fetched another ladder from the corner of the cavern, if it could be termed so, adjusted it against the transverse rock, which served as a roof, and made signs for the lady to ascend it, while he held it fast below. she did so, and found herself on the top of a broad rock, near the brink of the chasm into which the brook precipitates itself. she could see the crest of the torrent flung loose down the rock, like the mane of a wild horse, but without having any view of the lower platform from which she had ascended. david was not suffered to mount so easily; the lad, from sport or love of mischief, shook the ladder a good deal as he ascended, and seemed to enjoy the terror of young butler, so that, when they had both come up, they looked on each other with no friendly eyes. neither, however, spoke. the young caird, or tinker, or gipsy, with a good deal of attention, assisted lady staunton up a very perilous ascent which she had still to encounter, and they were followed by david butler, until all three stood clear of the ravine on the side of a mountain, whose sides were covered with heather and sheets of loose shingle. so narrow was the chasm out of which they ascended, that, unless when they were on the very verge, the eye passed to the other side without perceiving the existence of a rent so fearful, and nothing was seen of the cataract, though its deep hoarse voice was still heard. lady staunton, freed from the danger of rock and river, had now a new subject of anxiety. her two guides confronted each other with angry countenances; for david, though younger by two years at least, and much shorter, was a stout, well-set, and very bold boy. "you are the black-coat's son of knocktarlitie," said the young caird; "if you come here again, i'll pitch you down the linn like a foot-ball." "ay, lad, ye are very short to be sae lang," retorted young butler undauntedly, and measuring his opponent's height with an undismayed eye; "i am thinking you are a gillie of black donacha; if you come down the glen, we'll shoot you like a wild buck." "you may tell your father," said the lad, "that the leaf on the timber is the last he shall see--we will hae amends for the mischief he has done to us." "i hope he will live to see mony simmers, and do ye muckle mair," answered david. more might have passed, but lady staunton stepped between them with her purse in her hand, and taking out a guinea, of which it contained several, visible through the net-work, as well as some silver in the opposite end, offered it to the caird. "the white siller, lady--the white siller," said the young savage, to whom the value of gold was probably unknown. lady staunton poured what silver she had into his hand, and the juvenile savage snatched it greedily, and made a sort of half inclination of acknowledgment and adieu. "let us make haste now, lady staunton," said david, "for there will be little peace with them since they hae seen your purse." they hurried on as fast as they could; but they had not descended the hill a hundred yards or two before they heard a halloo behind them, and looking back, saw both the old man and the young one pursuing them with great speed, the former with a gun on his shoulder. very fortunately, at this moment a sportsman, a gamekeeper of the duke, who was engaged in stalking deer, appeared on the face of the hill. the bandits stopped on seeing him, and lady staunton hastened to put herself under his protection. he readily gave them his escort home, and it required his athletic form and loaded rifle to restore to the lady her usual confidence and courage. donald listened with much gravity to the account of their adventure; and answered with great composure to david's repeated inquiries, whether he could have suspected that the cairds had been lurking there,--"inteed, master tavie, i might hae had some guess that they were there, or thereabout, though maybe i had nane. but i am aften on the hill; and they are like wasps--they stang only them that fashes them; sae, for my part, i make a point not to see them, unless i were ordered out on the preceese errand by maccallummore or knockdunder, whilk is a clean different case." they reached the manse late; and lady staunton, who had suffered much both from fright and fatigue, never again permitted her love of the picturesque to carry her so far among the mountains without a stronger escort than david, though she acknowledged he had won the stand of colours by the intrepidity he had displayed, so soon as assured he had to do with an earthly antagonist. "i couldna maybe hae made muckle o' a bargain wi' yon lang callant," said david, when thus complimented on his valour; "but when ye deal wi' thae folk, it's tyne heart tyne a'." chapter twenty-seventh. what see you there, that hath so cowarded and chased your blood out of appearance? henry the fifth. we are under the necessity of returning to edinburgh, where the general assembly was now sitting. it is well known, that some scottish nobleman is usually deputed as high commissioner, to represent the person of the king in this convocation; that he has allowances for the purpose of maintaining a certain outward show and solemnity, and supporting the hospitality of the representative of majesty. whoever are distinguished by rank, or office, in or near the capital, usually attend the morning levees of the lord commissioner, and walk with him in procession to the place where the assembly meets. the nobleman who held this office chanced to be particularly connected with sir george staunton, and it was in his train that he ventured to tread the high street of edinburgh for the first time since the fatal night of porteous's execution. walking at the right hand of the representative of sovereignty, covered with lace and embroidery, and with all the paraphernalia of wealth and rank, the handsome though wasted figure of the english stranger attracted all eyes. who could have recognised in a form so aristocratic the plebeian convict, that, disguised in the rags of madge wildfire, had led the formidable rioters to their destined revenge? there was no possibility that this could happen, even if any of his ancient acquaintances, a race of men whose lives are so brief, had happened to survive the span commonly allotted to evil-doers. besides, the whole affair had long fallen asleep, with the angry passions in which it originated. nothing is more certain than that persons known to have had a share in that formidable riot, and to have fled from scotland on that account, had made money abroad, returned to enjoy it in their native country, and lived and died undisturbed by the law.* * see arnot's _criminal trials,_ to ed. p. . the forbearance of the magistrate was, in these instances, wise, certainly, and just; for what good impression could be made on the public mind by punishment, when the memory of the offence was obliterated, and all that was remembered was the recent inoffensive, or perhaps exemplary conduct of the offender? sir george staunton might, therefore, tread the scene of his former audacious exploits, free from the apprehension of the law, or even of discovery or suspicion. but with what feelings his heart that day throbbed, must be left to those of the reader to imagine. it was an object of no common interest which had brought him to encounter so many painful remembrances. in consequence of jeanie's letter to lady staunton, transmitting the confession, he had visited the town of carlisle, and had found archdeacon fleming still alive, by whom that confession had been received. this reverend gentleman, whose character stood deservedly very high, he so far admitted into his confidence, as to own himself the father of the unfortunate infant which had been spirited away by madge wildfire, representing the intrigue as a matter of juvenile extravagance on his own part, for which he was now anxious to atone, by tracing, if possible, what had become of the child. after some recollection of the circumstances, the clergyman was able to call to memory, that the unhappy woman had written a letter to george staunton, esq., younger, rectory, willingham, by grantham; that he had forwarded it to the address accordingly, and that it had been returned, with a note from the reverend mr. staunton, rector of willingham, saying, he knew no such person as him to whom the letter was addressed. as this had happened just at the time when george had, for the last time, absconded from his father's house to carry off effie, he was at no loss to account for the cause of the resentment, under the influence of which his father had disowned him. this was another instance in which his ungovernable temper had occasioned his misfortune; had he remained at willingham but a few days longer, he would have received margaret murdockson's letter, in which were exactly described the person and haunts of the woman, annaple bailzou, to whom she had parted with the infant. it appeared that meg murdockson had been induced to make this confession, less from any feelings of contrition, than from the desire of obtaining, through george staunton or his father's means, protection and support for her daughter madge. her letter to george staunton said, "that while the writer lived, her daughter would have needed nought from any body, and that she would never have meddled in these affairs, except to pay back the ill that george had done to her and hers. but she was to die, and her daughter would be destitute, and without reason to guide her. she had lived in the world long enough to know that people did nothing for nothing;--so she had told george staunton all he could wish to know about his wean, in hopes he would not see the demented young creature he had ruined perish for want. as for her motives for not telling them sooner, she had a long account to reckon for in the next world, and she would reckon for that too." the clergyman said that meg had died in the same desperate state of mind, occasionally expressing some regret about the child which was lost, but oftener sorrow that the mother had not been hanged--her mind at once a chaos of guilt, rage, and apprehension for her daughter's future safety; that instinctive feeling of parental anxiety which she had in common with the she-wolf and lioness, being the last shade of kindly affection that occupied a breast equally savage. the melancholy catastrophe of madge wildfire was occasioned by her taking the confusion of her mother's execution, as affording an opportunity of leaving the workhouse to which the clergyman had sent her, and presenting herself to the mob in their fury, to perish in the way we have already seen. when dr. fleming found the convict's letter was returned from lincolnshire, he wrote to a friend in edinburgh, to inquire into the fate of the unfortunate girl whose child had been stolen, and was informed by his correspondent, that she had been pardoned, and that, with all her family, she had retired to some distant part of scotland, or left the kingdom entirely. and here the matter rested, until, at sir george staunton's application, the clergyman looked out, and produced margaret murdockson's returned letter, and the other memoranda which he had kept concerning the affair. whatever might be sir george staunton's feelings in ripping up this miserable history, and listening to the tragical fate of the unhappy girl whom he had ruined, he had so much of his ancient wilfulness of disposition left, as to shut his eyes on everything, save the prospect which seemed to open itself of recovering his son. it was true, it would be difficult to produce him, without telling much more of the history of his birth, and the misfortunes of his parents, than it was prudent to make known. but let him once be found, and, being found, let him but prove worthy of his father's protection, and many ways might be fallen upon to avoid such risk. sir george staunton was at liberty to adopt him as his heir, if he pleased, without communicating the secret of his birth; or an act of parliament might be obtained, declaring him legitimate, and allowing him the name and arms of his father. he was indeed already a legitimate child according to the law of scotland, by the subsequent marriage of his parents. wilful in everything, sir george's sole desire now was to see this son, even should his recovery bring with it a new series of misfortunes, as dreadful as those which followed on his being lost. but where was the youth who might eventually be called to the honours and estates of this ancient family? on what heath was he wandering, and shrouded by what mean disguise? did he gain his precarious bread by some petty trade, by menial toil, by violence, or by theft? these were questions on which sir george's anxious investigations could obtain no light. many remembered that annaple bailzou wandered through the country as a beggar and fortune-teller, or spae-wife--some remembered that she had been seen with an infant in or ,--but for more than ten years she had not travelled that district; and that she had been heard to say she was going to a distant part of scotland, of which country she was a native. to scotland, therefore, came sir george staunton, having parted with his lady at glasgow; and his arrival at edinburg happening to coincide with the sitting of the general assembly of the kirk, his acquaintance with the nobleman who held the office of lord high commissioner forced him more into public than suited either his views or inclinations. at the public table of this nobleman, sir george staunton was placed next to a clergyman of respectable appearance, and well-bred, though plain demeanour, whose name he discovered to be butler. it had been no part of sir george's plan to take his brother-in-law into his confidence, and he had rejoiced exceedingly in the assurances he received from his wife, that mrs. butler, the very soul of integrity and honour, had never suffered the account he had given of himself at willingham rectory to transpire, even to her husband. but he was not sorry to have an opportunity to converse with so near a connection without being known to him, and to form a judgment of his character and understanding. he saw much, and heard more, to raise butler very high in his opinion. he found he was generally respected by those of his own profession, as well as by the laity who had seats in the assembly. he had made several public appearances in the assembly, distinguished by good sense, candour, and ability; and he was followed and admired as a sound, and, at the same time, an eloquent preacher. this was all very satisfactory to sir george staunton's pride, which had revolted at the idea of his wife's sister being obscurely married. he now began, on the contrary, to think the connection so much better than he expected, that, if it should be necessary to acknowledge it, in consequence of the recovery of his son, it would sound well enough that lady staunton had a sister, who, in the decayed state of the family, had married a scottish clergyman, high in the opinion of his countrymen, and a leader in the church. it was with these feelings, that, when the lord high commissioner's company broke up, sir george staunton, under pretence of prolonging some inquiries concerning the constitution of the church of scotland, requested butler to go home to his lodgings in the lawnmarket, and drink a cup of coffee. butler agreed to wait upon him, providing sir george would permit him, in passing, to call at a friend's house where he resided, and make his apology for not coming to partake her tea. they proceeded up the high street, entered the krames, and passed the begging-box, placed to remind those at liberty of the distresses of the poor prisoners. sir george paused there one instant, and next day a l note was found in that receptacle for public charity. when he came up to butler again, he found him with his eyes fixed on the entrance of the tolbooth, and apparently in deep thought. "that seems a very strong door," said sir george, by way of saying something. "it is so, sir," said butler, turning off and beginning to walk forward, "but it was my misfortune at one time to see it prove greatly too weak." at this moment, looking at his companion, he asked him whether he felt himself ill? and sir george staunton admitted, that he had been so foolish as to eat ice, which sometimes disagreed with him. with kind officiousness, that would not be gainsaid, and ere he could find out where he was going, butler hurried sir george into the friend's house, near to the prison, in which he himself had lived since he came to town, being, indeed, no other than that of our old friend bartoline saddletree, in which lady staunton had served a short noviciate as a shop-maid. this recollection rushed on her husband's mind, and the blush of shame which it excited overpowered the sensation of fear which had produced his former paleness. good mrs. saddletree, however, bustled about to receive the rich english baronet as the friend of mr. butler, and requested an elderly female in a black gown to sit still, in a way which seemed to imply a wish, that she would clear the way for her betters. in the meanwhile, understanding the state of the case, she ran to get some cordial waters, sovereign, of course, in all cases of faintishness whatsoever. during her absence, her visitor, the female in black, made some progress out of the room, and might have left it altogether without particular observation, had she not stumbled at the threshold, so near sir george staunton, that he, in point of civility, raised her and assisted her to the door. "mrs. porteous is turned very doited now, puir body," said mrs. saddletree, as she returned with her bottle in her hand--"she is no sae auld, but she got a sair back-cast wi' the slaughter o' her husband--ye had some trouble about that job, mr. butler.--i think, sir," to sir george, "ye had better drink out the haill glass, for to my een ye look waur than when ye came in." and, indeed, he grew as pale as a corpse, on recollecting who it was that his arm had so lately supported--the widow whom he had so large a share in making such. "it is a prescribed job that case of porteous now," said old saddletree, who was confined to his chair by the gout--"clean prescribed and out of date." "i am not clear of that, neighbour," said plumdamas, "for i have heard them say twenty years should rin, and this is but the fifty-ane-- porteous's mob was in thretty-seven." "ye'll no teach me law, i think, neighbour--me that has four gaun pleas, and might hae had fourteen, an it hadna been the gudewife? i tell ye, if the foremost of the porteous mob were standing there where that gentleman stands, the king's advocate wadna meddle wi' him--it fa's under the negative prescription." "haud your din, carles," said mrs. saddletree, "and let the gentleman sit down and get a dish of comfortable tea." but sir george had had quite enough of their conversation; and butler, at his request, made an apology to mrs. saddletree, and accompanied him to his lodgings. here they found another guest waiting sir george staunton's return. this was no other than our reader's old acquaintance, ratcliffe. this man had exercised the office of turnkey with so much vigilance, acuteness, and fidelity, that he gradually rose to be governor, or captain of the tolbooth. and it is yet to be remembered in tradition, that young men, who rather sought amusing than select society in their merry-meetings, used sometimes to request ratcliffe's company, in order that he might regale them with legends of his extraordinary feats in the way of robbery and escape.* * there seems an anachronism in the history of this person. ratcliffe, among other escapes from justice, was released by the porteous mob when under sentence of death; and he was again under the same predicament, when the highlanders made a similar jail-delivery in . he was too sincere a whig to embrace liberation at the hands of the jacobites, and in reward was made one of the keepers of the tolbooth. so at least runs constant tradition. but he lived and died without resuming his original vocation, otherwise than in his narratives over a bottle. under these circumstances, he had been recommended to sir george staunton by a man of the law in edinburgh, as a person likely to answer any questions he might have to ask about annaple bailzou, who, according to the colour which sir george staunton gave to his cause of inquiry, was supposed to have stolen a child in the west of england, belonging to a family in which he was interested. the gentleman had not mentioned his name, but only his official title; so that sir george staunton, when told that the captain of the tolbooth was waiting for him in his parlour, had no idea of meeting his former acquaintance, jem ratcliffe. this, therefore, was another new and most unpleasant surprise, for he had no difficulty in recollecting this man's remarkable features. the change, however, from george robertson to sir george staunton, baffled even the penetration of ratcliffe, and he bowed very low to the baronet and his guest, hoping mr. butler would excuse his recollecting that he was an old acquaintance. "and once rendered my wife a piece of great service," said mr. butler, "for which she sent you a token of grateful acknowledgment, which i hope came safe and was welcome." "deil a doubt on't," said ratcliffe, with a knowing nod; "but ye are muckle changed for the better since i saw ye, maister butler." "so much so, that i wonder you knew me." "aha, then!--deil a face i see i ever forget," said ratcliffe while sir george staunton, tied to the stake, and incapable of escaping, internally cursed the accuracy of his memory. "and yet, sometimes," continued ratcliffe, "the sharpest hand will be ta'en in. there is a face in this very room, if i might presume to be sae bauld, that, if i didna ken the honourable person it belangs to, i might think it had some cut of an auld acquaintance." "i should not be much flattered," answered the baronet, sternly, and roused by the risk in which he saw himself placed, "if it is to me you mean to apply that compliment." "by no manner of means, sir," said ratcliffe, bowing very low; "i am come to receive your honour's commands, and no to trouble your honour wi' my poor observations." "well, sir," said sir george, "i am told you understand police matters-- so do i.--to convince you of which, here are ten guineas of retaining fee--i make them fifty when you can find me certain notice of a person, living or dead, whom you will find described in that paper. i shall leave town presently--you may send your written answer to me to the care of mr. " (naming his highly respectable agent), "or of his grace the lord high commissioner." rateliffe bowed and withdrew. "i have angered the proud peat now," he said to himself, "by finding out a likeness; but if george robertson's father had lived within a mile of his mother, d--n me if i should not know what to think, for as high as he carries his head." when he was left alone with butler, sir george staunton ordered tea and coffee, which were brought by his valet, and then, after considering with himself for a minute, asked his guest whether he had lately heard from his wife and family. butler, with some surprise at the question, replied, "that he had received no letter for some time; his wife was a poor penwoman." "then," said sir george staunton, "i am the first to inform you there has been an invasion of your quiet premises since you left home. my wife, whom the duke of argyle had the goodness to permit to use roseneath lodge, while she was spending some weeks in your country, has sallied across and taken up her quarters in the manse, as she says, to be nearer the goats, whose milk she is using; but, i believe, in reality, because she prefers mrs. butler's company to that of the respectable gentleman who acts as seneschal on the duke's domains." mr. butler said, "he had often heard the late duke and the present speak with high respect of lady staunton, and was happy if his house could accommodate any friend of theirs--it would be but a very slight acknowledgment of the many favours he owed them." "that does not make lady staunton and myself the less obliged to your hospitality, sir," said sir george. "may i inquire if you think of returning home soon?" "in the course of two days," mr. butler answered, "his duty in the assembly would be ended; and the other matters he had in town being all finished, he was desirous of returning to dumbartonshire as soon as he could; but he was under the necessity of transporting a considerable sum in bills and money with him, and therefore wished to travel in company with one or two of his brethren of the clergy." "my escort will be more safe," said sir george staunton, "and i think of setting off to-morrow or next day. if you will give me the pleasure of your company, i will undertake to deliver you and your charge safe at the manse, provided you will admit me along with you." mr. butler gratefully accepted of this proposal; the appointment was made accordingly, and, by despatches with one of sir george's servants, who was sent forward for the purpose, the inhabitants of the manse of knocktarlitie were made acquainted with the intended journey; and the news rung through the whole vicinity, "that the minister was coming back wi' a braw english gentleman and a' the siller that was to pay for the estate of craigsture." this sudden resolution of going to knocktarlitie had been adopted by sir george staunton in consequence of the incidents of the evening. in spite of his present consequence, he felt he had presumed too far in venturing so near the scene of his former audacious acts of violence, and he knew too well, from past experience, the acuteness of a man like ratcliffe, again to encounter him. the next two days he kept his lodgings, under pretence of indisposition, and took leave by writing of his noble friend the high commissioner, alleging the opportunity of mr. butler's company as a reason for leaving edinburgh sooner than he had proposed. he had a long conference with his agent on the subject of annaple bailzou; and the professional gentleman, who was the agent also of the argyle family, had directions to collect all the information which ratcliffe or others might be able to obtain concerning the fate of that woman and the unfortunate child, and so soon as anything transpired which had the least appearance of being important, that he should send an express with it instantly to knocktarlitie. these instructions were backed with a deposit of money, and a request that no expense might be spared; so that sir george staunton had little reason to apprehend negligence on the part of the persons intrusted with the commission. the journey, which the brothers made in company, was attended with more pleasure, even to sir george staunton, than he had ventured to expect. his heart lightened in spite of himself when they lost sight of edinburgh; and the easy, sensible conversation of butler was well calculated to withdraw his thoughts from painful reflections. he even began to think whether there could be much difficulty in removing his wife's connections to the rectory of willingham; it was only on his part procuring some still better preferment for the present incumbent, and on butler's, that he should take orders according to the english church, to which he could not conceive a possibility of his making objection, and then he had them residing under his wing. no doubt there was pain in seeing mrs. butler, acquainted, as he knew her to be, with the full truth of his evil history; but then her silence, though he had no reason to complain of her indiscretion hitherto, was still more absolutely ensured. it would keep his lady, also, both in good temper and in more subjection; for she was sometimes troublesome to him by insisting on remaining in town when he desired to retire to the country, alleging the total want of society at willingham. "madam, your sister is there," would, he thought, be a sufficient answer to this ready argument. he sounded butler on this subject, asking what he would think of an english living of twelve hundred pounds yearly, with the burden of affording his company now and then to a neighbour, whose health was not strong or his spirits equal. "he might meet," he said, "occasionally, a very learned and accomplished gentleman, who was in orders as a catholic priest, but he hoped that would be no insurmountable objection to a man of his liberality of sentiment. what," he said, "would mr. butler think of as an answer, if the offer should be made to him?" "simply that i could not accept of it," said mr. butler. "i have no mind to enter into the various debates between the churches; but i was brought up in mine own, have received her ordination, am satisfied of the truth of her doctrines, and will die under the banner i have enlisted to." "what may be the value of your preferment?" said sir george staunton, "unless i am asking an indiscreet question." "probably one hundred a-year, one year with another, besides my glebe and pasture-ground." "and you scruple to exchange that for twelve hundred a-year, without alleging any damning difference of doctrine betwixt the two churches of england and scotland?" "on that, sir, i have reserved my judgment; there may be much good, and there are certainly saving means in both; but every man must act according to his own lights. i hope i have done, and am in the course of doing, my master's work in this highland parish; and it would ill become me, for the sake of lucre, to leave my sheep in the wilderness. but, even in the temporal view which you have taken of the matter, sir george, this hundred pounds a-year of stipend hath fed and clothed us, and left us nothing to wish for; my father-in-law's succession, and other circumstances, have added a small estate of about twice as much more, and how we are to dispose of it i do not know--so i leave it to you, sir, to think if i were wise, not having the wish or opportunity of spending three hundred a-year, to covet the possession of four times that sum." "this is philosophy," said sir george; "i have heard of it, but i never saw it before." "it is common sense," replied butler, "which accords with philosophy and religion more frequently than pedants or zealots are apt to admit." sir george turned the subject, and did not again resume it. although they travelled in sir george's chariot, he seemed so much fatigued with the motion, that it was necessary for him to remain for a day at a small town called mid-calder, which was their first stage from edinburgh. glasgow occupied another day, so slow were their motions. they travelled on to dumbarton, where they had resolved to leave the equipage and to hire a boat to take them to the shores near the manse, as the gare-loch lay betwixt them and that point, besides the impossibility of travelling in that district with wheel-carriages. sir george's valet, a man of trust, accompanied them, as also a footman; the grooms were left with the carriage. just as this arrangement was completed, which was about four o'clock in the afternoon, an express arrived from sir george's agent in edinburgh, with a packet, which he opened and read with great attention, appearing much interested and agitated by the contents. the packet had been despatched very soon after their leaving edinburgh, but the messenger had missed the travellers by passing through mid-calder in the night, and overshot his errand by getting to roseneath before them. he was now on his return, after having waited more than four-and-twenty hours. sir george staunton instantly wrote back an answer, and rewarding the messenger liberally, desired him not to sleep till he placed it in his agent's hands. at length they embarked in the boat, which had waited for them some time. during their voyage, which was slow, for they were obliged to row the whole way, and often against the tide, sir george staunton's inquiries ran chiefly on the subject of the highland banditti who had infested that country since the year . butler informed him that many of them were not native highlanders, but gipsies, tinkers, and other men of desperate fortunes, who had taken advantage of the confusion introduced by the civil war, the general discontent of the mountaineers, and the unsettled state of police, to practise their plundering trade with more audacity. sir george next inquired into their lives, their habits, whether the violences which they committed were not sometimes atoned for by acts of generosity, and whether they did not possess the virtues as well as the vices of savage tribes? butler answered, that certainly they did sometimes show sparks of generosity, of which even the worst class of malefactors are seldom utterly divested; but that their evil propensities were certain and regular principles of action, while any occasional burst of virtuous feeling was only a transient impulse not to be reckoned upon, and excited probably by some singular and unusual concatenation of circumstances. in discussing these inquiries, which sir george pursued with an apparent eagerness that rather surprised butler, the latter chanced to mention the name of donacha dhu na dunaigh, with which the reader is already acquainted. sir george caught the sound up eagerly, and as if it conveyed particular interest to his ear. he made the most minute inquiries concerning the man whom he mentioned, the number of his gang, and even the appearance of those who belonged to it. upon these points butler could give little answer. the man had a name among the lower class, but his exploits were considerably exaggerated; he had always one or two fellows with him, but never aspired to the command of above three or four. in short, he knew little about him, and the small acquaintance he had had by no means inclined him to desire more. "nevertheless, i should like to see him some of these days." "that would be a dangerous meeting, sir george, unless you mean we are to see him receive his deserts from the law, and then it were a melancholy one." "use every man according to his deserts, mr. butler, and who shall escape whipping? but i am talking riddles to you. i will explain them more fully to you when i have spoken over the subject with lady staunton.--pull away, my lads," he added, addressing himself to the rowers; "the clouds threaten us with a storm." in fact, the dead and heavy closeness of the air, the huge piles of clouds which assembled in the western horizon, and glowed like a furnace under the influence of the setting sun--that awful stillness in which nature seems to expect the thunder-burst, as a condemned soldier waits for the platoon fire which is to stretch him on the earth, all betokened a speedy storm. large broad drops fell from time to time, and induced the gentlemen to assume the boat-cloaks; but the rain again ceased, and the oppressive heat, so unusual in scotland in the end of may, inclined them to throw them aside. "there is something solemn in this delay of the storm," said sir george; "it seems as if it suspended its peal till it solemnised some important event in the world below." "alas!" replied butler, "what are we that the laws of nature should correspond in their march with our ephemeral deeds or sufferings! the clouds will burst when surcharged with the electric fluid, whether a goat is falling at that instant from the cliffs of arran, or a hero expiring on the field of battle he has won." "the mind delights to deem it otherwise," said sir george staunton; "and to dwell on the fate of humanity as on that which is the prime central movement of the mighty machine. we love not to think that we shall mix with the ages that have gone before us, as these broad black raindrops mingle with the waste of waters, making a trifling and momentary eddy, and are then lost for ever." "_for ever!_--we are not--we cannot be lost for ever," said butler, looking upward; "death is to us change, not consummation; and the commencement of a new existence, corresponding in character to the deeds which we have done in the body." while they agitated these grave subjects, to which the solemnity of the approaching storm naturally led them, their voyage threatened to be more tedious than they expected, for gusts of wind, which rose and fell with sudden impetuosity, swept the bosom of the firth, and impeded the efforts of the rowers. they had now only to double a small headland, in order to get to the proper landing-place in the mouth of the little river; but in the state of the weather, and the boat being heavy, this was like to be a work of time, and in the meanwhile they must necessarily be exposed to the storm. "could we not land on this side of the headland," asked sir george, "and so gain some shelter?" butler knew of no landing-place, at least none affording a convenient or even practicable passage up the rocks which surrounded the shore. "think again," said sir george staunton; "the storm will soon be violent." "hout, ay," said one of the boatmen, "there's the caird's cove; but we dinna tell the minister about it, and i am no sure if i can steer the boat to it, the bay is sae fa' o' shoals and sunk rocks." "try," said sir george, "and i will give you half-a-guinea." the old fellow took the helm, and observed, "that, if they could get in, there was a steep path up from the beach, and half-an-hour's walk from thence to the manse." "are you sure you know the way?" said butler to the old man. "i maybe kend it a wee better fifteen years syne, when dandie wilson was in the firth wi' his clean-ganging lugger. i mind dandie had a wild young englisher wi' him, that they ca'd" "if you chatter so much," said sir george staunton, "you will have the boat on the grindstone--bring that white rock in a line with the steeple." "by g--," said the veteran, staring, "i think your honour kens the bay as weel as me.--your honour's nose has been on the grindstone ere now, i'm thinking." as they spoke thus, they approached the little cove, which, concealed behind crags, and defended on every point by shallows and sunken rocks, could scarce be discovered or approached, except by those intimate with the navigation. an old shattered boat was already drawn up on the beach within the cove, close beneath the trees, and with precautions for concealment. upon observing this vessel, butler remarked to his companion, "it is impossible for you to conceive, sir george, the difficulty i have had with my poor people, in teaching them the guilt and the danger of this contraband trade--yet they have perpetually before their eyes all its dangerous consequences. i do not know anything that more effectually depraves and ruins their moral and religious principles." sir george forced himself to say something in a low voice about the spirit of adventure natural to youth, and that unquestionably many would become wiser as they grew older. "too seldom, sir," replied butler. "if they have been deeply engaged, and especially if they, have mingled in the scenes of violence and blood to which their occupation naturally leads, i have observed, that, sooner or later, they come to an evil end. experience, as well as scripture, teaches us, sir george, that mischief shall hunt the violent man, and that the bloodthirsty man shall not live half his days--but take my arm to help you ashore." sir george needed assistance, for he was contrasting in his altered thought the different feelings of mind and frame with which he had formerly frequented the same place. as they landed, a low growl of thunder was heard at a distance. "that is ominous, mr. butler," said sir george. "_intonuit laevum_--it is ominous of good, then," answered butler, smiling. the boatmen were ordered to make the best of their way round the headland to the ordinary landing-place; the two gentlemen, followed by their servant, sought their way by a blind and tangled path, through a close copsewood, to the manse of knocktarlitie, where their arrival was anxiously expected. the sisters in vain had expected their husbands' return on the preceding day, which was that appointed by sir george's letter. the delay of the travellers at calder had occasioned this breach of appointment. the inhabitants of the manse began even to doubt whether they would arrive on the present day. lady staunton felt this hope of delay as a brief reprieve, for she dreaded the pangs which her husband's pride must undergo at meeting with a sister-in-law, to whom the whole of his unhappy and dishonourable history was too well known. she knew, whatever force or constraint he might put upon his feelings in public, that she herself must be doomed to see them display themselves in full vehemence in secret,--consume his health, destroy his temper, and render him at once an object of dread and compassion. again and again she cautioned jeanie to display no tokens of recognition, but to receive him as a perfect stranger,--and again and again jeanie renewed her promise to comply with her wishes. jeanie herself could not fail to bestow an anxious thought on the awkwardness of the approaching meeting; but her conscience was ungalled--and then she was cumbered with many household cares of an unusual nature, which, joined to the anxious wish once more to see butler, after an absence of unusual length, made her extremely desirous that the travellers should arrive as soon as possible. and--why should i disguise the truth?--ever and anon a thought stole across her mind that her gala dinner had now been postponed for two days; and how few of the dishes, after every art of her simple cuisine had been exerted to dress them, could with any credit or propriety appear again upon the third; and what was she to do with the rest?--upon this last subject she was saved the trouble of farther deliberation, by the sudden appearance of the captain at the head of half-a-dozen stout fellows, dressed and armed in the highland fashion. "goot-morrow morning to ye, leddy staunton, and i hope i hae the pleasure to see you weel--and goot-morrow to you, goot mrs. putler--i do peg you will order some victuals and ale and prandy for the lads, for we hae peen out on firth and moor since afore daylight, and a' to no purpose neither--cot tam!" so saying, he sate down, pushed back his brigadier wig, and wiped his head with an air of easy importance; totally regardless of the look of well-bred astonishment by which lady staunton endeavoured to make him comprehend that he was assuming too great a liberty. "it is some comfort, when one has had a sair tussel," continued the captain, addressing lady staunton, with an air of gallantry, "that it is in a fair leddy's service, or in the service of a gentleman whilk has a fair leddy, whilk is the same thing, since serving the husband is serving the wife, as mrs. putler does very weel know." "really, sir," said lady staunton, "as you seem to intend this compliment for me, i am at a loss to know what interest sir george or i can have in your movements this morning." "o, cot tam!--this is too cruel, my leddy--as if it was not py special express from his grace's honourable agent and commissioner at edinburgh, with a warrant conform, that i was to seek for and apprehend donacha dhu na dunaigh, and pring him pefore myself and sir george staunton, that he may have his deserts, that is to say, the gallows, whilk he has doubtless deserved, py peing the means of frightening your leddyship, as weel as for something of less importance." "frightening me!" said her ladyship; "why, i never wrote to sir george about my alarm at the waterfall." "then he must have heard it otherwise; for what else can give him sic an earnest tesire to see this rapscallion, that i maun ripe the haill mosses and muirs in the country for him, as if i were to get something for finding him, when the pest o't might pe a pall through my prains?" "can it be really true, that it is on sir george's account that you have been attempting to apprehend this fellow?" "py cot, it is for no other cause that i know than his honour's pleasure; for the creature might hae gone on in a decent quiet way for me, sae lang as he respectit the duke's pounds--put reason goot he suld be taen, and hangit to poet, if it may pleasure ony honourable shentleman that is the duke's friend--sae i got the express over night, and i caused warn half a score of pretty lads, and was up in the morning pefore the sun, and i garr'd the lads take their kilts and short coats." "i wonder you did that, captain," said mrs. butler, "when you know the act of parliament against wearing the highland dress." "hout, tout, ne'er fash your thumb, mrs. putler. the law is put twa-three years auld yet, and is ower young to hae come our length; and pesides, how is the lads to climb the praes wi' thae tamn'd breekens on them? it makes me sick to see them. put ony how, i thought i kend donacha's haunt gey and weel, and i was at the place where he had rested yestreen; for i saw the leaves the limmers had lain on, and the ashes of them; by the same token, there was a pit greeshoch purning yet. i am thinking they got some word oat o' the island what was intended--i sought every glen and clench, as if i had been deer-stalking, but teil a want of his coat-tail could i see--cot tam!" "he'll be away down the firth to cowal," said david; and reuben, who had been out early that morning a-nutting, observed, "that he had seen a boat making for the caird's cove;" a place well known to the boys, though their less adventurous father was ignorant of its existence. "py cot," said duncan, "then i will stay here no longer than to trink this very horn of prandy and water, for it's very possible they will pe in the wood. donacha's a clever fellow, and maype thinks it pest to sit next the chimley when the lum reeks. he thought naebody would look for him sae near hand! i peg your leddyship will excuse my aprupt departure, as i will return forthwith, and i will either pring you donacha in life, or else his head, whilk i dare to say will be as satisfactory. and i hope to pass a pleasant evening with your leddyship; and i hope to have mine revenges on mr. putler at backgammon, for the four pennies whilk he won, for he will pe surely at home soon, or else he will have a wet journey, seeing it is apout to pe a scud." thus saying, with many scrapes and bows, and apologies for leaving them, which were very readily received, and reiterated assurances of his speedy return (of the sincerity whereof mrs. butler entertained no doubt, so long as her best greybeard of brandy was upon duty), duncan left the manse, collected his followers, and began to scour the close and entangled wood which lay between the little glen and the caird's cove. david, who was a favourite with the captain, on account of his spirit and courage, took the opportunity of escaping, to attend the investigations of that great man. chapter twenty-eighth. i did send for thee, that talbot's name might be in thee revived, when sapless age and weak, unable limbs, should bring thy father to his drooping chair. but--o malignant and ill-boding stars!-- first part of henry the sixth. duncan and his party had not proceeded very far in the direction of the caird's cove before they heard a shot, which was quickly followed by one or two others. "some tamn'd villains among the roe-deer," said duncan; "look sharp out, lads." the clash of swords was next heard, and duncan and his myrmidons, hastening to the spot, found butler and sir george staunton's servant in the hands of four ruffians. sir george himself lay stretched on the ground, with his drawn sword in his hand. duncan, who was as brave as a lion, instantly fired his pistol at the leader of the band, unsheathed his sword, cried out to his men, _claymore!_ and run his weapon through the body of the fellow whom he had previously wounded, who was no other thau donacha dhu na dunaigh himself. the other banditti were speedily overpowered, excepting one young lad, who made wonderful resistance for his years, and was at length secured with difficulty. [illustration: death of sir george staunton-- ] butler, so soon as he was liberated from the ruffians, ran to raise sir george staunton, but life had wholly left him. "a creat misfortune," said duncan; "i think it will pe pest that i go forward to intimate it to the coot lady.--tavie, my dear, you hae smelled pouther for the first time this day--take my sword and hack off donacha's head, whilk will pe coot practice for you against the time you may wish to do the same kindness to a living shentleman--or hould! as your father does not approve, you may leave it alone, as he will pe a greater object of satisfaction to leddy staunton to see him entire; and i hope she will do me the credit to pelieve that i can afenge a shentleman's plood fery speedily and well." such was the observation of a man too much accustomed to the ancient state of manners in the highlands, to look upon the issue of such a skirmish as anything worthy of wonder or emotion. we will not attempt to describe the very contrary effect which the unexpected disaster produced upon lady staunton, when the bloody corpse of her husband was brought to the house, where she expected to meet him alive and well. all was forgotten, but that he was the lover of her youth; and whatever were his faults to the world, that he had towards her exhibited only those that arose from the inequality of spirits and temper, incident to a situation of unparalleled difficulty. in the vivacity of her grief she gave way to all the natural irritability of her temper; shriek followed shriek, and swoon succeeded to swoon. it required all jeanie's watchful affection to prevent her from making known, in these paroxysms of affliction, much which it was of the highest importance that she should keep secret. at length silence and exhaustion succeeded to frenzy, and jeanie stole out to take counsel with her husband, and to exhort him to anticipate the captain's interference, by taking possession, in lady staunton's name, of the private papers of her deceased husband. to the utter astonishment of butler, she now, for the first time, explained the relation betwixt herself and lady staunton, which authorised, nay, demanded, that he should prevent any stranger from being unnecessarily made acquainted with her family affairs. it was in such a crisis that jeanie's active and undaunted habits of virtuous exertion were most conspicuous. while the captain's attention was still engaged by a prolonged refreshment, and a very tedious examination, in gaelic and english, of all the prisoners, and every other witness of the fatal transaction, she had the body of her brother-in-law undressed and properly disposed. it then appeared, from the crucifix, the beads, and the shirt of hair which he wore next his person, that his sense of guilt had induced him to receive the dogmata of a religion, which pretends, by the maceration of the body, to expiate the crimes of the soul. in the packet of papers which the express had brought to sir george staunton from edinburgh, and which butler, authorised by his connection with the deceased, did not scruple to examine, he found new and astonishing intelligence, which gave him reason to thank god he had taken that measure. ratcliffe, to whom all sorts of misdeeds and misdoers were familiar, instigated by the promised reward, soon found himself in a condition to trace the infant of these unhappy parents. the woman to whom meg murdockson had sold that most unfortunate child, had made it the companion of her wanderings and her beggary, until he was about seven or eight years old, when, as ratcliffe learned from a companion of hers, then in the correction house of edinburgh, she sold him in her turn to donacha dhu na dunaigh. this man, to whom no act of mischief was unknown, was occasionally an agent in a horrible trade then carried on betwixt scotland and america, for supplying the plantations with servants, by means of _kidnapping,_ as it was termed, both men and women, but especially children under age. here ratcliffe lost sight of the boy, but had no doubt but donacha dhu could give an account of him. the gentleman of the law, so often mentioned, despatched therefore an express, with a letter to sir george staunton, and another covering a warrant for apprehension of donacha, with instructions to the captain of knockdunder to exert his utmost energy for that purpose. possessed of this information, and with a mind agitated by the most gloomy apprehensions, butler now joined the captain, and obtained from him with some difficulty a sight of the examinations. these, with a few questions to the elder of the prisoners, soon confirmed the most dreadful of butler's anticipations. we give the heads of the information, without descending into minute details. donacha dhu had indeed purchased effie's unhappy child, with the purpose of selling it to the american traders, whom he had been in the habit of supplying with human flesh. but no opportunity occurred for some time; and the boy, who was known by the name of "the whistler," made some impression on the heart and affections even of this rude savage, perhaps because he saw in him flashes of a spirit as fierce and vindictive as his own. when donacha struck or threatened him--a very common occurrence--he did not answer with complaints and entreaties like other children, but with oaths and efforts at revenge--he had all the wild merit, too, by which woggarwolfe's arrow-bearing page won the hard heart of his master: like a wild cub, rear'd at the ruffian's feet, he could say biting jests, bold ditties sing, and quaff his foaming bumper at the board, with all the mockery of a little man.* * ethwald. in short, as donacha dhu said, the whistler was a born imp of satan, and _therefore_ he should never leave him. accordingly, from his eleventh year forward, he was one of the band, and often engaged in acts of violence. the last of these was more immediately occasioned by the researches which the whistler's real father made after him whom he had been taught to consider as such. donacha dhu's fears had been for some time excited by the strength of the means which began now to be employed against persons of his description. he was sensible he existed only by the precarious indulgence of his namesake, duncan of knockdunder, who was used to boast that he could put him down or string him up when he had a mind. he resolved to leave the kingdom by means of one of those sloops which were engaged in the traffic of his old kidnapping friends, and which was about to sail for america; but he was desirous first to strike a bold stroke. the ruffian's cupidity was excited by the intelligence, that a wealthy englishman was coming to the manse--he had neither forgotten the whistler's report of the gold he had seen in lady staunton's purse, nor his old vow of revenge against the minister; and, to bring the whole to a point, he conceived the hope of appropriating the money, which, according to the general report of the country, the minister was to bring from edinburgh to pay for his pew purchase. while he was considering how he might best accomplish his purpose, he received the intelligence from one quarter, that the vessel in which he proposed to sail was to sail immediately from greenock; from another, that the minister and a rich english lord, with a great many thousand pounds, were expected the next evening at the manse; and from a third, that he must consult his safety by leaving his ordinary haunts as soon as possible, for that the captain had ordered out a party to scour the glens for him at break of day. donacha laid his plans with promptitude and decision. he embarked with the whistler and two others of his band (whom, by the by, he meant to sell to the kidnappers), and set sail for the caird's cove. he intended to lurk till nightfall in the wood adjoining to this place, which he thought was too near the habitation of men to excite the suspicion of duncan knock, then break into butler's peaceful habitation, and flesh at once his appetite for plunder and revenge. when his villany was accomplished, his boat was to convey him to the vessel, which, according to previous agreement with the master, was instantly to set sail. this desperate design would probably have succeeded, but for the ruffians being discovered in their lurking-place by sir george staunton and butler, in their accidental walk from the caird's cove towards the manse. finding himself detected, and at the same time observing that the servant carried a casket, or strong-box, donacha conceived that both his prize and his victims were within his power, and attacked the travellers without hesitation. shots were fired and swords drawn on both sides; sir george staunton offered the bravest resistance till he fell, as there was too much reason to believe, by the hand of a son, so long sought, and now at length so unhappily met. while butler was half-stunned with this intelligence, the hoarse voice of knockdunder added to his consternation. "i will take the liperty to take down the pell-ropes, mr. putler, as i must pe taking order to hang these idle people up to-morrow morning, to teach them more consideration in their doings in future." butler entreated him to remember the act abolishing the heritable jurisdictions, and that he ought to send them to glasgow or inverary, to be tried by the circuit. duncan scorned the proposal. "the jurisdiction act," he said, "had nothing to do put with the rebels, and specially not with argyle's country; and he would hang the men up all three in one row before coot leddy staunton's windows, which would be a great comfort to her in the morning to see that the coot gentleman, her husband, had been suitably afenged." and the utmost length that butler's most earnest entreaties could prevail was, that he would, reserve "the twa pig carles for the circuit, but as for him they ca'd the fustler, he should try how he could fustle in a swinging tow, for it suldna be said that a shentleman, friend to the duke, was killed in his country, and his people didna take at least twa lives for ane." butler entreated him to spare the victim for his soul's sake. but knockdunder answered, "that the soul of such a scum had been long the tefil's property, and that, cot tam! he was determined to gif the tefil his due." all persuasion was in vain, and duncan issued his mandate for execution on the succeeding morning. the child of guilt and misery was separated from his companions, strongly pinioned, and committed to a separate room, of which the captain kept the key. in the silence of the night, however, mrs. butler arose, resolved, if possible, to avert, at least to delay, the fate which hung over her nephew, especially if, upon conversing with him, she should see any hope of his being brought to better temper. she had a master-key that opened every lock in the house; and at midnight, when all was still, she stood before the eyes of the astonished young savage, as, hard bound with cords, he lay, like a sheep designed for slaughter, upon a quantity of the refuse of flax which filled a corner in the apartment. amid features sunburnt, tawny, grimed with dirt, and obscured by his shaggy hair of a rusted black colour, jeanie tried in vain to trace the likeness of either of his very handsome parents. yet how could she refuse compassion to a creature so young and so wretched,--so much more wretched than even he himself could be aware of, since the murder he had too probably committed with his own hand, but in which he had at any rate participated, was in fact a parricide? she placed food on a table near him, raised him, and slacked the cords on his arms, so as to permit him to feed himself. he stretched out his hands, still smeared with blood perhaps that of his father, and he ate voraciously and in silence. "what is your first name?" said jeanie, by way of opening the conversation. "the whistler." "but your christian name, by which you were baptized?" "i never was baptized that i know of--i have no other name than the whistler." "poor unhappy abandoned lad!" said jeanie. "what would ye do if you could escape from this place, and the death you are to die to-morrow morning?" "join wi' rob roy, or wi' sergeant more cameron" (noted freebooters at that time), "and revenge donacha's death on all and sundry." "o ye unhappy boy," said jeanie, "do ye ken what will come o' ye when ye die?" "i shall neither feel cauld nor hunger more," said the youth doggedly. "to let him be execute in this dreadful state of mind would be to destroy baith body and soul--and to let him gang i dare not--what will be done?-- but he is my sister's son--my own nephew--our flesh and blood--and his hands and feet are yerked as tight as cords can be drawn.--whistler, do the cords hurt you?" "very much." "but, if i were to slacken them, you would harm me?" "no, i would not--you never harmed me or mine." there may be good in him yet, thought jeanie; i will try fair play with him. she cut his bonds--he stood upright, looked round with a laugh of wild exultation, clapped his hands together, and sprung from the ground, as if in transport on finding himself at liberty. he looked so wild, that jeanie trembled at what she had done. "let me out," said the young savage. "i wunna, unless you promise" "then i'll make you glad to let us both out." he seized the lighted candle and threw it among the flax, which was instantly in a flame. jeanie screamed, and ran out of the room; the prisoner rushed past her, threw open a window in the passage, jumped into the garden, sprung over its enclosure, bounded through the woods like a deer, and gained the seashore. meantime, the fire was extinguished, but the prisoner was sought in vain. as jeanie kept her own secret, the share she had in his escape was not discovered: but they learned his fate some time afterwards--it was as wild as his life had hitherto been. the anxious inquiries of butler at length learned, that the youth had gained the ship in which his master, donacha, had designed to embark. but the avaricious shipmaster, inured by his evil trade to every species of treachery, and disappointed of the rich booty which donacha had proposed to bring aboard, secured the person of the fugitive, and having transported him to america, sold him as a slave, or indented servant, to a virginian planter, far up the country. when these tidings reached butler, he sent over to america a sufficient sum to redeem the lad from slavery, with instructions that measures should be taken for improving his mind, restraining his evil propensities, and encouraging whatever good might appear in his character. but this aid came too late. the young man had headed a conspiracy in which his inhuman master was put to death, and had then fled to the next tribe of wild indians. he was never more heard of; and it may therefore be presumed that he lived and died after the manner of that savage people, with whom his previous habits had well fitted him to associate. all hopes of the young man's reformation being now ended, mr. and mrs. butler thought it could serve no purpose to explain to lady staunton a history so full of horror. she remained their guest more than a year, during the greater part of which period her grief was excessive. in the latter months, it assumed the appearance of listlessness and low spirits, which the monotony of her sister's quiet establishment afforded no means of dissipating. effie, from her earliest youth, was never formed for a quiet low content. far different from her sister, she required the dissipation of society to divert her sorrow, or enhance her joy. she left the seclusion of knocktarlitie with tears of sincere affection, and after heaping its inmates with all she could think of that might be valuable in their eyes. but she _did_ leave it; and, when the anguish of the parting was over, her departure was a relief to both sisters. the family at the manse of knocktarlitie, in their own quiet happiness, heard of the well-dowered and beautiful lady staunton resuming her place in the fashionable world. they learned it by more substantial proofs, for david received a commission; and as the military spirit of bible butler seemed to have revived in him, his good behaviour qualified the envy of five hundred young highland cadets, "come of good houses," who were astonished at the rapidity of his promotion. reuben followed the law, and rose more slowly, yet surely. euphemia butler, whose fortune, augmented by her aunt's generosity, and added to her own beauty, rendered her no small prize, married a highland laird, who never asked the name of her grand-father, and was loaded on the occasion with presents from lady staunton, which made her the envy of all the beauties in dumbarton and argyle shires. after blazing nearly ten years in the fashionable world, and hiding, like many of her compeers, an aching heart with a gay demeanour--after declining repeated offers of the most respectable kind for a second matrimonial engagement, lady staunton betrayed the inward wound by retiring to the continent, and taking up her abode in the convent where she had received her education. she never took the veil, but lived and died in severe seclusion, and in the practice of the roman catholic religion, in all its formal observances, vigils, and austerities. jeanie had so much of her father's spirit as to sorrow bitterly for this apostasy, and butler joined in her regret. "yet any religion, however imperfect," he said, "was better than cold scepticism, or the hurrying din of dissipation, which fills the ears of worldlings, until they care for none of these things." meanwhile, happy in each other, in the prosperity of their family, and the love and honour of all who knew them, this simple pair lived beloved, and died lamented. [illustration: jeanie dean's cottage-- ] reader, this tale will not be told in vain, if it shall be found to illustrate the great truth, that guilt, though it may attain temporal splendour, can never confer real happiness; that the evil consequences of our crimes long survive their commission, and, like the ghosts of the murdered, for ever haunt the steps of the malefactor; and that the paths of virtue, though seldom those of worldly greatness, are always those of pleasantness and peace. l'envoy, by jedediah cleishbotham. thus concludeth the tale of "the heart of mid-lothian," which hath filled more pages than i opined. the heart of mid-lothian is now no more, or rather it is transferred to the extreme side of the city, even as the sieur jean baptiste poquelin hath it, in his pleasant comedy called _le me'decin malgre' lui,_ where the simulated doctor wittily replieth to a charge, that he had placed the heart on the right side, instead of the left, "_cela e'tait autrefois ainsi, mais nous avons change' tout cela._" of which witty speech if any reader shall demand the purport, i have only to respond, that i teach the french as well as the classical tongues, at the easy rate of five shillings per quarter, as my advertisements are periodically making known to the public. notes to the heart of mid-lothian. note a--author's connection with quakerism. it is an old proverb, that "many a true word is spoken in jest." the existence of walter scott, third son of sir william scott of harden, is instructed, as it is called, by a charter under the great seal, domino willielmo scott de harden militi, et waltero scott suo filio legitimo tertio genito, terrarum de roberton.* * see douglas's _baronage,_ page . the munificent old gentleman left all his four sons considerable estates. and settled those of eilrig and raeburn, together with valuable possessions around lessuden, upon walter, his third son, who is ancestor of the scotts of raeburn, and of the author of waverley. he appears to have become a convert to the doctrine of the quakers, or friends, and a great assertor of their peculiar tenets. this was probably at the time when george fox, the celebrated apostle of the sect, made an expedition into the south of scotland about , on which occasion, he boasts, that "as he first set his horse's feet upon scottish ground, he felt the seed of grace to sparkle about him like innumerable sparks of fire." upon the same occasion, probably, sir gideon scott of highchester, second son of sir william, immediate elder brother of walter, and ancestor of the author's friend and kinsman, the present representative of the family of harden, also embraced the tenets of quakerism. this last convert, gideon, entered into a controversy with the rev. james kirkton, author of the _secret and true history of the church of scotland,_ which is noticed by my ingenious friend mr. charles kirkpatrick sharpe, in his valuable and curious edition of that work, to, . sir william scott, eldest of the brothers, remained, amid the defection of his two younger brethren, an orthodox member of the presbyterian church, and used such means for reclaiming walter of raeburn from his heresy, as savoured far more of persecution than persuasion. in this he was assisted by macdougal of makerston, brother to isabella macdougal, the wife of the said walter, and who, like her husband, had conformed to the quaker tenets. the interest possessed by sir william scott and makerston was powerful enough to procure the two following acts of the privy council of scotland, directed against walter of raeburn as an heretic and convert to quakerism, appointing him to be imprisoned first in edinburgh jail, and then in that of jedburgh; and his children to be taken by force from the society and direction of their parents, and educated at a distance from them, besides the assignment of a sum for their maintenance, sufficient in those times to be burdensome to a moderate scottish estate. "apud edin., vigesimo junii . "the lords of his magesty's privy council having receaved information that scott of raeburn, and isobel mackdougall, his wife, being infected with the error of quakerism, doe endeavour to breid and trains up william, walter, and isobel scotts, their children, in the same profession, doe therefore give order and command to sir william scott of harden, the said raeburn's brother, to seperat and take away the saids children from the custody and society of the saids parents, and to cause educat and bring them up in his owne house, or any other convenient place, and ordaines letters to be direct at the said sir william's instance against raeburn, for a maintenance to the saids children, and that the said sir wm. give ane account of his diligence with all conveniency." "edinburgh, th july . "anent a petition presented be sir wm. scott of harden, for himself and in name and behalf of the three children of walter scott of raeburn, his brother, showing that the lords of councill, by ane act of the d day of junii , did grant power and warrand to the petitioner, to separat and take away raeburn's children, from his family and education, and to breed them in some convenient place, where they might be free from all infection in their younger years, from the principalls of quakerism, and, for maintenance of the saids children, did ordain letters to be direct against raeburn; and, seeing the petitioner, in obedience to the said order, did take away the saids children, being two sonnes and a daughter, and after some paines taken upon them in his owne family, hes sent them to the city of glasgow, to be bread at schooles, and there to be principled with the knowledge of the true religion, and that it is necessary the councill determine what shall be the maintenance for which raeburn's three children may be charged, as likewise that raeburn himself, being now in the tolbooth of edinburgh, where he dayley converses with all the quakers who are prisoners there, and others who daily resort to them, whereby he is hardened in his pernitious opinions and principles, without all hope of recovery, unlesse he be separat from such pernitious company, humbly therefore, desyring that the councell might determine upon the soume of money to be payed be raeburn, for the education of his children, to the petitioner, who will be countable therefor; and that, in order to his conversion, the place of his imprisonment may be changed. the lords of his maj. privy councell having at length heard and considered the foresaid petition, doe modifie the soume of two thousand pounds scots, to be payed yearly at the terms of whitsunday be the said walter scott of raeburn, furth of his estate to the petitioner, for the entertainment and education of the said children, beginning the first termes payment therof at whitsunday last for the half year preceding, and so furth yearly, at the said terme of whitsunday in tym comeing till furder orders; and ordaines the said walter scott of raeburn to be transported from the tolbooth of edinburgh to the prison of jedburgh, where his friends and others may have occasion to convert him. and to the effect he may be secured from the practice of other quakers, the said lords doe hereby discharge the magistrates of jedburgh to suffer any persons suspect of these principles to have access to him; and in case any contraveen, that they secure ther persons till they be therfore puneist; and ordaines letters to be direct heirupon in form, as effeirs." both the sons, thus harshly separated from their father, proved good scholars. the eldest, william, who carried on the line of raeburn, was, like his father, a deep orientalist; the younger, walter, became a good classical scholar, a great friend and correspondent of the celebrated dr. pitcairn, and a jacobite so distinguished for zeal, that he made a vow never to shave his beard till the restoration of the exiled family. this last walter scott was the author's great-grandfather. there is yet another link betwixt the author and the simple-minded and excellent society of friends, through a proselyte of much more importance than walter scott of raeburn. the celebrated john swinton, of swinton, nineteenth baron in descent of that ancient and once powerful family, was, with sir william lockhart of lee, the person whom cromwell chiefly trusted in the management of the scottish affairs during his usurpation. after the restoration, swinton was devoted as a victim to the new order of things, and was brought down in the same vessel which conveyed the marquis of argyle to edinburgh, where that nobleman was tried and executed. swinton was destined to the same fate. he had assumed the habit, and entered into the society of the quakers, and appeared as one of their number before the parliament of scotland. he renounced all legal defence, though several pleas were open to him, and answered, in conformity to the principles of his sect, that at the time these crimes were imputed to him, he was in the gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity; but that god almighty having since called him to the light, he saw and acknowledged these errors, and did not refuse to pay the forfeit of them, even though, in the judgment of the parliament, it should extend to life itself. respect to fallen greatness, and to the patience and calm resignation with which a man once in high power expressed himself under such a change of fortune, found swinton friends; family connections, and some interested considerations of middleton the commissioner, joined to procure his safety, and he was dismissed, but after a long imprisonment, and much dilapidation of his estates. it is said that swinton's admonitions, while confined in the castle of edinburgh, had a considerable share in converting to the tenets of the friends colonel david barclay, then lying there in the garrison. this was the father of robert barclay, author of the celebrated _apology for the quakers._ it may be observed among the inconsistencies of human nature, that kirkton, wodrow, and other presbyterian authors, who have detailed the sufferings of their own sect for nonconformity with the established church, censure the government of the time for not exerting the civil power against the peaceful enthusiasts we have treated of, and some express particular chagrin at the escape of swinton. whatever might be his motives for assuming the tenets of the friends, the old man retained them faithfully till the close of his life. jean swinton, grand-daughter of sir john swinton, son of judge swinton, as the quaker was usually termed, was mother of anne rutherford, the author's mother. and thus, as in the play of the anti-jacobin, the ghost of the author's grandmother having arisen to speak the epilogue, it is full time to conclude, lest the reader should remonstrate that his desire to know the author of waverley never included a wish to be acquainted with his whole ancestry. note b.--tombstone to helen walker. on helen walker's tombstone in irongray churchyard, dumfriesshire, there is engraved the following epitaph, written by sir walter scott: this stone was erected by the author of waverley to the memory of helen walker, who died in the year of god . this humble individual practised in real life the virtues with which fiction has invested the imaginary character of jeanie deans; refusing the slightest departure from veracity, even to save the life of a sister, she nevertheless showed her kindness and fortitude, in rescuing her from the severity of the law at the expense of personal exertions which the time rendered as difficult as the motive was laudable. respect the grave of poverty when combined with love of truth and dear affection. _erected october ._ note c.--the old tolbooth. the ancient tolbooth of edinburgh, situated as described in this chapter, was built by the citizens in , and destined for the accommodation of parliament, as well as of the high courts of justice;* and at the same time for the confinement of prisoners for debt, or on criminal charges. since the year , when the present parliament house was erected, the tolbooth was occupied as a prison only. * [this is not so certain. few persons now living are likely to remember the interior of the old tolbooth, with narrow staircase, thick walls, and small apartments, nor to imagine that it could ever have been used for these purposes. robert chambers, in his _minor antiquities_ of edinburgh, has preserved ground-plans or sections, which clearly show this,--the largest hall was on the second floor, and measuring feet by , and feet high. it may have been intended for the meetings of town council, while the parliament assembled, after , in what was called the upper tolbooth, that is the south-west portion of the collegiate church of st. giles, until the year , when the present parliament house was completed. being no longer required for such a purpose, it was set apart by the town council on the th december as a distinct church, with the name of the tolbooth parish, and therefore could not have derived the name from its vicinity to the tolbooth, as usually stated.] gloomy and dismal as it was, the situation in the centre of the high street rendered it so particularly well-aired, that when the plague laid waste the city in , it affected none within these melancholy precincts. the tolbooth was removed, with the mass of buildings in which it was incorporated, in the autumn of the year . at that time the kindness of his old schoolfellow and friend, robert johnstone, esquire, then dean of guild of the city, with the liberal acquiescence of the persons who had contracted for the work, procured for the author of waverley the stones which composed the gateway, together with the door, and its ponderous fastenings, which he employed in decorating the entrance of his kitchen-court at abbotsford. "to such base offices may we return." the application of these relies of the heart of mid-lothian to serve as the postern-gate to a court of modern offices, may be justly ridiculed as whimsical; but yet it is not without interest, that we see the gateway through which so much of the stormy politics of a rude age, and the vice and misery of later times, had found their passage, now occupied in the service of rural economy. last year, to complete the change, a tomtit was pleased to build her nest within the lock of the tolbooth,--a strong temptation to have committed a sonnet, had the author, like tony lumpkin, been in a concatenation accordingly. it is worth mentioning, that an act of beneficence celebrated the demolition of the heart of mid-lothian. a subscription, raised and applied by the worthy magistrate above mentioned, procured the manumission of most of the unfortunate debtors confined in the old jail, so that there were few or none transferred to the new place of confinement. [the figure of a heart upon the pavement between st. giles's church and the edinburgh county hall, now marks the site of the old tolbooth.] note d--the porteous mob. the following interesting and authentic account of the inquiries made by crown counsel into the affair of the porteous mob, seems to have been drawn up by the solicitor-general. the office was held in by charles erskine, esq. i owe this curious illustration to the kindness of a professional friend. it throws, indeed, little light on the origin of the tumult; but shows how profound the darkness must have been, which so much investigation could not dispel. "upon the th of september last, when the unhappy wicked murder of captain porteus was committed, his majesty's advocate and solicitor were out of town; the first beyond inverness, and the other in annandale, not far from carlyle; neither of them knew anything of the reprieve, nor did they in the least suspect that any disorder was to happen. "when the disorder happened, the magistrates and other persons concerned in the management of the town, seemed to be all struck of a heap; and whether, from the great terror that had seized all the inhabitants, they thought ane immediate enquiry would be fruitless, or whether, being a direct insult upon the prerogative of the crown, they did not care rashly to intermeddle; but no proceedings was had by them. only, soon after, ane express was sent to his majestie's solicitor, who came to town as soon as was possible for him; but, in the meantime, the persons who had been most guilty, had either ran off, or, at least, kept themselves upon the wing until they should see what steps were taken by the government. "when the solicitor arrived, he perceived the whole inhabitants under a consternation. he had no materials furnished him; nay, the inhabitants were so much afraid of being reputed informers, that very few people had so much as the courage to speak with him on the streets. however, having received her majestie's orders, by a letter from the duke of new castle, he resolved to sett about the matter in earnest, and entered upon ane enquiry, gropeing in the dark. he had no assistance from the magistrates worth mentioning, but called witness after witness in the privatest manner, before himself in his own house, and for six weeks time, from morning to evening, went on in the enquiry without taking the least diversion, or turning his thoughts to any other business. "he tried at first what he could do by declarations, by engaging secresy, so that those who told the truth should never be discovered; made use of no clerk, but wrote all the declarations with his own hand, to encourage them to speak out. after all, for some time, he could get nothing but ends of stories which, when pursued, broke off; and those who appeared and knew anything of the matter, were under the utmost terror, lest it should take air that they had mentioned any one man as guilty. "during the course of the enquiry, the run of the town, which was strong for the villanous actors, begun to alter a little, and when they saw the king's servants in earnest to do their best, the generality, who before had spoke very warmly in defence of the wickedness, began to be silent, and at that period more of the criminals began to abscond. "at length the enquiry began to open a little, and the sollicitor was under some difficulty how to proceed. he very well saw that the first warrand that was issued out would start the whole gang; and as he had not come at any of the most notorious offenders, he was unwilling, upon the slight evidence he had, to begin. however, upon notice given him by generall moyle, that one king, a butcher in the canongate, had boasted, in presence of bridget knell, a soldier's wife, the morning after captain porteus was hanged, that he had a very active hand in the mob, a warrand was issued out, and king was apprehended, and imprisoned in the canongate tolbooth. "this obliged the sollicitor immediately to take up those against whom he had any information. by a signed declaration, william stirling, apprentice to james stirling, merchant in edinburgh, was charged as haveing been at the nether-bow, after the gates were shutt, with a lochaber-ax or halbert in his hand, and haveing begun a huzza, marched upon the head of the mob towards the guard. "james braidwood, son to a candlemaker in town, was, by a signed declaration, charged as haveing been at the tolbooth door, giveing directions to the mob about setting fire to the door, and that the mob named him by his name, and asked his advice. "by another declaration, one stoddart, a journeyman smith, was charged of having boasted publickly, in a smith's shop at leith, that he had assisted in breaking open the tolbooth door. "peter traill, a journeyman wright, (by one of the declarations) was also accused of haveing lockt the nether-bow port, when it was shutt by the mob. "his majestie's sollicitor having these informations, implored privately such persons as he could best rely on, and the truth was, there were very few in whom he could repose confidence. but he was, indeed, faithfully served by one webster, a soldier in the welsh fuzileers, recommended him by lieutenant alshton, who, with very great address, informed himself, and really run some risque in getting his information, concerning the places where the persons informed against used to haunt, and how they might be seized. in consequence of which, a party of the guard from the canongate was agreed on to march up at a certain hour, when a message should be sent. the sollicitor wrote a letter and gave it to one of the town officers, ordered to attend captain maitland, one of the town captains, promoted to that command since the unhappy accident, who, indeed, was extremely diligent and active throughout the whole; and haveing got stirling and braidwood apprehended, dispatched the officer with the letter to the military in the canongate, who immediately begun their march, and by the time the sollicitor had half examined the said two persons in the burrow-room, where the magistrates were present, a party of fifty men, drums beating, marched into the parliament close, and drew up, which was the first thing that struck a terror, and from that time forward, the insolence was succeeded by fear. "stirling and braidwood were immediately sent to the castle and imprisoned. that same night, stoddart, the smith, was seized, and he was committed to the castle also; as was likewise traill, the journeyman wright, who were all severally examined, and denyed the least accession. "in the meantime, the enquiry was going on, and it haveing cast up in one of the declarations, that a hump'd backed creature marched with a gun as one of the guards to porteus when he went up to the lawn markett, the person who emitted this declaration was employed to walk the streets to see if he could find him out; at last he came to the sollicitor and told him he had found him, and that he was in a certain house. whereupon a warrand was issued out against him, and he was apprehended and sent to the castle, and he proved to be one birnie, a helper to the countess of weemys's coachman. "thereafter, ane information was given in against william m'lauchlan, ffootman to the said countess, he haveing been very active in the mob; ffor sometime he kept himself out of the way, but at last he was apprehended and likewise committed to the castle. "and these were all the prisoners who were putt under confinement in that place. "there were other persons imprisoned in the tolbooth of edinburgh, and severalls against whom warrands were issued, but could not be apprehended, whose names and cases shall afterwards be more particularly taken notice of. "the ffriends of stirling made an application to the earl of islay, lord justice-generall, setting furth, that he was seized with a bloody fflux; that his life was in danger; and that upon ane examination of witnesses whose names were given in, it would appear to conviction, that he had not the least access to any of the riotous proceedings of that wicked mob. "this petition was by his lordship putt in the hands of his majestie's sollicitor, who examined the witnesses; and by their testimonies it appeared, that the young man, who was not above eighteen years of age, was that night in company with about half a dozen companions, in a public house in stephen law's closs, near the back of the guard, where they all remained untill the noise came to the house, that the mob had shut the gates and seized the guard, upon which the company broke up, and he, and one of his companions, went towards his master's house; and, in the course of the after examination, there was a witness who declared, nay, indeed swore (for the sollicitor, by this time, saw it necessary to put those he examined upon oath), that he met him [stirling] after he entered into the alley where his master lives, going towards his house; and another witness, fellow-prentice with stirling, declares, that after the mob had seized the guard, he went home, where he found stirling before him; and, that his master lockt the door, and kept them both at home till after twelve at night: upon weighing of which testimonies, and upon consideration had, that he was charged by the declaration only of one person, who really did not appear to be a witness of the greatest weight, and that his life was in danger from the imprisonment, he was admitted to baill by the lord justice-generall, by whose warrand he was committed. "braidwood's friends applyed in the same manner; but as he stood charged by more than one witness, he was not released--tho', indeed, the witnesses adduced for him say somewhat in his exculpation--that he does not seem to have been upon any original concert; and one of the witnesses says he was along with him at the tolbooth door, and refuses what is said against him, with regard to his having advised the burning of the tolbooth door. but he remains still in prison. "as to traill, the journeyman wright, he is charged by the same witness who declared against stirling, and there is none concurrs with him and, to say the truth concerning him, he seemed to be the most ingenuous of any of them whom the solicitor examined, and pointed out a witness by whom one of the first accomplices was discovered, and who escaped when the warrand was to be putt in execution against them. he positively denys his having shutt the gate, and 'tis thought traill ought to be admitted to baill. "as to birnie, he is charged only by one witness, who had never seen him before, nor knew his name; so, tho' i dare say the witness honestly mentioned him, 'tis possible he may be mistaken; and in the examination of above witnesses there is no body concurrs with him, and he is ane insignificant little creature. "with regard to m'lauchlan, the proof is strong against him by one witness, that he acted as a serjeant, or sort of commander, for some time, of a guard, that stood cross between the upper end of the luckenbooths and the north side of the street, to stop all but friends from going towards the tolbooth; and by other witnesses, that he was at the tolbooth door with a link in his hand, while the operation of beating and burning it was going on; that he went along with the mob with a halbert in his hand, untill he came to the gallows stone in the grassmarket, and that he stuck the halbert into the hole of the gallows stone: that afterwards he went in amongst the mob when captain porteus was carried to the dyer's tree; so that the proof seems very heavy against him. "to sum up this matter with regard to the prisoners in the castle, 'tis believed there is strong proof against m'lauchlan; there is also proof against braidwood. but, as it consists only in emission of words said to have been had by him while at the tolbooth door, and that he is ane insignificant pitifull creature, and will find people to swear heartily in his favours, 'tis at best doubtfull whether a jury will be got to condemn him. "as to those in the tolbooth of edinburgh, john crawford, who had for some time been employed to ring the bells in the steeple of the new church of edinburgh, being in company with a soldier accidentally, the discourse falling in concerning the captain porteus and his murder, as he appears to be a light-headed fellow, he said, that he knew people that were more guilty than any that were putt in prison. upon this information, crawford was seized, and being examined, it appeared, that when the mob begun, as he was comeing down from the steeple, the mob took the keys from him; that he was that night in several corners, and did indeed delate severall persons whom he saw there, and immediately warrands were despatched, and it was found they had absconded and fled. but there was no evidence against him of any kind. nay, on the contrary, it appeared, that he had been with the magistrates in clerk's, the vintner's, relating to them what he had seen in the streets. therefore, after haveing detained him in prison ffor a very considerable time, his majestie's advocate and sollicitor signed a warrand for his liberation. "there was also one james wilson incarcerated in the said tolbooth, upon the declaration of one witness, who said he saw him on the streets with a gun; and there he remained for some time, in order to try if a concurring witness could be found, or that he acted any part in the tragedy and wickedness. but nothing farther appeared against him; and being seized with a severe sickness, he is, by a warrand signed by his majestie's advocate and sollicitor, liberated upon giveing sufficient baill. "as to king, enquiry was made, and the ffact comes out beyond all exception, that he was in the lodge at the nether-bow with lindsay the waiter, and several other people, not at all concerned in the mob. but after the affair was over, he went up towards the guard, and having met with sandie the turk and his wife, who escaped out of prison, they returned to his house at the abbey, and then 'tis very possible he may have thought fitt in his beer to boast of villany, in which he could not possibly have any share for that reason; he was desired to find baill and he should be set at liberty. but he is a stranger and a fellow of very indifferent character, and 'tis believed it won't be easy for him to find baill. wherefore, it's thought he must be sett at liberty without it. because he is a burden upon the government while kept in confinement, not being able to maintain himself. "what is above is all that relates to persons in custody. but there are warrands out against a great many other persons who had fled, particularly against one william white, a journeyman baxter, who, by the evidence, appears to have been at the beginning of the mob, and to have gone along with the drum, from the west-port to the nether-bow, and is said to have been one of those who attacked the guard, and probably was as deep as any one there. "information was given that he was lurking at falkirk, where he was born. whereupon directions were sent to the sheriff of the county, and a warrand from his excellency generall wade, to the commanding officers at stirling and linlithgow, to assist, and all possible endeavours were used to catch hold of him, and 'tis said he escaped very narrowly, having been concealed in some outhouse; and the misfortune was, that those who were employed in the search did not know him personally. nor, indeed, was it easy to trust any of the acquaintances of so low, obscure a fellow with the secret of the warrand to be putt in execution. "there was also strong evidence found against robert taylor, servant to william and charles thomsons, periwig-makers, that he acted as ane officer among the mob, and he was traced from the guard to the well at the head of forester's wynd, where he stood and had the appellation of captain from the mob, and from that walking down the bow before captain porteus, with his lochaber axe; and, by the description given of one who hawl'd the rope by which captain porteus was pulled up, 'tis believed taylor was the person; and 'tis farther probable, that the witness who debated stirling had mistaken taylor for him, their stature and age (so far as can be gathered from the description) being the same. "a great deal of pains were taken, and no charge was saved, in order to have catched hold of this taylor, and warrands were sent to the country where he was born; but it appears he had shipt himself off for holland, where it is said he now is. "there is strong evidence also against thomas burns, butcher, that he was ane active person from the beginning of the mob to the end of it. he lurkt for some time amongst those of his trade; and artfully enough a train was laid to catch him, under pretence of a message that had come from his father in ireland, so that he came to a blind alehouse in the flesh-market close, and, a party being ready, was, by webster the soldier, who was upon this exploit, advertised to come down. however, burns escaped out at a back-window, and hid himself in some of the houses which are heaped together upon one another in that place, so that it was not possible to catch him. 'tis now said he is gone to ireland to his father who lives there. "there is evidence also against one robert anderson, journeyman and servant to colin alison, wright; and against thomas linnen and james maxwell, both servants also to the said colin alison, who all seem to have been deeply concerned in the matter. anderson is one of those who putt the rope upon captain porteus's neck. linnen seems also to have been very active; and maxwell (which is pretty remarkable) is proven to have come to a shop upon the friday before, and charged the journeymen and prentices there to attend in the parliament close on tuesday night, to assist to hang captain porteus. these three did early abscond, and, though warrands had been issued out against them, and all endeavours used to apprehend them, could not be found. "one waldie, a servant to george campbell, wright, has also absconded, and many others, and 'tis informed that numbers of them have shipt themselves off ffor the plantations; and upon an information that a ship was going off ffrom glasgow, in which severall of the rogues were to transport themselves beyond seas, proper warrands were obtained, and persons despatched to search the said ship, and seize any that can be found. "the like warrands had been issued with regard to ships from leith. but whether they had been scard, or whether the information had been groundless, they had no effect. "this is a summary of the enquiry, ffrom which it appears there is no prooff on which one can rely, but against m'lauchlan. there is a prooff also against braidwood, but more exceptionable. his majestie's advocate, since he came to town, has join'd with the sollicitor, and has done his utmost to gett at the bottom of this matter, but hitherto it stands as is above represented. they are resolved to have their eyes and their ears open, and to do what they can. but they laboured exceedingly against the stream; and it may truly be said, that nothing was wanting on their part. nor have they declined any labour to answer the commands laid upon them to search the matter to the bottom." the porteous mob. in the preceding chapters (i. to vi.) the circumstances of that extraordinary riot and conspiracy, called the porteous mob, are given with as much accuracy as the author was able to collect them. the order, regularity, and determined resolution with which such a violent action was devised and executed, were only equalled by the secrecy which was observed concerning the principal actors. although the fact was performed by torch-light, and in presence of a great multitude, to some of whom, at least, the individual actors must have been known, yet no discovery was ever made concerning any of the perpetrators of the slaughter. two men only were brought to trial for an offence which the government were so anxious to detect and punish. william m'lauchlan, footman to the countess of wemyss, who is mentioned in the report of the solicitor-general, against whom strong evidence had been obtained, was brought to trial in march , charged as having been accessory to the riot, armed with a lochaber axe. but this man (who was at all times a silly creature) proved, that he was in a state of mortal intoxication during the time he was present with the rabble, incapable of giving them either advice or assistance, or, indeed, of knowing what he or they were doing. he was also able to prove, that he was forced into the riot, and upheld while there by two bakers, who put a lochaber axe into his hand. the jury, wisely judging this poor creature could be no proper subject of punishment, found the panel not guilty. the same verdict was given in the case of thomas linning, also mentioned in the solicitor's memorial, who was tried in . in short, neither then, nor for a long period afterwards, was anything discovered relating to the organisation of the porteous plot. the imagination of the people of edinburgh was long irritated, and their curiosity kept awake, by the mystery attending this extraordinary conspiracy. it was generally reported of such natives of edinburgh as, having left the city in youth, returned with a fortune amassed in foreign countries, that they had originally fled on account of their share in the porteous mob. but little credit can be attached to these surmises, as in most of the cases they are contradicted by dates, and in none supported by anything but vague rumours, grounded on the ordinary wish of the vulgar, to impute the success of prosperous men to some unpleasant source. the secret history of the porteous mob has been till this day unravelled; and it has always been quoted as a close, daring, and calculated act of violence, of a nature peculiarly characteristic of the scottish people. nevertheless, the author, for a considerable time, nourished hopes to have found himself enabled to throw some light on this mysterious story. an old man, who died about twenty years ago, at the advanced age of ninety-three, was said to have made a communication to the clergyman who attended upon his death-bed, respecting the origin of the porteous mob. this person followed the trade of a carpenter, and had been employed as such on the estate of a family of opulence and condition. his character in his line of life and amongst his neighbours, was excellent, and never underwent the slightest suspicion. his confession was said to have been to the following purpose: that he was one of twelve young men belonging to the village of pathhead, whose animosity against porteous, on account of the execution of wilson, was so extreme, that they resolved to execute vengeance on him with their own hands, rather than he should escape punishment. with this resolution they crossed the forth at different ferries, and rendezvoused at the suburb called portsburgh, where their appearance in a body soon called numbers around them. the public mind was in such a state of irritation, that it only wanted a single spark to create an explosion; and this was afforded by the exertions of the small and determined band of associates. the appearance of premeditation and order which distinguished the riot, according to his account, had its origin, not in any previous plan or conspiracy, but in the character of those who were engaged in it. the story also serves to show why nothing of the origin of the riot has ever been discovered, since though in itself a great conflagration, its source, according to this account, was from an obscure and apparently inadequate cause. i have been disappointed, however, in obtaining the evidence on which this story rests. the present proprietor of the estate on which the old man died (a particular friend of the author) undertook to question the son of the deceased on the subject. this person follows his father's trade, and holds the employment of carpenter to the same family. he admits that his father's going abroad at the time of the porteous mob was popularly attributed to his having been concerned in that affair; but adds that, so far as is known to him, the old man had never made any confession to that effect; and, on the contrary, had uniformly denied being present. my kind friend, therefore, had recourse to a person from whom he had formerly heard the story; but who, either from respect to an old friend's memory, or from failure of his own, happened to have forgotten that ever such a communication was made. so my obliging correspondent (who is a fox-hunter) wrote to me that he was completely _planted;_ and all that can be said with respect to the tradition is, that it certainly once existed, and was generally believed. [_n.b._--the rev. dr. carlyle, minister of inveresk, in his _autobiography,_ gives some interesting particulars relating to the porteous mob, from personal recollections. he happened to be present in the tolbooth church when robertson made his escape, and also at the execution of wilson in the grassmarket, when captain porteous fired upon the mob, and several persons were killed. edinburgh , vo, pp. - .] note e.--carspharn john. john semple, called carspharn john, because minister of the parish in galloway so called, was a presbyterian clergyman of singular piety and great zeal, of whom patrick walker records the following passage: "that night after his wife died, he spent the whole ensuing night in prayer and meditation in his garden. the next morning, one of his elders coming to see him, and lamenting his great loss and want of rest, he replied,--'i declare i have not, all night, had one thought of the death of my wife, i have been so taken up in meditating on heavenly things. i have been this night on the banks of ulai, plucking an apple here and there.'"-- _walker's remarkable passages of the life and death of mr. john semple._ note f.--peter walker. this personage, whom it would be base ingratitude in the author to pass over without some notice, was by far the most zealous and faithful collector and recorder of the actions and opinions of the cameronians. he resided, while stationary, at the bristo port of edinburgh, but was by trade an itinerant merchant, or pedlar, which profession he seems to have exercised in ireland as well as britain. he composed biographical notices of alexander peden, john semple, john welwood, and richard cameron, all ministers of the cameronian persuasion, to which the last mentioned member gave the name. it is from such tracts as these, written in the sense, feeling, and spirit of the sect, and not from the sophisticated narratives of a later period, that the real character of the persecuted class is to be gathered. walker writes with a simplicity which sometimes slides into the burlesque, and sometimes attains a tone of simple pathos, but always expressing the most daring confidence in his own correctness of creed and sentiments, sometimes with narrow-minded and disgusting bigotry. his turn for the marvellous was that of his time and sect; but there is little room to doubt his veracity concerning whatever he quotes on his own knowledge. his small tracts now bring a very high price, especially the earlier and authentic editions. the tirade against dancing, pronounced by david deans, is, as intimated in the text, partly borrowed from peter walker. he notices, as a foul reproach upon the name of richard cameron, that his memory was vituperated, "by pipers and fiddlers playing the cameronian march--carnal vain springs, which too many professors of religion dance to; a practice unbecoming the professors of christianity to dance to any spring, but somewhat more to this. whatever," he proceeds, "be the many foul blots recorded of the saints in scripture, none of them is charged with this regular fit of distraction. we find it has been practised by the wicked and profane, as the dancing at that brutish, base action of the calf-making; and it had been good for that unhappy lass, who danced off the head of john the baptist, that she had been born a cripple, and never drawn a limb to her. historians say, that her sin was written upon her judgment, who some time thereafter was dancing upon the ice, and it broke, and snapt the head off her; her head danced above, and her feet beneath. there is ground to think and conclude, that when the world's wickedness was great, dancing at their marriages was practised; but when the heavens above, and the earth beneath, were let loose upon them with that overflowing flood, their mirth was soon staid; and when the lord in holy justice rained fire and brimstone from heaven upon that wicked people and city sodom, enjoying fulness of bread and idleness, their fiddle-strings and hands went all in a flame; and the whole people in thirty miles of length, and ten of breadth, as historians say, were all made to fry in their skins and at the end, whoever are giving in marriages and dancing when all will go in a flame, they will quickly change their note. "i have often wondered thorow my life, how any that ever knew what it was to bow a knee in earnest to pray, durst crook a hough to fyke and fling at a piper's and fiddler's springs. i bless the lord that ordered my lot so in my dancing days, that made the fear of the bloody rope and bullets to my neck and head, the pain of boots, thumikens, and irons, cold and hunger, wetness and weariness, to stop the lightness of my head, and the wantonness of my feet. what the never-to-be-forgotten man of god, john knox, said to queen mary, when she gave him that sharp challenge, which would strike our mean-spirited, tongue-tacked ministers dumb, for his giving public faithful warning of the danger of the church and nation, through her marrying the dauphine of france, when he left her bubbling and greeting, and came to an outer court, where her lady maries were fyking and dancing, he said, 'o brave ladies, a brave world, if it would last, and heaven at the hinder end! but fye upon the knave death, that will seize upon those bodies of yours; and where will all your fiddling and flinging be then?' dancing being such a common evil, especially amongst young professors, that all the lovers of the lord should hate, has caused me to insist the more upon it, especially that foolish spring the cameronian march!"--_life and death of three famous worthies,_ etc., collected and printed for patrick walker, edin. , mo, p. . it may be here observed, that some of the milder class of cameronians made a distinction between the two sexes dancing separately, and allowed of it as a healthy and not unlawful exercise; but when men and women mingled in sport, it was then called _promiscuous dancing,_ and considered as a scandalous enormity. note g.--muschat's cairn. nichol muschat, a debauched and profligate wretch, having conceived a hatred against his wife, entered into a conspiracy with another brutal libertine and gambler, named campbell of burnbank (repeatedly mentioned in pennycuick's satirical poems of the time), by which campbell undertook to destroy the woman's character, so as to enable muschat, on false pretences to obtain a divorce from her. the brutal devices to which these worthy accomplices resorted for that purpose having failed, they endeavoured to destroy her by administering medicine of a dangerous kind, and in extraordinary quantities. this purpose also failing, nichol muschat, or muschet, did finally, on the th october , carry his wife under cloud of night to the king's park, adjacent to what is called the duke's walk, near holyrood palace, and there took her life by cutting her throat almost quite through, and inflicting other wounds. he pleaded guilty to the indictment, for which he suffered death. his associate, campbell, was sentenced to transportation, for his share in the previous conspiracy. see _maclaurin's criminal cases,_pp. and . in memory, and at the same time execration, of the deed, a _cairn,_ or pile of stones, long marked the spot. it is now almost totally removed, in consequence of an alteration on the road in that place. note h.--hangman, or lockman. _lockman,_ so called from the small quantity of meal (scottice, _lock_) which he was entitled to take out of every boll exposed to market in the city. in edinburgh, the duty has been very long commuted; but in dumfries, the finisher of the law still exercises, or did lately exercise, his privilege, the quantity taken being regulated by a small iron ladle, which he uses as the measure of his perquisite. the expression _lock,_ for a small quantity of any readily divisible dry substance, as corn, meal, flax, or the like, is still preserved, not only popularly, but in a legal description, as the _lock_ and _gowpen,_ or small quantity and handful, payable in thirlage cases, as in town multure. note i.--the fairy boy of leith, this legend was in former editions inaccurately said to exist in baxter's "world of spirits;" but is, in fact, to be found, in "pandaemonium, or the devil's cloyster; being a further blow to modern sadduceism," by richard bovet, gentleman, mo, . the work is inscribed to dr. henry more. the story is entitled, "a remarkable passage of one named the fairy boy of leith, in scotland, given me by my worthy friend, captain george burton, and attested under his hand;" and is as follows:-- "about fifteen years since, having business that detained me for some time in leith, which is near edenborough, in the kingdom of scotland, i often met some of my acquaintance at a certain house there, where we used to drink a glass of wine for our refection. the woman which kept the house was of honest reputation amongst the neighbours, which made me give the more attention to what she told me one day about a fairy boy (as they called him) who lived about that town. she had given me so strange an account of him, that i desired her i might see him the first opportunity, which she promised; and not long after, passing that way, she told me there was the fairy boy but a little before i came by; and casting her eye into the street, said, 'look you, sir, yonder he is at play with those other boys,' and designing him to me. i went, and by smooth words, and a piece of money, got him to come into the house with me; where, in the presence of divers people, i demanded of him several astrological questions, which he answered with great subtility, and through all his discourse carried it with a cunning much beyond his years, which seemed not to exceed ten or eleven. he seemed to make a motion like drumming upon the table with his fingers, upon which i asked him, whether he could beat a drum, to which he replied, 'yes, sir, as well as any man in scotland; for every thursday night i beat all points to a sort of people that use to meet under yon hill" (pointing to the great hill between edenborough and leith). 'how, boy,' quoth i; 'what company have you there?'--'there are, sir,' said he, 'a great company both of men and women, and they are entertained with many sorts of music besides my drum; they have, besides, plenty variety of meats and wine; and many times we are carried into france or holland in a night, and return again; and whilst we are there, we enjoy all the pleasures the country doth afford.' i demanded of him, how they got under that hill? to which he replied, 'that there were a great pair of gates that opened to them, though they were invisible to others, and that within there were brave large rooms, as well accommodated as most in scotland.' i then asked him, how i should know what he said to be true? upon which he told me he would read my fortune, saying i should have two wives, and that he saw the forms of them sitting on my shoulders; that both would be very handsome women. "as he was thus speaking, a woman of the neighbourhood, coming into the room, demanded of him what her fortune should be? he told her that she had two bastards before she was married; which put her in such a rage, that she desired not to hear the rest. the woman of the house told me that all the people in scotland could not keep him from the rendezvous on thursday night; upon which, by promising him some more money, i got a promise of him to meet me at the same place, in the afternoon of the thursday following, and so dismissed him at that time. the boy came again at the place and time appointed, and i had prevailed with some friends to continue with me, if possible, to prevent his moving that night; he was placed between us, and answered many questions, without offering to go from us, until about eleven of the clock, he was got away unperceived of the company; but i suddenly missing him, hasted to the door, and took hold of him, and so returned him into the same room; we all watched him, and on a sudden he was again out of the doors. i followed him close, and he made a noise in the street as if he had been set upon; but from that time i could never see him. "george burton." [a copy of this rare little volume is in the library at abbotsford.] note j.--intercourse of the covenanters with the invisible world. the gloomy, dangerous, and constant wanderings of the persecuted sect of cameronians, naturally led to their entertaining with peculiar credulity the belief that they were sometimes persecuted, not only by the wrath of men, but by the secret wiles and open terrors of satan. in fact, a flood could not happen, a horse cast a shoe, or any other the most ordinary interruption thwart a minister's wish to perform service at a particular spot, than the accident was imputed to the immediate agency of fiends. the encounter of alexander peden with the devil in the cave, and that of john sample with the demon in the ford, are given by peter walker almost in the language of the text. note k.--child-murder. the scottish statute book, anno , chapter , in consequence of the great increase of the crime of child-murder, both from the temptations to commit the offence and the difficulty of discovery enacted a certain set of presumptions, which, in the absence of direct proof, the jury were directed to receive as evidence of the crime having actually been committed. the circumstances selected for this purpose were, that the woman should have concealed her situation during the whole period of pregnancy; that she should not have called for help at her delivery; and that, combined with these grounds of suspicion, the child should be either found dead or be altogether missing. many persons suffered death during the last century under this severe act. but during the author's memory a more lenient course was followed, and the female accused under the act, and conscious of no competent defence, usually lodged a petition to the court of justiciary, denying, for form's sake, the tenor of the indictment, but stating, that as her good name had been destroyed by the charge, she was willing to submit to sentence of banishment, to which the crown counsel usually consented. this lenity in practice, and the comparative infrequency of the crime since the doom of public ecclesiastical penance has been generally dispensed with, have led to the abolition of the statute of william, and mary, which is now replaced by another, imposing banishment in those circumstances in which the crime was formerly capital. this alteration took place in . note l.--calumniator of the fair sex. the journal of graves, a bow street officer, despatched to holland to obtain the surrender of the unfortunate william brodie, bears a reflection on the ladies somewhat like that put in the mouth of the police-officer sharpitlaw. it had been found difficult to identify the unhappy criminal; and when a scotch gentleman of respectability had seemed disposed to give evidence on the point required, his son-in-law, a clergyman in amsterdam, and his daughter, were suspected by graves to have used arguments with the witness to dissuade him from giving his testimony. on which subject the journal of the bow street officer proceeds thus:-- "saw then a manifest reluctance in mr. -------, and had no doubt the daughter and parson would endeavour to persuade him to decline troubling himself in the matter, but judged he could not go back from what he had said to mr. rich.--nota bene. _no mischief but a woman or a priest in it_--here both." note m.--sir william dick of braid. this gentleman formed a striking example of the instability of human prosperity. he was once the wealthiest man of his time in scotland, a merchant in an extensive line of commerce, and a farmer of the public revenue; insomuch that, about , he estimated his fortune at two hundred thousand pounds sterling. sir william dick was a zealous covenanter; and in the memorable year , he lent the scottish convention of estates one hundred thousand merks at once, and thereby enabled them to support and pay their army, which must otherwise have broken to pieces. he afterwards advanced l , for the service of king charles, during the usurpation; and having, by owning the royal cause, provoked the displeasure of the ruling party, he was fleeced of more money, amounting in all to l , sterling. being in this manner reduced to indigence, he went to london to try to recover some part of the sums which had been lent on government security. instead of receiving any satisfaction, the scottish croesus was thrown into prison, in which he died, th december . it is said his death was hastened by the want of common necessaries. but this statement is somewhat exaggerated, if it be true, as is commonly said, that though he was not supplied with bread, he had plenty of pie-crust, thence called "sir william dick's necessity." the changes of fortune are commemorated in a folio pamphlet, entitled, "the lamentable estate and distressed case of sir william dick" [lond. ]. it contains three copper-plates, one representing sir william on horseback, and attended with guards as lord provost of edinburgh, superintending the unloading of one of his rich argosies. a second exhibiting him as arrested, and in the hands of the bailiffs. a third presents him dead in prison. the tract is esteemed highly valuable by collectors of prints. the only copy i ever saw upon sale, was rated at l . (in london sales, copies have varied in price from l to l : s.) note n.--doomster, or dempster, of court. the name of this officer is equivalent to the pronouncer of doom or sentence. in this comprehensive sense, the judges of the isle of man were called dempsters. but in scotland the word was long restricted to the designation of an official person, whose duty it was to recite the sentence after it had been pronounced by the court, and recorded by the clerk; on which occasion the dempster legalised it by the words of form, "_and this i pronounce for doom._" for a length of years, the office, as mentioned in the text, was held in commendam with that of the executioner; for when this odious but necessary officer of justice received his appointment, he petitioned the court of justiciary to be received as their dempster, which was granted as a matter of course. the production of the executioner in open court, and in presence of the wretched criminal, had something in it hideous and disgusting to the more refined feelings of later times. but if an old tradition of the parliament house of edinburgh may be trusted, it was the following anecdote which occasioned the disuse of the dempster's office. it chanced at one time that the office of public executioner was vacant. there was occasion for some one to act as dempster, and, considering the party who generally held the office, it is not wonderful that a locum tenens was hard to be found. at length, one hume, who had been sentenced to transportation, for an attempt to burn his own house, was induced to consent that he would pronounce the doom on this occasion. but when brought forth to officiate, instead of repeating the doom to the criminal, mr. hume addressed himself to their lordships in a bitter complaint of the injustice of his own sentence. it was in vain that he was interrupted, and reminded of the purpose for which he had come hither; "i ken what ye want of me weel eneugh," said the fellow, "ye want me to be your dempster; but i am come to be none of your dempster, i am come to summon you, lord t, and you, lord e, to answer at the bar of another world for the injustice you have done me in this." in short, hume had only made a pretext of complying with the proposal, in order to have an opportunity of reviling the judges to their faces, or giving them, in the phrase of his country, "a sloan." he was hurried off amid the laughter of the audience, but the indecorous scene which had taken place contributed to the abolition of the office of dempster. the sentence is now read over by the clerk of court, and the formality of pronouncing doom is altogether omitted. [the usage of calling the dempster into court by the ringing of a hand-bell, to repeat the sentence on a criminal, is said to have been abrogated in march .] note o.--john duke of argyle and greenwich. this nobleman was very dear to his countrymen, who were justly proud of his military and political talents, and grateful for the ready zeal with which he asserted the rights of his native country. this was never more conspicuous than in the matter of the porteous mob, when the ministers brought in a violent and vindictive bill, for declaring the lord provost of edinburgh incapable of bearing any public office in future, for not foreseeing a disorder which no one foresaw, or interrupting the course of a riot too formidable to endure opposition. the same bill made provision for pulling down the city gates, and abolishing the city guard,--rather a hibernian mode of enabling their better to keep the peace within burgh in future. the duke of argyle opposed this bill as a cruel, unjust, and fanatical proceeding, and an encroachment upon the privileges of the royal burghs of scotland, secured to them by the treaty of union. "in all the proceedings of that time," said his grace, "the nation of scotland treated with the english as a free and independent people; and as that treaty, my lords, had no other guarantee for the due performance of its articles, but the faith and honour of a british parliament, it would be both unjust and ungenerous, should this house agree to any proceedings that have a tendency to injure it." lord hardwicke, in reply to the duke of argyle, seemed to insinuate, that his grace had taken up the affair in a party point of view, to which the nobleman replied in the spirited language quoted in the text. lord hardwicke apologised. the bill was much modified, and the clauses concerning the dismantling the city, and disbanding the guard, were departed from. a fine of l was imposed on the city for the benefit of porteous's widow. she was contented to accept three-fourths of the sum, the payment of which closed the transaction. it is remarkable, that, in our day, the magistrates of edinburgh have had recourse to both those measures, hold in such horror by their predecessors, as necessary steps for the improvement of the city. it may be here noticed, in explanation of another circumstance mentioned in the text, that there is a tradition in scotland, that george ii., whose irascible temper is said sometimes to have hurried him into expressing his displeasure _par voie du fait,_ offered to the duke of argyle in angry audience, some menace of this nature, on which he left the presence in high disdain, and with little ceremony. sir robert walpole, having met the duke as he retired, and learning the cause of his resentment and discomposure, endeavoured to reconcile him to what had happened by saying, "such was his majesty's way, and that he often took such liberties with himself without meaning any harm." this did not mend matters in maccallummore's eyes, who replied, in great disdain, "you will please to remember, sir robert, the infinite distance there is betwixt you and me." another frequent expression of passion on the part of the same monarch, is alluded to in the old jacobite song-- the fire shall get both hat and wig, as oft-times they've got a' that. note p.--expulsion of the bishops from the scottish convention. for some time after the scottish convention had commenced its sittings, the scottish prelates retained their seats, and said prayers by rotation to the meeting, until the character of the convention became, through the secession of dundee, decidedly presbyterian. occasion was then taken on the bishop of ross mentioning king james in his prayer, as him for whom they watered their couch with tears. on this the convention exclaimed, they had no occasion for spiritual lords, and commanded the bishops to depart and return no more, montgomery of skelmorley breaking at the same time a coarse jest upon the scriptural expression used by the prelate. davie deans's oracle, patrick walker, gives this account of their dismission. "when they came out, some of the convention said they wished the honest lads knew they were put out, for then they would not get away with haill (whole) gowns. all the fourteen gathered together with pale faces, and stood in a cloud in the parliament close; james wilson, robert neilson, francis hislop, and myself, were standing close by them; francis hislop with force thrust robert neilson upon them, their heads went hard on one another. but there being so many enemies in the city fretting and gnashing the teeth, waiting for an occasion to raise a mob, when undoubtedly blood would have been shed, and having laid down conclusions amongst ourselves to avoid giving the least occasion to all mobs, kept us from tearing off their gowns. "their graceless graces went quickly off, and there was neither bishop nor curate seen in the street--this was a surprising sudden change not to be forgotten. some of us would have rejoiced near them in large sums to have seen these bishops sent legally down the bow that they might have found the weight of their tails in a tow to dry their tow-soles; that they might know what hanging was, they having been active for themselves and the main instigators to all the mischiefs, cruelties, and bloodshed of that time, wherein the streets of edinburgh and other places of the land did run with the innocent precious dear blood of the lord's people."--_life and death of three famous worthies_ (semple, etc.), by patrick walker. edin. , pp. , . note q.--half-hanged maggie dickson. [in the statistical account of the parish of inveresk (vol. xvi. p. ), dr. carlyle says, "no person has been convicted of a capital felony since the year , when the famous maggy dickson was condemned and executed for child-murder in the grassmarket of edinburgh, and was restored to life in a cart on her way to musselburgh to be buried . . . . . she kept an ale-house in a neighbouring parish for many years after she came to life again, which was much resorted to from curiosity." after the body was cut down and handed over to her relatives, her revival is attributed to the jolting of the cart, and according to robert chambers,--taking a retired road to musselburgh, "they stopped near peffer-mill to get a dram; and when they came out from the house to resume their journey, maggie was sitting up in the cart." among the poems of alexander pennecuick (who died in ), is one entitled "the merry wives of musselburgh's welcome to meg dickson;" while another broadside, without any date or author's name, is called "margaret dickson's penitential confession," containing these lines referring to her conviction:-- "who found me guilty of that barbarous crime, and did, by law, end this wretched life of mine; but god . . . . did me preserve," etc. in another of these ephemeral productions hawked about the streets, called, "a ballad by j--n b--s," are the following lines:-- "please peruse the speech of ill-hanged maggy dickson. ere she was strung, the wicked wife was sainted by the flamen (priest), but now, since she's retum'd to life, some say she's the old samen." in his reference to maggie's calling salt after her recovery, the author would appear to be alluding to another character who went by the name of "saut _maggie,_" and is represented in one or more old etchings about .] note r.--madge wildfire. in taking leave of the poor maniac, the author may here observe that the first conception of the character, though afterwards greatly altered, was taken from that of a person calling herself, and called by others, feckless fannie (weak or feeble fannie), who always travelled with a small flock of sheep. the following account, furnished by the persevering kindness of mr. train, contains, probably, all that can now be known of her history, though many, among whom is the author, may remember having heard of feckless fannie in the days of their youth. "my leisure hours," says mr. train, "for some time past have been mostly spent in searching for particulars relating to the maniac called feckless fannie, who travelled over all scotland and england, between the years and , and whose history is altogether so like a romance, that i have been at all possible pains to collect every particular that can be found relative to her in galloway, or in ayrshire. "when feckless fannie appeared in ayrshire, for the first time, in the summer of , she attracted much notice, from being attended by twelve or thirteen sheep, who seemed all endued with faculties so much superior to the ordinary race of animals of the same species, as to excite universal astonishment. she had for each a different name, to which it answered when called by its mistress, and would likewise obey in the most surprising manner any command she thought proper to give. when travelling, she always walked in front of her flock, and they followed her closely behind. when she lay down at night in the fields, for she would never enter into a house, they always disputed who should lie next to her, by which means she was kept warm, while she lay in the midst of them; when she attempted to rise from the ground, an old ram, whose name was charlie, always claimed the sole right of assisting her; pushing any that stood in his way aside, until he arrived right before his mistress; he then bowed his head nearly to the ground that she might lay her hands on his horns, which were very large; he then lifted her gently from the ground by raising his head. if she chanced to leave her flock feeding, as soon as they discovered she was gone, they all began to bleat most piteously, and would continue to do so till she returned; they would then testify their joy by rubbing their sides against her petticoat and frisking about. "feckless fannie was not, like most other demented creatures, fond of fine dress; on her head she wore an old slouched hat, over her shoulders an old plaid, and carried always in her hand a shepherd's crook; with any of these articles she invariably declared she would not part for any consideration whatever. when she was interrogated why she set so much value on things seemingly so insignificant, she would sometimes relate the history of her misfortune, which was briefly as follows:-- "'i am the only daughter of a wealthy squire in the north of england, but i loved my father's shepherd, and that has been my ruin; for my father, fearing his family would be disgraced by such an alliance, in a passion mortally wounded my lover with a shot from a pistol. i arrived just in time to receive the last blessing of the dying man, and to close his eyes in death. he bequeathed me his little all, but i only accepted these sheep, to be my sole companions through life, and this hat, this plaid, and this crook, all of which i will carry until i descend into the grave.' "this is the substance of a ballad, eighty-four lines of which i copied down lately from the recitation of an old woman in this place, who says she has seen it in print, with a plate on the title-page, representing fannie with her sheep behind her. as this ballad is said to have been written by lowe, the author of _mary's dream,_ i am surprised that it has not been noticed by cromek in his _remains of nithsdale and galloway song;_ but he perhaps thought it unworthy of a place in his collection, as there is very little merit in the composition; which want of room prevents me from transcribing at present. but if i thought you had never seen it, i would take an early opportunity of doing so. "after having made the tour of galloway in , as fannie was wandering in the neighbourhood of moffat, on her way to edinburgh, where, i am informed, she was likewise well known, old charlie, her favourite ram, chanced to break into a kale-yard, which the proprietor observing, let loose a mastiff, that hunted the poor sheep to death. this was a sad misfortune; it seemed to renew all the pangs which she formerly felt on the death of her lover. she would not part from the side of her old friend for several days, and it was with much difficulty she consented to allow him to be buried; but still wishing to pay a tribute to his memory, she covered his grave with moss, and fenced it round with osiers, and annually returned to the same spot, and pulled the weeds from the grave and repaired the fence. this is altogether like a romance; but i believe it is really true that she did so. the grave of charlie is still held sacred even by the school-boys of the present day in that quarter. it is now, perhaps, the only instance of the law of kenneth being attended to, which says, 'the grave where anie that is slaine lieth buried, leave untilled for seven years. repute every grave holie so as thou be well advised, that in no wise with thy feet thou tread upon it.' "through the storms of winter, as well as in the milder seasons of the year, she continued her wandering course, nor could she be prevented from doing so, either by entreaty or promise of reward. the late dr. fullarton of rosemount, in the neighbourhood of ayr, being well acquainted with her father when in england, endeavoured, in a severe season, by every means in his power, to detain her at rosemount for a few days until the weather should become more mild; but when she found herself rested a little, and saw her sheep fed, she raised her crook, which was the signal she always gave for the sheep to follow her, and off they all marched together. "but the hour of poor fannie's dissolution was now at hand, and she seemed anxious to arrive at the spot where she was to terminate her mortal career. she proceeded to glasgow, and while passing through that city a crowd of idle boys, attracted by her singular appearance, together with the novelty of seeing so many sheep obeying her command, began to ferment her with their pranks, till she became so irritated that she pelted them with bricks and stones, which they returned in such a manner, that she was actually stoned to death between glasgow and anderston. "to the real history of this singular individual credulity has attached several superstitious appendages. it is said that the farmer who was the cause of charlie's death shortly afterwards drowned himself in a peat-hag; and that the hand with which a butcher in kilinarnock struck one of the other sheep became powerless, and withered to the very bone. in the summer of , when she was passing by new cumnock, a young man, whose name was william forsyth, son of a farmer in the same parish, plagued her so much that she wished he might never see the morn; upon which he went home and hanged himself in his father's barn. and i doubt not that many such stories may yet be remembered in other parts where she had been." so far mr. train. the author can only add to this narrative that feckless fannie and her little flock were well known in the pastoral districts. in attempting to introduce such a character into fiction, the author felt the risk of encountering a comparison with the maria of sterne; and, besides, the mechanism of the story would have been as much retarded by feckless fannie's flock as the night march of don quixote was delayed by sancho's tale of the sheep that were ferried over the river. the author has only to add, that notwithstanding the preciseness of his friend mr. train's statement, there may be some hopes that the outrage on feckless fannie and her little flock was not carried to extremity. there is no mention of any trial on account of it, which, had it occurred in the manner stated, would have certainly taken place; and the author has understood that it was on the border she was last seen, about the skirts of the cheviot hills, but without her little flock. note s.--death of francis gordon. this exploit seems to have been one in which patrick walker prided himself not a little; and there is reason to fear, that that excellent person would have highly resented the attempt to associate another with him in the slaughter of a king's life-guardsman. indeed, he would have had the more right to be offended at losing any share of the glory, since the party against gordon was already three to one, besides having the advantage of firearms. the manner in which he vindicates his claim to the exploit, without committing himself by a direct statement of it, is not a little amusing. it is as follows:-- "i shall give a brief and true account of that man's death, which i did not design to do while i was upon the stage; i resolve, indeed (if it be the lord's will), to leave a more full account of that and many other remarkable steps of the lord's dispensations towards me through my life. it was then commonly said, that francis gordon was a volunteer out of wickedness of principles, and could not stay with the troop, but was still raging and ranging to catch hiding suffering people. meldrum and airly's troops, lying at lanark upon the first day of march , mr. gordon and another wicked comrade, with their two servants and four horses, came to kilcaigow, two miles from lanark, searching for william caigow and others, under hiding. "mr. gordon, rambling throw the town, offered to abuse the women. at night, they came a mile further to the easter-seat, to robert muir's, he being also under hiding. gordon's comrade and the two servants went to bed, but he could sleep none, roaring all night for women. when day came, he took only his sword in his hand, and came to moss-platt, and some new men (who had been in the fields all night) seeing him, they fled, and he pursued. james wilson, thomas young, and myself, having been in a meeting all night, were lying down in the morning. we were alarmed, thinking there were many more than one; he pursued hard, and overtook us. thomas young said, 'sir, what do ye pursue us for?' he said, 'he was come to send us to hell.' james wilson said, 'that shall not be, for we will defend ourselves.' he said, 'that either he or we should go to it now.' he run his sword furiously throw james wilson's coat. james fired upon him, but missed him. all this time he cried, 'damn his soul!' he got a shot in his head out of a pocket-pistol, rather fit for diverting a boy than killing such a furious, mad, brisk man, which, notwithstanding, killed him dead. the foresaid william caigow and robert muir came to us. we searched him for papers, and found a long scroll of sufferers' names, either to kill or take. i tore it all in pieces. he had also some popish books and bonds of money, with one dollar, which a poor man took off the ground; all which we put in his pocket again. thus, he was four miles from lanark, and near a mile from his comrade, seeking his own death and got it. and for as much as we have been condemned for this, i could never see how any one could condemn us that allows of self-defence, which the laws both of god and nature allow to every creature. for my own part, my heart never smote me for this. when i saw his blood run, i wished that all the blood of the lord's stated and avowed enemies in scotland had been in his veins. having such a clear call and opportunity, i would have rejoiced to have seen it all gone out with a gush. i have many times wondered at the greater part of the indulged, lukewarm ministers and professors in that time, who made more noise of murder, when one of these enemies had been killed even in our own defence, than of twenty of us being murdered by them. none of these men present was challenged for this but myself. thomas young thereafter suffered at mauchline, but was not challenged for this; robert muir was banished; james wilson outlived the persecution; williarn caigow died in the canongate tolbooth, in the beginning of . mr. wodrow is misinformed, who says that he suffered unto death." note t.--tolling to service in scotland. in the old days of scotland, when persons of property (unless they happened to be non-jurors) were as regular as their inferiors in attendance on parochial worship, there was a kind of etiquette, in waiting till the patron or acknowledged great man of the parish should make his appearance. this ceremonial was so sacred in the eyes of a parish beadle in the isle of bute, that the kirk bell being out of order, he is said to have mounted the steeple every sunday, to imitate with his voice the successive summonses which its mouth of metal used to send forth. the first part of this imitative harmony was simply the repetition of the words _bell bell, bell bell,_ two or three times in a manner as much resembling the sound as throat of flesh could imitate throat of iron. _bellu'm! bellu'm!_ was sounded forth in a more urgent manner; but he never sent forth the third and conclusive peal, the varied tone of which is called in scotland the ringing-in, until the two principal heritors of the parish approached, when the chime ran thus:-- bellu'm belle'llum, bernera and knockdow's coming! bellu'm belle'llum, bernera and knockdow's coming! thereby intimating that service was instantly to proceed. [mr. mackinlay of borrowstounness, a native of bute, states that sir walter scott had this story from sir adam ferguson; but that the gallant knight had not given the lairds' titles correctly--the bellman's great men being "craich, drumbuie, and barnernie!"-- .] and revised by thomas berger and joseph e. loewenstein, m.d. bleak house by charles dickens contents preface i. in chancery ii. in fashion iii. a progress iv. telescopic philanthropy v. a morning adventure vi. quite at home vii. the ghost's walk viii. covering a multitude of sins ix. signs and tokens x. the law-writer xi. our dear brother xii. on the watch xiii. esther's narrative xiv. deportment xv. bell yard xvi. tom-all-alone's xvii. esther's narrative xviii. lady dedlock xix. moving on xx. a new lodger xxi. the smallweed family xxii. mr. bucket xxiii. esther's narrative xxiv. an appeal case xxv. mrs. snagsby sees it all xxvi. sharpshooters xxvii. more old soldiers than one xxviii. the ironmaster xxix. the young man xxx. esther's narrative xxxi. nurse and patient xxxii. the appointed time xxxiii. interlopers xxxiv. a turn of the screw xxxv. esther's narrative xxxvi. chesney wold xxxvii. jarndyce and jarndyce xxxviii. a struggle xxxix. attorney and client xl. national and domestic xli. in mr. tulkinghorn's room xlii. in mr. tulkinghorn's chambers xliii. esther's narrative xliv. the letter and the answer xlv. in trust xlvi. stop him! xlvii. jo's will xlviii. closing in xlix. dutiful friendship l. esther's narrative li. enlightened lii. obstinacy liii. the track liv. springing a mine lv. flight lvi. pursuit lvii. esther's narrative lviii. a wintry day and night lix. esther's narrative lx. perspective lxi. a discovery lxii. another discovery lxiii. steel and iron lxiv. esther's narrative lxv. beginning the world lxvi. down in lincolnshire lxvii. the close of esther's narrative preface a chancery judge once had the kindness to inform me, as one of a company of some hundred and fifty men and women not labouring under any suspicions of lunacy, that the court of chancery, though the shining subject of much popular prejudice (at which point i thought the judge's eye had a cast in my direction), was almost immaculate. there had been, he admitted, a trivial blemish or so in its rate of progress, but this was exaggerated and had been entirely owing to the "parsimony of the public," which guilty public, it appeared, had been until lately bent in the most determined manner on by no means enlarging the number of chancery judges appointed--i believe by richard the second, but any other king will do as well. this seemed to me too profound a joke to be inserted in the body of this book or i should have restored it to conversation kenge or to mr. vholes, with one or other of whom i think it must have originated. in such mouths i might have coupled it with an apt quotation from one of shakespeare's sonnets: "my nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand: pity me, then, and wish i were renewed!" but as it is wholesome that the parsimonious public should know what has been doing, and still is doing, in this connexion, i mention here that everything set forth in these pages concerning the court of chancery is substantially true, and within the truth. the case of gridley is in no essential altered from one of actual occurrence, made public by a disinterested person who was professionally acquainted with the whole of the monstrous wrong from beginning to end. at the present moment (august, ) there is a suit before the court which was commenced nearly twenty years ago, in which from thirty to forty counsel have been known to appear at one time, in which costs have been incurred to the amount of seventy thousand pounds, which is a friendly suit, and which is (i am assured) no nearer to its termination now than when it was begun. there is another well-known suit in chancery, not yet decided, which was commenced before the close of the last century and in which more than double the amount of seventy thousand pounds has been swallowed up in costs. if i wanted other authorities for jarndyce and jarndyce, i could rain them on these pages, to the shame of--a parsimonious public. there is only one other point on which i offer a word of remark. the possibility of what is called spontaneous combustion has been denied since the death of mr. krook; and my good friend mr. lewes (quite mistaken, as he soon found, in supposing the thing to have been abandoned by all authorities) published some ingenious letters to me at the time when that event was chronicled, arguing that spontaneous combustion could not possibly be. i have no need to observe that i do not wilfully or negligently mislead my readers and that before i wrote that description i took pains to investigate the subject. there are about thirty cases on record, of which the most famous, that of the countess cornelia de baudi cesenate, was minutely investigated and described by giuseppe bianchini, a prebendary of verona, otherwise distinguished in letters, who published an account of it at verona in , which he afterwards republished at rome. the appearances, beyond all rational doubt, observed in that case are the appearances observed in mr. krook's case. the next most famous instance happened at rheims six years earlier, and the historian in that case is le cat, one of the most renowned surgeons produced by france. the subject was a woman, whose husband was ignorantly convicted of having murdered her; but on solemn appeal to a higher court, he was acquitted because it was shown upon the evidence that she had died the death of which this name of spontaneous combustion is given. i do not think it necessary to add to these notable facts, and that general reference to the authorities which will be found at page , vol. ii.,* the recorded opinions and experiences of distinguished medical professors, french, english, and scotch, in more modern days, contenting myself with observing that i shall not abandon the facts until there shall have been a considerable spontaneous combustion of the testimony on which human occurrences are usually received.** in bleak house i have purposely dwelt upon the romantic side of familiar things. *transcriber's note. this referred to a specific page in the printed book. in this project gutenberg edition the pertinent information is in chapter xxx, paragraph . ** another case, very clearly described by a dentist, occurred at the town of columbus, in the united states of america, quite recently. the subject was a german who kept a liquor-shop and was an inveterate drunkard. chapter i in chancery london. michaelmas term lately over, and the lord chancellor sitting in lincoln's inn hall. implacable november weather. as much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up holborn hill. smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes--gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. dogs, undistinguishable in mire. horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest. fog everywhere. fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. fog on the essex marshes, fog on the kentish heights. fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. fog in the eyes and throats of ancient greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 'prentice boy on deck. chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds. gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. most of the shops lighted two hours before their time--as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look. the raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, temple bar. and hard by temple bar, in lincoln's inn hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the lord high chancellor in his high court of chancery. never can there come fog too thick, never can there come mud and mire too deep, to assort with the groping and floundering condition which this high court of chancery, most pestilent of hoary sinners, holds this day in the sight of heaven and earth. on such an afternoon, if ever, the lord high chancellor ought to be sitting here--as here he is--with a foggy glory round his head, softly fenced in with crimson cloth and curtains, addressed by a large advocate with great whiskers, a little voice, and an interminable brief, and outwardly directing his contemplation to the lantern in the roof, where he can see nothing but fog. on such an afternoon some score of members of the high court of chancery bar ought to be--as here they are--mistily engaged in one of the ten thousand stages of an endless cause, tripping one another up on slippery precedents, groping knee-deep in technicalities, running their goat-hair and horsehair warded heads against walls of words and making a pretence of equity with serious faces, as players might. on such an afternoon the various solicitors in the cause, some two or three of whom have inherited it from their fathers, who made a fortune by it, ought to be--as are they not?--ranged in a line, in a long matted well (but you might look in vain for truth at the bottom of it) between the registrar's red table and the silk gowns, with bills, cross-bills, answers, rejoinders, injunctions, affidavits, issues, references to masters, masters' reports, mountains of costly nonsense, piled before them. well may the court be dim, with wasting candles here and there; well may the fog hang heavy in it, as if it would never get out; well may the stained-glass windows lose their colour and admit no light of day into the place; well may the uninitiated from the streets, who peep in through the glass panes in the door, be deterred from entrance by its owlish aspect and by the drawl, languidly echoing to the roof from the padded dais where the lord high chancellor looks into the lantern that has no light in it and where the attendant wigs are all stuck in a fog-bank! this is the court of chancery, which has its decaying houses and its blighted lands in every shire, which has its worn-out lunatic in every madhouse and its dead in every churchyard, which has its ruined suitor with his slipshod heels and threadbare dress borrowing and begging through the round of every man's acquaintance, which gives to monied might the means abundantly of wearying out the right, which so exhausts finances, patience, courage, hope, so overthrows the brain and breaks the heart, that there is not an honourable man among its practitioners who would not give--who does not often give--the warning, "suffer any wrong that can be done you rather than come here!" who happen to be in the lord chancellor's court this murky afternoon besides the lord chancellor, the counsel in the cause, two or three counsel who are never in any cause, and the well of solicitors before mentioned? there is the registrar below the judge, in wig and gown; and there are two or three maces, or petty-bags, or privy purses, or whatever they may be, in legal court suits. these are all yawning, for no crumb of amusement ever falls from jarndyce and jarndyce (the cause in hand), which was squeezed dry years upon years ago. the short-hand writers, the reporters of the court, and the reporters of the newspapers invariably decamp with the rest of the regulars when jarndyce and jarndyce comes on. their places are a blank. standing on a seat at the side of the hall, the better to peer into the curtained sanctuary, is a little mad old woman in a squeezed bonnet who is always in court, from its sitting to its rising, and always expecting some incomprehensible judgment to be given in her favour. some say she really is, or was, a party to a suit, but no one knows for certain because no one cares. she carries some small litter in a reticule which she calls her documents, principally consisting of paper matches and dry lavender. a sallow prisoner has come up, in custody, for the half-dozenth time to make a personal application "to purge himself of his contempt," which, being a solitary surviving executor who has fallen into a state of conglomeration about accounts of which it is not pretended that he had ever any knowledge, he is not at all likely ever to do. in the meantime his prospects in life are ended. another ruined suitor, who periodically appears from shropshire and breaks out into efforts to address the chancellor at the close of the day's business and who can by no means be made to understand that the chancellor is legally ignorant of his existence after making it desolate for a quarter of a century, plants himself in a good place and keeps an eye on the judge, ready to call out "my lord!" in a voice of sonorous complaint on the instant of his rising. a few lawyers' clerks and others who know this suitor by sight linger on the chance of his furnishing some fun and enlivening the dismal weather a little. jarndyce and jarndyce drones on. this scarecrow of a suit has, in course of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows what it means. the parties to it understand it least, but it has been observed that no two chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the premises. innumerable children have been born into the cause; innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old people have died out of it. scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in jarndyce and jarndyce without knowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the suit. the little plaintiff or defendant who was promised a new rocking-horse when jarndyce and jarndyce should be settled has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted away into the other world. fair wards of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a long procession of chancellors has come in and gone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality; there are not three jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps since old tom jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in chancery lane; but jarndyce and jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court, perennially hopeless. jarndyce and jarndyce has passed into a joke. that is the only good that has ever come of it. it has been death to many, but it is a joke in the profession. every master in chancery has had a reference out of it. every chancellor was "in it," for somebody or other, when he was counsel at the bar. good things have been said about it by blue-nosed, bulbous-shoed old benchers in select port-wine committee after dinner in hall. articled clerks have been in the habit of fleshing their legal wit upon it. the last lord chancellor handled it neatly, when, correcting mr. blowers, the eminent silk gown who said that such a thing might happen when the sky rained potatoes, he observed, "or when we get through jarndyce and jarndyce, mr. blowers"--a pleasantry that particularly tickled the maces, bags, and purses. how many people out of the suit jarndyce and jarndyce has stretched forth its unwholesome hand to spoil and corrupt would be a very wide question. from the master upon whose impaling files reams of dusty warrants in jarndyce and jarndyce have grimly writhed into many shapes, down to the copying-clerk in the six clerks' office who has copied his tens of thousands of chancery folio-pages under that eternal heading, no man's nature has been made better by it. in trickery, evasion, procrastination, spoliation, botheration, under false pretences of all sorts, there are influences that can never come to good. the very solicitors' boys who have kept the wretched suitors at bay, by protesting time out of mind that mr. chizzle, mizzle, or otherwise was particularly engaged and had appointments until dinner, may have got an extra moral twist and shuffle into themselves out of jarndyce and jarndyce. the receiver in the cause has acquired a goodly sum of money by it but has acquired too a distrust of his own mother and a contempt for his own kind. chizzle, mizzle, and otherwise have lapsed into a habit of vaguely promising themselves that they will look into that outstanding little matter and see what can be done for drizzle--who was not well used--when jarndyce and jarndyce shall be got out of the office. shirking and sharking in all their many varieties have been sown broadcast by the ill-fated cause; and even those who have contemplated its history from the outermost circle of such evil have been insensibly tempted into a loose way of letting bad things alone to take their own bad course, and a loose belief that if the world go wrong it was in some off-hand manner never meant to go right. thus, in the midst of the mud and at the heart of the fog, sits the lord high chancellor in his high court of chancery. "mr. tangle," says the lord high chancellor, latterly something restless under the eloquence of that learned gentleman. "mlud," says mr. tangle. mr. tangle knows more of jarndyce and jarndyce than anybody. he is famous for it--supposed never to have read anything else since he left school. "have you nearly concluded your argument?" "mlud, no--variety of points--feel it my duty tsubmit--ludship," is the reply that slides out of mr. tangle. "several members of the bar are still to be heard, i believe?" says the chancellor with a slight smile. eighteen of mr. tangle's learned friends, each armed with a little summary of eighteen hundred sheets, bob up like eighteen hammers in a pianoforte, make eighteen bows, and drop into their eighteen places of obscurity. "we will proceed with the hearing on wednesday fortnight," says the chancellor. for the question at issue is only a question of costs, a mere bud on the forest tree of the parent suit, and really will come to a settlement one of these days. the chancellor rises; the bar rises; the prisoner is brought forward in a hurry; the man from shropshire cries, "my lord!" maces, bags, and purses indignantly proclaim silence and frown at the man from shropshire. "in reference," proceeds the chancellor, still on jarndyce and jarndyce, "to the young girl--" "begludship's pardon--boy," says mr. tangle prematurely. "in reference," proceeds the chancellor with extra distinctness, "to the young girl and boy, the two young people"--mr. tangle crushed--"whom i directed to be in attendance to-day and who are now in my private room, i will see them and satisfy myself as to the expediency of making the order for their residing with their uncle." mr. tangle on his legs again. "begludship's pardon--dead." "with their"--chancellor looking through his double eye-glass at the papers on his desk--"grandfather." "begludship's pardon--victim of rash action--brains." suddenly a very little counsel with a terrific bass voice arises, fully inflated, in the back settlements of the fog, and says, "will your lordship allow me? i appear for him. he is a cousin, several times removed. i am not at the moment prepared to inform the court in what exact remove he is a cousin, but he is a cousin." leaving this address (delivered like a sepulchral message) ringing in the rafters of the roof, the very little counsel drops, and the fog knows him no more. everybody looks for him. nobody can see him. "i will speak with both the young people," says the chancellor anew, "and satisfy myself on the subject of their residing with their cousin. i will mention the matter to-morrow morning when i take my seat." the chancellor is about to bow to the bar when the prisoner is presented. nothing can possibly come of the prisoner's conglomeration but his being sent back to prison, which is soon done. the man from shropshire ventures another remonstrative "my lord!" but the chancellor, being aware of him, has dexterously vanished. everybody else quickly vanishes too. a battery of blue bags is loaded with heavy charges of papers and carried off by clerks; the little mad old woman marches off with her documents; the empty court is locked up. if all the injustice it has committed and all the misery it has caused could only be locked up with it, and the whole burnt away in a great funeral pyre--why so much the better for other parties than the parties in jarndyce and jarndyce! chapter ii in fashion it is but a glimpse of the world of fashion that we want on this same miry afternoon. it is not so unlike the court of chancery but that we may pass from the one scene to the other, as the crow flies. both the world of fashion and the court of chancery are things of precedent and usage: oversleeping rip van winkles who have played at strange games through a deal of thundery weather; sleeping beauties whom the knight will wake one day, when all the stopped spits in the kitchen shall begin to turn prodigiously! it is not a large world. relatively even to this world of ours, which has its limits too (as your highness shall find when you have made the tour of it and are come to the brink of the void beyond), it is a very little speck. there is much good in it; there are many good and true people in it; it has its appointed place. but the evil of it is that it is a world wrapped up in too much jeweller's cotton and fine wool, and cannot hear the rushing of the larger worlds, and cannot see them as they circle round the sun. it is a deadened world, and its growth is sometimes unhealthy for want of air. my lady dedlock has returned to her house in town for a few days previous to her departure for paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. the fashionable intelligence says so for the comfort of the parisians, and it knows all fashionable things. to know things otherwise were to be unfashionable. my lady dedlock has been down at what she calls, in familiar conversation, her "place" in lincolnshire. the waters are out in lincolnshire. an arch of the bridge in the park has been sapped and sopped away. the adjacent low-lying ground for half a mile in breadth is a stagnant river with melancholy trees for islands in it and a surface punctured all over, all day long, with falling rain. my lady dedlock's place has been extremely dreary. the weather for many a day and night has been so wet that the trees seem wet through, and the soft loppings and prunings of the woodman's axe can make no crash or crackle as they fall. the deer, looking soaked, leave quagmires where they pass. the shot of a rifle loses its sharpness in the moist air, and its smoke moves in a tardy little cloud towards the green rise, coppice-topped, that makes a background for the falling rain. the view from my lady dedlock's own windows is alternately a lead-coloured view and a view in indian ink. the vases on the stone terrace in the foreground catch the rain all day; and the heavy drops fall--drip, drip, drip--upon the broad flagged pavement, called from old time the ghost's walk, all night. on sundays the little church in the park is mouldy; the oaken pulpit breaks out into a cold sweat; and there is a general smell and taste as of the ancient dedlocks in their graves. my lady dedlock (who is childless), looking out in the early twilight from her boudoir at a keeper's lodge and seeing the light of a fire upon the latticed panes, and smoke rising from the chimney, and a child, chased by a woman, running out into the rain to meet the shining figure of a wrapped-up man coming through the gate, has been put quite out of temper. my lady dedlock says she has been "bored to death." therefore my lady dedlock has come away from the place in lincolnshire and has left it to the rain, and the crows, and the rabbits, and the deer, and the partridges and pheasants. the pictures of the dedlocks past and gone have seemed to vanish into the damp walls in mere lowness of spirits, as the housekeeper has passed along the old rooms shutting up the shutters. and when they will next come forth again, the fashionable intelligence--which, like the fiend, is omniscient of the past and present, but not the future--cannot yet undertake to say. sir leicester dedlock is only a baronet, but there is no mightier baronet than he. his family is as old as the hills, and infinitely more respectable. he has a general opinion that the world might get on without hills but would be done up without dedlocks. he would on the whole admit nature to be a good idea (a little low, perhaps, when not enclosed with a park-fence), but an idea dependent for its execution on your great county families. he is a gentleman of strict conscience, disdainful of all littleness and meanness and ready on the shortest notice to die any death you may please to mention rather than give occasion for the least impeachment of his integrity. he is an honourable, obstinate, truthful, high-spirited, intensely prejudiced, perfectly unreasonable man. sir leicester is twenty years, full measure, older than my lady. he will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet sixty-seven. he has a twist of the gout now and then and walks a little stiffly. he is of a worthy presence, with his light-grey hair and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure-white waistcoat, and his blue coat with bright buttons always buttoned. he is ceremonious, stately, most polite on every occasion to my lady, and holds her personal attractions in the highest estimation. his gallantry to my lady, which has never changed since he courted her, is the one little touch of romantic fancy in him. indeed, he married her for love. a whisper still goes about that she had not even family; howbeit, sir leicester had so much family that perhaps he had enough and could dispense with any more. but she had beauty, pride, ambition, insolent resolve, and sense enough to portion out a legion of fine ladies. wealth and station, added to these, soon floated her upward, and for years now my lady dedlock has been at the centre of the fashionable intelligence and at the top of the fashionable tree. how alexander wept when he had no more worlds to conquer, everybody knows--or has some reason to know by this time, the matter having been rather frequently mentioned. my lady dedlock, having conquered her world, fell not into the melting, but rather into the freezing, mood. an exhausted composure, a worn-out placidity, an equanimity of fatigue not to be ruffled by interest or satisfaction, are the trophies of her victory. she is perfectly well-bred. if she could be translated to heaven to-morrow, she might be expected to ascend without any rapture. she has beauty still, and if it be not in its heyday, it is not yet in its autumn. she has a fine face--originally of a character that would be rather called very pretty than handsome, but improved into classicality by the acquired expression of her fashionable state. her figure is elegant and has the effect of being tall. not that she is so, but that "the most is made," as the honourable bob stables has frequently asserted upon oath, "of all her points." the same authority observes that she is perfectly got up and remarks in commendation of her hair especially that she is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud. with all her perfections on her head, my lady dedlock has come up from her place in lincolnshire (hotly pursued by the fashionable intelligence) to pass a few days at her house in town previous to her departure for paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. and at her house in town, upon this muddy, murky afternoon, presents himself an old-fashioned old gentleman, attorney-at-law and eke solicitor of the high court of chancery, who has the honour of acting as legal adviser of the dedlocks and has as many cast-iron boxes in his office with that name outside as if the present baronet were the coin of the conjuror's trick and were constantly being juggled through the whole set. across the hall, and up the stairs, and along the passages, and through the rooms, which are very brilliant in the season and very dismal out of it--fairy-land to visit, but a desert to live in--the old gentleman is conducted by a mercury in powder to my lady's presence. the old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have made good thrift out of aristocratic marriage settlements and aristocratic wills, and to be very rich. he is surrounded by a mysterious halo of family confidences, of which he is known to be the silent depository. there are noble mausoleums rooted for centuries in retired glades of parks among the growing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk abroad among men, shut up in the breast of mr. tulkinghorn. he is of what is called the old school--a phrase generally meaning any school that seems never to have been young--and wears knee-breeches tied with ribbons, and gaiters or stockings. one peculiarity of his black clothes and of his black stockings, be they silk or worsted, is that they never shine. mute, close, irresponsive to any glancing light, his dress is like himself. he never converses when not professionally consulted. he is found sometimes, speechless but quite at home, at corners of dinner-tables in great country houses and near doors of drawing-rooms, concerning which the fashionable intelligence is eloquent, where everybody knows him and where half the peerage stops to say "how do you do, mr. tulkinghorn?" he receives these salutations with gravity and buries them along with the rest of his knowledge. sir leicester dedlock is with my lady and is happy to see mr. tulkinghorn. there is an air of prescription about him which is always agreeable to sir leicester; he receives it as a kind of tribute. he likes mr. tulkinghorn's dress; there is a kind of tribute in that too. it is eminently respectable, and likewise, in a general way, retainer-like. it expresses, as it were, the steward of the legal mysteries, the butler of the legal cellar, of the dedlocks. has mr. tulkinghorn any idea of this himself? it may be so, or it may not, but there is this remarkable circumstance to be noted in everything associated with my lady dedlock as one of a class--as one of the leaders and representatives of her little world. she supposes herself to be an inscrutable being, quite out of the reach and ken of ordinary mortals--seeing herself in her glass, where indeed she looks so. yet every dim little star revolving about her, from her maid to the manager of the italian opera, knows her weaknesses, prejudices, follies, haughtinesses, and caprices and lives upon as accurate a calculation and as nice a measure of her moral nature as her dressmaker takes of her physical proportions. is a new dress, a new custom, a new singer, a new dancer, a new form of jewellery, a new dwarf or giant, a new chapel, a new anything, to be set up? there are deferential people in a dozen callings whom my lady dedlock suspects of nothing but prostration before her, who can tell you how to manage her as if she were a baby, who do nothing but nurse her all their lives, who, humbly affecting to follow with profound subservience, lead her and her whole troop after them; who, in hooking one, hook all and bear them off as lemuel gulliver bore away the stately fleet of the majestic lilliput. "if you want to address our people, sir," say blaze and sparkle, the jewellers--meaning by our people lady dedlock and the rest--"you must remember that you are not dealing with the general public; you must hit our people in their weakest place, and their weakest place is such a place." "to make this article go down, gentlemen," say sheen and gloss, the mercers, to their friends the manufacturers, "you must come to us, because we know where to have the fashionable people, and we can make it fashionable." "if you want to get this print upon the tables of my high connexion, sir," says mr. sladdery, the librarian, "or if you want to get this dwarf or giant into the houses of my high connexion, sir, or if you want to secure to this entertainment the patronage of my high connexion, sir, you must leave it, if you please, to me, for i have been accustomed to study the leaders of my high connexion, sir, and i may tell you without vanity that i can turn them round my finger"--in which mr. sladdery, who is an honest man, does not exaggerate at all. therefore, while mr. tulkinghorn may not know what is passing in the dedlock mind at present, it is very possible that he may. "my lady's cause has been again before the chancellor, has it, mr. tulkinghorn?" says sir leicester, giving him his hand. "yes. it has been on again to-day," mr. tulkinghorn replies, making one of his quiet bows to my lady, who is on a sofa near the fire, shading her face with a hand-screen. "it would be useless to ask," says my lady with the dreariness of the place in lincolnshire still upon her, "whether anything has been done." "nothing that you would call anything has been done to-day," replies mr. tulkinghorn. "nor ever will be," says my lady. sir leicester has no objection to an interminable chancery suit. it is a slow, expensive, british, constitutional kind of thing. to be sure, he has not a vital interest in the suit in question, her part in which was the only property my lady brought him; and he has a shadowy impression that for his name--the name of dedlock--to be in a cause, and not in the title of that cause, is a most ridiculous accident. but he regards the court of chancery, even if it should involve an occasional delay of justice and a trifling amount of confusion, as a something devised in conjunction with a variety of other somethings by the perfection of human wisdom for the eternal settlement (humanly speaking) of everything. and he is upon the whole of a fixed opinion that to give the sanction of his countenance to any complaints respecting it would be to encourage some person in the lower classes to rise up somewhere--like wat tyler. "as a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file," says mr. tulkinghorn, "and as they are short, and as i proceed upon the troublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients with any new proceedings in a cause"--cautious man mr. tulkinghorn, taking no more responsibility than necessary--"and further, as i see you are going to paris, i have brought them in my pocket." (sir leicester was going to paris too, by the by, but the delight of the fashionable intelligence was in his lady.) mr. tulkinghorn takes out his papers, asks permission to place them on a golden talisman of a table at my lady's elbow, puts on his spectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp. "'in chancery. between john jarndyce--'" my lady interrupts, requesting him to miss as many of the formal horrors as he can. mr. tulkinghorn glances over his spectacles and begins again lower down. my lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention. sir leicester in a great chair looks at the file and appears to have a stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities as ranging among the national bulwarks. it happens that the fire is hot where my lady sits and that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful, being priceless but small. my lady, changing her position, sees the papers on the table--looks at them nearer--looks at them nearer still--asks impulsively, "who copied that?" mr. tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my lady's animation and her unusual tone. "is it what you people call law-hand?" she asks, looking full at him in her careless way again and toying with her screen. "not quite. probably"--mr. tulkinghorn examines it as he speaks--"the legal character which it has was acquired after the original hand was formed. why do you ask?" "anything to vary this detestable monotony. oh, go on, do!" mr. tulkinghorn reads again. the heat is greater; my lady screens her face. sir leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries, "eh? what do you say?" "i say i am afraid," says mr. tulkinghorn, who had risen hastily, "that lady dedlock is ill." "faint," my lady murmurs with white lips, "only that; but it is like the faintness of death. don't speak to me. ring, and take me to my room!" mr. tulkinghorn retires into another chamber; bells ring, feet shuffle and patter, silence ensues. mercury at last begs mr. tulkinghorn to return. "better now," quoth sir leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit down and read to him alone. "i have been quite alarmed. i never knew my lady swoon before. but the weather is extremely trying, and she really has been bored to death down at our place in lincolnshire." chapter iii a progress i have a great deal of difficulty in beginning to write my portion of these pages, for i know i am not clever. i always knew that. i can remember, when i was a very little girl indeed, i used to say to my doll when we were alone together, "now, dolly, i am not clever, you know very well, and you must be patient with me, like a dear!" and so she used to sit propped up in a great arm-chair, with her beautiful complexion and rosy lips, staring at me--or not so much at me, i think, as at nothing--while i busily stitched away and told her every one of my secrets. my dear old doll! i was such a shy little thing that i seldom dared to open my lips, and never dared to open my heart, to anybody else. it almost makes me cry to think what a relief it used to be to me when i came home from school of a day to run upstairs to my room and say, "oh, you dear faithful dolly, i knew you would be expecting me!" and then to sit down on the floor, leaning on the elbow of her great chair, and tell her all i had noticed since we parted. i had always rather a noticing way--not a quick way, oh, no!--a silent way of noticing what passed before me and thinking i should like to understand it better. i have not by any means a quick understanding. when i love a person very tenderly indeed, it seems to brighten. but even that may be my vanity. i was brought up, from my earliest remembrance--like some of the princesses in the fairy stories, only i was not charming--by my godmother. at least, i only knew her as such. she was a good, good woman! she went to church three times every sunday, and to morning prayers on wednesdays and fridays, and to lectures whenever there were lectures; and never missed. she was handsome; and if she had ever smiled, would have been (i used to think) like an angel--but she never smiled. she was always grave and strict. she was so very good herself, i thought, that the badness of other people made her frown all her life. i felt so different from her, even making every allowance for the differences between a child and a woman; i felt so poor, so trifling, and so far off that i never could be unrestrained with her--no, could never even love her as i wished. it made me very sorry to consider how good she was and how unworthy of her i was, and i used ardently to hope that i might have a better heart; and i talked it over very often with the dear old doll, but i never loved my godmother as i ought to have loved her and as i felt i must have loved her if i had been a better girl. this made me, i dare say, more timid and retiring than i naturally was and cast me upon dolly as the only friend with whom i felt at ease. but something happened when i was still quite a little thing that helped it very much. i had never heard my mama spoken of. i had never heard of my papa either, but i felt more interested about my mama. i had never worn a black frock, that i could recollect. i had never been shown my mama's grave. i had never been told where it was. yet i had never been taught to pray for any relation but my godmother. i had more than once approached this subject of my thoughts with mrs. rachael, our only servant, who took my light away when i was in bed (another very good woman, but austere to me), and she had only said, "esther, good night!" and gone away and left me. although there were seven girls at the neighbouring school where i was a day boarder, and although they called me little esther summerson, i knew none of them at home. all of them were older than i, to be sure (i was the youngest there by a good deal), but there seemed to be some other separation between us besides that, and besides their being far more clever than i was and knowing much more than i did. one of them in the first week of my going to the school (i remember it very well) invited me home to a little party, to my great joy. but my godmother wrote a stiff letter declining for me, and i never went. i never went out at all. it was my birthday. there were holidays at school on other birthdays--none on mine. there were rejoicings at home on other birthdays, as i knew from what i heard the girls relate to one another--there were none on mine. my birthday was the most melancholy day at home in the whole year. i have mentioned that unless my vanity should deceive me (as i know it may, for i may be very vain without suspecting it, though indeed i don't), my comprehension is quickened when my affection is. my disposition is very affectionate, and perhaps i might still feel such a wound if such a wound could be received more than once with the quickness of that birthday. dinner was over, and my godmother and i were sitting at the table before the fire. the clock ticked, the fire clicked; not another sound had been heard in the room or in the house for i don't know how long. i happened to look timidly up from my stitching, across the table at my godmother, and i saw in her face, looking gloomily at me, "it would have been far better, little esther, that you had had no birthday, that you had never been born!" i broke out crying and sobbing, and i said, "oh, dear godmother, tell me, pray do tell me, did mama die on my birthday?" "no," she returned. "ask me no more, child!" "oh, do pray tell me something of her. do now, at last, dear godmother, if you please! what did i do to her? how did i lose her? why am i so different from other children, and why is it my fault, dear godmother? no, no, no, don't go away. oh, speak to me!" i was in a kind of fright beyond my grief, and i caught hold of her dress and was kneeling to her. she had been saying all the while, "let me go!" but now she stood still. her darkened face had such power over me that it stopped me in the midst of my vehemence. i put up my trembling little hand to clasp hers or to beg her pardon with what earnestness i might, but withdrew it as she looked at me, and laid it on my fluttering heart. she raised me, sat in her chair, and standing me before her, said slowly in a cold, low voice--i see her knitted brow and pointed finger--"your mother, esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. the time will come--and soon enough--when you will understand this better and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can. i have forgiven her"--but her face did not relent--"the wrong she did to me, and i say no more of it, though it was greater than you will ever know--than any one will ever know but i, the sufferer. for yourself, unfortunate girl, orphaned and degraded from the first of these evil anniversaries, pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your head, according to what is written. forget your mother and leave all other people to forget her who will do her unhappy child that greatest kindness. now, go!" she checked me, however, as i was about to depart from her--so frozen as i was!--and added this, "submission, self-denial, diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with such a shadow on it. you are different from other children, esther, because you were not born, like them, in common sinfulness and wrath. you are set apart." i went up to my room, and crept to bed, and laid my doll's cheek against mine wet with tears, and holding that solitary friend upon my bosom, cried myself to sleep. imperfect as my understanding of my sorrow was, i knew that i had brought no joy at any time to anybody's heart and that i was to no one upon earth what dolly was to me. dear, dear, to think how much time we passed alone together afterwards, and how often i repeated to the doll the story of my birthday and confided to her that i would try as hard as ever i could to repair the fault i had been born with (of which i confessedly felt guilty and yet innocent) and would strive as i grew up to be industrious, contented, and kind-hearted and to do some good to some one, and win some love to myself if i could. i hope it is not self-indulgent to shed these tears as i think of it. i am very thankful, i am very cheerful, but i cannot quite help their coming to my eyes. there! i have wiped them away now and can go on again properly. i felt the distance between my godmother and myself so much more after the birthday, and felt so sensible of filling a place in her house which ought to have been empty, that i found her more difficult of approach, though i was fervently grateful to her in my heart, than ever. i felt in the same way towards my school companions; i felt in the same way towards mrs. rachael, who was a widow; and oh, towards her daughter, of whom she was proud, who came to see her once a fortnight! i was very retired and quiet, and tried to be very diligent. one sunny afternoon when i had come home from school with my books and portfolio, watching my long shadow at my side, and as i was gliding upstairs to my room as usual, my godmother looked out of the parlour-door and called me back. sitting with her, i found--which was very unusual indeed--a stranger. a portly, important-looking gentleman, dressed all in black, with a white cravat, large gold watch seals, a pair of gold eye-glasses, and a large seal-ring upon his little finger. "this," said my godmother in an undertone, "is the child." then she said in her naturally stern way of speaking, "this is esther, sir." the gentleman put up his eye-glasses to look at me and said, "come here, my dear!" he shook hands with me and asked me to take off my bonnet, looking at me all the while. when i had complied, he said, "ah!" and afterwards "yes!" and then, taking off his eye-glasses and folding them in a red case, and leaning back in his arm-chair, turning the case about in his two hands, he gave my godmother a nod. upon that, my godmother said, "you may go upstairs, esther!" and i made him my curtsy and left him. it must have been two years afterwards, and i was almost fourteen, when one dreadful night my godmother and i sat at the fireside. i was reading aloud, and she was listening. i had come down at nine o'clock as i always did to read the bible to her, and was reading from st. john how our saviour stooped down, writing with his finger in the dust, when they brought the sinful woman to him. "so when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself and said unto them, 'he that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her!'" i was stopped by my godmother's rising, putting her hand to her head, and crying out in an awful voice from quite another part of the book, "'watch ye, therefore, lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping. and what i say unto you, i say unto all, watch!'" in an instant, while she stood before me repeating these words, she fell down on the floor. i had no need to cry out; her voice had sounded through the house and been heard in the street. she was laid upon her bed. for more than a week she lay there, little altered outwardly, with her old handsome resolute frown that i so well knew carved upon her face. many and many a time, in the day and in the night, with my head upon the pillow by her that my whispers might be plainer to her, i kissed her, thanked her, prayed for her, asked her for her blessing and forgiveness, entreated her to give me the least sign that she knew or heard me. no, no, no. her face was immovable. to the very last, and even afterwards, her frown remained unsoftened. on the day after my poor good godmother was buried, the gentleman in black with the white neckcloth reappeared. i was sent for by mrs. rachael, and found him in the same place, as if he had never gone away. "my name is kenge," he said; "you may remember it, my child; kenge and carboy, lincoln's inn." i replied that i remembered to have seen him once before. "pray be seated--here near me. don't distress yourself; it's of no use. mrs. rachael, i needn't inform you who were acquainted with the late miss barbary's affairs, that her means die with her and that this young lady, now her aunt is dead--" "my aunt, sir!" "it is really of no use carrying on a deception when no object is to be gained by it," said mr. kenge smoothly, "aunt in fact, though not in law. don't distress yourself! don't weep! don't tremble! mrs. rachael, our young friend has no doubt heard of--the--a--jarndyce and jarndyce." "never," said mrs. rachael. "is it possible," pursued mr. kenge, putting up his eye-glasses, "that our young friend--i beg you won't distress yourself!--never heard of jarndyce and jarndyce!" i shook my head, wondering even what it was. "not of jarndyce and jarndyce?" said mr. kenge, looking over his glasses at me and softly turning the case about and about as if he were petting something. "not of one of the greatest chancery suits known? not of jarndyce and jarndyce--the--a--in itself a monument of chancery practice. in which (i would say) every difficulty, every contingency, every masterly fiction, every form of procedure known in that court, is represented over and over again? it is a cause that could not exist out of this free and great country. i should say that the aggregate of costs in jarndyce and jarndyce, mrs. rachael"--i was afraid he addressed himself to her because i appeared inattentive"--amounts at the present hour to from six-ty to seven-ty thousand pounds!" said mr. kenge, leaning back in his chair. i felt very ignorant, but what could i do? i was so entirely unacquainted with the subject that i understood nothing about it even then. "and she really never heard of the cause!" said mr. kenge. "surprising!" "miss barbary, sir," returned mrs. rachael, "who is now among the seraphim--" "i hope so, i am sure," said mr. kenge politely. "--wished esther only to know what would be serviceable to her. and she knows, from any teaching she has had here, nothing more." "well!" said mr. kenge. "upon the whole, very proper. now to the point," addressing me. "miss barbary, your sole relation (in fact that is, for i am bound to observe that in law you had none) being deceased and it naturally not being to be expected that mrs. rachael--" "oh, dear no!" said mrs. rachael quickly. "quite so," assented mr. kenge; "--that mrs. rachael should charge herself with your maintenance and support (i beg you won't distress yourself), you are in a position to receive the renewal of an offer which i was instructed to make to miss barbary some two years ago and which, though rejected then, was understood to be renewable under the lamentable circumstances that have since occurred. now, if i avow that i represent, in jarndyce and jarndyce and otherwise, a highly humane, but at the same time singular, man, shall i compromise myself by any stretch of my professional caution?" said mr. kenge, leaning back in his chair again and looking calmly at us both. he appeared to enjoy beyond everything the sound of his own voice. i couldn't wonder at that, for it was mellow and full and gave great importance to every word he uttered. he listened to himself with obvious satisfaction and sometimes gently beat time to his own music with his head or rounded a sentence with his hand. i was very much impressed by him--even then, before i knew that he formed himself on the model of a great lord who was his client and that he was generally called conversation kenge. "mr. jarndyce," he pursued, "being aware of the--i would say, desolate--position of our young friend, offers to place her at a first-rate establishment where her education shall be completed, where her comfort shall be secured, where her reasonable wants shall be anticipated, where she shall be eminently qualified to discharge her duty in that station of life unto which it has pleased--shall i say providence?--to call her." my heart was filled so full, both by what he said and by his affecting manner of saying it, that i was not able to speak, though i tried. "mr. jarndyce," he went on, "makes no condition beyond expressing his expectation that our young friend will not at any time remove herself from the establishment in question without his knowledge and concurrence. that she will faithfully apply herself to the acquisition of those accomplishments, upon the exercise of which she will be ultimately dependent. that she will tread in the paths of virtue and honour, and--the--a--so forth." i was still less able to speak than before. "now, what does our young friend say?" proceeded mr. kenge. "take time, take time! i pause for her reply. but take time!" what the destitute subject of such an offer tried to say, i need not repeat. what she did say, i could more easily tell, if it were worth the telling. what she felt, and will feel to her dying hour, i could never relate. this interview took place at windsor, where i had passed (as far as i knew) my whole life. on that day week, amply provided with all necessaries, i left it, inside the stagecoach, for reading. mrs. rachael was too good to feel any emotion at parting, but i was not so good, and wept bitterly. i thought that i ought to have known her better after so many years and ought to have made myself enough of a favourite with her to make her sorry then. when she gave me one cold parting kiss upon my forehead, like a thaw-drop from the stone porch--it was a very frosty day--i felt so miserable and self-reproachful that i clung to her and told her it was my fault, i knew, that she could say good-bye so easily! "no, esther!" she returned. "it is your misfortune!" the coach was at the little lawn-gate--we had not come out until we heard the wheels--and thus i left her, with a sorrowful heart. she went in before my boxes were lifted to the coach-roof and shut the door. as long as i could see the house, i looked back at it from the window through my tears. my godmother had left mrs. rachael all the little property she possessed; and there was to be a sale; and an old hearth-rug with roses on it, which always seemed to me the first thing in the world i had ever seen, was hanging outside in the frost and snow. a day or two before, i had wrapped the dear old doll in her own shawl and quietly laid her--i am half ashamed to tell it--in the garden-earth under the tree that shaded my old window. i had no companion left but my bird, and him i carried with me in his cage. when the house was out of sight, i sat, with my bird-cage in the straw at my feet, forward on the low seat to look out of the high window, watching the frosty trees, that were like beautiful pieces of spar, and the fields all smooth and white with last night's snow, and the sun, so red but yielding so little heat, and the ice, dark like metal where the skaters and sliders had brushed the snow away. there was a gentleman in the coach who sat on the opposite seat and looked very large in a quantity of wrappings, but he sat gazing out of the other window and took no notice of me. i thought of my dead godmother, of the night when i read to her, of her frowning so fixedly and sternly in her bed, of the strange place i was going to, of the people i should find there, and what they would be like, and what they would say to me, when a voice in the coach gave me a terrible start. it said, "what the de-vil are you crying for?" i was so frightened that i lost my voice and could only answer in a whisper, "me, sir?" for of course i knew it must have been the gentleman in the quantity of wrappings, though he was still looking out of his window. "yes, you," he said, turning round. "i didn't know i was crying, sir," i faltered. "but you are!" said the gentleman. "look here!" he came quite opposite to me from the other corner of the coach, brushed one of his large furry cuffs across my eyes (but without hurting me), and showed me that it was wet. "there! now you know you are," he said. "don't you?" "yes, sir," i said. "and what are you crying for?" said the gentleman, "don't you want to go there?" "where, sir?" "where? why, wherever you are going," said the gentleman. "i am very glad to go there, sir," i answered. "well, then! look glad!" said the gentleman. i thought he was very strange, or at least that what i could see of him was very strange, for he was wrapped up to the chin, and his face was almost hidden in a fur cap with broad fur straps at the side of his head fastened under his chin; but i was composed again, and not afraid of him. so i told him that i thought i must have been crying because of my godmother's death and because of mrs. rachael's not being sorry to part with me. "confound mrs. rachael!" said the gentleman. "let her fly away in a high wind on a broomstick!" i began to be really afraid of him now and looked at him with the greatest astonishment. but i thought that he had pleasant eyes, although he kept on muttering to himself in an angry manner and calling mrs. rachael names. after a little while he opened his outer wrapper, which appeared to me large enough to wrap up the whole coach, and put his arm down into a deep pocket in the side. "now, look here!" he said. "in this paper," which was nicely folded, "is a piece of the best plum-cake that can be got for money--sugar on the outside an inch thick, like fat on mutton chops. here's a little pie (a gem this is, both for size and quality), made in france. and what do you suppose it's made of? livers of fat geese. there's a pie! now let's see you eat 'em." "thank you, sir," i replied; "thank you very much indeed, but i hope you won't be offended--they are too rich for me." "floored again!" said the gentleman, which i didn't at all understand, and threw them both out of window. he did not speak to me any more until he got out of the coach a little way short of reading, when he advised me to be a good girl and to be studious, and shook hands with me. i must say i was relieved by his departure. we left him at a milestone. i often walked past it afterwards, and never for a long time without thinking of him and half expecting to meet him. but i never did; and so, as time went on, he passed out of my mind. when the coach stopped, a very neat lady looked up at the window and said, "miss donny." "no, ma'am, esther summerson." "that is quite right," said the lady, "miss donny." i now understood that she introduced herself by that name, and begged miss donny's pardon for my mistake, and pointed out my boxes at her request. under the direction of a very neat maid, they were put outside a very small green carriage; and then miss donny, the maid, and i got inside and were driven away. "everything is ready for you, esther," said miss donny, "and the scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in exact accordance with the wishes of your guardian, mr. jarndyce." "of--did you say, ma'am?" "of your guardian, mr. jarndyce," said miss donny. i was so bewildered that miss donny thought the cold had been too severe for me and lent me her smelling-bottle. "do you know my--guardian, mr. jarndyce, ma'am?" i asked after a good deal of hesitation. "not personally, esther," said miss donny; "merely through his solicitors, messrs. kenge and carboy, of london. a very superior gentleman, mr. kenge. truly eloquent indeed. some of his periods quite majestic!" i felt this to be very true but was too confused to attend to it. our speedy arrival at our destination, before i had time to recover myself, increased my confusion, and i never shall forget the uncertain and the unreal air of everything at greenleaf (miss donny's house) that afternoon! but i soon became used to it. i was so adapted to the routine of greenleaf before long that i seemed to have been there a great while and almost to have dreamed rather than really lived my old life at my godmother's. nothing could be more precise, exact, and orderly than greenleaf. there was a time for everything all round the dial of the clock, and everything was done at its appointed moment. we were twelve boarders, and there were two miss donnys, twins. it was understood that i would have to depend, by and by, on my qualifications as a governess, and i was not only instructed in everything that was taught at greenleaf, but was very soon engaged in helping to instruct others. although i was treated in every other respect like the rest of the school, this single difference was made in my case from the first. as i began to know more, i taught more, and so in course of time i had plenty to do, which i was very fond of doing because it made the dear girls fond of me. at last, whenever a new pupil came who was a little downcast and unhappy, she was so sure--indeed i don't know why--to make a friend of me that all new-comers were confided to my care. they said i was so gentle, but i am sure they were! i often thought of the resolution i had made on my birthday to try to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to do some good to some one and win some love if i could; and indeed, indeed, i felt almost ashamed to have done so little and have won so much. i passed at greenleaf six happy, quiet years. i never saw in any face there, thank heaven, on my birthday, that it would have been better if i had never been born. when the day came round, it brought me so many tokens of affectionate remembrance that my room was beautiful with them from new year's day to christmas. in those six years i had never been away except on visits at holiday time in the neighbourhood. after the first six months or so i had taken miss donny's advice in reference to the propriety of writing to mr. kenge to say that i was happy and grateful, and with her approval i had written such a letter. i had received a formal answer acknowledging its receipt and saying, "we note the contents thereof, which shall be duly communicated to our client." after that i sometimes heard miss donny and her sister mention how regular my accounts were paid, and about twice a year i ventured to write a similar letter. i always received by return of post exactly the same answer in the same round hand, with the signature of kenge and carboy in another writing, which i supposed to be mr. kenge's. it seems so curious to me to be obliged to write all this about myself! as if this narrative were the narrative of my life! but my little body will soon fall into the background now. six quiet years (i find i am saying it for the second time) i had passed at greenleaf, seeing in those around me, as it might be in a looking-glass, every stage of my own growth and change there, when, one november morning, i received this letter. i omit the date. old square, lincoln's inn madam, jarndyce and jarndyce our clt mr. jarndyce being abt to rece into his house, under an order of the ct of chy, a ward of the ct in this cause, for whom he wishes to secure an elgble compn, directs us to inform you that he will be glad of your serces in the afsd capacity. we have arrngd for your being forded, carriage free, pr eight o'clock coach from reading, on monday morning next, to white horse cellar, piccadilly, london, where one of our clks will be in waiting to convey you to our offe as above. we are, madam, your obedt servts, kenge and carboy miss esther summerson oh, never, never, never shall i forget the emotion this letter caused in the house! it was so tender in them to care so much for me, it was so gracious in that father who had not forgotten me to have made my orphan way so smooth and easy and to have inclined so many youthful natures towards me, that i could hardly bear it. not that i would have had them less sorry--i am afraid not; but the pleasure of it, and the pain of it, and the pride and joy of it, and the humble regret of it were so blended that my heart seemed almost breaking while it was full of rapture. the letter gave me only five days' notice of my removal. when every minute added to the proofs of love and kindness that were given me in those five days, and when at last the morning came and when they took me through all the rooms that i might see them for the last time, and when some cried, "esther, dear, say good-bye to me here at my bedside, where you first spoke so kindly to me!" and when others asked me only to write their names, "with esther's love," and when they all surrounded me with their parting presents and clung to me weeping and cried, "what shall we do when dear, dear esther's gone!" and when i tried to tell them how forbearing and how good they had all been to me and how i blessed and thanked them every one, what a heart i had! and when the two miss donnys grieved as much to part with me as the least among them, and when the maids said, "bless you, miss, wherever you go!" and when the ugly lame old gardener, who i thought had hardly noticed me in all those years, came panting after the coach to give me a little nosegay of geraniums and told me i had been the light of his eyes--indeed the old man said so!--what a heart i had then! and could i help it if with all this, and the coming to the little school, and the unexpected sight of the poor children outside waving their hats and bonnets to me, and of a grey-haired gentleman and lady whose daughter i had helped to teach and at whose house i had visited (who were said to be the proudest people in all that country), caring for nothing but calling out, "good-bye, esther. may you be very happy!"--could i help it if i was quite bowed down in the coach by myself and said "oh, i am so thankful, i am so thankful!" many times over! but of course i soon considered that i must not take tears where i was going after all that had been done for me. therefore, of course, i made myself sob less and persuaded myself to be quiet by saying very often, "esther, now you really must! this will not do!" i cheered myself up pretty well at last, though i am afraid i was longer about it than i ought to have been; and when i had cooled my eyes with lavender water, it was time to watch for london. i was quite persuaded that we were there when we were ten miles off, and when we really were there, that we should never get there. however, when we began to jolt upon a stone pavement, and particularly when every other conveyance seemed to be running into us, and we seemed to be running into every other conveyance, i began to believe that we really were approaching the end of our journey. very soon afterwards we stopped. a young gentleman who had inked himself by accident addressed me from the pavement and said, "i am from kenge and carboy's, miss, of lincoln's inn." "if you please, sir," said i. he was very obliging, and as he handed me into a fly after superintending the removal of my boxes, i asked him whether there was a great fire anywhere? for the streets were so full of dense brown smoke that scarcely anything was to be seen. "oh, dear no, miss," he said. "this is a london particular." i had never heard of such a thing. "a fog, miss," said the young gentleman. "oh, indeed!" said i. we drove slowly through the dirtiest and darkest streets that ever were seen in the world (i thought) and in such a distracting state of confusion that i wondered how the people kept their senses, until we passed into sudden quietude under an old gateway and drove on through a silent square until we came to an odd nook in a corner, where there was an entrance up a steep, broad flight of stairs, like an entrance to a church. and there really was a churchyard outside under some cloisters, for i saw the gravestones from the staircase window. this was kenge and carboy's. the young gentleman showed me through an outer office into mr. kenge's room--there was no one in it--and politely put an arm-chair for me by the fire. he then called my attention to a little looking-glass hanging from a nail on one side of the chimney-piece. "in case you should wish to look at yourself, miss, after the journey, as you're going before the chancellor. not that it's requisite, i am sure," said the young gentleman civilly. "going before the chancellor?" i said, startled for a moment. "only a matter of form, miss," returned the young gentleman. "mr. kenge is in court now. he left his compliments, and would you partake of some refreshment"--there were biscuits and a decanter of wine on a small table--"and look over the paper," which the young gentleman gave me as he spoke. he then stirred the fire and left me. everything was so strange--the stranger from its being night in the day-time, the candles burning with a white flame, and looking raw and cold--that i read the words in the newspaper without knowing what they meant and found myself reading the same words repeatedly. as it was of no use going on in that way, i put the paper down, took a peep at my bonnet in the glass to see if it was neat, and looked at the room, which was not half lighted, and at the shabby, dusty tables, and at the piles of writings, and at a bookcase full of the most inexpressive-looking books that ever had anything to say for themselves. then i went on, thinking, thinking, thinking; and the fire went on, burning, burning, burning; and the candles went on flickering and guttering, and there were no snuffers--until the young gentleman by and by brought a very dirty pair--for two hours. at last mr. kenge came. he was not altered, but he was surprised to see how altered i was and appeared quite pleased. "as you are going to be the companion of the young lady who is now in the chancellor's private room, miss summerson," he said, "we thought it well that you should be in attendance also. you will not be discomposed by the lord chancellor, i dare say?" "no, sir," i said, "i don't think i shall," really not seeing on consideration why i should be. so mr. kenge gave me his arm and we went round the corner, under a colonnade, and in at a side door. and so we came, along a passage, into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and a young gentleman were standing near a great, loud-roaring fire. a screen was interposed between them and it, and they were leaning on the screen, talking. they both looked up when i came in, and i saw in the young lady, with the fire shining upon her, such a beautiful girl! with such rich golden hair, such soft blue eyes, and such a bright, innocent, trusting face! "miss ada," said mr. kenge, "this is miss summerson." she came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand extended, but seemed to change her mind in a moment and kissed me. in short, she had such a natural, captivating, winning manner that in a few minutes we were sitting in the window-seat, with the light of the fire upon us, talking together as free and happy as could be. what a load off my mind! it was so delightful to know that she could confide in me and like me! it was so good of her, and so encouraging to me! the young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his name richard carstone. he was a handsome youth with an ingenuous face and a most engaging laugh; and after she had called him up to where we sat, he stood by us, in the light of the fire, talking gaily, like a light-hearted boy. he was very young, not more than nineteen then, if quite so much, but nearly two years older than she was. they were both orphans and (what was very unexpected and curious to me) had never met before that day. our all three coming together for the first time in such an unusual place was a thing to talk about, and we talked about it; and the fire, which had left off roaring, winked its red eyes at us--as richard said--like a drowsy old chancery lion. we conversed in a low tone because a full-dressed gentleman in a bag wig frequently came in and out, and when he did so, we could hear a drawling sound in the distance, which he said was one of the counsel in our case addressing the lord chancellor. he told mr. kenge that the chancellor would be up in five minutes; and presently we heard a bustle and a tread of feet, and mr. kenge said that the court had risen and his lordship was in the next room. the gentleman in the bag wig opened the door almost directly and requested mr. kenge to come in. upon that, we all went into the next room, mr. kenge first, with my darling--it is so natural to me now that i can't help writing it; and there, plainly dressed in black and sitting in an arm-chair at a table near the fire, was his lordship, whose robe, trimmed with beautiful gold lace, was thrown upon another chair. he gave us a searching look as we entered, but his manner was both courtly and kind. the gentleman in the bag wig laid bundles of papers on his lordship's table, and his lordship silently selected one and turned over the leaves. "miss clare," said the lord chancellor. "miss ada clare?" mr. kenge presented her, and his lordship begged her to sit down near him. that he admired her and was interested by her even i could see in a moment. it touched me that the home of such a beautiful young creature should be represented by that dry, official place. the lord high chancellor, at his best, appeared so poor a substitute for the love and pride of parents. "the jarndyce in question," said the lord chancellor, still turning over leaves, "is jarndyce of bleak house." "jarndyce of bleak house, my lord," said mr. kenge. "a dreary name," said the lord chancellor. "but not a dreary place at present, my lord," said mr. kenge. "and bleak house," said his lordship, "is in--" "hertfordshire, my lord." "mr. jarndyce of bleak house is not married?" said his lordship. "he is not, my lord," said mr. kenge. a pause. "young mr. richard carstone is present?" said the lord chancellor, glancing towards him. richard bowed and stepped forward. "hum!" said the lord chancellor, turning over more leaves. "mr. jarndyce of bleak house, my lord," mr. kenge observed in a low voice, "if i may venture to remind your lordship, provides a suitable companion for--" "for mr. richard carstone?" i thought (but i am not quite sure) i heard his lordship say in an equally low voice and with a smile. "for miss ada clare. this is the young lady. miss summerson." his lordship gave me an indulgent look and acknowledged my curtsy very graciously. "miss summerson is not related to any party in the cause, i think?" "no, my lord." mr. kenge leant over before it was quite said and whispered. his lordship, with his eyes upon his papers, listened, nodded twice or thrice, turned over more leaves, and did not look towards me again until we were going away. mr. kenge now retired, and richard with him, to where i was, near the door, leaving my pet (it is so natural to me that again i can't help it!) sitting near the lord chancellor, with whom his lordship spoke a little part, asking her, as she told me afterwards, whether she had well reflected on the proposed arrangement, and if she thought she would be happy under the roof of mr. jarndyce of bleak house, and why she thought so? presently he rose courteously and released her, and then he spoke for a minute or two with richard carstone, not seated, but standing, and altogether with more ease and less ceremony, as if he still knew, though he was lord chancellor, how to go straight to the candour of a boy. "very well!" said his lordship aloud. "i shall make the order. mr. jarndyce of bleak house has chosen, so far as i may judge," and this was when he looked at me, "a very good companion for the young lady, and the arrangement altogether seems the best of which the circumstances admit." he dismissed us pleasantly, and we all went out, very much obliged to him for being so affable and polite, by which he had certainly lost no dignity but seemed to us to have gained some. when we got under the colonnade, mr. kenge remembered that he must go back for a moment to ask a question and left us in the fog, with the lord chancellor's carriage and servants waiting for him to come out. "well!" said richard carstone. "that's over! and where do we go next, miss summerson?" "don't you know?" i said. "not in the least," said he. "and don't you know, my love?" i asked ada. "no!" said she. "don't you?" "not at all!" said i. we looked at one another, half laughing at our being like the children in the wood, when a curious little old woman in a squeezed bonnet and carrying a reticule came curtsying and smiling up to us with an air of great ceremony. "oh!" said she. "the wards in jarndyce! ve-ry happy, i am sure, to have the honour! it is a good omen for youth, and hope, and beauty when they find themselves in this place, and don't know what's to come of it." "mad!" whispered richard, not thinking she could hear him. "right! mad, young gentleman," she returned so quickly that he was quite abashed. "i was a ward myself. i was not mad at that time," curtsying low and smiling between every little sentence. "i had youth and hope. i believe, beauty. it matters very little now. neither of the three served or saved me. i have the honour to attend court regularly. with my documents. i expect a judgment. shortly. on the day of judgment. i have discovered that the sixth seal mentioned in the revelations is the great seal. it has been open a long time! pray accept my blessing." as ada was a little frightened, i said, to humour the poor old lady, that we were much obliged to her. "ye-es!" she said mincingly. "i imagine so. and here is conversation kenge. with his documents! how does your honourable worship do?" "quite well, quite well! now don't be troublesome, that's a good soul!" said mr. kenge, leading the way back. "by no means," said the poor old lady, keeping up with ada and me. "anything but troublesome. i shall confer estates on both--which is not being troublesome, i trust? i expect a judgment. shortly. on the day of judgment. this is a good omen for you. accept my blessing!" she stopped at the bottom of the steep, broad flight of stairs; but we looked back as we went up, and she was still there, saying, still with a curtsy and a smile between every little sentence, "youth. and hope. and beauty. and chancery. and conversation kenge! ha! pray accept my blessing!" chapter iv telescopic philanthropy we were to pass the night, mr. kenge told us when we arrived in his room, at mrs. jellyby's; and then he turned to me and said he took it for granted i knew who mrs. jellyby was. "i really don't, sir," i returned. "perhaps mr. carstone--or miss clare--" but no, they knew nothing whatever about mrs. jellyby. "in-deed! mrs. jellyby," said mr. kenge, standing with his back to the fire and casting his eyes over the dusty hearth-rug as if it were mrs. jellyby's biography, "is a lady of very remarkable strength of character who devotes herself entirely to the public. she has devoted herself to an extensive variety of public subjects at various times and is at present (until something else attracts her) devoted to the subject of africa, with a view to the general cultivation of the coffee berry--and the natives--and the happy settlement, on the banks of the african rivers, of our superabundant home population. mr. jarndyce, who is desirous to aid any work that is considered likely to be a good work and who is much sought after by philanthropists, has, i believe, a very high opinion of mrs. jellyby." mr. kenge, adjusting his cravat, then looked at us. "and mr. jellyby, sir?" suggested richard. "ah! mr. jellyby," said mr. kenge, "is--a--i don't know that i can describe him to you better than by saying that he is the husband of mrs. jellyby." "a nonentity, sir?" said richard with a droll look. "i don't say that," returned mr. kenge gravely. "i can't say that, indeed, for i know nothing whatever of mr. jellyby. i never, to my knowledge, had the pleasure of seeing mr. jellyby. he may be a very superior man, but he is, so to speak, merged--merged--in the more shining qualities of his wife." mr. kenge proceeded to tell us that as the road to bleak house would have been very long, dark, and tedious on such an evening, and as we had been travelling already, mr. jarndyce had himself proposed this arrangement. a carriage would be at mrs. jellyby's to convey us out of town early in the forenoon of to-morrow. he then rang a little bell, and the young gentleman came in. addressing him by the name of guppy, mr. kenge inquired whether miss summerson's boxes and the rest of the baggage had been "sent round." mr. guppy said yes, they had been sent round, and a coach was waiting to take us round too as soon as we pleased. "then it only remains," said mr. kenge, shaking hands with us, "for me to express my lively satisfaction in (good day, miss clare!) the arrangement this day concluded and my (good-bye to you, miss summerson!) lively hope that it will conduce to the happiness, the (glad to have had the honour of making your acquaintance, mr. carstone!) welfare, the advantage in all points of view, of all concerned! guppy, see the party safely there." "where is 'there,' mr. guppy?" said richard as we went downstairs. "no distance," said mr. guppy; "round in thavies inn, you know." "i can't say i know where it is, for i come from winchester and am strange in london." "only round the corner," said mr. guppy. "we just twist up chancery lane, and cut along holborn, and there we are in four minutes' time, as near as a toucher. this is about a london particular now, ain't it, miss?" he seemed quite delighted with it on my account. "the fog is very dense indeed!" said i. "not that it affects you, though, i'm sure," said mr. guppy, putting up the steps. "on the contrary, it seems to do you good, miss, judging from your appearance." i knew he meant well in paying me this compliment, so i laughed at myself for blushing at it when he had shut the door and got upon the box; and we all three laughed and chatted about our inexperience and the strangeness of london until we turned up under an archway to our destination--a narrow street of high houses like an oblong cistern to hold the fog. there was a confused little crowd of people, principally children, gathered about the house at which we stopped, which had a tarnished brass plate on the door with the inscription jellyby. "don't be frightened!" said mr. guppy, looking in at the coach-window. "one of the young jellybys been and got his head through the area railings!" "oh, poor child," said i; "let me out, if you please!" "pray be careful of yourself, miss. the young jellybys are always up to something," said mr. guppy. i made my way to the poor child, who was one of the dirtiest little unfortunates i ever saw, and found him very hot and frightened and crying loudly, fixed by the neck between two iron railings, while a milkman and a beadle, with the kindest intentions possible, were endeavouring to drag him back by the legs, under a general impression that his skull was compressible by those means. as i found (after pacifying him) that he was a little boy with a naturally large head, i thought that perhaps where his head could go, his body could follow, and mentioned that the best mode of extrication might be to push him forward. this was so favourably received by the milkman and beadle that he would immediately have been pushed into the area if i had not held his pinafore while richard and mr. guppy ran down through the kitchen to catch him when he should be released. at last he was happily got down without any accident, and then he began to beat mr. guppy with a hoop-stick in quite a frantic manner. nobody had appeared belonging to the house except a person in pattens, who had been poking at the child from below with a broom; i don't know with what object, and i don't think she did. i therefore supposed that mrs. jellyby was not at home, and was quite surprised when the person appeared in the passage without the pattens, and going up to the back room on the first floor before ada and me, announced us as, "them two young ladies, missis jellyby!" we passed several more children on the way up, whom it was difficult to avoid treading on in the dark; and as we came into mrs. jellyby's presence, one of the poor little things fell downstairs--down a whole flight (as it sounded to me), with a great noise. mrs. jellyby, whose face reflected none of the uneasiness which we could not help showing in our own faces as the dear child's head recorded its passage with a bump on every stair--richard afterwards said he counted seven, besides one for the landing--received us with perfect equanimity. she was a pretty, very diminutive, plump woman of from forty to fifty, with handsome eyes, though they had a curious habit of seeming to look a long way off. as if--i am quoting richard again--they could see nothing nearer than africa! "i am very glad indeed," said mrs. jellyby in an agreeable voice, "to have the pleasure of receiving you. i have a great respect for mr. jarndyce, and no one in whom he is interested can be an object of indifference to me." we expressed our acknowledgments and sat down behind the door, where there was a lame invalid of a sofa. mrs. jellyby had very good hair but was too much occupied with her african duties to brush it. the shawl in which she had been loosely muffled dropped onto her chair when she advanced to us; and as she turned to resume her seat, we could not help noticing that her dress didn't nearly meet up the back and that the open space was railed across with a lattice-work of stay-lace--like a summer-house. the room, which was strewn with papers and nearly filled by a great writing-table covered with similar litter, was, i must say, not only very untidy but very dirty. we were obliged to take notice of that with our sense of sight, even while, with our sense of hearing, we followed the poor child who had tumbled downstairs: i think into the back kitchen, where somebody seemed to stifle him. but what principally struck us was a jaded and unhealthy-looking though by no means plain girl at the writing-table, who sat biting the feather of her pen and staring at us. i suppose nobody ever was in such a state of ink. and from her tumbled hair to her pretty feet, which were disfigured with frayed and broken satin slippers trodden down at heel, she really seemed to have no article of dress upon her, from a pin upwards, that was in its proper condition or its right place. "you find me, my dears," said mrs. jellyby, snuffing the two great office candles in tin candlesticks, which made the room taste strongly of hot tallow (the fire had gone out, and there was nothing in the grate but ashes, a bundle of wood, and a poker), "you find me, my dears, as usual, very busy; but that you will excuse. the african project at present employs my whole time. it involves me in correspondence with public bodies and with private individuals anxious for the welfare of their species all over the country. i am happy to say it is advancing. we hope by this time next year to have from a hundred and fifty to two hundred healthy families cultivating coffee and educating the natives of borrioboola-gha, on the left bank of the niger." as ada said nothing, but looked at me, i said it must be very gratifying. "it is gratifying," said mrs. jellyby. "it involves the devotion of all my energies, such as they are; but that is nothing, so that it succeeds; and i am more confident of success every day. do you know, miss summerson, i almost wonder that you never turned your thoughts to africa." this application of the subject was really so unexpected to me that i was quite at a loss how to receive it. i hinted that the climate-- "the finest climate in the world!" said mrs. jellyby. "indeed, ma'am?" "certainly. with precaution," said mrs. jellyby. "you may go into holborn, without precaution, and be run over. you may go into holborn, with precaution, and never be run over. just so with africa." i said, "no doubt." i meant as to holborn. "if you would like," said mrs. jellyby, putting a number of papers towards us, "to look over some remarks on that head, and on the general subject, which have been extensively circulated, while i finish a letter i am now dictating to my eldest daughter, who is my amanuensis--" the girl at the table left off biting her pen and made a return to our recognition, which was half bashful and half sulky. "--i shall then have finished for the present," proceeded mrs. jellyby with a sweet smile, "though my work is never done. where are you, caddy?" "'presents her compliments to mr. swallow, and begs--'" said caddy. "'and begs,'" said mrs. jellyby, dictating, "'to inform him, in reference to his letter of inquiry on the african project--' no, peepy! not on my account!" peepy (so self-named) was the unfortunate child who had fallen downstairs, who now interrupted the correspondence by presenting himself, with a strip of plaster on his forehead, to exhibit his wounded knees, in which ada and i did not know which to pity most--the bruises or the dirt. mrs. jellyby merely added, with the serene composure with which she said everything, "go along, you naughty peepy!" and fixed her fine eyes on africa again. however, as she at once proceeded with her dictation, and as i interrupted nothing by doing it, i ventured quietly to stop poor peepy as he was going out and to take him up to nurse. he looked very much astonished at it and at ada's kissing him, but soon fell fast asleep in my arms, sobbing at longer and longer intervals, until he was quiet. i was so occupied with peepy that i lost the letter in detail, though i derived such a general impression from it of the momentous importance of africa, and the utter insignificance of all other places and things, that i felt quite ashamed to have thought so little about it. "six o'clock!" said mrs. jellyby. "and our dinner hour is nominally (for we dine at all hours) five! caddy, show miss clare and miss summerson their rooms. you will like to make some change, perhaps? you will excuse me, i know, being so much occupied. oh, that very bad child! pray put him down, miss summerson!" i begged permission to retain him, truly saying that he was not at all troublesome, and carried him upstairs and laid him on my bed. ada and i had two upper rooms with a door of communication between. they were excessively bare and disorderly, and the curtain to my window was fastened up with a fork. "you would like some hot water, wouldn't you?" said miss jellyby, looking round for a jug with a handle to it, but looking in vain. "if it is not being troublesome," said we. "oh, it's not the trouble," returned miss jellyby; "the question is, if there is any." the evening was so very cold and the rooms had such a marshy smell that i must confess it was a little miserable, and ada was half crying. we soon laughed, however, and were busily unpacking when miss jellyby came back to say that she was sorry there was no hot water, but they couldn't find the kettle, and the boiler was out of order. we begged her not to mention it and made all the haste we could to get down to the fire again. but all the little children had come up to the landing outside to look at the phenomenon of peepy lying on my bed, and our attention was distracted by the constant apparition of noses and fingers in situations of danger between the hinges of the doors. it was impossible to shut the door of either room, for my lock, with no knob to it, looked as if it wanted to be wound up; and though the handle of ada's went round and round with the greatest smoothness, it was attended with no effect whatever on the door. therefore i proposed to the children that they should come in and be very good at my table, and i would tell them the story of little red riding hood while i dressed; which they did, and were as quiet as mice, including peepy, who awoke opportunely before the appearance of the wolf. when we went downstairs we found a mug with "a present from tunbridge wells" on it lighted up in the staircase window with a floating wick, and a young woman, with a swelled face bound up in a flannel bandage blowing the fire of the drawing-room (now connected by an open door with mrs. jellyby's room) and choking dreadfully. it smoked to that degree, in short, that we all sat coughing and crying with the windows open for half an hour, during which mrs. jellyby, with the same sweetness of temper, directed letters about africa. her being so employed was, i must say, a great relief to me, for richard told us that he had washed his hands in a pie-dish and that they had found the kettle on his dressing-table, and he made ada laugh so that they made me laugh in the most ridiculous manner. soon after seven o'clock we went down to dinner, carefully, by mrs. jellyby's advice, for the stair-carpets, besides being very deficient in stair-wires, were so torn as to be absolute traps. we had a fine cod-fish, a piece of roast beef, a dish of cutlets, and a pudding; an excellent dinner, if it had had any cooking to speak of, but it was almost raw. the young woman with the flannel bandage waited, and dropped everything on the table wherever it happened to go, and never moved it again until she put it on the stairs. the person i had seen in pattens, who i suppose to have been the cook, frequently came and skirmished with her at the door, and there appeared to be ill will between them. all through dinner--which was long, in consequence of such accidents as the dish of potatoes being mislaid in the coal skuttle and the handle of the corkscrew coming off and striking the young woman in the chin--mrs. jellyby preserved the evenness of her disposition. she told us a great deal that was interesting about borrioboola-gha and the natives, and received so many letters that richard, who sat by her, saw four envelopes in the gravy at once. some of the letters were proceedings of ladies' committees or resolutions of ladies' meetings, which she read to us; others were applications from people excited in various ways about the cultivation of coffee, and natives; others required answers, and these she sent her eldest daughter from the table three or four times to write. she was full of business and undoubtedly was, as she had told us, devoted to the cause. i was a little curious to know who a mild bald gentleman in spectacles was, who dropped into a vacant chair (there was no top or bottom in particular) after the fish was taken away and seemed passively to submit himself to borrioboola-gha but not to be actively interested in that settlement. as he never spoke a word, he might have been a native but for his complexion. it was not until we left the table and he remained alone with richard that the possibility of his being mr. jellyby ever entered my head. but he was mr. jellyby; and a loquacious young man called mr. quale, with large shining knobs for temples and his hair all brushed to the back of his head, who came in the evening, and told ada he was a philanthropist, also informed her that he called the matrimonial alliance of mrs. jellyby with mr. jellyby the union of mind and matter. this young man, besides having a great deal to say for himself about africa and a project of his for teaching the coffee colonists to teach the natives to turn piano-forte legs and establish an export trade, delighted in drawing mrs. jellyby out by saying, "i believe now, mrs. jellyby, you have received as many as from one hundred and fifty to two hundred letters respecting africa in a single day, have you not?" or, "if my memory does not deceive me, mrs. jellyby, you once mentioned that you had sent off five thousand circulars from one post-office at one time?"--always repeating mrs. jellyby's answer to us like an interpreter. during the whole evening, mr. jellyby sat in a corner with his head against the wall as if he were subject to low spirits. it seemed that he had several times opened his mouth when alone with richard after dinner, as if he had something on his mind, but had always shut it again, to richard's extreme confusion, without saying anything. mrs. jellyby, sitting in quite a nest of waste paper, drank coffee all the evening and dictated at intervals to her eldest daughter. she also held a discussion with mr. quale, of which the subject seemed to be--if i understood it--the brotherhood of humanity, and gave utterance to some beautiful sentiments. i was not so attentive an auditor as i might have wished to be, however, for peepy and the other children came flocking about ada and me in a corner of the drawing-room to ask for another story; so we sat down among them and told them in whispers "puss in boots" and i don't know what else until mrs. jellyby, accidentally remembering them, sent them to bed. as peepy cried for me to take him to bed, i carried him upstairs, where the young woman with the flannel bandage charged into the midst of the little family like a dragon and overturned them into cribs. after that i occupied myself in making our room a little tidy and in coaxing a very cross fire that had been lighted to burn, which at last it did, quite brightly. on my return downstairs, i felt that mrs. jellyby looked down upon me rather for being so frivolous, and i was sorry for it, though at the same time i knew that i had no higher pretensions. it was nearly midnight before we found an opportunity of going to bed, and even then we left mrs. jellyby among her papers drinking coffee and miss jellyby biting the feather of her pen. "what a strange house!" said ada when we got upstairs. "how curious of my cousin jarndyce to send us here!" "my love," said i, "it quite confuses me. i want to understand it, and i can't understand it at all." "what?" asked ada with her pretty smile. "all this, my dear," said i. "it must be very good of mrs. jellyby to take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of natives--and yet--peepy and the housekeeping!" ada laughed and put her arm about my neck as i stood looking at the fire, and told me i was a quiet, dear, good creature and had won her heart. "you are so thoughtful, esther," she said, "and yet so cheerful! and you do so much, so unpretendingly! you would make a home out of even this house." my simple darling! she was quite unconscious that she only praised herself and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that she made so much of me! "may i ask you a question?" said i when we had sat before the fire a little while. "five hundred," said ada. "your cousin, mr. jarndyce. i owe so much to him. would you mind describing him to me?" shaking her golden hair, ada turned her eyes upon me with such laughing wonder that i was full of wonder too, partly at her beauty, partly at her surprise. "esther!" she cried. "my dear!" "you want a description of my cousin jarndyce?" "my dear, i never saw him." "and i never saw him!" returned ada. well, to be sure! no, she had never seen him. young as she was when her mama died, she remembered how the tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of him and of the noble generosity of his character, which she had said was to be trusted above all earthly things; and ada trusted it. her cousin jarndyce had written to her a few months ago--"a plain, honest letter," ada said--proposing the arrangement we were now to enter on and telling her that "in time it might heal some of the wounds made by the miserable chancery suit." she had replied, gratefully accepting his proposal. richard had received a similar letter and had made a similar response. he had seen mr. jarndyce once, but only once, five years ago, at winchester school. he had told ada, when they were leaning on the screen before the fire where i found them, that he recollected him as "a bluff, rosy fellow." this was the utmost description ada could give me. it set me thinking so that when ada was asleep, i still remained before the fire, wondering and wondering about bleak house, and wondering and wondering that yesterday morning should seem so long ago. i don't know where my thoughts had wandered when they were recalled by a tap at the door. i opened it softly and found miss jellyby shivering there with a broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand and an egg-cup in the other. "good night!" she said very sulkily. "good night!" said i. "may i come in?" she shortly and unexpectedly asked me in the same sulky way. "certainly," said i. "don't wake miss clare." she would not sit down, but stood by the fire dipping her inky middle finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smearing it over the ink stains on her face, frowning the whole time and looking very gloomy. "i wish africa was dead!" she said on a sudden. i was going to remonstrate. "i do!" she said "don't talk to me, miss summerson. i hate it and detest it. it's a beast!" i told her she was tired, and i was sorry. i put my hand upon her head, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now but would be cool to-morrow. she still stood pouting and frowning at me, but presently put down her egg-cup and turned softly towards the bed where ada lay. "she is very pretty!" she said with the same knitted brow and in the same uncivil manner. i assented with a smile. "an orphan. ain't she?" "yes." "but knows a quantity, i suppose? can dance, and play music, and sing? she can talk french, i suppose, and do geography, and globes, and needlework, and everything?" "no doubt," said i. "i can't," she returned. "i can't do anything hardly, except write. i'm always writing for ma. i wonder you two were not ashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon and see me able to do nothing else. it was like your ill nature. yet you think yourselves very fine, i dare say!" i could see that the poor girl was near crying, and i resumed my chair without speaking and looked at her (i hope) as mildly as i felt towards her. "it's disgraceful," she said. "you know it is. the whole house is disgraceful. the children are disgraceful. i'm disgraceful. pa's miserable, and no wonder! priscilla drinks--she's always drinking. it's a great shame and a great story of you if you say you didn't smell her to-day. it was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner; you know it was!" "my dear, i don't know it," said i. "you do," she said very shortly. "you shan't say you don't. you do!" "oh, my dear!" said i. "if you won't let me speak--" "you're speaking now. you know you are. don't tell stories, miss summerson." "my dear," said i, "as long as you won't hear me out--" "i don't want to hear you out." "oh, yes, i think you do," said i, "because that would be so very unreasonable. i did not know what you tell me because the servant did not come near me at dinner; but i don't doubt what you tell me, and i am sorry to hear it." "you needn't make a merit of that," said she. "no, my dear," said i. "that would be very foolish." she was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (but still with the same discontented face) and kissed ada. that done, she came softly back and stood by the side of my chair. her bosom was heaving in a distressful manner that i greatly pitied, but i thought it better not to speak. "i wish i was dead!" she broke out. "i wish we were all dead. it would be a great deal better for us." in a moment afterwards, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. i comforted her and would have raised her, but she cried no, no; she wanted to stay there! "you used to teach girls," she said, "if you could only have taught me, i could have learnt from you! i am so very miserable, and i like you so much!" i could not persuade her to sit by me or to do anything but move a ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and still hold my dress in the same manner. by degrees the poor tired girl fell asleep, and then i contrived to raise her head so that it should rest on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls. the fire went out, and all night long she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. at first i was painfully awake and vainly tried to lose myself, with my eyes closed, among the scenes of the day. at length, by slow degrees, they became indistinct and mingled. i began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me. now it was ada, now one of my old reading friends from whom i could not believe i had so recently parted. now it was the little mad woman worn out with curtsying and smiling, now some one in authority at bleak house. lastly, it was no one, and i was no one. the purblind day was feebly struggling with the fog when i opened my eyes to encounter those of a dirty-faced little spectre fixed upon me. peepy had scaled his crib, and crept down in his bed-gown and cap, and was so cold that his teeth were chattering as if he had cut them all. chapter v a morning adventure although the morning was raw, and although the fog still seemed heavy--i say seemed, for the windows were so encrusted with dirt that they would have made midsummer sunshine dim--i was sufficiently forewarned of the discomfort within doors at that early hour and sufficiently curious about london to think it a good idea on the part of miss jellyby when she proposed that we should go out for a walk. "ma won't be down for ever so long," she said, "and then it's a chance if breakfast's ready for an hour afterwards, they dawdle so. as to pa, he gets what he can and goes to the office. he never has what you would call a regular breakfast. priscilla leaves him out the loaf and some milk, when there is any, overnight. sometimes there isn't any milk, and sometimes the cat drinks it. but i'm afraid you must be tired, miss summerson, and perhaps you would rather go to bed." "i am not at all tired, my dear," said i, "and would much prefer to go out." "if you're sure you would," returned miss jellyby, "i'll get my things on." ada said she would go too, and was soon astir. i made a proposal to peepy, in default of being able to do anything better for him, that he should let me wash him and afterwards lay him down on my bed again. to this he submitted with the best grace possible, staring at me during the whole operation as if he never had been, and never could again be, so astonished in his life--looking very miserable also, certainly, but making no complaint, and going snugly to sleep as soon as it was over. at first i was in two minds about taking such a liberty, but i soon reflected that nobody in the house was likely to notice it. what with the bustle of dispatching peepy and the bustle of getting myself ready and helping ada, i was soon quite in a glow. we found miss jellyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the writing-room, which priscilla was then lighting with a smutty parlour candlestick, throwing the candle in to make it burn better. everything was just as we had left it last night and was evidently intended to remain so. below-stairs the dinner-cloth had not been taken away, but had been left ready for breakfast. crumbs, dust, and waste-paper were all over the house. some pewter pots and a milk-can hung on the area railings; the door stood open; and we met the cook round the corner coming out of a public-house, wiping her mouth. she mentioned, as she passed us, that she had been to see what o'clock it was. but before we met the cook, we met richard, who was dancing up and down thavies inn to warm his feet. he was agreeably surprised to see us stirring so soon and said he would gladly share our walk. so he took care of ada, and miss jellyby and i went first. i may mention that miss jellyby had relapsed into her sulky manner and that i really should not have thought she liked me much unless she had told me so. "where would you wish to go?" she asked. "anywhere, my dear," i replied. "anywhere's nowhere," said miss jellyby, stopping perversely. "let us go somewhere at any rate," said i. she then walked me on very fast. "i don't care!" she said. "now, you are my witness, miss summerson, i say i don't care--but if he was to come to our house with his great, shining, lumpy forehead night after night till he was as old as methuselah, i wouldn't have anything to say to him. such asses as he and ma make of themselves!" "my dear!" i remonstrated, in allusion to the epithet and the vigorous emphasis miss jellyby set upon it. "your duty as a child--" "oh! don't talk of duty as a child, miss summerson; where's ma's duty as a parent? all made over to the public and africa, i suppose! then let the public and africa show duty as a child; it's much more their affair than mine. you are shocked, i dare say! very well, so am i shocked too; so we are both shocked, and there's an end of it!" she walked me on faster yet. "but for all that, i say again, he may come, and come, and come, and i won't have anything to say to him. i can't bear him. if there's any stuff in the world that i hate and detest, it's the stuff he and ma talk. i wonder the very paving-stones opposite our house can have the patience to stay there and be a witness of such inconsistencies and contradictions as all that sounding nonsense, and ma's management!" i could not but understand her to refer to mr. quale, the young gentleman who had appeared after dinner yesterday. i was saved the disagreeable necessity of pursuing the subject by richard and ada coming up at a round pace, laughing and asking us if we meant to run a race. thus interrupted, miss jellyby became silent and walked moodily on at my side while i admired the long successions and varieties of streets, the quantity of people already going to and fro, the number of vehicles passing and repassing, the busy preparations in the setting forth of shop windows and the sweeping out of shops, and the extraordinary creatures in rags secretly groping among the swept-out rubbish for pins and other refuse. "so, cousin," said the cheerful voice of richard to ada behind me. "we are never to get out of chancery! we have come by another way to our place of meeting yesterday, and--by the great seal, here's the old lady again!" truly, there she was, immediately in front of us, curtsying, and smiling, and saying with her yesterday's air of patronage, "the wards in jarndyce! ve-ry happy, i am sure!" "you are out early, ma'am," said i as she curtsied to me. "ye-es! i usually walk here early. before the court sits. it's retired. i collect my thoughts here for the business of the day," said the old lady mincingly. "the business of the day requires a great deal of thought. chancery justice is so ve-ry difficult to follow." "who's this, miss summerson?" whispered miss jellyby, drawing my arm tighter through her own. the little old lady's hearing was remarkably quick. she answered for herself directly. "a suitor, my child. at your service. i have the honour to attend court regularly. with my documents. have i the pleasure of addressing another of the youthful parties in jarndyce?" said the old lady, recovering herself, with her head on one side, from a very low curtsy. richard, anxious to atone for his thoughtlessness of yesterday, good-naturedly explained that miss jellyby was not connected with the suit. "ha!" said the old lady. "she does not expect a judgment? she will still grow old. but not so old. oh, dear, no! this is the garden of lincoln's inn. i call it my garden. it is quite a bower in the summer-time. where the birds sing melodiously. i pass the greater part of the long vacation here. in contemplation. you find the long vacation exceedingly long, don't you?" we said yes, as she seemed to expect us to say so. "when the leaves are falling from the trees and there are no more flowers in bloom to make up into nosegays for the lord chancellor's court," said the old lady, "the vacation is fulfilled and the sixth seal, mentioned in the revelations, again prevails. pray come and see my lodging. it will be a good omen for me. youth, and hope, and beauty are very seldom there. it is a long, long time since i had a visit from either." she had taken my hand, and leading me and miss jellyby away, beckoned richard and ada to come too. i did not know how to excuse myself and looked to richard for aid. as he was half amused and half curious and all in doubt how to get rid of the old lady without offence, she continued to lead us away, and he and ada continued to follow, our strange conductress informing us all the time, with much smiling condescension, that she lived close by. it was quite true, as it soon appeared. she lived so close by that we had not time to have done humouring her for a few moments before she was at home. slipping us out at a little side gate, the old lady stopped most unexpectedly in a narrow back street, part of some courts and lanes immediately outside the wall of the inn, and said, "this is my lodging. pray walk up!" she had stopped at a shop over which was written krook, rag and bottle warehouse. also, in long thin letters, krook, dealer in marine stores. in one part of the window was a picture of a red paper mill at which a cart was unloading a quantity of sacks of old rags. in another was the inscription bones bought. in another, kitchen-stuff bought. in another, old iron bought. in another, waste-paper bought. in another, ladies' and gentlemen's wardrobes bought. everything seemed to be bought and nothing to be sold there. in all parts of the window were quantities of dirty bottles--blacking bottles, medicine bottles, ginger-beer and soda-water bottles, pickle bottles, wine bottles, ink bottles; i am reminded by mentioning the latter that the shop had in several little particulars the air of being in a legal neighbourhood and of being, as it were, a dirty hanger-on and disowned relation of the law. there were a great many ink bottles. there was a little tottering bench of shabby old volumes outside the door, labelled "law books, all at d." some of the inscriptions i have enumerated were written in law-hand, like the papers i had seen in kenge and carboy's office and the letters i had so long received from the firm. among them was one, in the same writing, having nothing to do with the business of the shop, but announcing that a respectable man aged forty-five wanted engrossing or copying to execute with neatness and dispatch: address to nemo, care of mr. krook, within. there were several second-hand bags, blue and red, hanging up. a little way within the shop-door lay heaps of old crackled parchment scrolls and discoloured and dog's-eared law-papers. i could have fancied that all the rusty keys, of which there must have been hundreds huddled together as old iron, had once belonged to doors of rooms or strong chests in lawyers' offices. the litter of rags tumbled partly into and partly out of a one-legged wooden scale, hanging without any counterpoise from a beam, might have been counsellors' bands and gowns torn up. one had only to fancy, as richard whispered to ada and me while we all stood looking in, that yonder bones in a corner, piled together and picked very clean, were the bones of clients, to make the picture complete. as it was still foggy and dark, and as the shop was blinded besides by the wall of lincoln's inn, intercepting the light within a couple of yards, we should not have seen so much but for a lighted lantern that an old man in spectacles and a hairy cap was carrying about in the shop. turning towards the door, he now caught sight of us. he was short, cadaverous, and withered, with his head sunk sideways between his shoulders and the breath issuing in visible smoke from his mouth as if he were on fire within. his throat, chin, and eyebrows were so frosted with white hairs and so gnarled with veins and puckered skin that he looked from his breast upward like some old root in a fall of snow. "hi, hi!" said the old man, coming to the door. "have you anything to sell?" we naturally drew back and glanced at our conductress, who had been trying to open the house-door with a key she had taken from her pocket, and to whom richard now said that as we had had the pleasure of seeing where she lived, we would leave her, being pressed for time. but she was not to be so easily left. she became so fantastically and pressingly earnest in her entreaties that we would walk up and see her apartment for an instant, and was so bent, in her harmless way, on leading me in, as part of the good omen she desired, that i (whatever the others might do) saw nothing for it but to comply. i suppose we were all more or less curious; at any rate, when the old man added his persuasions to hers and said, "aye, aye! please her! it won't take a minute! come in, come in! come in through the shop if t'other door's out of order!" we all went in, stimulated by richard's laughing encouragement and relying on his protection. "my landlord, krook," said the little old lady, condescending to him from her lofty station as she presented him to us. "he is called among the neighbours the lord chancellor. his shop is called the court of chancery. he is a very eccentric person. he is very odd. oh, i assure you he is very odd!" she shook her head a great many times and tapped her forehead with her finger to express to us that we must have the goodness to excuse him, "for he is a little--you know--m!" said the old lady with great stateliness. the old man overheard, and laughed. "it's true enough," he said, going before us with the lantern, "that they call me the lord chancellor and call my shop chancery. and why do you think they call me the lord chancellor and my shop chancery?" "i don't know, i am sure!" said richard rather carelessly. "you see," said the old man, stopping and turning round, "they--hi! here's lovely hair! i have got three sacks of ladies' hair below, but none so beautiful and fine as this. what colour, and what texture!" "that'll do, my good friend!" said richard, strongly disapproving of his having drawn one of ada's tresses through his yellow hand. "you can admire as the rest of us do without taking that liberty." the old man darted at him a sudden look which even called my attention from ada, who, startled and blushing, was so remarkably beautiful that she seemed to fix the wandering attention of the little old lady herself. but as ada interposed and laughingly said she could only feel proud of such genuine admiration, mr. krook shrunk into his former self as suddenly as he had leaped out of it. "you see, i have so many things here," he resumed, holding up the lantern, "of so many kinds, and all as the neighbours think (but they know nothing), wasting away and going to rack and ruin, that that's why they have given me and my place a christening. and i have so many old parchmentses and papers in my stock. and i have a liking for rust and must and cobwebs. and all's fish that comes to my net. and i can't abear to part with anything i once lay hold of (or so my neighbours think, but what do they know?) or to alter anything, or to have any sweeping, nor scouring, nor cleaning, nor repairing going on about me. that's the way i've got the ill name of chancery. i don't mind. i go to see my noble and learned brother pretty well every day, when he sits in the inn. he don't notice me, but i notice him. there's no great odds betwixt us. we both grub on in a muddle. hi, lady jane!" a large grey cat leaped from some neighbouring shelf on his shoulder and startled us all. "hi! show 'em how you scratch. hi! tear, my lady!" said her master. the cat leaped down and ripped at a bundle of rags with her tigerish claws, with a sound that it set my teeth on edge to hear. "she'd do as much for any one i was to set her on," said the old man. "i deal in cat-skins among other general matters, and hers was offered to me. it's a very fine skin, as you may see, but i didn't have it stripped off! that warn't like chancery practice though, says you!" he had by this time led us across the shop, and now opened a door in the back part of it, leading to the house-entry. as he stood with his hand upon the lock, the little old lady graciously observed to him before passing out, "that will do, krook. you mean well, but are tiresome. my young friends are pressed for time. i have none to spare myself, having to attend court very soon. my young friends are the wards in jarndyce." "jarndyce!" said the old man with a start. "jarndyce and jarndyce. the great suit, krook," returned his lodger. "hi!" exclaimed the old man in a tone of thoughtful amazement and with a wider stare than before. "think of it!" he seemed so rapt all in a moment and looked so curiously at us that richard said, "why, you appear to trouble yourself a good deal about the causes before your noble and learned brother, the other chancellor!" "yes," said the old man abstractedly. "sure! your name now will be--" "richard carstone." "carstone," he repeated, slowly checking off that name upon his forefinger; and each of the others he went on to mention upon a separate finger. "yes. there was the name of barbary, and the name of clare, and the name of dedlock, too, i think." "he knows as much of the cause as the real salaried chancellor!" said richard, quite astonished, to ada and me. "aye!" said the old man, coming slowly out of his abstraction. "yes! tom jarndyce--you'll excuse me, being related; but he was never known about court by any other name, and was as well known there as--she is now," nodding slightly at his lodger. "tom jarndyce was often in here. he got into a restless habit of strolling about when the cause was on, or expected, talking to the little shopkeepers and telling 'em to keep out of chancery, whatever they did. 'for,' says he, 'it's being ground to bits in a slow mill; it's being roasted at a slow fire; it's being stung to death by single bees; it's being drowned by drops; it's going mad by grains.' he was as near making away with himself, just where the young lady stands, as near could be." we listened with horror. "he come in at the door," said the old man, slowly pointing an imaginary track along the shop, "on the day he did it--the whole neighbourhood had said for months before that he would do it, of a certainty sooner or later--he come in at the door that day, and walked along there, and sat himself on a bench that stood there, and asked me (you'll judge i was a mortal sight younger then) to fetch him a pint of wine. 'for,' says he, 'krook, i am much depressed; my cause is on again, and i think i'm nearer judgment than i ever was.' i hadn't a mind to leave him alone; and i persuaded him to go to the tavern over the way there, t'other side my lane (i mean chancery lane); and i followed and looked in at the window, and saw him, comfortable as i thought, in the arm-chair by the fire, and company with him. i hadn't hardly got back here when i heard a shot go echoing and rattling right away into the inn. i ran out--neighbours ran out--twenty of us cried at once, 'tom jarndyce!'" the old man stopped, looked hard at us, looked down into the lantern, blew the light out, and shut the lantern up. "we were right, i needn't tell the present hearers. hi! to be sure, how the neighbourhood poured into court that afternoon while the cause was on! how my noble and learned brother, and all the rest of 'em, grubbed and muddled away as usual and tried to look as if they hadn't heard a word of the last fact in the case or as if they had--oh, dear me!--nothing at all to do with it if they had heard of it by any chance!" ada's colour had entirely left her, and richard was scarcely less pale. nor could i wonder, judging even from my emotions, and i was no party in the suit, that to hearts so untried and fresh it was a shock to come into the inheritance of a protracted misery, attended in the minds of many people with such dreadful recollections. i had another uneasiness, in the application of the painful story to the poor half-witted creature who had brought us there; but, to my surprise, she seemed perfectly unconscious of that and only led the way upstairs again, informing us with the toleration of a superior creature for the infirmities of a common mortal that her landlord was "a little m, you know!" she lived at the top of the house, in a pretty large room, from which she had a glimpse of lincoln's inn hall. this seemed to have been her principal inducement, originally, for taking up her residence there. she could look at it, she said, in the night, especially in the moonshine. her room was clean, but very, very bare. i noticed the scantiest necessaries in the way of furniture; a few old prints from books, of chancellors and barristers, wafered against the wall; and some half-dozen reticles and work-bags, "containing documents," as she informed us. there were neither coals nor ashes in the grate, and i saw no articles of clothing anywhere, nor any kind of food. upon a shelf in an open cupboard were a plate or two, a cup or two, and so forth, but all dry and empty. there was a more affecting meaning in her pinched appearance, i thought as i looked round, than i had understood before. "extremely honoured, i am sure," said our poor hostess with the greatest suavity, "by this visit from the wards in jarndyce. and very much indebted for the omen. it is a retired situation. considering. i am limited as to situation. in consequence of the necessity of attending on the chancellor. i have lived here many years. i pass my days in court, my evenings and my nights here. i find the nights long, for i sleep but little and think much. that is, of course, unavoidable, being in chancery. i am sorry i cannot offer chocolate. i expect a judgment shortly and shall then place my establishment on a superior footing. at present, i don't mind confessing to the wards in jarndyce (in strict confidence) that i sometimes find it difficult to keep up a genteel appearance. i have felt the cold here. i have felt something sharper than cold. it matters very little. pray excuse the introduction of such mean topics." she partly drew aside the curtain of the long, low garret window and called our attention to a number of bird-cages hanging there, some containing several birds. there were larks, linnets, and goldfinches--i should think at least twenty. "i began to keep the little creatures," she said, "with an object that the wards will readily comprehend. with the intention of restoring them to liberty. when my judgment should be given. ye-es! they die in prison, though. their lives, poor silly things, are so short in comparison with chancery proceedings that, one by one, the whole collection has died over and over again. i doubt, do you know, whether one of these, though they are all young, will live to be free! ve-ry mortifying, is it not?" although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to expect a reply, but rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing so when no one but herself was present. "indeed," she pursued, "i positively doubt sometimes, i do assure you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth or great seal still prevails, i may not one day be found lying stark and senseless here, as i have found so many birds!" richard, answering what he saw in ada's compassionate eyes, took the opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, on the chimney-piece. we all drew nearer to the cages, feigning to examine the birds. "i can't allow them to sing much," said the little old lady, "for (you'll think this curious) i find my mind confused by the idea that they are singing while i am following the arguments in court. and my mind requires to be so very clear, you know! another time, i'll tell you their names. not at present. on a day of such good omen, they shall sing as much as they like. in honour of youth," a smile and curtsy, "hope," a smile and curtsy, "and beauty," a smile and curtsy. "there! we'll let in the full light." the birds began to stir and chirp. "i cannot admit the air freely," said the little old lady--the room was close, and would have been the better for it--"because the cat you saw downstairs, called lady jane, is greedy for their lives. she crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours. i have discovered," whispering mysteriously, "that her natural cruelty is sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty. in consequence of the judgment i expect being shortly given. she is sly and full of malice. i half believe, sometimes, that she is no cat, but the wolf of the old saying. it is so very difficult to keep her from the door." some neighbouring bells, reminding the poor soul that it was half-past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to an end than we could easily have done for ourselves. she hurriedly took up her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon the table on coming in, and asked if we were also going into court. on our answering no, and that we would on no account detain her, she opened the door to attend us downstairs. "with such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that i should be there before the chancellor comes in," said she, "for he might mention my case the first thing. i have a presentiment that he will mention it the first thing this morning." she stopped to tell us in a whisper as we were going down that the whole house was filled with strange lumber which her landlord had bought piecemeal and had no wish to sell, in consequence of being a little m. this was on the first floor. but she had made a previous stoppage on the second floor and had silently pointed at a dark door there. "the only other lodger," she now whispered in explanation, "a law-writer. the children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to the devil. i don't know what he can have done with the money. hush!" she appeared to mistrust that the lodger might hear her even there, and repeating "hush!" went before us on tiptoe as though even the sound of her footsteps might reveal to him what she had said. passing through the shop on our way out, as we had passed through it on our way in, we found the old man storing a quantity of packets of waste-paper in a kind of well in the floor. he seemed to be working hard, with the perspiration standing on his forehead, and had a piece of chalk by him, with which, as he put each separate package or bundle down, he made a crooked mark on the panelling of the wall. richard and ada, and miss jellyby, and the little old lady had gone by him, and i was going when he touched me on the arm to stay me, and chalked the letter j upon the wall--in a very curious manner, beginning with the end of the letter and shaping it backward. it was a capital letter, not a printed one, but just such a letter as any clerk in messrs. kenge and carboy's office would have made. "can you read it?" he asked me with a keen glance. "surely," said i. "it's very plain." "what is it?" "j." with another glance at me, and a glance at the door, he rubbed it out and turned an "a" in its place (not a capital letter this time), and said, "what's that?" i told him. he then rubbed that out and turned the letter "r," and asked me the same question. he went on quickly until he had formed in the same curious manner, beginning at the ends and bottoms of the letters, the word jarndyce, without once leaving two letters on the wall together. "what does that spell?" he asked me. when i told him, he laughed. in the same odd way, yet with the same rapidity, he then produced singly, and rubbed out singly, the letters forming the words bleak house. these, in some astonishment, i also read; and he laughed again. "hi!" said the old man, laying aside the chalk. "i have a turn for copying from memory, you see, miss, though i can neither read nor write." he looked so disagreeable and his cat looked so wickedly at me, as if i were a blood-relation of the birds upstairs, that i was quite relieved by richard's appearing at the door and saying, "miss summerson, i hope you are not bargaining for the sale of your hair. don't be tempted. three sacks below are quite enough for mr. krook!" i lost no time in wishing mr. krook good morning and joining my friends outside, where we parted with the little old lady, who gave us her blessing with great ceremony and renewed her assurance of yesterday in reference to her intention of settling estates on ada and me. before we finally turned out of those lanes, we looked back and saw mr. krook standing at his shop-door, in his spectacles, looking after us, with his cat upon his shoulder, and her tail sticking up on one side of his hairy cap like a tall feather. "quite an adventure for a morning in london!" said richard with a sigh. "ah, cousin, cousin, it's a weary word this chancery!" "it is to me, and has been ever since i can remember," returned ada. "i am grieved that i should be the enemy--as i suppose i am--of a great number of relations and others, and that they should be my enemies--as i suppose they are--and that we should all be ruining one another without knowing how or why and be in constant doubt and discord all our lives. it seems very strange, as there must be right somewhere, that an honest judge in real earnest has not been able to find out through all these years where it is." "ah, cousin!" said richard. "strange, indeed! all this wasteful, wanton chess-playing is very strange. to see that composed court yesterday jogging on so serenely and to think of the wretchedness of the pieces on the board gave me the headache and the heartache both together. my head ached with wondering how it happened, if men were neither fools nor rascals; and my heart ached to think they could possibly be either. but at all events, ada--i may call you ada?" "of course you may, cousin richard." "at all events, chancery will work none of its bad influences on us. we have happily been brought together, thanks to our good kinsman, and it can't divide us now!" "never, i hope, cousin richard!" said ada gently. miss jellyby gave my arm a squeeze and me a very significant look. i smiled in return, and we made the rest of the way back very pleasantly. in half an hour after our arrival, mrs. jellyby appeared; and in the course of an hour the various things necessary for breakfast straggled one by one into the dining-room. i do not doubt that mrs. jellyby had gone to bed and got up in the usual manner, but she presented no appearance of having changed her dress. she was greatly occupied during breakfast, for the morning's post brought a heavy correspondence relative to borrioboola-gha, which would occasion her (she said) to pass a busy day. the children tumbled about, and notched memoranda of their accidents in their legs, which were perfect little calendars of distress; and peepy was lost for an hour and a half, and brought home from newgate market by a policeman. the equable manner in which mrs. jellyby sustained both his absence and his restoration to the family circle surprised us all. she was by that time perseveringly dictating to caddy, and caddy was fast relapsing into the inky condition in which we had found her. at one o'clock an open carriage arrived for us, and a cart for our luggage. mrs. jellyby charged us with many remembrances to her good friend mr. jarndyce; caddy left her desk to see us depart, kissed me in the passage, and stood biting her pen and sobbing on the steps; peepy, i am happy to say, was asleep and spared the pain of separation (i was not without misgivings that he had gone to newgate market in search of me); and all the other children got up behind the barouche and fell off, and we saw them, with great concern, scattered over the surface of thavies inn as we rolled out of its precincts. chapter vi quite at home the day had brightened very much, and still brightened as we went westward. we went our way through the sunshine and the fresh air, wondering more and more at the extent of the streets, the brilliancy of the shops, the great traffic, and the crowds of people whom the pleasanter weather seemed to have brought out like many-coloured flowers. by and by we began to leave the wonderful city and to proceed through suburbs which, of themselves, would have made a pretty large town in my eyes; and at last we got into a real country road again, with windmills, rick-yards, milestones, farmers' waggons, scents of old hay, swinging signs, and horse troughs: trees, fields, and hedge-rows. it was delightful to see the green landscape before us and the immense metropolis behind; and when a waggon with a train of beautiful horses, furnished with red trappings and clear-sounding bells, came by us with its music, i believe we could all three have sung to the bells, so cheerful were the influences around. "the whole road has been reminding me of my namesake whittington," said richard, "and that waggon is the finishing touch. halloa! what's the matter?" we had stopped, and the waggon had stopped too. its music changed as the horses came to a stand, and subsided to a gentle tinkling, except when a horse tossed his head or shook himself and sprinkled off a little shower of bell-ringing. "our postilion is looking after the waggoner," said richard, "and the waggoner is coming back after us. good day, friend!" the waggoner was at our coach-door. "why, here's an extraordinary thing!" added richard, looking closely at the man. "he has got your name, ada, in his hat!" he had all our names in his hat. tucked within the band were three small notes--one addressed to ada, one to richard, one to me. these the waggoner delivered to each of us respectively, reading the name aloud first. in answer to richard's inquiry from whom they came, he briefly answered, "master, sir, if you please"; and putting on his hat again (which was like a soft bowl), cracked his whip, re-awakened his music, and went melodiously away. "is that mr. jarndyce's waggon?" said richard, calling to our post-boy. "yes, sir," he replied. "going to london." we opened the notes. each was a counterpart of the other and contained these words in a solid, plain hand. i look forward, my dear, to our meeting easily and without constraint on either side. i therefore have to propose that we meet as old friends and take the past for granted. it will be a relief to you possibly, and to me certainly, and so my love to you. john jarndyce i had perhaps less reason to be surprised than either of my companions, having never yet enjoyed an opportunity of thanking one who had been my benefactor and sole earthly dependence through so many years. i had not considered how i could thank him, my gratitude lying too deep in my heart for that; but i now began to consider how i could meet him without thanking him, and felt it would be very difficult indeed. the notes revived in richard and ada a general impression that they both had, without quite knowing how they came by it, that their cousin jarndyce could never bear acknowledgments for any kindness he performed and that sooner than receive any he would resort to the most singular expedients and evasions or would even run away. ada dimly remembered to have heard her mother tell, when she was a very little child, that he had once done her an act of uncommon generosity and that on her going to his house to thank him, he happened to see her through a window coming to the door, and immediately escaped by the back gate, and was not heard of for three months. this discourse led to a great deal more on the same theme, and indeed it lasted us all day, and we talked of scarcely anything else. if we did by any chance diverge into another subject, we soon returned to this, and wondered what the house would be like, and when we should get there, and whether we should see mr. jarndyce as soon as we arrived or after a delay, and what he would say to us, and what we should say to him. all of which we wondered about, over and over again. the roads were very heavy for the horses, but the pathway was generally good, so we alighted and walked up all the hills, and liked it so well that we prolonged our walk on the level ground when we got to the top. at barnet there were other horses waiting for us, but as they had only just been fed, we had to wait for them too, and got a long fresh walk over a common and an old battle-field before the carriage came up. these delays so protracted the journey that the short day was spent and the long night had closed in before we came to st. albans, near to which town bleak house was, we knew. by that time we were so anxious and nervous that even richard confessed, as we rattled over the stones of the old street, to feeling an irrational desire to drive back again. as to ada and me, whom he had wrapped up with great care, the night being sharp and frosty, we trembled from head to foot. when we turned out of the town, round a corner, and richard told us that the post-boy, who had for a long time sympathized with our heightened expectation, was looking back and nodding, we both stood up in the carriage (richard holding ada lest she should be jolted down) and gazed round upon the open country and the starlight night for our destination. there was a light sparkling on the top of a hill before us, and the driver, pointing to it with his whip and crying, "that's bleak house!" put his horses into a canter and took us forward at such a rate, uphill though it was, that the wheels sent the road drift flying about our heads like spray from a water-mill. presently we lost the light, presently saw it, presently lost it, presently saw it, and turned into an avenue of trees and cantered up towards where it was beaming brightly. it was in a window of what seemed to be an old-fashioned house with three peaks in the roof in front and a circular sweep leading to the porch. a bell was rung as we drew up, and amidst the sound of its deep voice in the still air, and the distant barking of some dogs, and a gush of light from the opened door, and the smoking and steaming of the heated horses, and the quickened beating of our own hearts, we alighted in no inconsiderable confusion. "ada, my love, esther, my dear, you are welcome. i rejoice to see you! rick, if i had a hand to spare at present, i would give it you!" the gentleman who said these words in a clear, bright, hospitable voice had one of his arms round ada's waist and the other round mine, and kissed us both in a fatherly way, and bore us across the hall into a ruddy little room, all in a glow with a blazing fire. here he kissed us again, and opening his arms, made us sit down side by side on a sofa ready drawn out near the hearth. i felt that if we had been at all demonstrative, he would have run away in a moment. "now, rick!" said he. "i have a hand at liberty. a word in earnest is as good as a speech. i am heartily glad to see you. you are at home. warm yourself!" richard shook him by both hands with an intuitive mixture of respect and frankness, and only saying (though with an earnestness that rather alarmed me, i was so afraid of mr. jarndyce's suddenly disappearing), "you are very kind, sir! we are very much obliged to you!" laid aside his hat and coat and came up to the fire. "and how did you like the ride? and how did you like mrs. jellyby, my dear?" said mr. jarndyce to ada. while ada was speaking to him in reply, i glanced (i need not say with how much interest) at his face. it was a handsome, lively, quick face, full of change and motion; and his hair was a silvered iron-grey. i took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he was upright, hearty, and robust. from the moment of his first speaking to us his voice had connected itself with an association in my mind that i could not define; but now, all at once, a something sudden in his manner and a pleasant expression in his eyes recalled the gentleman in the stagecoach six years ago on the memorable day of my journey to reading. i was certain it was he. i never was so frightened in my life as when i made the discovery, for he caught my glance, and appearing to read my thoughts, gave such a look at the door that i thought we had lost him. however, i am happy to say he remained where he was, and asked me what i thought of mrs. jellyby. "she exerts herself very much for africa, sir," i said. "nobly!" returned mr. jarndyce. "but you answer like ada." whom i had not heard. "you all think something else, i see." "we rather thought," said i, glancing at richard and ada, who entreated me with their eyes to speak, "that perhaps she was a little unmindful of her home." "floored!" cried mr. jarndyce. i was rather alarmed again. "well! i want to know your real thoughts, my dear. i may have sent you there on purpose." "we thought that, perhaps," said i, hesitating, "it is right to begin with the obligations of home, sir; and that, perhaps, while those are overlooked and neglected, no other duties can possibly be substituted for them." "the little jellybys," said richard, coming to my relief, "are really--i can't help expressing myself strongly, sir--in a devil of a state." "she means well," said mr. jarndyce hastily. "the wind's in the east." "it was in the north, sir, as we came down," observed richard. "my dear rick," said mr. jarndyce, poking the fire, "i'll take an oath it's either in the east or going to be. i am always conscious of an uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in the east." "rheumatism, sir?" said richard. "i dare say it is, rick. i believe it is. and so the little jell--i had my doubts about 'em--are in a--oh, lord, yes, it's easterly!" said mr. jarndyce. he had taken two or three undecided turns up and down while uttering these broken sentences, retaining the poker in one hand and rubbing his hair with the other, with a good-natured vexation at once so whimsical and so lovable that i am sure we were more delighted with him than we could possibly have expressed in any words. he gave an arm to ada and an arm to me, and bidding richard bring a candle, was leading the way out when he suddenly turned us all back again. "those little jellybys. couldn't you--didn't you--now, if it had rained sugar-plums, or three-cornered raspberry tarts, or anything of that sort!" said mr. jarndyce. "oh, cousin--" ada hastily began. "good, my pretty pet. i like cousin. cousin john, perhaps, is better." "then, cousin john--" ada laughingly began again. "ha, ha! very good indeed!" said mr. jarndyce with great enjoyment. "sounds uncommonly natural. yes, my dear?" "it did better than that. it rained esther." "aye?" said mr. jarndyce. "what did esther do?" "why, cousin john," said ada, clasping her hands upon his arm and shaking her head at me across him--for i wanted her to be quiet--"esther was their friend directly. esther nursed them, coaxed them to sleep, washed and dressed them, told them stories, kept them quiet, bought them keepsakes"--my dear girl! i had only gone out with peepy after he was found and given him a little, tiny horse!--"and, cousin john, she softened poor caroline, the eldest one, so much and was so thoughtful for me and so amiable! no, no, i won't be contradicted, esther dear! you know, you know, it's true!" the warm-hearted darling leaned across her cousin john and kissed me, and then looking up in his face, boldly said, "at all events, cousin john, i will thank you for the companion you have given me." i felt as if she challenged him to run away. but he didn't. "where did you say the wind was, rick?" asked mr. jarndyce. "in the north as we came down, sir." "you are right. there's no east in it. a mistake of mine. come, girls, come and see your home!" it was one of those delightfully irregular houses where you go up and down steps out of one room into another, and where you come upon more rooms when you think you have seen all there are, and where there is a bountiful provision of little halls and passages, and where you find still older cottage-rooms in unexpected places with lattice windows and green growth pressing through them. mine, which we entered first, was of this kind, with an up-and-down roof that had more corners in it than i ever counted afterwards and a chimney (there was a wood fire on the hearth) paved all around with pure white tiles, in every one of which a bright miniature of the fire was blazing. out of this room, you went down two steps into a charming little sitting-room looking down upon a flower-garden, which room was henceforth to belong to ada and me. out of this you went up three steps into ada's bedroom, which had a fine broad window commanding a beautiful view (we saw a great expanse of darkness lying underneath the stars), to which there was a hollow window-seat, in which, with a spring-lock, three dear adas might have been lost at once. out of this room you passed into a little gallery, with which the other best rooms (only two) communicated, and so, by a little staircase of shallow steps with a number of corner stairs in it, considering its length, down into the hall. but if instead of going out at ada's door you came back into my room, and went out at the door by which you had entered it, and turned up a few crooked steps that branched off in an unexpected manner from the stairs, you lost yourself in passages, with mangles in them, and three-cornered tables, and a native hindu chair, which was also a sofa, a box, and a bedstead, and looked in every form something between a bamboo skeleton and a great bird-cage, and had been brought from india nobody knew by whom or when. from these you came on richard's room, which was part library, part sitting-room, part bedroom, and seemed indeed a comfortable compound of many rooms. out of that you went straight, with a little interval of passage, to the plain room where mr. jarndyce slept, all the year round, with his window open, his bedstead without any furniture standing in the middle of the floor for more air, and his cold bath gaping for him in a smaller room adjoining. out of that you came into another passage, where there were back-stairs and where you could hear the horses being rubbed down outside the stable and being told to "hold up" and "get over," as they slipped about very much on the uneven stones. or you might, if you came out at another door (every room had at least two doors), go straight down to the hall again by half-a-dozen steps and a low archway, wondering how you got back there or had ever got out of it. the furniture, old-fashioned rather than old, like the house, was as pleasantly irregular. ada's sleeping-room was all flowers--in chintz and paper, in velvet, in needlework, in the brocade of two stiff courtly chairs which stood, each attended by a little page of a stool for greater state, on either side of the fire-place. our sitting-room was green and had framed and glazed upon the walls numbers of surprising and surprised birds, staring out of pictures at a real trout in a case, as brown and shining as if it had been served with gravy; at the death of captain cook; and at the whole process of preparing tea in china, as depicted by chinese artists. in my room there were oval engravings of the months--ladies haymaking in short waists and large hats tied under the chin, for june; smooth-legged noblemen pointing with cocked-hats to village steeples, for october. half-length portraits in crayons abounded all through the house, but were so dispersed that i found the brother of a youthful officer of mine in the china-closet and the grey old age of my pretty young bride, with a flower in her bodice, in the breakfast-room. as substitutes, i had four angels, of queen anne's reign, taking a complacent gentleman to heaven, in festoons, with some difficulty; and a composition in needlework representing fruit, a kettle, and an alphabet. all the movables, from the wardrobes to the chairs and tables, hangings, glasses, even to the pincushions and scent-bottles on the dressing-tables, displayed the same quaint variety. they agreed in nothing but their perfect neatness, their display of the whitest linen, and their storing-up, wheresoever the existence of a drawer, small or large, rendered it possible, of quantities of rose-leaves and sweet lavender. such, with its illuminated windows, softened here and there by shadows of curtains, shining out upon the starlight night; with its light, and warmth, and comfort; with its hospitable jingle, at a distance, of preparations for dinner; with the face of its generous master brightening everything we saw; and just wind enough without to sound a low accompaniment to everything we heard, were our first impressions of bleak house. "i am glad you like it," said mr. jarndyce when he had brought us round again to ada's sitting-room. "it makes no pretensions, but it is a comfortable little place, i hope, and will be more so with such bright young looks in it. you have barely half an hour before dinner. there's no one here but the finest creature upon earth--a child." "more children, esther!" said ada. "i don't mean literally a child," pursued mr. jarndyce; "not a child in years. he is grown up--he is at least as old as i am--but in simplicity, and freshness, and enthusiasm, and a fine guileless inaptitude for all worldly affairs, he is a perfect child." we felt that he must be very interesting. "he knows mrs. jellyby," said mr. jarndyce. "he is a musical man, an amateur, but might have been a professional. he is an artist too, an amateur, but might have been a professional. he is a man of attainments and of captivating manners. he has been unfortunate in his affairs, and unfortunate in his pursuits, and unfortunate in his family; but he don't care--he's a child!" "did you imply that he has children of his own, sir?" inquired richard. "yes, rick! half-a-dozen. more! nearer a dozen, i should think. but he has never looked after them. how could he? he wanted somebody to look after him. he is a child, you know!" said mr. jarndyce. "and have the children looked after themselves at all, sir?" inquired richard. "why, just as you may suppose," said mr. jarndyce, his countenance suddenly falling. "it is said that the children of the very poor are not brought up, but dragged up. harold skimpole's children have tumbled up somehow or other. the wind's getting round again, i am afraid. i feel it rather!" richard observed that the situation was exposed on a sharp night. "it is exposed," said mr. jarndyce. "no doubt that's the cause. bleak house has an exposed sound. but you are coming my way. come along!" our luggage having arrived and being all at hand, i was dressed in a few minutes and engaged in putting my worldly goods away when a maid (not the one in attendance upon ada, but another, whom i had not seen) brought a basket into my room with two bunches of keys in it, all labelled. "for you, miss, if you please," said she. "for me?" said i. "the housekeeping keys, miss." i showed my surprise, for she added with some little surprise on her own part, "i was told to bring them as soon as you was alone, miss. miss summerson, if i don't deceive myself?" "yes," said i. "that is my name." "the large bunch is the housekeeping, and the little bunch is the cellars, miss. any time you was pleased to appoint to-morrow morning, i was to show you the presses and things they belong to." i said i would be ready at half-past six, and after she was gone, stood looking at the basket, quite lost in the magnitude of my trust. ada found me thus and had such a delightful confidence in me when i showed her the keys and told her about them that it would have been insensibility and ingratitude not to feel encouraged. i knew, to be sure, that it was the dear girl's kindness, but i liked to be so pleasantly cheated. when we went downstairs, we were presented to mr. skimpole, who was standing before the fire telling richard how fond he used to be, in his school-time, of football. he was a little bright creature with a rather large head, but a delicate face and a sweet voice, and there was a perfect charm in him. all he said was so free from effort and spontaneous and was said with such a captivating gaiety that it was fascinating to hear him talk. being of a more slender figure than mr. jarndyce and having a richer complexion, with browner hair, he looked younger. indeed, he had more the appearance in all respects of a damaged young man than a well-preserved elderly one. there was an easy negligence in his manner and even in his dress (his hair carelessly disposed, and his neck-kerchief loose and flowing, as i have seen artists paint their own portraits) which i could not separate from the idea of a romantic youth who had undergone some unique process of depreciation. it struck me as being not at all like the manner or appearance of a man who had advanced in life by the usual road of years, cares, and experiences. i gathered from the conversation that mr. skimpole had been educated for the medical profession and had once lived, in his professional capacity, in the household of a german prince. he told us, however, that as he had always been a mere child in point of weights and measures and had never known anything about them (except that they disgusted him), he had never been able to prescribe with the requisite accuracy of detail. in fact, he said, he had no head for detail. and he told us, with great humour, that when he was wanted to bleed the prince or physic any of his people, he was generally found lying on his back in bed, reading the newspapers or making fancy-sketches in pencil, and couldn't come. the prince, at last, objecting to this, "in which," said mr. skimpole, in the frankest manner, "he was perfectly right," the engagement terminated, and mr. skimpole having (as he added with delightful gaiety) "nothing to live upon but love, fell in love, and married, and surrounded himself with rosy cheeks." his good friend jarndyce and some other of his good friends then helped him, in quicker or slower succession, to several openings in life, but to no purpose, for he must confess to two of the oldest infirmities in the world: one was that he had no idea of time, the other that he had no idea of money. in consequence of which he never kept an appointment, never could transact any business, and never knew the value of anything! well! so he had got on in life, and here he was! he was very fond of reading the papers, very fond of making fancy-sketches with a pencil, very fond of nature, very fond of art. all he asked of society was to let him live. that wasn't much. his wants were few. give him the papers, conversation, music, mutton, coffee, landscape, fruit in the season, a few sheets of bristol-board, and a little claret, and he asked no more. he was a mere child in the world, but he didn't cry for the moon. he said to the world, "go your several ways in peace! wear red coats, blue coats, lawn sleeves; put pens behind your ears, wear aprons; go after glory, holiness, commerce, trade, any object you prefer; only--let harold skimpole live!" all this and a great deal more he told us, not only with the utmost brilliancy and enjoyment, but with a certain vivacious candour--speaking of himself as if he were not at all his own affair, as if skimpole were a third person, as if he knew that skimpole had his singularities but still had his claims too, which were the general business of the community and must not be slighted. he was quite enchanting. if i felt at all confused at that early time in endeavouring to reconcile anything he said with anything i had thought about the duties and accountabilities of life (which i am far from sure of), i was confused by not exactly understanding why he was free of them. that he was free of them, i scarcely doubted; he was so very clear about it himself. "i covet nothing," said mr. skimpole in the same light way. "possession is nothing to me. here is my friend jarndyce's excellent house. i feel obliged to him for possessing it. i can sketch it and alter it. i can set it to music. when i am here, i have sufficient possession of it and have neither trouble, cost, nor responsibility. my steward's name, in short, is jarndyce, and he can't cheat me. we have been mentioning mrs. jellyby. there is a bright-eyed woman, of a strong will and immense power of business detail, who throws herself into objects with surprising ardour! i don't regret that i have not a strong will and an immense power of business detail to throw myself into objects with surprising ardour. i can admire her without envy. i can sympathize with the objects. i can dream of them. i can lie down on the grass--in fine weather--and float along an african river, embracing all the natives i meet, as sensible of the deep silence and sketching the dense overhanging tropical growth as accurately as if i were there. i don't know that it's of any direct use my doing so, but it's all i can do, and i do it thoroughly. then, for heaven's sake, having harold skimpole, a confiding child, petitioning you, the world, an agglomeration of practical people of business habits, to let him live and admire the human family, do it somehow or other, like good souls, and suffer him to ride his rocking-horse!" it was plain enough that mr. jarndyce had not been neglectful of the adjuration. mr. skimpole's general position there would have rendered it so without the addition of what he presently said. "it's only you, the generous creatures, whom i envy," said mr. skimpole, addressing us, his new friends, in an impersonal manner. "i envy you your power of doing what you do. it is what i should revel in myself. i don't feel any vulgar gratitude to you. i almost feel as if you ought to be grateful to me for giving you the opportunity of enjoying the luxury of generosity. i know you like it. for anything i can tell, i may have come into the world expressly for the purpose of increasing your stock of happiness. i may have been born to be a benefactor to you by sometimes giving you an opportunity of assisting me in my little perplexities. why should i regret my incapacity for details and worldly affairs when it leads to such pleasant consequences? i don't regret it therefore." of all his playful speeches (playful, yet always fully meaning what they expressed) none seemed to be more to the taste of mr. jarndyce than this. i had often new temptations, afterwards, to wonder whether it was really singular, or only singular to me, that he, who was probably the most grateful of mankind upon the least occasion, should so desire to escape the gratitude of others. we were all enchanted. i felt it a merited tribute to the engaging qualities of ada and richard that mr. skimpole, seeing them for the first time, should be so unreserved and should lay himself out to be so exquisitely agreeable. they (and especially richard) were naturally pleased, for similar reasons, and considered it no common privilege to be so freely confided in by such an attractive man. the more we listened, the more gaily mr. skimpole talked. and what with his fine hilarious manner and his engaging candour and his genial way of lightly tossing his own weaknesses about, as if he had said, "i am a child, you know! you are designing people compared with me" (he really made me consider myself in that light) "but i am gay and innocent; forget your worldly arts and play with me!" the effect was absolutely dazzling. he was so full of feeling too and had such a delicate sentiment for what was beautiful or tender that he could have won a heart by that alone. in the evening, when i was preparing to make tea and ada was touching the piano in the adjoining room and softly humming a tune to her cousin richard, which they had happened to mention, he came and sat down on the sofa near me and so spoke of ada that i almost loved him. "she is like the morning," he said. "with that golden hair, those blue eyes, and that fresh bloom on her cheek, she is like the summer morning. the birds here will mistake her for it. we will not call such a lovely young creature as that, who is a joy to all mankind, an orphan. she is the child of the universe." mr. jarndyce, i found, was standing near us with his hands behind him and an attentive smile upon his face. "the universe," he observed, "makes rather an indifferent parent, i am afraid." "oh! i don't know!" cried mr. skimpole buoyantly. "i think i do know," said mr. jarndyce. "well!" cried mr. skimpole. "you know the world (which in your sense is the universe), and i know nothing of it, so you shall have your way. but if i had mine," glancing at the cousins, "there should be no brambles of sordid realities in such a path as that. it should be strewn with roses; it should lie through bowers, where there was no spring, autumn, nor winter, but perpetual summer. age or change should never wither it. the base word money should never be breathed near it!" mr. jarndyce patted him on the head with a smile, as if he had been really a child, and passing a step or two on, and stopping a moment, glanced at the young cousins. his look was thoughtful, but had a benignant expression in it which i often (how often!) saw again, which has long been engraven on my heart. the room in which they were, communicating with that in which he stood, was only lighted by the fire. ada sat at the piano; richard stood beside her, bending down. upon the wall, their shadows blended together, surrounded by strange forms, not without a ghostly motion caught from the unsteady fire, though reflecting from motionless objects. ada touched the notes so softly and sang so low that the wind, sighing away to the distant hills, was as audible as the music. the mystery of the future and the little clue afforded to it by the voice of the present seemed expressed in the whole picture. but it is not to recall this fancy, well as i remember it, that i recall the scene. first, i was not quite unconscious of the contrast in respect of meaning and intention between the silent look directed that way and the flow of words that had preceded it. secondly, though mr. jarndyce's glance as he withdrew it rested for but a moment on me, i felt as if in that moment he confided to me--and knew that he confided to me and that i received the confidence--his hope that ada and richard might one day enter on a dearer relationship. mr. skimpole could play on the piano and the violoncello, and he was a composer--had composed half an opera once, but got tired of it--and played what he composed with taste. after tea we had quite a little concert, in which richard--who was enthralled by ada's singing and told me that she seemed to know all the songs that ever were written--and mr. jarndyce, and i were the audience. after a little while i missed first mr. skimpole and afterwards richard, and while i was thinking how could richard stay away so long and lose so much, the maid who had given me the keys looked in at the door, saying, "if you please, miss, could you spare a minute?" when i was shut out with her in the hall, she said, holding up her hands, "oh, if you please, miss, mr. carstone says would you come upstairs to mr. skimpole's room. he has been took, miss!" "took?" said i. "took, miss. sudden," said the maid. i was apprehensive that his illness might be of a dangerous kind, but of course i begged her to be quiet and not disturb any one and collected myself, as i followed her quickly upstairs, sufficiently to consider what were the best remedies to be applied if it should prove to be a fit. she threw open a door and i went into a chamber, where, to my unspeakable surprise, instead of finding mr. skimpole stretched upon the bed or prostrate on the floor, i found him standing before the fire smiling at richard, while richard, with a face of great embarrassment, looked at a person on the sofa, in a white great-coat, with smooth hair upon his head and not much of it, which he was wiping smoother and making less of with a pocket-handkerchief. "miss summerson," said richard hurriedly, "i am glad you are come. you will be able to advise us. our friend mr. skimpole--don't be alarmed!--is arrested for debt." "and really, my dear miss summerson," said mr. skimpole with his agreeable candour, "i never was in a situation in which that excellent sense and quiet habit of method and usefulness, which anybody must observe in you who has the happiness of being a quarter of an hour in your society, was more needed." the person on the sofa, who appeared to have a cold in his head, gave such a very loud snort that he startled me. "are you arrested for much, sir?" i inquired of mr. skimpole. "my dear miss summerson," said he, shaking his head pleasantly, "i don't know. some pounds, odd shillings, and halfpence, i think, were mentioned." "it's twenty-four pound, sixteen, and sevenpence ha'penny," observed the stranger. "that's wot it is." "and it sounds--somehow it sounds," said mr. skimpole, "like a small sum?" the strange man said nothing but made another snort. it was such a powerful one that it seemed quite to lift him out of his seat. "mr. skimpole," said richard to me, "has a delicacy in applying to my cousin jarndyce because he has lately--i think, sir, i understood you that you had lately--" "oh, yes!" returned mr. skimpole, smiling. "though i forgot how much it was and when it was. jarndyce would readily do it again, but i have the epicure-like feeling that i would prefer a novelty in help, that i would rather," and he looked at richard and me, "develop generosity in a new soil and in a new form of flower." "what do you think will be best, miss summerson?" said richard, aside. i ventured to inquire, generally, before replying, what would happen if the money were not produced. "jail," said the strange man, coolly putting his handkerchief into his hat, which was on the floor at his feet. "or coavinses." "may i ask, sir, what is--" "coavinses?" said the strange man. "a 'ouse." richard and i looked at one another again. it was a most singular thing that the arrest was our embarrassment and not mr. skimpole's. he observed us with a genial interest, but there seemed, if i may venture on such a contradiction, nothing selfish in it. he had entirely washed his hands of the difficulty, and it had become ours. "i thought," he suggested, as if good-naturedly to help us out, "that being parties in a chancery suit concerning (as people say) a large amount of property, mr. richard or his beautiful cousin, or both, could sign something, or make over something, or give some sort of undertaking, or pledge, or bond? i don't know what the business name of it may be, but i suppose there is some instrument within their power that would settle this?" "not a bit on it," said the strange man. "really?" returned mr. skimpole. "that seems odd, now, to one who is no judge of these things!" "odd or even," said the stranger gruffly, "i tell you, not a bit on it!" "keep your temper, my good fellow, keep your temper!" mr. skimpole gently reasoned with him as he made a little drawing of his head on the fly-leaf of a book. "don't be ruffled by your occupation. we can separate you from your office; we can separate the individual from the pursuit. we are not so prejudiced as to suppose that in private life you are otherwise than a very estimable man, with a great deal of poetry in your nature, of which you may not be conscious." the stranger only answered with another violent snort, whether in acceptance of the poetry-tribute or in disdainful rejection of it, he did not express to me. "now, my dear miss summerson, and my dear mr. richard," said mr. skimpole gaily, innocently, and confidingly as he looked at his drawing with his head on one side, "here you see me utterly incapable of helping myself, and entirely in your hands! i only ask to be free. the butterflies are free. mankind will surely not deny to harold skimpole what it concedes to the butterflies!" "my dear miss summerson," said richard in a whisper, "i have ten pounds that i received from mr. kenge. i must try what that will do." i possessed fifteen pounds, odd shillings, which i had saved from my quarterly allowance during several years. i had always thought that some accident might happen which would throw me suddenly, without any relation or any property, on the world and had always tried to keep some little money by me that i might not be quite penniless. i told richard of my having this little store and having no present need of it, and i asked him delicately to inform mr. skimpole, while i should be gone to fetch it, that we would have the pleasure of paying his debt. when i came back, mr. skimpole kissed my hand and seemed quite touched. not on his own account (i was again aware of that perplexing and extraordinary contradiction), but on ours, as if personal considerations were impossible with him and the contemplation of our happiness alone affected him. richard, begging me, for the greater grace of the transaction, as he said, to settle with coavinses (as mr. skimpole now jocularly called him), i counted out the money and received the necessary acknowledgment. this, too, delighted mr. skimpole. his compliments were so delicately administered that i blushed less than i might have done and settled with the stranger in the white coat without making any mistakes. he put the money in his pocket and shortly said, "well, then, i'll wish you a good evening, miss. "my friend," said mr. skimpole, standing with his back to the fire after giving up the sketch when it was half finished, "i should like to ask you something, without offence." i think the reply was, "cut away, then!" "did you know this morning, now, that you were coming out on this errand?" said mr. skimpole. "know'd it yes'day aft'noon at tea-time," said coavinses. "it didn't affect your appetite? didn't make you at all uneasy?" "not a bit," said coavinses. "i know'd if you wos missed to-day, you wouldn't be missed to-morrow. a day makes no such odds." "but when you came down here," proceeded mr. skimpole, "it was a fine day. the sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the lights and shadows were passing across the fields, the birds were singing." "nobody said they warn't, in my hearing," returned coavinses. "no," observed mr. skimpole. "but what did you think upon the road?" "wot do you mean?" growled coavinses with an appearance of strong resentment. "think! i've got enough to do, and little enough to get for it without thinking. thinking!" (with profound contempt). "then you didn't think, at all events," proceeded mr. skimpole, "to this effect: 'harold skimpole loves to see the sun shine, loves to hear the wind blow, loves to watch the changing lights and shadows, loves to hear the birds, those choristers in nature's great cathedral. and does it seem to me that i am about to deprive harold skimpole of his share in such possessions, which are his only birthright!' you thought nothing to that effect?" "i--certainly--did--not," said coavinses, whose doggedness in utterly renouncing the idea was of that intense kind that he could only give adequate expression to it by putting a long interval between each word, and accompanying the last with a jerk that might have dislocated his neck. "very odd and very curious, the mental process is, in you men of business!" said mr. skimpole thoughtfully. "thank you, my friend. good night." as our absence had been long enough already to seem strange downstairs, i returned at once and found ada sitting at work by the fireside talking to her cousin john. mr. skimpole presently appeared, and richard shortly after him. i was sufficiently engaged during the remainder of the evening in taking my first lesson in backgammon from mr. jarndyce, who was very fond of the game and from whom i wished of course to learn it as quickly as i could in order that i might be of the very small use of being able to play when he had no better adversary. but i thought, occasionally, when mr. skimpole played some fragments of his own compositions or when, both at the piano and the violoncello, and at our table, he preserved with an absence of all effort his delightful spirits and his easy flow of conversation, that richard and i seemed to retain the transferred impression of having been arrested since dinner and that it was very curious altogether. it was late before we separated, for when ada was going at eleven o'clock, mr. skimpole went to the piano and rattled hilariously that the best of all ways to lengthen our days was to steal a few hours from night, my dear! it was past twelve before he took his candle and his radiant face out of the room, and i think he might have kept us there, if he had seen fit, until daybreak. ada and richard were lingering for a few moments by the fire, wondering whether mrs. jellyby had yet finished her dictation for the day, when mr. jarndyce, who had been out of the room, returned. "oh, dear me, what's this, what's this!" he said, rubbing his head and walking about with his good-humoured vexation. "what's this they tell me? rick, my boy, esther, my dear, what have you been doing? why did you do it? how could you do it? how much apiece was it? the wind's round again. i feel it all over me!" we neither of us quite knew what to answer. "come, rick, come! i must settle this before i sleep. how much are you out of pocket? you two made the money up, you know! why did you? how could you? oh, lord, yes, it's due east--must be!" "really, sir," said richard, "i don't think it would be honourable in me to tell you. mr. skimpole relied upon us--" "lord bless you, my dear boy! he relies upon everybody!" said mr. jarndyce, giving his head a great rub and stopping short. "indeed, sir?" "everybody! and he'll be in the same scrape again next week!" said mr. jarndyce, walking again at a great pace, with a candle in his hand that had gone out. "he's always in the same scrape. he was born in the same scrape. i verily believe that the announcement in the newspapers when his mother was confined was 'on tuesday last, at her residence in botheration buildings, mrs. skimpole of a son in difficulties.'" richard laughed heartily but added, "still, sir, i don't want to shake his confidence or to break his confidence, and if i submit to your better knowledge again, that i ought to keep his secret, i hope you will consider before you press me any more. of course, if you do press me, sir, i shall know i am wrong and will tell you." "well!" cried mr. jarndyce, stopping again, and making several absent endeavours to put his candlestick in his pocket. "i--here! take it away, my dear. i don't know what i am about with it; it's all the wind--invariably has that effect--i won't press you, rick; you may be right. but really--to get hold of you and esther--and to squeeze you like a couple of tender young saint michael's oranges! it'll blow a gale in the course of the night!" he was now alternately putting his hands into his pockets as if he were going to keep them there a long time, and taking them out again and vehemently rubbing them all over his head. i ventured to take this opportunity of hinting that mr. skimpole, being in all such matters quite a child-- "eh, my dear?" said mr. jarndyce, catching at the word. "being quite a child, sir," said i, "and so different from other people--" "you are right!" said mr. jarndyce, brightening. "your woman's wit hits the mark. he is a child--an absolute child. i told you he was a child, you know, when i first mentioned him." certainly! certainly! we said. "and he is a child. now, isn't he?" asked mr. jarndyce, brightening more and more. he was indeed, we said. "when you come to think of it, it's the height of childishness in you--i mean me--" said mr. jarndyce, "to regard him for a moment as a man. you can't make him responsible. the idea of harold skimpole with designs or plans, or knowledge of consequences! ha, ha, ha!" it was so delicious to see the clouds about his bright face clearing, and to see him so heartily pleased, and to know, as it was impossible not to know, that the source of his pleasure was the goodness which was tortured by condemning, or mistrusting, or secretly accusing any one, that i saw the tears in ada's eyes, while she echoed his laugh, and felt them in my own. "why, what a cod's head and shoulders i am," said mr. jarndyce, "to require reminding of it! the whole business shows the child from beginning to end. nobody but a child would have thought of singling you two out for parties in the affair! nobody but a child would have thought of your having the money! if it had been a thousand pounds, it would have been just the same!" said mr. jarndyce with his whole face in a glow. we all confirmed it from our night's experience. "to be sure, to be sure!" said mr. jarndyce. "however, rick, esther, and you too, ada, for i don't know that even your little purse is safe from his inexperience--i must have a promise all round that nothing of this sort shall ever be done any more. no advances! not even sixpences." we all promised faithfully, richard with a merry glance at me touching his pocket as if to remind me that there was no danger of our transgressing. "as to skimpole," said mr. jarndyce, "a habitable doll's house with good board and a few tin people to get into debt with and borrow money of would set the boy up in life. he is in a child's sleep by this time, i suppose; it's time i should take my craftier head to my more worldly pillow. good night, my dears. god bless you!" he peeped in again, with a smiling face, before we had lighted our candles, and said, "oh! i have been looking at the weather-cock. i find it was a false alarm about the wind. it's in the south!" and went away singing to himself. ada and i agreed, as we talked together for a little while upstairs, that this caprice about the wind was a fiction and that he used the pretence to account for any disappointment he could not conceal, rather than he would blame the real cause of it or disparage or depreciate any one. we thought this very characteristic of his eccentric gentleness and of the difference between him and those petulant people who make the weather and the winds (particularly that unlucky wind which he had chosen for such a different purpose) the stalking-horses of their splenetic and gloomy humours. indeed, so much affection for him had been added in this one evening to my gratitude that i hoped i already began to understand him through that mingled feeling. any seeming inconsistencies in mr. skimpole or in mrs. jellyby i could not expect to be able to reconcile, having so little experience or practical knowledge. neither did i try, for my thoughts were busy when i was alone, with ada and richard and with the confidence i had seemed to receive concerning them. my fancy, made a little wild by the wind perhaps, would not consent to be all unselfish, either, though i would have persuaded it to be so if i could. it wandered back to my godmother's house and came along the intervening track, raising up shadowy speculations which had sometimes trembled there in the dark as to what knowledge mr. jarndyce had of my earliest history--even as to the possibility of his being my father, though that idle dream was quite gone now. it was all gone now, i remembered, getting up from the fire. it was not for me to muse over bygones, but to act with a cheerful spirit and a grateful heart. so i said to myself, "esther, esther, esther! duty, my dear!" and gave my little basket of housekeeping keys such a shake that they sounded like little bells and rang me hopefully to bed. chapter vii the ghost's walk while esther sleeps, and while esther wakes, it is still wet weather down at the place in lincolnshire. the rain is ever falling--drip, drip, drip--by day and night upon the broad flagged terrace-pavement, the ghost's walk. the weather is so very bad down in lincolnshire that the liveliest imagination can scarcely apprehend its ever being fine again. not that there is any superabundant life of imagination on the spot, for sir leicester is not here (and, truly, even if he were, would not do much for it in that particular), but is in paris with my lady; and solitude, with dusky wings, sits brooding upon chesney wold. there may be some motions of fancy among the lower animals at chesney wold. the horses in the stables--the long stables in a barren, red-brick court-yard, where there is a great bell in a turret, and a clock with a large face, which the pigeons who live near it and who love to perch upon its shoulders seem to be always consulting--they may contemplate some mental pictures of fine weather on occasions, and may be better artists at them than the grooms. the old roan, so famous for cross-country work, turning his large eyeball to the grated window near his rack, may remember the fresh leaves that glisten there at other times and the scents that stream in, and may have a fine run with the hounds, while the human helper, clearing out the next stall, never stirs beyond his pitchfork and birch-broom. the grey, whose place is opposite the door and who with an impatient rattle of his halter pricks his ears and turns his head so wistfully when it is opened, and to whom the opener says, "woa grey, then, steady! noabody wants you to-day!" may know it quite as well as the man. the whole seemingly monotonous and uncompanionable half-dozen, stabled together, may pass the long wet hours when the door is shut in livelier communication than is held in the servants' hall or at the dedlock arms, or may even beguile the time by improving (perhaps corrupting) the pony in the loose-box in the corner. so the mastiff, dozing in his kennel in the court-yard with his large head on his paws, may think of the hot sunshine when the shadows of the stable-buildings tire his patience out by changing and leave him at one time of the day no broader refuge than the shadow of his own house, where he sits on end, panting and growling short, and very much wanting something to worry besides himself and his chain. so now, half-waking and all-winking, he may recall the house full of company, the coach-houses full of vehicles, the stables full of horses, and the out-buildings full of attendants upon horses, until he is undecided about the present and comes forth to see how it is. then, with that impatient shake of himself, he may growl in the spirit, "rain, rain, rain! nothing but rain--and no family here!" as he goes in again and lies down with a gloomy yawn. so with the dogs in the kennel-buildings across the park, who have their restless fits and whose doleful voices when the wind has been very obstinate have even made it known in the house itself--upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber. they may hunt the whole country-side, while the raindrops are pattering round their inactivity. so the rabbits with their self-betraying tails, frisking in and out of holes at roots of trees, may be lively with ideas of the breezy days when their ears are blown about or of those seasons of interest when there are sweet young plants to gnaw. the turkey in the poultry-yard, always troubled with a class-grievance (probably christmas), may be reminiscent of that summer morning wrongfully taken from him when he got into the lane among the felled trees, where there was a barn and barley. the discontented goose, who stoops to pass under the old gateway, twenty feet high, may gabble out, if we only knew it, a waddling preference for weather when the gateway casts its shadow on the ground. be this as it may, there is not much fancy otherwise stirring at chesney wold. if there be a little at any odd moment, it goes, like a little noise in that old echoing place, a long way and usually leads off to ghosts and mystery. it has rained so hard and rained so long down in lincolnshire that mrs. rouncewell, the old housekeeper at chesney wold, has several times taken off her spectacles and cleaned them to make certain that the drops were not upon the glasses. mrs. rouncewell might have been sufficiently assured by hearing the rain, but that she is rather deaf, which nothing will induce her to believe. she is a fine old lady, handsome, stately, wonderfully neat, and has such a back and such a stomacher that if her stays should turn out when she dies to have been a broad old-fashioned family fire-grate, nobody who knows her would have cause to be surprised. weather affects mrs. rouncewell little. the house is there in all weathers, and the house, as she expresses it, "is what she looks at." she sits in her room (in a side passage on the ground floor, with an arched window commanding a smooth quadrangle, adorned at regular intervals with smooth round trees and smooth round blocks of stone, as if the trees were going to play at bowls with the stones), and the whole house reposes on her mind. she can open it on occasion and be busy and fluttered, but it is shut up now and lies on the breadth of mrs. rouncewell's iron-bound bosom in a majestic sleep. it is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagine chesney wold without mrs. rouncewell, but she has only been here fifty years. ask her how long, this rainy day, and she shall answer "fifty year, three months, and a fortnight, by the blessing of heaven, if i live till tuesday." mr. rouncewell died some time before the decease of the pretty fashion of pig-tails, and modestly hid his own (if he took it with him) in a corner of the churchyard in the park near the mouldy porch. he was born in the market-town, and so was his young widow. her progress in the family began in the time of the last sir leicester and originated in the still-room. the present representative of the dedlocks is an excellent master. he supposes all his dependents to be utterly bereft of individual characters, intentions, or opinions, and is persuaded that he was born to supersede the necessity of their having any. if he were to make a discovery to the contrary, he would be simply stunned--would never recover himself, most likely, except to gasp and die. but he is an excellent master still, holding it a part of his state to be so. he has a great liking for mrs. rouncewell; he says she is a most respectable, creditable woman. he always shakes hands with her when he comes down to chesney wold and when he goes away; and if he were very ill, or if he were knocked down by accident, or run over, or placed in any situation expressive of a dedlock at a disadvantage, he would say if he could speak, "leave me, and send mrs. rouncewell here!" feeling his dignity, at such a pass, safer with her than with anybody else. mrs. rouncewell has known trouble. she has had two sons, of whom the younger ran wild, and went for a soldier, and never came back. even to this hour, mrs. rouncewell's calm hands lose their composure when she speaks of him, and unfolding themselves from her stomacher, hover about her in an agitated manner as she says what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay, good-humoured, clever lad he was! her second son would have been provided for at chesney wold and would have been made steward in due season, but he took, when he was a schoolboy, to constructing steam-engines out of saucepans and setting birds to draw their own water with the least possible amount of labour, so assisting them with artful contrivance of hydraulic pressure that a thirsty canary had only, in a literal sense, to put his shoulder to the wheel and the job was done. this propensity gave mrs. rouncewell great uneasiness. she felt it with a mother's anguish to be a move in the wat tyler direction, well knowing that sir leicester had that general impression of an aptitude for any art to which smoke and a tall chimney might be considered essential. but the doomed young rebel (otherwise a mild youth, and very persevering), showing no sign of grace as he got older but, on the contrary, constructing a model of a power-loom, she was fain, with many tears, to mention his backslidings to the baronet. "mrs. rouncewell," said sir leicester, "i can never consent to argue, as you know, with any one on any subject. you had better get rid of your boy; you had better get him into some works. the iron country farther north is, i suppose, the congenial direction for a boy with these tendencies." farther north he went, and farther north he grew up; and if sir leicester dedlock ever saw him when he came to chesney wold to visit his mother, or ever thought of him afterwards, it is certain that he only regarded him as one of a body of some odd thousand conspirators, swarthy and grim, who were in the habit of turning out by torchlight two or three nights in the week for unlawful purposes. nevertheless, mrs. rouncewell's son has, in the course of nature and art, grown up, and established himself, and married, and called unto him mrs. rouncewell's grandson, who, being out of his apprenticeship, and home from a journey in far countries, whither he was sent to enlarge his knowledge and complete his preparations for the venture of this life, stands leaning against the chimney-piece this very day in mrs. rouncewell's room at chesney wold. "and, again and again, i am glad to see you, watt! and, once again, i am glad to see you, watt!" says mrs. rouncewell. "you are a fine young fellow. you are like your poor uncle george. ah!" mrs. rouncewell's hands unquiet, as usual, on this reference. "they say i am like my father, grandmother." "like him, also, my dear--but most like your poor uncle george! and your dear father." mrs. rouncewell folds her hands again. "he is well?" "thriving, grandmother, in every way." "i am thankful!" mrs. rouncewell is fond of her son but has a plaintive feeling towards him, much as if he were a very honourable soldier who had gone over to the enemy. "he is quite happy?" says she. "quite." "i am thankful! so he has brought you up to follow in his ways and has sent you into foreign countries and the like? well, he knows best. there may be a world beyond chesney wold that i don't understand. though i am not young, either. and i have seen a quantity of good company too!" "grandmother," says the young man, changing the subject, "what a very pretty girl that was i found with you just now. you called her rosa?" "yes, child. she is daughter of a widow in the village. maids are so hard to teach, now-a-days, that i have put her about me young. she's an apt scholar and will do well. she shows the house already, very pretty. she lives with me at my table here." "i hope i have not driven her away?" "she supposes we have family affairs to speak about, i dare say. she is very modest. it is a fine quality in a young woman. and scarcer," says mrs. rouncewell, expanding her stomacher to its utmost limits, "than it formerly was!" the young man inclines his head in acknowledgment of the precepts of experience. mrs. rouncewell listens. "wheels!" says she. they have long been audible to the younger ears of her companion. "what wheels on such a day as this, for gracious sake?" after a short interval, a tap at the door. "come in!" a dark-eyed, dark-haired, shy, village beauty comes in--so fresh in her rosy and yet delicate bloom that the drops of rain which have beaten on her hair look like the dew upon a flower fresh gathered. "what company is this, rosa?" says mrs. rouncewell. "it's two young men in a gig, ma'am, who want to see the house--yes, and if you please, i told them so!" in quick reply to a gesture of dissent from the housekeeper. "i went to the hall-door and told them it was the wrong day and the wrong hour, but the young man who was driving took off his hat in the wet and begged me to bring this card to you." "read it, my dear watt," says the housekeeper. rosa is so shy as she gives it to him that they drop it between them and almost knock their foreheads together as they pick it up. rosa is shyer than before. "mr. guppy" is all the information the card yields. "guppy!" repeats mrs. rouncewell, "mr. guppy! nonsense, i never heard of him!" "if you please, he told me that!" says rosa. "but he said that he and the other young gentleman came from london only last night by the mail, on business at the magistrates' meeting, ten miles off, this morning, and that as their business was soon over, and they had heard a great deal said of chesney wold, and really didn't know what to do with themselves, they had come through the wet to see it. they are lawyers. he says he is not in mr. tulkinghorn's office, but he is sure he may make use of mr. tulkinghorn's name if necessary." finding, now she leaves off, that she has been making quite a long speech, rosa is shyer than ever. now, mr. tulkinghorn is, in a manner, part and parcel of the place, and besides, is supposed to have made mrs. rouncewell's will. the old lady relaxes, consents to the admission of the visitors as a favour, and dismisses rosa. the grandson, however, being smitten by a sudden wish to see the house himself, proposes to join the party. the grandmother, who is pleased that he should have that interest, accompanies him--though to do him justice, he is exceedingly unwilling to trouble her. "much obliged to you, ma'am!" says mr. guppy, divesting himself of his wet dreadnought in the hall. "us london lawyers don't often get an out, and when we do, we like to make the most of it, you know." the old housekeeper, with a gracious severity of deportment, waves her hand towards the great staircase. mr. guppy and his friend follow rosa; mrs. rouncewell and her grandson follow them; a young gardener goes before to open the shutters. as is usually the case with people who go over houses, mr. guppy and his friend are dead beat before they have well begun. they straggle about in wrong places, look at wrong things, don't care for the right things, gape when more rooms are opened, exhibit profound depression of spirits, and are clearly knocked up. in each successive chamber that they enter, mrs. rouncewell, who is as upright as the house itself, rests apart in a window-seat or other such nook and listens with stately approval to rosa's exposition. her grandson is so attentive to it that rosa is shyer than ever--and prettier. thus they pass on from room to room, raising the pictured dedlocks for a few brief minutes as the young gardener admits the light, and reconsigning them to their graves as he shuts it out again. it appears to the afflicted mr. guppy and his inconsolable friend that there is no end to the dedlocks, whose family greatness seems to consist in their never having done anything to distinguish themselves for seven hundred years. even the long drawing-room of chesney wold cannot revive mr. guppy's spirits. he is so low that he droops on the threshold and has hardly strength of mind to enter. but a portrait over the chimney-piece, painted by the fashionable artist of the day, acts upon him like a charm. he recovers in a moment. he stares at it with uncommon interest; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it. "dear me!" says mr. guppy. "who's that?" "the picture over the fire-place," says rosa, "is the portrait of the present lady dedlock. it is considered a perfect likeness, and the best work of the master." "blest," says mr. guppy, staring in a kind of dismay at his friend, "if i can ever have seen her. yet i know her! has the picture been engraved, miss?" "the picture has never been engraved. sir leicester has always refused permission." "well!" says mr. guppy in a low voice. "i'll be shot if it ain't very curious how well i know that picture! so that's lady dedlock, is it!" "the picture on the right is the present sir leicester dedlock. the picture on the left is his father, the late sir leicester." mr. guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates. "it's unaccountable to me," he says, still staring at the portrait, "how well i know that picture! i'm dashed," adds mr. guppy, looking round, "if i don't think i must have had a dream of that picture, you know!" as no one present takes any especial interest in mr. guppy's dreams, the probability is not pursued. but he still remains so absorbed by the portrait that he stands immovable before it until the young gardener has closed the shutters, when he comes out of the room in a dazed state that is an odd though a sufficient substitute for interest and follows into the succeeding rooms with a confused stare, as if he were looking everywhere for lady dedlock again. he sees no more of her. he sees her rooms, which are the last shown, as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows from which she looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored her to death. all things have an end, even houses that people take infinite pains to see and are tired of before they begin to see them. he has come to the end of the sight, and the fresh village beauty to the end of her description; which is always this: "the terrace below is much admired. it is called, from an old story in the family, the ghost's walk." "no?" says mr. guppy, greedily curious. "what's the story, miss? is it anything about a picture?" "pray tell us the story," says watt in a half whisper. "i don't know it, sir." rosa is shyer than ever. "it is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten," says the housekeeper, advancing. "it has never been more than a family anecdote." "you'll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a picture, ma'am," observes mr. guppy, "because i do assure you that the more i think of that picture the better i know it, without knowing how i know it!" the story has nothing to do with a picture; the housekeeper can guarantee that. mr. guppy is obliged to her for the information and is, moreover, generally obliged. he retires with his friend, guided down another staircase by the young gardener, and presently is heard to drive away. it is now dusk. mrs. rouncewell can trust to the discretion of her two young hearers and may tell them how the terrace came to have that ghostly name. she seats herself in a large chair by the fast-darkening window and tells them: "in the wicked days, my dears, of king charles the first--i mean, of course, in the wicked days of the rebels who leagued themselves against that excellent king--sir morbury dedlock was the owner of chesney wold. whether there was any account of a ghost in the family before those days, i can't say. i should think it very likely indeed." mrs. rouncewell holds this opinion because she considers that a family of such antiquity and importance has a right to a ghost. she regards a ghost as one of the privileges of the upper classes, a genteel distinction to which the common people have no claim. "sir morbury dedlock," says mrs. rouncewell, "was, i have no occasion to say, on the side of the blessed martyr. but it is supposed that his lady, who had none of the family blood in her veins, favoured the bad cause. it is said that she had relations among king charles's enemies, that she was in correspondence with them, and that she gave them information. when any of the country gentlemen who followed his majesty's cause met here, it is said that my lady was always nearer to the door of their council-room than they supposed. do you hear a sound like a footstep passing along the terrace, watt?" rosa draws nearer to the housekeeper. "i hear the rain-drip on the stones," replies the young man, "and i hear a curious echo--i suppose an echo--which is very like a halting step." the housekeeper gravely nods and continues: "partly on account of this division between them, and partly on other accounts, sir morbury and his lady led a troubled life. she was a lady of a haughty temper. they were not well suited to each other in age or character, and they had no children to moderate between them. after her favourite brother, a young gentleman, was killed in the civil wars (by sir morbury's near kinsman), her feeling was so violent that she hated the race into which she had married. when the dedlocks were about to ride out from chesney wold in the king's cause, she is supposed to have more than once stolen down into the stables in the dead of night and lamed their horses; and the story is that once at such an hour, her husband saw her gliding down the stairs and followed her into the stall where his own favourite horse stood. there he seized her by the wrist, and in a struggle or in a fall or through the horse being frightened and lashing out, she was lamed in the hip and from that hour began to pine away." the housekeeper has dropped her voice to a little more than a whisper. "she had been a lady of a handsome figure and a noble carriage. she never complained of the change; she never spoke to any one of being crippled or of being in pain, but day by day she tried to walk upon the terrace, and with the help of the stone balustrade, went up and down, up and down, up and down, in sun and shadow, with greater difficulty every day. at last, one afternoon her husband (to whom she had never, on any persuasion, opened her lips since that night), standing at the great south window, saw her drop upon the pavement. he hastened down to raise her, but she repulsed him as he bent over her, and looking at him fixedly and coldly, said, 'i will die here where i have walked. and i will walk here, though i am in my grave. i will walk here until the pride of this house is humbled. and when calamity or when disgrace is coming to it, let the dedlocks listen for my step!'" watt looks at rosa. rosa in the deepening gloom looks down upon the ground, half frightened and half shy. "there and then she died. and from those days," says mrs. rouncewell, "the name has come down--the ghost's walk. if the tread is an echo, it is an echo that is only heard after dark, and is often unheard for a long while together. but it comes back from time to time; and so sure as there is sickness or death in the family, it will be heard then." "and disgrace, grandmother--" says watt. "disgrace never comes to chesney wold," returns the housekeeper. her grandson apologizes with "true. true." "that is the story. whatever the sound is, it is a worrying sound," says mrs. rouncewell, getting up from her chair; "and what is to be noticed in it is that it must be heard. my lady, who is afraid of nothing, admits that when it is there, it must be heard. you cannot shut it out. watt, there is a tall french clock behind you (placed there, 'a purpose) that has a loud beat when it is in motion and can play music. you understand how those things are managed?" "pretty well, grandmother, i think." "set it a-going." watt sets it a-going--music and all. "now, come hither," says the housekeeper. "hither, child, towards my lady's pillow. i am not sure that it is dark enough yet, but listen! can you hear the sound upon the terrace, through the music, and the beat, and everything?" "i certainly can!" "so my lady says." chapter viii covering a multitude of sins it was interesting when i dressed before daylight to peep out of window, where my candles were reflected in the black panes like two beacons, and finding all beyond still enshrouded in the indistinctness of last night, to watch how it turned out when the day came on. as the prospect gradually revealed itself and disclosed the scene over which the wind had wandered in the dark, like my memory over my life, i had a pleasure in discovering the unknown objects that had been around me in my sleep. at first they were faintly discernible in the mist, and above them the later stars still glimmered. that pale interval over, the picture began to enlarge and fill up so fast that at every new peep i could have found enough to look at for an hour. imperceptibly my candles became the only incongruous part of the morning, the dark places in my room all melted away, and the day shone bright upon a cheerful landscape, prominent in which the old abbey church, with its massive tower, threw a softer train of shadow on the view than seemed compatible with its rugged character. but so from rough outsides (i hope i have learnt), serene and gentle influences often proceed. every part of the house was in such order, and every one was so attentive to me, that i had no trouble with my two bunches of keys, though what with trying to remember the contents of each little store-room drawer and cupboard; and what with making notes on a slate about jams, and pickles, and preserves, and bottles, and glass, and china, and a great many other things; and what with being generally a methodical, old-maidish sort of foolish little person, i was so busy that i could not believe it was breakfast-time when i heard the bell ring. away i ran, however, and made tea, as i had already been installed into the responsibility of the tea-pot; and then, as they were all rather late and nobody was down yet, i thought i would take a peep at the garden and get some knowledge of that too. i found it quite a delightful place--in front, the pretty avenue and drive by which we had approached (and where, by the by, we had cut up the gravel so terribly with our wheels that i asked the gardener to roll it); at the back, the flower-garden, with my darling at her window up there, throwing it open to smile out at me, as if she would have kissed me from that distance. beyond the flower-garden was a kitchen-garden, and then a paddock, and then a snug little rick-yard, and then a dear little farm-yard. as to the house itself, with its three peaks in the roof; its various-shaped windows, some so large, some so small, and all so pretty; its trellis-work, against the south-front for roses and honey-suckle, and its homely, comfortable, welcoming look--it was, as ada said when she came out to meet me with her arm through that of its master, worthy of her cousin john, a bold thing to say, though he only pinched her dear cheek for it. mr. skimpole was as agreeable at breakfast as he had been overnight. there was honey on the table, and it led him into a discourse about bees. he had no objection to honey, he said (and i should think he had not, for he seemed to like it), but he protested against the overweening assumptions of bees. he didn't at all see why the busy bee should be proposed as a model to him; he supposed the bee liked to make honey, or he wouldn't do it--nobody asked him. it was not necessary for the bee to make such a merit of his tastes. if every confectioner went buzzing about the world banging against everything that came in his way and egotistically calling upon everybody to take notice that he was going to his work and must not be interrupted, the world would be quite an unsupportable place. then, after all, it was a ridiculous position to be smoked out of your fortune with brimstone as soon as you had made it. you would have a very mean opinion of a manchester man if he spun cotton for no other purpose. he must say he thought a drone the embodiment of a pleasanter and wiser idea. the drone said unaffectedly, "you will excuse me; i really cannot attend to the shop! i find myself in a world in which there is so much to see and so short a time to see it in that i must take the liberty of looking about me and begging to be provided for by somebody who doesn't want to look about him." this appeared to mr. skimpole to be the drone philosophy, and he thought it a very good philosophy, always supposing the drone to be willing to be on good terms with the bee, which, so far as he knew, the easy fellow always was, if the consequential creature would only let him, and not be so conceited about his honey! he pursued this fancy with the lightest foot over a variety of ground and made us all merry, though again he seemed to have as serious a meaning in what he said as he was capable of having. i left them still listening to him when i withdrew to attend to my new duties. they had occupied me for some time, and i was passing through the passages on my return with my basket of keys on my arm when mr. jarndyce called me into a small room next his bed-chamber, which i found to be in part a little library of books and papers and in part quite a little museum of his boots and shoes and hat-boxes. "sit down, my dear," said mr. jarndyce. "this, you must know, is the growlery. when i am out of humour, i come and growl here." "you must be here very seldom, sir," said i. "oh, you don't know me!" he returned. "when i am deceived or disappointed in--the wind, and it's easterly, i take refuge here. the growlery is the best-used room in the house. you are not aware of half my humours yet. my dear, how you are trembling!" i could not help it; i tried very hard, but being alone with that benevolent presence, and meeting his kind eyes, and feeling so happy and so honoured there, and my heart so full--i kissed his hand. i don't know what i said, or even that i spoke. he was disconcerted and walked to the window; i almost believed with an intention of jumping out, until he turned and i was reassured by seeing in his eyes what he had gone there to hide. he gently patted me on the head, and i sat down. "there! there!" he said. "that's over. pooh! don't be foolish." "it shall not happen again, sir," i returned, "but at first it is difficult--" "nonsense!" he said. "it's easy, easy. why not? i hear of a good little orphan girl without a protector, and i take it into my head to be that protector. she grows up, and more than justifies my good opinion, and i remain her guardian and her friend. what is there in all this? so, so! now, we have cleared off old scores, and i have before me thy pleasant, trusting, trusty face again." i said to myself, "esther, my dear, you surprise me! this really is not what i expected of you!" and it had such a good effect that i folded my hands upon my basket and quite recovered myself. mr. jarndyce, expressing his approval in his face, began to talk to me as confidentially as if i had been in the habit of conversing with him every morning for i don't know how long. i almost felt as if i had. "of course, esther," he said, "you don't understand this chancery business?" and of course i shook my head. "i don't know who does," he returned. "the lawyers have twisted it into such a state of bedevilment that the original merits of the case have long disappeared from the face of the earth. it's about a will and the trusts under a will--or it was once. it's about nothing but costs now. we are always appearing, and disappearing, and swearing, and interrogating, and filing, and cross-filing, and arguing, and sealing, and motioning, and referring, and reporting, and revolving about the lord chancellor and all his satellites, and equitably waltzing ourselves off to dusty death, about costs. that's the great question. all the rest, by some extraordinary means, has melted away." "but it was, sir," said i, to bring him back, for he began to rub his head, "about a will?" "why, yes, it was about a will when it was about anything," he returned. "a certain jarndyce, in an evil hour, made a great fortune, and made a great will. in the question how the trusts under that will are to be administered, the fortune left by the will is squandered away; the legatees under the will are reduced to such a miserable condition that they would be sufficiently punished if they had committed an enormous crime in having money left them, and the will itself is made a dead letter. all through the deplorable cause, everything that everybody in it, except one man, knows already is referred to that only one man who don't know, it to find out--all through the deplorable cause, everybody must have copies, over and over again, of everything that has accumulated about it in the way of cartloads of papers (or must pay for them without having them, which is the usual course, for nobody wants them) and must go down the middle and up again through such an infernal country-dance of costs and fees and nonsense and corruption as was never dreamed of in the wildest visions of a witch's sabbath. equity sends questions to law, law sends questions back to equity; law finds it can't do this, equity finds it can't do that; neither can so much as say it can't do anything, without this solicitor instructing and this counsel appearing for a, and that solicitor instructing and that counsel appearing for b; and so on through the whole alphabet, like the history of the apple pie. and thus, through years and years, and lives and lives, everything goes on, constantly beginning over and over again, and nothing ever ends. and we can't get out of the suit on any terms, for we are made parties to it, and must be parties to it, whether we like it or not. but it won't do to think of it! when my great uncle, poor tom jarndyce, began to think of it, it was the beginning of the end!" "the mr. jarndyce, sir, whose story i have heard?" he nodded gravely. "i was his heir, and this was his house, esther. when i came here, it was bleak indeed. he had left the signs of his misery upon it." "how changed it must be now!" i said. "it had been called, before his time, the peaks. he gave it its present name and lived here shut up, day and night poring over the wicked heaps of papers in the suit and hoping against hope to disentangle it from its mystification and bring it to a close. in the meantime, the place became dilapidated, the wind whistled through the cracked walls, the rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds choked the passage to the rotting door. when i brought what remained of him home here, the brains seemed to me to have been blown out of the house too, it was so shattered and ruined." he walked a little to and fro after saying this to himself with a shudder, and then looked at me, and brightened, and came and sat down again with his hands in his pockets. "i told you this was the growlery, my dear. where was i?" i reminded him, at the hopeful change he had made in bleak house. "bleak house; true. there is, in that city of london there, some property of ours which is much at this day what bleak house was then; i say property of ours, meaning of the suit's, but i ought to call it the property of costs, for costs is the only power on earth that will ever get anything out of it now or will ever know it for anything but an eyesore and a heartsore. it is a street of perishing blind houses, with their eyes stoned out, without a pane of glass, without so much as a window-frame, with the bare blank shutters tumbling from their hinges and falling asunder, the iron rails peeling away in flakes of rust, the chimneys sinking in, the stone steps to every door (and every door might be death's door) turning stagnant green, the very crutches on which the ruins are propped decaying. although bleak house was not in chancery, its master was, and it was stamped with the same seal. these are the great seal's impressions, my dear, all over england--the children know them!" "how changed it is!" i said again. "why, so it is," he answered much more cheerfully; "and it is wisdom in you to keep me to the bright side of the picture." (the idea of my wisdom!) "these are things i never talk about or even think about, excepting in the growlery here. if you consider it right to mention them to rick and ada," looking seriously at me, "you can. i leave it to your discretion, esther." "i hope, sir--" said i. "i think you had better call me guardian, my dear." i felt that i was choking again--i taxed myself with it, "esther, now, you know you are!"--when he feigned to say this slightly, as if it were a whim instead of a thoughtful tenderness. but i gave the housekeeping keys the least shake in the world as a reminder to myself, and folding my hands in a still more determined manner on the basket, looked at him quietly. "i hope, guardian," said i, "that you may not trust too much to my discretion. i hope you may not mistake me. i am afraid it will be a disappointment to you to know that i am not clever, but it really is the truth, and you would soon find it out if i had not the honesty to confess it." he did not seem at all disappointed; quite the contrary. he told me, with a smile all over his face, that he knew me very well indeed and that i was quite clever enough for him. "i hope i may turn out so," said i, "but i am much afraid of it, guardian." "you are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives here, my dear," he returned playfully; "the little old woman of the child's (i don't mean skimpole's) rhyme: "'little old woman, and whither so high?' 'to sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.' "you will sweep them so neatly out of our sky in the course of your housekeeping, esther, that one of these days we shall have to abandon the growlery and nail up the door." this was the beginning of my being called old woman, and little old woman, and cobweb, and mrs. shipton, and mother hubbard, and dame durden, and so many names of that sort that my own name soon became quite lost among them. "however," said mr. jarndyce, "to return to our gossip. here's rick, a fine young fellow full of promise. what's to be done with him?" oh, my goodness, the idea of asking my advice on such a point! "here he is, esther," said mr. jarndyce, comfortably putting his hands into his pockets and stretching out his legs. "he must have a profession; he must make some choice for himself. there will be a world more wiglomeration about it, i suppose, but it must be done." "more what, guardian?" said i. "more wiglomeration," said he. "it's the only name i know for the thing. he is a ward in chancery, my dear. kenge and carboy will have something to say about it; master somebody--a sort of ridiculous sexton, digging graves for the merits of causes in a back room at the end of quality court, chancery lane--will have something to say about it; counsel will have something to say about it; the chancellor will have something to say about it; the satellites will have something to say about it; they will all have to be handsomely feed, all round, about it; the whole thing will be vastly ceremonious, wordy, unsatisfactory, and expensive, and i call it, in general, wiglomeration. how mankind ever came to be afflicted with wiglomeration, or for whose sins these young people ever fell into a pit of it, i don't know; so it is." he began to rub his head again and to hint that he felt the wind. but it was a delightful instance of his kindness towards me that whether he rubbed his head, or walked about, or did both, his face was sure to recover its benignant expression as it looked at mine; and he was sure to turn comfortable again and put his hands in his pockets and stretch out his legs. "perhaps it would be best, first of all," said i, "to ask mr. richard what he inclines to himself." "exactly so," he returned. "that's what i mean! you know, just accustom yourself to talk it over, with your tact and in your quiet way, with him and ada, and see what you all make of it. we are sure to come at the heart of the matter by your means, little woman." i really was frightened at the thought of the importance i was attaining and the number of things that were being confided to me. i had not meant this at all; i had meant that he should speak to richard. but of course i said nothing in reply except that i would do my best, though i feared (i really felt it necessary to repeat this) that he thought me much more sagacious than i was. at which my guardian only laughed the pleasantest laugh i ever heard. "come!" he said, rising and pushing back his chair. "i think we may have done with the growlery for one day! only a concluding word. esther, my dear, do you wish to ask me anything?" he looked so attentively at me that i looked attentively at him and felt sure i understood him. "about myself, sir?" said i. "yes." "guardian," said i, venturing to put my hand, which was suddenly colder than i could have wished, in his, "nothing! i am quite sure that if there were anything i ought to know or had any need to know, i should not have to ask you to tell it to me. if my whole reliance and confidence were not placed in you, i must have a hard heart indeed. i have nothing to ask you, nothing in the world." he drew my hand through his arm and we went away to look for ada. from that hour i felt quite easy with him, quite unreserved, quite content to know no more, quite happy. we lived, at first, rather a busy life at bleak house, for we had to become acquainted with many residents in and out of the neighbourhood who knew mr. jarndyce. it seemed to ada and me that everybody knew him who wanted to do anything with anybody else's money. it amazed us when we began to sort his letters and to answer some of them for him in the growlery of a morning to find how the great object of the lives of nearly all his correspondents appeared to be to form themselves into committees for getting in and laying out money. the ladies were as desperate as the gentlemen; indeed, i think they were even more so. they threw themselves into committees in the most impassioned manner and collected subscriptions with a vehemence quite extraordinary. it appeared to us that some of them must pass their whole lives in dealing out subscription-cards to the whole post-office directory--shilling cards, half-crown cards, half-sovereign cards, penny cards. they wanted everything. they wanted wearing apparel, they wanted linen rags, they wanted money, they wanted coals, they wanted soup, they wanted interest, they wanted autographs, they wanted flannel, they wanted whatever mr. jarndyce had--or had not. their objects were as various as their demands. they were going to raise new buildings, they were going to pay off debts on old buildings, they were going to establish in a picturesque building (engraving of proposed west elevation attached) the sisterhood of mediaeval marys, they were going to give a testimonial to mrs. jellyby, they were going to have their secretary's portrait painted and presented to his mother-in-law, whose deep devotion to him was well known, they were going to get up everything, i really believe, from five hundred thousand tracts to an annuity and from a marble monument to a silver tea-pot. they took a multitude of titles. they were the women of england, the daughters of britain, the sisters of all the cardinal virtues separately, the females of america, the ladies of a hundred denominations. they appeared to be always excited about canvassing and electing. they seemed to our poor wits, and according to their own accounts, to be constantly polling people by tens of thousands, yet never bringing their candidates in for anything. it made our heads ache to think, on the whole, what feverish lives they must lead. among the ladies who were most distinguished for this rapacious benevolence (if i may use the expression) was a mrs. pardiggle, who seemed, as i judged from the number of her letters to mr. jarndyce, to be almost as powerful a correspondent as mrs. jellyby herself. we observed that the wind always changed when mrs. pardiggle became the subject of conversation and that it invariably interrupted mr. jarndyce and prevented his going any farther, when he had remarked that there were two classes of charitable people; one, the people who did a little and made a great deal of noise; the other, the people who did a great deal and made no noise at all. we were therefore curious to see mrs. pardiggle, suspecting her to be a type of the former class, and were glad when she called one day with her five young sons. she was a formidable style of lady with spectacles, a prominent nose, and a loud voice, who had the effect of wanting a great deal of room. and she really did, for she knocked down little chairs with her skirts that were quite a great way off. as only ada and i were at home, we received her timidly, for she seemed to come in like cold weather and to make the little pardiggles blue as they followed. "these, young ladies," said mrs. pardiggle with great volubility after the first salutations, "are my five boys. you may have seen their names in a printed subscription list (perhaps more than one) in the possession of our esteemed friend mr. jarndyce. egbert, my eldest (twelve), is the boy who sent out his pocket-money, to the amount of five and threepence, to the tockahoopo indians. oswald, my second (ten and a half), is the child who contributed two and nine-pence to the great national smithers testimonial. francis, my third (nine), one and sixpence halfpenny; felix, my fourth (seven), eightpence to the superannuated widows; alfred, my youngest (five), has voluntarily enrolled himself in the infant bonds of joy, and is pledged never, through life, to use tobacco in any form." we had never seen such dissatisfied children. it was not merely that they were weazened and shrivelled--though they were certainly that too--but they looked absolutely ferocious with discontent. at the mention of the tockahoopo indians, i could really have supposed egbert to be one of the most baleful members of that tribe, he gave me such a savage frown. the face of each child, as the amount of his contribution was mentioned, darkened in a peculiarly vindictive manner, but his was by far the worst. i must except, however, the little recruit into the infant bonds of joy, who was stolidly and evenly miserable. "you have been visiting, i understand," said mrs. pardiggle, "at mrs. jellyby's?" we said yes, we had passed one night there. "mrs. jellyby," pursued the lady, always speaking in the same demonstrative, loud, hard tone, so that her voice impressed my fancy as if it had a sort of spectacles on too--and i may take the opportunity of remarking that her spectacles were made the less engaging by her eyes being what ada called "choking eyes," meaning very prominent--"mrs. jellyby is a benefactor to society and deserves a helping hand. my boys have contributed to the african project--egbert, one and six, being the entire allowance of nine weeks; oswald, one and a penny halfpenny, being the same; the rest, according to their little means. nevertheless, i do not go with mrs. jellyby in all things. i do not go with mrs. jellyby in her treatment of her young family. it has been noticed. it has been observed that her young family are excluded from participation in the objects to which she is devoted. she may be right, she may be wrong; but, right or wrong, this is not my course with my young family. i take them everywhere." i was afterwards convinced (and so was ada) that from the ill-conditioned eldest child, these words extorted a sharp yell. he turned it off into a yawn, but it began as a yell. "they attend matins with me (very prettily done) at half-past six o'clock in the morning all the year round, including of course the depth of winter," said mrs. pardiggle rapidly, "and they are with me during the revolving duties of the day. i am a school lady, i am a visiting lady, i am a reading lady, i am a distributing lady; i am on the local linen box committee and many general committees; and my canvassing alone is very extensive--perhaps no one's more so. but they are my companions everywhere; and by these means they acquire that knowledge of the poor, and that capacity of doing charitable business in general--in short, that taste for the sort of thing--which will render them in after life a service to their neighbours and a satisfaction to themselves. my young family are not frivolous; they expend the entire amount of their allowance in subscriptions, under my direction; and they have attended as many public meetings and listened to as many lectures, orations, and discussions as generally fall to the lot of few grown people. alfred (five), who, as i mentioned, has of his own election joined the infant bonds of joy, was one of the very few children who manifested consciousness on that occasion after a fervid address of two hours from the chairman of the evening." alfred glowered at us as if he never could, or would, forgive the injury of that night. "you may have observed, miss summerson," said mrs. pardiggle, "in some of the lists to which i have referred, in the possession of our esteemed friend mr. jarndyce, that the names of my young family are concluded with the name of o. a. pardiggle, f.r.s., one pound. that is their father. we usually observe the same routine. i put down my mite first; then my young family enrol their contributions, according to their ages and their little means; and then mr. pardiggle brings up the rear. mr. pardiggle is happy to throw in his limited donation, under my direction; and thus things are made not only pleasant to ourselves, but, we trust, improving to others." suppose mr. pardiggle were to dine with mr. jellyby, and suppose mr. jellyby were to relieve his mind after dinner to mr. pardiggle, would mr. pardiggle, in return, make any confidential communication to mr. jellyby? i was quite confused to find myself thinking this, but it came into my head. "you are very pleasantly situated here!" said mrs. pardiggle. we were glad to change the subject, and going to the window, pointed out the beauties of the prospect, on which the spectacles appeared to me to rest with curious indifference. "you know mr. gusher?" said our visitor. we were obliged to say that we had not the pleasure of mr. gusher's acquaintance. "the loss is yours, i assure you," said mrs. pardiggle with her commanding deportment. "he is a very fervid, impassioned speaker--full of fire! stationed in a waggon on this lawn, now, which, from the shape of the land, is naturally adapted to a public meeting, he would improve almost any occasion you could mention for hours and hours! by this time, young ladies," said mrs. pardiggle, moving back to her chair and overturning, as if by invisible agency, a little round table at a considerable distance with my work-basket on it, "by this time you have found me out, i dare say?" this was really such a confusing question that ada looked at me in perfect dismay. as to the guilty nature of my own consciousness after what i had been thinking, it must have been expressed in the colour of my cheeks. "found out, i mean," said mrs. pardiggle, "the prominent point in my character. i am aware that it is so prominent as to be discoverable immediately. i lay myself open to detection, i know. well! i freely admit, i am a woman of business. i love hard work; i enjoy hard work. the excitement does me good. i am so accustomed and inured to hard work that i don't know what fatigue is." we murmured that it was very astonishing and very gratifying, or something to that effect. i don't think we knew what it was either, but this is what our politeness expressed. "i do not understand what it is to be tired; you cannot tire me if you try!" said mrs. pardiggle. "the quantity of exertion (which is no exertion to me), the amount of business (which i regard as nothing), that i go through sometimes astonishes myself. i have seen my young family, and mr. pardiggle, quite worn out with witnessing it, when i may truly say i have been as fresh as a lark!" if that dark-visaged eldest boy could look more malicious than he had already looked, this was the time when he did it. i observed that he doubled his right fist and delivered a secret blow into the crown of his cap, which was under his left arm. "this gives me a great advantage when i am making my rounds," said mrs. pardiggle. "if i find a person unwilling to hear what i have to say, i tell that person directly, 'i am incapable of fatigue, my good friend, i am never tired, and i mean to go on until i have done.' it answers admirably! miss summerson, i hope i shall have your assistance in my visiting rounds immediately, and miss clare's very soon." at first i tried to excuse myself for the present on the general ground of having occupations to attend to which i must not neglect. but as this was an ineffectual protest, i then said, more particularly, that i was not sure of my qualifications. that i was inexperienced in the art of adapting my mind to minds very differently situated, and addressing them from suitable points of view. that i had not that delicate knowledge of the heart which must be essential to such a work. that i had much to learn, myself, before i could teach others, and that i could not confide in my good intentions alone. for these reasons i thought it best to be as useful as i could, and to render what kind services i could to those immediately about me, and to try to let that circle of duty gradually and naturally expand itself. all this i said with anything but confidence, because mrs. pardiggle was much older than i, and had great experience, and was so very military in her manners. "you are wrong, miss summerson," said she, "but perhaps you are not equal to hard work or the excitement of it, and that makes a vast difference. if you would like to see how i go through my work, i am now about--with my young family--to visit a brickmaker in the neighbourhood (a very bad character) and shall be glad to take you with me. miss clare also, if she will do me the favour." ada and i interchanged looks, and as we were going out in any case, accepted the offer. when we hastily returned from putting on our bonnets, we found the young family languishing in a corner and mrs. pardiggle sweeping about the room, knocking down nearly all the light objects it contained. mrs. pardiggle took possession of ada, and i followed with the family. ada told me afterwards that mrs. pardiggle talked in the same loud tone (that, indeed, i overheard) all the way to the brickmaker's about an exciting contest which she had for two or three years waged against another lady relative to the bringing in of their rival candidates for a pension somewhere. there had been a quantity of printing, and promising, and proxying, and polling, and it appeared to have imparted great liveliness to all concerned, except the pensioners--who were not elected yet. i am very fond of being confided in by children and am happy in being usually favoured in that respect, but on this occasion it gave me great uneasiness. as soon as we were out of doors, egbert, with the manner of a little footpad, demanded a shilling of me on the ground that his pocket-money was "boned" from him. on my pointing out the great impropriety of the word, especially in connexion with his parent (for he added sulkily "by her!"), he pinched me and said, "oh, then! now! who are you! you wouldn't like it, i think? what does she make a sham for, and pretend to give me money, and take it away again? why do you call it my allowance, and never let me spend it?" these exasperating questions so inflamed his mind and the minds of oswald and francis that they all pinched me at once, and in a dreadfully expert way--screwing up such little pieces of my arms that i could hardly forbear crying out. felix, at the same time, stamped upon my toes. and the bond of joy, who on account of always having the whole of his little income anticipated stood in fact pledged to abstain from cakes as well as tobacco, so swelled with grief and rage when we passed a pastry-cook's shop that he terrified me by becoming purple. i never underwent so much, both in body and mind, in the course of a walk with young people as from these unnaturally constrained children when they paid me the compliment of being natural. i was glad when we came to the brickmaker's house, though it was one of a cluster of wretched hovels in a brick-field, with pigsties close to the broken windows and miserable little gardens before the doors growing nothing but stagnant pools. here and there an old tub was put to catch the droppings of rain-water from a roof, or they were banked up with mud into a little pond like a large dirt-pie. at the doors and windows some men and women lounged or prowled about, and took little notice of us except to laugh to one another or to say something as we passed about gentlefolks minding their own business and not troubling their heads and muddying their shoes with coming to look after other people's. mrs. pardiggle, leading the way with a great show of moral determination and talking with much volubility about the untidy habits of the people (though i doubted if the best of us could have been tidy in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at the farthest corner, the ground-floor room of which we nearly filled. besides ourselves, there were in this damp, offensive room a woman with a black eye, nursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire; a man, all stained with clay and mud and looking very dissipated, lying at full length on the ground, smoking a pipe; a powerful young man fastening a collar on a dog; and a bold girl doing some kind of washing in very dirty water. they all looked up at us as we came in, and the woman seemed to turn her face towards the fire as if to hide her bruised eye; nobody gave us any welcome. "well, my friends," said mrs. pardiggle, but her voice had not a friendly sound, i thought; it was much too business-like and systematic. "how do you do, all of you? i am here again. i told you, you couldn't tire me, you know. i am fond of hard work, and am true to my word." "there an't," growled the man on the floor, whose head rested on his hand as he stared at us, "any more on you to come in, is there?" "no, my friend," said mrs. pardiggle, seating herself on one stool and knocking down another. "we are all here." "because i thought there warn't enough of you, perhaps?" said the man, with his pipe between his lips as he looked round upon us. the young man and the girl both laughed. two friends of the young man, whom we had attracted to the doorway and who stood there with their hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily. "you can't tire me, good people," said mrs. pardiggle to these latter. "i enjoy hard work, and the harder you make mine, the better i like it." "then make it easy for her!" growled the man upon the floor. "i wants it done, and over. i wants a end of these liberties took with my place. i wants an end of being drawed like a badger. now you're a-going to poll-pry and question according to custom--i know what you're a-going to be up to. well! you haven't got no occasion to be up to it. i'll save you the trouble. is my daughter a-washin? yes, she is a-washin. look at the water. smell it! that's wot we drinks. how do you like it, and what do you think of gin instead! an't my place dirty? yes, it is dirty--it's nat'rally dirty, and it's nat'rally onwholesome; and we've had five dirty and onwholesome children, as is all dead infants, and so much the better for them, and for us besides. have i read the little book wot you left? no, i an't read the little book wot you left. there an't nobody here as knows how to read it; and if there wos, it wouldn't be suitable to me. it's a book fit for a babby, and i'm not a babby. if you was to leave me a doll, i shouldn't nuss it. how have i been conducting of myself? why, i've been drunk for three days; and i'da been drunk four if i'da had the money. don't i never mean for to go to church? no, i don't never mean for to go to church. i shouldn't be expected there, if i did; the beadle's too gen-teel for me. and how did my wife get that black eye? why, i give it her; and if she says i didn't, she's a lie!" he had pulled his pipe out of his mouth to say all this, and he now turned over on his other side and smoked again. mrs. pardiggle, who had been regarding him through her spectacles with a forcible composure, calculated, i could not help thinking, to increase his antagonism, pulled out a good book as if it were a constable's staff and took the whole family into custody. i mean into religious custody, of course; but she really did it as if she were an inexorable moral policeman carrying them all off to a station-house. ada and i were very uncomfortable. we both felt intrusive and out of place, and we both thought that mrs. pardiggle would have got on infinitely better if she had not had such a mechanical way of taking possession of people. the children sulked and stared; the family took no notice of us whatever, except when the young man made the dog bark, which he usually did when mrs. pardiggle was most emphatic. we both felt painfully sensible that between us and these people there was an iron barrier which could not be removed by our new friend. by whom or how it could be removed, we did not know, but we knew that. even what she read and said seemed to us to be ill-chosen for such auditors, if it had been imparted ever so modestly and with ever so much tact. as to the little book to which the man on the floor had referred, we acquired a knowledge of it afterwards, and mr. jarndyce said he doubted if robinson crusoe could have read it, though he had had no other on his desolate island. we were much relieved, under these circumstances, when mrs. pardiggle left off. the man on the floor, then turning his head round again, said morosely, "well! you've done, have you?" "for to-day, i have, my friend. but i am never fatigued. i shall come to you again in your regular order," returned mrs. pardiggle with demonstrative cheerfulness. "so long as you goes now," said he, folding his arms and shutting his eyes with an oath, "you may do wot you like!" mrs. pardiggle accordingly rose and made a little vortex in the confined room from which the pipe itself very narrowly escaped. taking one of her young family in each hand, and telling the others to follow closely, and expressing her hope that the brickmaker and all his house would be improved when she saw them next, she then proceeded to another cottage. i hope it is not unkind in me to say that she certainly did make, in this as in everything else, a show that was not conciliatory of doing charity by wholesale and of dealing in it to a large extent. she supposed that we were following her, but as soon as the space was left clear, we approached the woman sitting by the fire to ask if the baby were ill. she only looked at it as it lay on her lap. we had observed before that when she looked at it she covered her discoloured eye with her hand, as though she wished to separate any association with noise and violence and ill treatment from the poor little child. ada, whose gentle heart was moved by its appearance, bent down to touch its little face. as she did so, i saw what happened and drew her back. the child died. "oh, esther!" cried ada, sinking on her knees beside it. "look here! oh, esther, my love, the little thing! the suffering, quiet, pretty little thing! i am so sorry for it. i am so sorry for the mother. i never saw a sight so pitiful as this before! oh, baby, baby!" such compassion, such gentleness, as that with which she bent down weeping and put her hand upon the mother's might have softened any mother's heart that ever beat. the woman at first gazed at her in astonishment and then burst into tears. presently i took the light burden from her lap, did what i could to make the baby's rest the prettier and gentler, laid it on a shelf, and covered it with my own handkerchief. we tried to comfort the mother, and we whispered to her what our saviour said of children. she answered nothing, but sat weeping--weeping very much. when i turned, i found that the young man had taken out the dog and was standing at the door looking in upon us with dry eyes, but quiet. the girl was quiet too and sat in a corner looking on the ground. the man had risen. he still smoked his pipe with an air of defiance, but he was silent. an ugly woman, very poorly clothed, hurried in while i was glancing at them, and coming straight up to the mother, said, "jenny! jenny!" the mother rose on being so addressed and fell upon the woman's neck. she also had upon her face and arms the marks of ill usage. she had no kind of grace about her, but the grace of sympathy; but when she condoled with the woman, and her own tears fell, she wanted no beauty. i say condoled, but her only words were "jenny! jenny!" all the rest was in the tone in which she said them. i thought it very touching to see these two women, coarse and shabby and beaten, so united; to see what they could be to one another; to see how they felt for one another, how the heart of each to each was softened by the hard trials of their lives. i think the best side of such people is almost hidden from us. what the poor are to the poor is little known, excepting to themselves and god. we felt it better to withdraw and leave them uninterrupted. we stole out quietly and without notice from any one except the man. he was leaning against the wall near the door, and finding that there was scarcely room for us to pass, went out before us. he seemed to want to hide that he did this on our account, but we perceived that he did, and thanked him. he made no answer. ada was so full of grief all the way home, and richard, whom we found at home, was so distressed to see her in tears (though he said to me, when she was not present, how beautiful it was too!), that we arranged to return at night with some little comforts and repeat our visit at the brick-maker's house. we said as little as we could to mr. jarndyce, but the wind changed directly. richard accompanied us at night to the scene of our morning expedition. on our way there, we had to pass a noisy drinking-house, where a number of men were flocking about the door. among them, and prominent in some dispute, was the father of the little child. at a short distance, we passed the young man and the dog, in congenial company. the sister was standing laughing and talking with some other young women at the corner of the row of cottages, but she seemed ashamed and turned away as we went by. we left our escort within sight of the brickmaker's dwelling and proceeded by ourselves. when we came to the door, we found the woman who had brought such consolation with her standing there looking anxiously out. "it's you, young ladies, is it?" she said in a whisper. "i'm a-watching for my master. my heart's in my mouth. if he was to catch me away from home, he'd pretty near murder me." "do you mean your husband?" said i. "yes, miss, my master. jenny's asleep, quite worn out. she's scarcely had the child off her lap, poor thing, these seven days and nights, except when i've been able to take it for a minute or two." as she gave way for us, she went softly in and put what we had brought near the miserable bed on which the mother slept. no effort had been made to clean the room--it seemed in its nature almost hopeless of being clean; but the small waxen form from which so much solemnity diffused itself had been composed afresh, and washed, and neatly dressed in some fragments of white linen; and on my handkerchief, which still covered the poor baby, a little bunch of sweet herbs had been laid by the same rough, scarred hands, so lightly, so tenderly! "may heaven reward you!" we said to her. "you are a good woman." "me, young ladies?" she returned with surprise. "hush! jenny, jenny!" the mother had moaned in her sleep and moved. the sound of the familiar voice seemed to calm her again. she was quiet once more. how little i thought, when i raised my handkerchief to look upon the tiny sleeper underneath and seemed to see a halo shine around the child through ada's drooping hair as her pity bent her head--how little i thought in whose unquiet bosom that handkerchief would come to lie after covering the motionless and peaceful breast! i only thought that perhaps the angel of the child might not be all unconscious of the woman who replaced it with so compassionate a hand; not all unconscious of her presently, when we had taken leave, and left her at the door, by turns looking, and listening in terror for herself, and saying in her old soothing manner, "jenny, jenny!" chapter ix signs and tokens i don't know how it is i seem to be always writing about myself. i mean all the time to write about other people, and i try to think about myself as little as possible, and i am sure, when i find myself coming into the story again, i am really vexed and say, "dear, dear, you tiresome little creature, i wish you wouldn't!" but it is all of no use. i hope any one who may read what i write will understand that if these pages contain a great deal about me, i can only suppose it must be because i have really something to do with them and can't be kept out. my darling and i read together, and worked, and practised, and found so much employment for our time that the winter days flew by us like bright-winged birds. generally in the afternoons, and always in the evenings, richard gave us his company. although he was one of the most restless creatures in the world, he certainly was very fond of our society. he was very, very, very fond of ada. i mean it, and i had better say it at once. i had never seen any young people falling in love before, but i found them out quite soon. i could not say so, of course, or show that i knew anything about it. on the contrary, i was so demure and used to seem so unconscious that sometimes i considered within myself while i was sitting at work whether i was not growing quite deceitful. but there was no help for it. all i had to do was to be quiet, and i was as quiet as a mouse. they were as quiet as mice too, so far as any words were concerned, but the innocent manner in which they relied more and more upon me as they took more and more to one another was so charming that i had great difficulty in not showing how it interested me. "our dear little old woman is such a capital old woman," richard would say, coming up to meet me in the garden early, with his pleasant laugh and perhaps the least tinge of a blush, "that i can't get on without her. before i begin my harum-scarum day--grinding away at those books and instruments and then galloping up hill and down dale, all the country round, like a highwayman--it does me so much good to come and have a steady walk with our comfortable friend, that here i am again!" "you know, dame durden, dear," ada would say at night, with her head upon my shoulder and the firelight shining in her thoughtful eyes, "i don't want to talk when we come upstairs here. only to sit a little while thinking, with your dear face for company, and to hear the wind and remember the poor sailors at sea--" ah! perhaps richard was going to be a sailor. we had talked it over very often now, and there was some talk of gratifying the inclination of his childhood for the sea. mr. jarndyce had written to a relation of the family, a great sir leicester dedlock, for his interest in richard's favour, generally; and sir leicester had replied in a gracious manner that he would be happy to advance the prospects of the young gentleman if it should ever prove to be within his power, which was not at all probable, and that my lady sent her compliments to the young gentleman (to whom she perfectly remembered that she was allied by remote consanguinity) and trusted that he would ever do his duty in any honourable profession to which he might devote himself. "so i apprehend it's pretty clear," said richard to me, "that i shall have to work my own way. never mind! plenty of people have had to do that before now, and have done it. i only wish i had the command of a clipping privateer to begin with and could carry off the chancellor and keep him on short allowance until he gave judgment in our cause. he'd find himself growing thin, if he didn't look sharp!" with a buoyancy and hopefulness and a gaiety that hardly ever flagged, richard had a carelessness in his character that quite perplexed me, principally because he mistook it, in such a very odd way, for prudence. it entered into all his calculations about money in a singular manner which i don't think i can better explain than by reverting for a moment to our loan to mr. skimpole. mr. jarndyce had ascertained the amount, either from mr. skimpole himself or from coavinses, and had placed the money in my hands with instructions to me to retain my own part of it and hand the rest to richard. the number of little acts of thoughtless expenditure which richard justified by the recovery of his ten pounds, and the number of times he talked to me as if he had saved or realized that amount, would form a sum in simple addition. "my prudent mother hubbard, why not?" he said to me when he wanted, without the least consideration, to bestow five pounds on the brickmaker. "i made ten pounds, clear, out of coavinses' business." "how was that?" said i. "why, i got rid of ten pounds which i was quite content to get rid of and never expected to see any more. you don't deny that?" "no," said i. "very well! then i came into possession of ten pounds--" "the same ten pounds," i hinted. "that has nothing to do with it!" returned richard. "i have got ten pounds more than i expected to have, and consequently i can afford to spend it without being particular." in exactly the same way, when he was persuaded out of the sacrifice of these five pounds by being convinced that it would do no good, he carried that sum to his credit and drew upon it. "let me see!" he would say. "i saved five pounds out of the brickmaker's affair, so if i have a good rattle to london and back in a post-chaise and put that down at four pounds, i shall have saved one. and it's a very good thing to save one, let me tell you: a penny saved is a penny got!" i believe richard's was as frank and generous a nature as there possibly can be. he was ardent and brave, and in the midst of all his wild restlessness, was so gentle that i knew him like a brother in a few weeks. his gentleness was natural to him and would have shown itself abundantly even without ada's influence; but with it, he became one of the most winning of companions, always so ready to be interested and always so happy, sanguine, and light-hearted. i am sure that i, sitting with them, and walking with them, and talking with them, and noticing from day to day how they went on, falling deeper and deeper in love, and saying nothing about it, and each shyly thinking that this love was the greatest of secrets, perhaps not yet suspected even by the other--i am sure that i was scarcely less enchanted than they were and scarcely less pleased with the pretty dream. we were going on in this way, when one morning at breakfast mr. jarndyce received a letter, and looking at the superscription, said, "from boythorn? aye, aye!" and opened and read it with evident pleasure, announcing to us in a parenthesis when he was about half-way through, that boythorn was "coming down" on a visit. now who was boythorn, we all thought. and i dare say we all thought too--i am sure i did, for one--would boythorn at all interfere with what was going forward? "i went to school with this fellow, lawrence boythorn," said mr. jarndyce, tapping the letter as he laid it on the table, "more than five and forty years ago. he was then the most impetuous boy in the world, and he is now the most impetuous man. he was then the loudest boy in the world, and he is now the loudest man. he was then the heartiest and sturdiest boy in the world, and he is now the heartiest and sturdiest man. he is a tremendous fellow." "in stature, sir?" asked richard. "pretty well, rick, in that respect," said mr. jarndyce; "being some ten years older than i and a couple of inches taller, with his head thrown back like an old soldier, his stalwart chest squared, his hands like a clean blacksmith's, and his lungs! there's no simile for his lungs. talking, laughing, or snoring, they make the beams of the house shake." as mr. jarndyce sat enjoying the image of his friend boythorn, we observed the favourable omen that there was not the least indication of any change in the wind. "but it's the inside of the man, the warm heart of the man, the passion of the man, the fresh blood of the man, rick--and ada, and little cobweb too, for you are all interested in a visitor--that i speak of," he pursued. "his language is as sounding as his voice. he is always in extremes, perpetually in the superlative degree. in his condemnation he is all ferocity. you might suppose him to be an ogre from what he says, and i believe he has the reputation of one with some people. there! i tell you no more of him beforehand. you must not be surprised to see him take me under his protection, for he has never forgotten that i was a low boy at school and that our friendship began in his knocking two of my head tyrant's teeth out (he says six) before breakfast. boythorn and his man," to me, "will be here this afternoon, my dear." i took care that the necessary preparations were made for mr. boythorn's reception, and we looked forward to his arrival with some curiosity. the afternoon wore away, however, and he did not appear. the dinner-hour arrived, and still he did not appear. the dinner was put back an hour, and we were sitting round the fire with no light but the blaze when the hall-door suddenly burst open and the hall resounded with these words, uttered with the greatest vehemence and in a stentorian tone: "we have been misdirected, jarndyce, by a most abandoned ruffian, who told us to take the turning to the right instead of to the left. he is the most intolerable scoundrel on the face of the earth. his father must have been a most consummate villain, ever to have such a son. i would have had that fellow shot without the least remorse!" "did he do it on purpose?" mr. jarndyce inquired. "i have not the slightest doubt that the scoundrel has passed his whole existence in misdirecting travellers!" returned the other. "by my soul, i thought him the worst-looking dog i had ever beheld when he was telling me to take the turning to the right. and yet i stood before that fellow face to face and didn't knock his brains out!" "teeth, you mean?" said mr. jarndyce. "ha, ha, ha!" laughed mr. lawrence boythorn, really making the whole house vibrate. "what, you have not forgotten it yet! ha, ha, ha! and that was another most consummate vagabond! by my soul, the countenance of that fellow when he was a boy was the blackest image of perfidy, cowardice, and cruelty ever set up as a scarecrow in a field of scoundrels. if i were to meet that most unparalleled despot in the streets to-morrow, i would fell him like a rotten tree!" "i have no doubt of it," said mr. jarndyce. "now, will you come upstairs?" "by my soul, jarndyce," returned his guest, who seemed to refer to his watch, "if you had been married, i would have turned back at the garden-gate and gone away to the remotest summits of the himalaya mountains sooner than i would have presented myself at this unseasonable hour." "not quite so far, i hope?" said mr. jarndyce. "by my life and honour, yes!" cried the visitor. "i wouldn't be guilty of the audacious insolence of keeping a lady of the house waiting all this time for any earthly consideration. i would infinitely rather destroy myself--infinitely rather!" talking thus, they went upstairs, and presently we heard him in his bedroom thundering "ha, ha, ha!" and again "ha, ha, ha!" until the flattest echo in the neighbourhood seemed to catch the contagion and to laugh as enjoyingly as he did or as we did when we heard him laugh. we all conceived a prepossession in his favour, for there was a sterling quality in this laugh, and in his vigorous, healthy voice, and in the roundness and fullness with which he uttered every word he spoke, and in the very fury of his superlatives, which seemed to go off like blank cannons and hurt nothing. but we were hardly prepared to have it so confirmed by his appearance when mr. jarndyce presented him. he was not only a very handsome old gentleman--upright and stalwart as he had been described to us--with a massive grey head, a fine composure of face when silent, a figure that might have become corpulent but for his being so continually in earnest that he gave it no rest, and a chin that might have subsided into a double chin but for the vehement emphasis in which it was constantly required to assist; but he was such a true gentleman in his manner, so chivalrously polite, his face was lighted by a smile of so much sweetness and tenderness, and it seemed so plain that he had nothing to hide, but showed himself exactly as he was--incapable, as richard said, of anything on a limited scale, and firing away with those blank great guns because he carried no small arms whatever--that really i could not help looking at him with equal pleasure as he sat at dinner, whether he smilingly conversed with ada and me, or was led by mr. jarndyce into some great volley of superlatives, or threw up his head like a bloodhound and gave out that tremendous "ha, ha, ha!" "you have brought your bird with you, i suppose?" said mr. jarndyce. "by heaven, he is the most astonishing bird in europe!" replied the other. "he is the most wonderful creature! i wouldn't take ten thousand guineas for that bird. i have left an annuity for his sole support in case he should outlive me. he is, in sense and attachment, a phenomenon. and his father before him was one of the most astonishing birds that ever lived!" the subject of this laudation was a very little canary, who was so tame that he was brought down by mr. boythorn's man, on his forefinger, and after taking a gentle flight round the room, alighted on his master's head. to hear mr. boythorn presently expressing the most implacable and passionate sentiments, with this fragile mite of a creature quietly perched on his forehead, was to have a good illustration of his character, i thought. "by my soul, jarndyce," he said, very gently holding up a bit of bread to the canary to peck at, "if i were in your place i would seize every master in chancery by the throat to-morrow morning and shake him until his money rolled out of his pockets and his bones rattled in his skin. i would have a settlement out of somebody, by fair means or by foul. if you would empower me to do it, i would do it for you with the greatest satisfaction!" (all this time the very small canary was eating out of his hand.) "i thank you, lawrence, but the suit is hardly at such a point at present," returned mr. jarndyce, laughing, "that it would be greatly advanced even by the legal process of shaking the bench and the whole bar." "there never was such an infernal cauldron as that chancery on the face of the earth!" said mr. boythorn. "nothing but a mine below it on a busy day in term time, with all its records, rules, and precedents collected in it and every functionary belonging to it also, high and low, upward and downward, from its son the accountant-general to its father the devil, and the whole blown to atoms with ten thousand hundredweight of gunpowder, would reform it in the least!" it was impossible not to laugh at the energetic gravity with which he recommended this strong measure of reform. when we laughed, he threw up his head and shook his broad chest, and again the whole country seemed to echo to his "ha, ha, ha!" it had not the least effect in disturbing the bird, whose sense of security was complete and who hopped about the table with its quick head now on this side and now on that, turning its bright sudden eye on its master as if he were no more than another bird. "but how do you and your neighbour get on about the disputed right of way?" said mr. jarndyce. "you are not free from the toils of the law yourself!" "the fellow has brought actions against me for trespass, and i have brought actions against him for trespass," returned mr. boythorn. "by heaven, he is the proudest fellow breathing. it is morally impossible that his name can be sir leicester. it must be sir lucifer." "complimentary to our distant relation!" said my guardian laughingly to ada and richard. "i would beg miss clare's pardon and mr. carstone's pardon," resumed our visitor, "if i were not reassured by seeing in the fair face of the lady and the smile of the gentleman that it is quite unnecessary and that they keep their distant relation at a comfortable distance." "or he keeps us," suggested richard. "by my soul," exclaimed mr. boythorn, suddenly firing another volley, "that fellow is, and his father was, and his grandfather was, the most stiff-necked, arrogant imbecile, pig-headed numskull, ever, by some inexplicable mistake of nature, born in any station of life but a walking-stick's! the whole of that family are the most solemnly conceited and consummate blockheads! but it's no matter; he should not shut up my path if he were fifty baronets melted into one and living in a hundred chesney wolds, one within another, like the ivory balls in a chinese carving. the fellow, by his agent, or secretary, or somebody, writes to me 'sir leicester dedlock, baronet, presents his compliments to mr. lawrence boythorn, and has to call his attention to the fact that the green pathway by the old parsonage-house, now the property of mr. lawrence boythorn, is sir leicester's right of way, being in fact a portion of the park of chesney wold, and that sir leicester finds it convenient to close up the same.' i write to the fellow, 'mr. lawrence boythorn presents his compliments to sir leicester dedlock, baronet, and has to call his attention to the fact that he totally denies the whole of sir leicester dedlock's positions on every possible subject and has to add, in reference to closing up the pathway, that he will be glad to see the man who may undertake to do it.' the fellow sends a most abandoned villain with one eye to construct a gateway. i play upon that execrable scoundrel with a fire-engine until the breath is nearly driven out of his body. the fellow erects a gate in the night. i chop it down and burn it in the morning. he sends his myrmidons to come over the fence and pass and repass. i catch them in humane man traps, fire split peas at their legs, play upon them with the engine--resolve to free mankind from the insupportable burden of the existence of those lurking ruffians. he brings actions for trespass; i bring actions for trespass. he brings actions for assault and battery; i defend them and continue to assault and batter. ha, ha, ha!" to hear him say all this with unimaginable energy, one might have thought him the angriest of mankind. to see him at the very same time, looking at the bird now perched upon his thumb and softly smoothing its feathers with his forefinger, one might have thought him the gentlest. to hear him laugh and see the broad good nature of his face then, one might have supposed that he had not a care in the world, or a dispute, or a dislike, but that his whole existence was a summer joke. "no, no," he said, "no closing up of my paths by any dedlock! though i willingly confess," here he softened in a moment, "that lady dedlock is the most accomplished lady in the world, to whom i would do any homage that a plain gentleman, and no baronet with a head seven hundred years thick, may. a man who joined his regiment at twenty and within a week challenged the most imperious and presumptuous coxcomb of a commanding officer that ever drew the breath of life through a tight waist--and got broke for it--is not the man to be walked over by all the sir lucifers, dead or alive, locked or unlocked. ha, ha, ha!" "nor the man to allow his junior to be walked over either?" said my guardian. "most assuredly not!" said mr. boythorn, clapping him on the shoulder with an air of protection that had something serious in it, though he laughed. "he will stand by the low boy, always. jarndyce, you may rely upon him! but speaking of this trespass--with apologies to miss clare and miss summerson for the length at which i have pursued so dry a subject--is there nothing for me from your men kenge and carboy?" "i think not, esther?" said mr. jarndyce. "nothing, guardian." "much obliged!" said mr. boythorn. "had no need to ask, after even my slight experience of miss summerson's forethought for every one about her." (they all encouraged me; they were determined to do it.) "i inquired because, coming from lincolnshire, i of course have not yet been in town, and i thought some letters might have been sent down here. i dare say they will report progress to-morrow morning." i saw him so often in the course of the evening, which passed very pleasantly, contemplate richard and ada with an interest and a satisfaction that made his fine face remarkably agreeable as he sat at a little distance from the piano listening to the music--and he had small occasion to tell us that he was passionately fond of music, for his face showed it--that i asked my guardian as we sat at the backgammon board whether mr. boythorn had ever been married. "no," said he. "no." "but he meant to be!" said i. "how did you find out that?" he returned with a smile. "why, guardian," i explained, not without reddening a little at hazarding what was in my thoughts, "there is something so tender in his manner, after all, and he is so very courtly and gentle to us, and--" mr. jarndyce directed his eyes to where he was sitting as i have just described him. i said no more. "you are right, little woman," he answered. "he was all but married once. long ago. and once." "did the lady die?" "no--but she died to him. that time has had its influence on all his later life. would you suppose him to have a head and a heart full of romance yet?" "i think, guardian, i might have supposed so. but it is easy to say that when you have told me so." "he has never since been what he might have been," said mr. jarndyce, "and now you see him in his age with no one near him but his servant and his little yellow friend. it's your throw, my dear!" i felt, from my guardian's manner, that beyond this point i could not pursue the subject without changing the wind. i therefore forbore to ask any further questions. i was interested, but not curious. i thought a little while about this old love story in the night, when i was awakened by mr. boythorn's lusty snoring; and i tried to do that very difficult thing, imagine old people young again and invested with the graces of youth. but i fell asleep before i had succeeded, and dreamed of the days when i lived in my godmother's house. i am not sufficiently acquainted with such subjects to know whether it is at all remarkable that i almost always dreamed of that period of my life. with the morning there came a letter from messrs. kenge and carboy to mr. boythorn informing him that one of their clerks would wait upon him at noon. as it was the day of the week on which i paid the bills, and added up my books, and made all the household affairs as compact as possible, i remained at home while mr. jarndyce, ada, and richard took advantage of a very fine day to make a little excursion, mr. boythorn was to wait for kenge and carboy's clerk and then was to go on foot to meet them on their return. well! i was full of business, examining tradesmen's books, adding up columns, paying money, filing receipts, and i dare say making a great bustle about it when mr. guppy was announced and shown in. i had had some idea that the clerk who was to be sent down might be the young gentleman who had met me at the coach-office, and i was glad to see him, because he was associated with my present happiness. i scarcely knew him again, he was so uncommonly smart. he had an entirely new suit of glossy clothes on, a shining hat, lilac-kid gloves, a neckerchief of a variety of colours, a large hot-house flower in his button-hole, and a thick gold ring on his little finger. besides which, he quite scented the dining-room with bear's-grease and other perfumery. he looked at me with an attention that quite confused me when i begged him to take a seat until the servant should return; and as he sat there crossing and uncrossing his legs in a corner, and i asked him if he had had a pleasant ride, and hoped that mr. kenge was well, i never looked at him, but i found him looking at me in the same scrutinizing and curious way. when the request was brought to him that he would go upstairs to mr. boythorn's room, i mentioned that he would find lunch prepared for him when he came down, of which mr. jarndyce hoped he would partake. he said with some embarrassment, holding the handle of the door, "shall i have the honour of finding you here, miss?" i replied yes, i should be there; and he went out with a bow and another look. i thought him only awkward and shy, for he was evidently much embarrassed; and i fancied that the best thing i could do would be to wait until i saw that he had everything he wanted and then to leave him to himself. the lunch was soon brought, but it remained for some time on the table. the interview with mr. boythorn was a long one, and a stormy one too, i should think, for although his room was at some distance i heard his loud voice rising every now and then like a high wind, and evidently blowing perfect broadsides of denunciation. at last mr. guppy came back, looking something the worse for the conference. "my eye, miss," he said in a low voice, "he's a tartar!" "pray take some refreshment, sir," said i. mr. guppy sat down at the table and began nervously sharpening the carving-knife on the carving-fork, still looking at me (as i felt quite sure without looking at him) in the same unusual manner. the sharpening lasted so long that at last i felt a kind of obligation on me to raise my eyes in order that i might break the spell under which he seemed to labour, of not being able to leave off. he immediately looked at the dish and began to carve. "what will you take yourself, miss? you'll take a morsel of something?" "no, thank you," said i. "shan't i give you a piece of anything at all, miss?" said mr. guppy, hurriedly drinking off a glass of wine. "nothing, thank you," said i. "i have only waited to see that you have everything you want. is there anything i can order for you?" "no, i am much obliged to you, miss, i'm sure. i've everything that i can require to make me comfortable--at least i--not comfortable--i'm never that." he drank off two more glasses of wine, one after another. i thought i had better go. "i beg your pardon, miss!" said mr. guppy, rising when he saw me rise. "but would you allow me the favour of a minute's private conversation?" not knowing what to say, i sat down again. "what follows is without prejudice, miss?" said mr. guppy, anxiously bringing a chair towards my table. "i don't understand what you mean," said i, wondering. "it's one of our law terms, miss. you won't make any use of it to my detriment at kenge and carboy's or elsewhere. if our conversation shouldn't lead to anything, i am to be as i was and am not to be prejudiced in my situation or worldly prospects. in short, it's in total confidence." "i am at a loss, sir," said i, "to imagine what you can have to communicate in total confidence to me, whom you have never seen but once; but i should be very sorry to do you any injury." "thank you, miss. i'm sure of it--that's quite sufficient." all this time mr. guppy was either planing his forehead with his handkerchief or tightly rubbing the palm of his left hand with the palm of his right. "if you would excuse my taking another glass of wine, miss, i think it might assist me in getting on without a continual choke that cannot fail to be mutually unpleasant." he did so, and came back again. i took the opportunity of moving well behind my table. "you wouldn't allow me to offer you one, would you miss?" said mr. guppy, apparently refreshed. "not any," said i. "not half a glass?" said mr. guppy. "quarter? no! then, to proceed. my present salary, miss summerson, at kenge and carboy's, is two pound a week. when i first had the happiness of looking upon you, it was one fifteen, and had stood at that figure for a lengthened period. a rise of five has since taken place, and a further rise of five is guaranteed at the expiration of a term not exceeding twelve months from the present date. my mother has a little property, which takes the form of a small life annuity, upon which she lives in an independent though unassuming manner in the old street road. she is eminently calculated for a mother-in-law. she never interferes, is all for peace, and her disposition easy. she has her failings--as who has not?--but i never knew her do it when company was present, at which time you may freely trust her with wines, spirits, or malt liquors. my own abode is lodgings at penton place, pentonville. it is lowly, but airy, open at the back, and considered one of the 'ealthiest outlets. miss summerson! in the mildest language, i adore you. would you be so kind as to allow me (as i may say) to file a declaration--to make an offer!" mr. guppy went down on his knees. i was well behind my table and not much frightened. i said, "get up from that ridiculous position immediately, sir, or you will oblige me to break my implied promise and ring the bell!" "hear me out, miss!" said mr. guppy, folding his hands. "i cannot consent to hear another word, sir," i returned, "unless you get up from the carpet directly and go and sit down at the table as you ought to do if you have any sense at all." he looked piteously, but slowly rose and did so. "yet what a mockery it is, miss," he said with his hand upon his heart and shaking his head at me in a melancholy manner over the tray, "to be stationed behind food at such a moment. the soul recoils from food at such a moment, miss." "i beg you to conclude," said i; "you have asked me to hear you out, and i beg you to conclude." "i will, miss," said mr. guppy. "as i love and honour, so likewise i obey. would that i could make thee the subject of that vow before the shrine!" "that is quite impossible," said i, "and entirely out of the question." "i am aware," said mr. guppy, leaning forward over the tray and regarding me, as i again strangely felt, though my eyes were not directed to him, with his late intent look, "i am aware that in a worldly point of view, according to all appearances, my offer is a poor one. but, miss summerson! angel! no, don't ring--i have been brought up in a sharp school and am accustomed to a variety of general practice. though a young man, i have ferreted out evidence, got up cases, and seen lots of life. blest with your hand, what means might i not find of advancing your interests and pushing your fortunes! what might i not get to know, nearly concerning you? i know nothing now, certainly; but what might i not if i had your confidence, and you set me on?" i told him that he addressed my interest or what he supposed to be my interest quite as unsuccessfully as he addressed my inclination, and he would now understand that i requested him, if he pleased, to go away immediately. "cruel miss," said mr. guppy, "hear but another word! i think you must have seen that i was struck with those charms on the day when i waited at the whytorseller. i think you must have remarked that i could not forbear a tribute to those charms when i put up the steps of the 'ackney-coach. it was a feeble tribute to thee, but it was well meant. thy image has ever since been fixed in my breast. i have walked up and down of an evening opposite jellyby's house only to look upon the bricks that once contained thee. this out of to-day, quite an unnecessary out so far as the attendance, which was its pretended object, went, was planned by me alone for thee alone. if i speak of interest, it is only to recommend myself and my respectful wretchedness. love was before it, and is before it." "i should be pained, mr. guppy," said i, rising and putting my hand upon the bell-rope, "to do you or any one who was sincere the injustice of slighting any honest feeling, however disagreeably expressed. if you have really meant to give me a proof of your good opinion, though ill-timed and misplaced, i feel that i ought to thank you. i have very little reason to be proud, and i am not proud. i hope," i think i added, without very well knowing what i said, "that you will now go away as if you had never been so exceedingly foolish and attend to messrs. kenge and carboy's business." "half a minute, miss!" cried mr. guppy, checking me as i was about to ring. "this has been without prejudice?" "i will never mention it," said i, "unless you should give me future occasion to do so." "a quarter of a minute, miss! in case you should think better at any time, however distant--that's no consequence, for my feelings can never alter--of anything i have said, particularly what might i not do, mr. william guppy, eighty-seven, penton place, or if removed, or dead (of blighted hopes or anything of that sort), care of mrs. guppy, three hundred and two, old street road, will be sufficient." i rang the bell, the servant came, and mr. guppy, laying his written card upon the table and making a dejected bow, departed. raising my eyes as he went out, i once more saw him looking at me after he had passed the door. i sat there for another hour or more, finishing my books and payments and getting through plenty of business. then i arranged my desk, and put everything away, and was so composed and cheerful that i thought i had quite dismissed this unexpected incident. but, when i went upstairs to my own room, i surprised myself by beginning to laugh about it and then surprised myself still more by beginning to cry about it. in short, i was in a flutter for a little while and felt as if an old chord had been more coarsely touched than it ever had been since the days of the dear old doll, long buried in the garden. chapter x the law-writer on the eastern borders of chancery lane, that is to say, more particularly in cook's court, cursitor street, mr. snagsby, law-stationer, pursues his lawful calling. in the shade of cook's court, at most times a shady place, mr. snagsby has dealt in all sorts of blank forms of legal process; in skins and rolls of parchment; in paper--foolscap, brief, draft, brown, white, whitey-brown, and blotting; in stamps; in office-quills, pens, ink, india-rubber, pounce, pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and wafers; in red tape and green ferret; in pocket-books, almanacs, diaries, and law lists; in string boxes, rulers, inkstands--glass and leaden--pen-knives, scissors, bodkins, and other small office-cutlery; in short, in articles too numerous to mention, ever since he was out of his time and went into partnership with peffer. on that occasion, cook's court was in a manner revolutionized by the new inscription in fresh paint, peffer and snagsby, displacing the time-honoured and not easily to be deciphered legend peffer only. for smoke, which is the london ivy, had so wreathed itself round peffer's name and clung to his dwelling-place that the affectionate parasite quite overpowered the parent tree. peffer is never seen in cook's court now. he is not expected there, for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the churchyard of st. andrews, holborn, with the waggons and hackney-coaches roaring past him all the day and half the night like one great dragon. if he ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest to air himself again in cook's court until admonished to return by the crowing of the sanguine cock in the cellar at the little dairy in cursitor street, whose ideas of daylight it would be curious to ascertain, since he knows from his personal observation next to nothing about it--if peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses of cook's court, which no law-stationer in the trade can positively deny, he comes invisibly, and no one is the worse or wiser. in his lifetime, and likewise in the period of snagsby's "time" of seven long years, there dwelt with peffer in the same law-stationering premises a niece--a short, shrewd niece, something too violently compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like a sharp autumn evening, inclining to be frosty towards the end. the cook's courtiers had a rumour flying among them that the mother of this niece did, in her daughter's childhood, moved by too jealous a solicitude that her figure should approach perfection, lace her up every morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for a stronger hold and purchase; and further, that she exhibited internally pints of vinegar and lemon-juice, which acids, they held, had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. with whichsoever of the many tongues of rumour this frothy report originated, it either never reached or never influenced the ears of young snagsby, who, having wooed and won its fair subject on his arrival at man's estate, entered into two partnerships at once. so now, in cook's court, cursitor street, mr. snagsby and the niece are one; and the niece still cherishes her figure, which, however tastes may differ, is unquestionably so far precious that there is mighty little of it. mr. and mrs. snagsby are not only one bone and one flesh, but, to the neighbours' thinking, one voice too. that voice, appearing to proceed from mrs. snagsby alone, is heard in cook's court very often. mr. snagsby, otherwise than as he finds expression through these dulcet tones, is rarely heard. he is a mild, bald, timid man with a shining head and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. he tends to meekness and obesity. as he stands at his door in cook's court in his grey shop-coat and black calico sleeves, looking up at the clouds, or stands behind a desk in his dark shop with a heavy flat ruler, snipping and slicing at sheepskin in company with his two 'prentices, he is emphatically a retiring and unassuming man. from beneath his feet, at such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in its grave, there frequently arise complainings and lamentations in the voice already mentioned; and haply, on some occasions when these reach a sharper pitch than usual, mr. snagsby mentions to the 'prentices, "i think my little woman is a-giving it to guster!" this proper name, so used by mr. snagsby, has before now sharpened the wit of the cook's courtiers to remark that it ought to be the name of mrs. snagsby, seeing that she might with great force and expression be termed a guster, in compliment to her stormy character. it is, however, the possession, and the only possession except fifty shillings per annum and a very small box indifferently filled with clothing, of a lean young woman from a workhouse (by some supposed to have been christened augusta) who, although she was farmed or contracted for during her growing time by an amiable benefactor of his species resident at tooting, and cannot fail to have been developed under the most favourable circumstances, "has fits," which the parish can't account for. guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking a round ten years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of fits, and is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of her patron saint that except when she is found with her head in the pail, or the sink, or the copper, or the dinner, or anything else that happens to be near her at the time of her seizure, she is always at work. she is a satisfaction to the parents and guardians of the 'prentices, who feel that there is little danger of her inspiring tender emotions in the breast of youth; she is a satisfaction to mrs. snagsby, who can always find fault with her; she is a satisfaction to mr. snagsby, who thinks it a charity to keep her. the law-stationer's establishment is, in guster's eyes, a temple of plenty and splendour. she believes the little drawing-room upstairs, always kept, as one may say, with its hair in papers and its pinafore on, to be the most elegant apartment in christendom. the view it commands of cook's court at one end (not to mention a squint into cursitor street) and of coavinses' the sheriff's officer's backyard at the other she regards as a prospect of unequalled beauty. the portraits it displays in oil--and plenty of it too--of mr. snagsby looking at mrs. snagsby and of mrs. snagsby looking at mr. snagsby are in her eyes as achievements of raphael or titian. guster has some recompenses for her many privations. mr. snagsby refers everything not in the practical mysteries of the business to mrs. snagsby. she manages the money, reproaches the tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on sundays, licenses mr. snagsby's entertainments, and acknowledges no responsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner, insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among the neighbouring wives a long way down chancery lane on both sides, and even out in holborn, who in any domestic passages of arms habitually call upon their husbands to look at the difference between their (the wives') position and mrs. snagsby's, and their (the husbands') behaviour and mr. snagsby's. rumour, always flying bat-like about cook's court and skimming in and out at everybody's windows, does say that mrs. snagsby is jealous and inquisitive and that mr. snagsby is sometimes worried out of house and home, and that if he had the spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. it is even observed that the wives who quote him to their self-willed husbands as a shining example in reality look down upon him and that nobody does so with greater superciliousness than one particular lady whose lord is more than suspected of laying his umbrella on her as an instrument of correction. but these vague whisperings may arise from mr. snagsby's being in his way rather a meditative and poetical man, loving to walk in staple inn in the summer-time and to observe how countrified the sparrows and the leaves are, also to lounge about the rolls yard of a sunday afternoon and to remark (if in good spirits) that there were old times once and that you'd find a stone coffin or two now under that chapel, he'll be bound, if you was to dig for it. he solaces his imagination, too, by thinking of the many chancellors and vices, and masters of the rolls who are deceased; and he gets such a flavour of the country out of telling the two 'prentices how he has heard say that a brook "as clear as crystal" once ran right down the middle of holborn, when turnstile really was a turnstile, leading slap away into the meadows--gets such a flavour of the country out of this that he never wants to go there. the day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fully effective, for it is not quite dark. mr. snagsby standing at his shop-door looking up at the clouds sees a crow who is out late skim westward over the slice of sky belonging to cook's court. the crow flies straight across chancery lane and lincoln's inn garden into lincoln's inn fields. here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives mr. tulkinghorn. it is let off in sets of chambers now, and in those shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in nuts. but its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers still remain; and even its painted ceilings, where allegory, in roman helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars, flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache--as would seem to be allegory's object always, more or less. here, among his many boxes labelled with transcendent names, lives mr. tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses where the great ones of the earth are bored to death. here he is to-day, quiet at his table. an oyster of the old school whom nobody can open. like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of the present afternoon. rusty, out of date, withdrawing from attention, able to afford it. heavy, broad-backed, old-fashioned, mahogany-and-horsehair chairs, not easily lifted; obsolete tables with spindle-legs and dusty baize covers; presentation prints of the holders of great titles in the last generation or the last but one, environ him. a thick and dingy turkey-carpet muffles the floor where he sits, attended by two candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks that give a very insufficient light to his large room. the titles on the backs of his books have retired into the binding; everything that can have a lock has got one; no key is visible. very few loose papers are about. he has some manuscript near him, but is not referring to it. with the round top of an inkstand and two broken bits of sealing-wax he is silently and slowly working out whatever train of indecision is in his mind. now the inkstand top is in the middle, now the red bit of sealing-wax, now the black bit. that's not it. mr. tulkinghorn must gather them all up and begin again. here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened allegory staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, and he cutting it dead, mr. tulkinghorn has at once his house and office. he keeps no staff, only one middle-aged man, usually a little out at elbows, who sits in a high pew in the hall and is rarely overburdened with business. mr. tulkinghorn is not in a common way. he wants no clerks. he is a great reservoir of confidences, not to be so tapped. his clients want him; he is all in all. drafts that he requires to be drawn are drawn by special-pleaders in the temple on mysterious instructions; fair copies that he requires to be made are made at the stationers', expense being no consideration. the middle-aged man in the pew knows scarcely more of the affairs of the peerage than any crossing-sweeper in holborn. the red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other inkstand top, the little sand-box. so! you to the middle, you to the right, you to the left. this train of indecision must surely be worked out now or never. now! mr. tulkinghorn gets up, adjusts his spectacles, puts on his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, goes out, tells the middle-aged man out at elbows, "i shall be back presently." very rarely tells him anything more explicit. mr. tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came--not quite so straight, but nearly--to cook's court, cursitor street. to snagsby's, law-stationer's, deeds engrossed and copied, law-writing executed in all its branches, &c., &c., &c. it is somewhere about five or six o'clock in the afternoon, and a balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in cook's court. it hovers about snagsby's door. the hours are early there: dinner at half-past one and supper at half-past nine. mr. snagsby was about to descend into the subterranean regions to take tea when he looked out of his door just now and saw the crow who was out late. "master at home?" guster is minding the shop, for the 'prentices take tea in the kitchen with mr. and mrs. snagsby; consequently, the robe-maker's two daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in the two second-floor windows of the opposite house, are not driving the two 'prentices to distraction as they fondly suppose, but are merely awakening the unprofitable admiration of guster, whose hair won't grow, and never would, and it is confidently thought, never will. "master at home?" says mr. tulkinghorn. master is at home, and guster will fetch him. guster disappears, glad to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dread and veneration as a storehouse of awful implements of the great torture of the law--a place not to be entered after the gas is turned off. mr. snagsby appears, greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. bolts a bit of bread and butter. says, "bless my soul, sir! mr. tulkinghorn!" "i want half a word with you, snagsby." "certainly, sir! dear me, sir, why didn't you send your young man round for me? pray walk into the back shop, sir." snagsby has brightened in a moment. the confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse, counting-house, and copying-office. mr. tulkinghorn sits, facing round, on a stool at the desk. "jarndyce and jarndyce, snagsby." "yes, sir." mr. snagsby turns up the gas and coughs behind his hand, modestly anticipating profit. mr. snagsby, as a timid man, is accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to save words. "you copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately." "yes, sir, we did." "there was one of them," says mr. tulkinghorn, carelessly feeling--tight, unopenable oyster of the old school!--in the wrong coat-pocket, "the handwriting of which is peculiar, and i rather like. as i happened to be passing, and thought i had it about me, i looked in to ask you--but i haven't got it. no matter, any other time will do. ah! here it is! i looked in to ask you who copied this." "who copied this, sir?" says mr. snagsby, taking it, laying it flat on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and a twist of the left hand peculiar to lawstationers. "we gave this out, sir. we were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at that time. i can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to my book." mr. snagsby takes his book down from the safe, makes another bolt of the bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped short, eyes the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger travelling down a page of the book, "jewby--packer--jarndyce." "jarndyce! here we are, sir," says mr. snagsby. "to be sure! i might have remembered it. this was given out, sir, to a writer who lodges just over on the opposite side of the lane." mr. tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill. "what do you call him? nemo?" says mr. tulkinghorn. "nemo, sir. here it is. forty-two folio. given out on the wednesday night at eight o'clock, brought in on the thursday morning at half after nine." "nemo!" repeats mr. tulkinghorn. "nemo is latin for no one." "it must be english for some one, sir, i think," mr. snagsby submits with his deferential cough. "it is a person's name. here it is, you see, sir! forty-two folio. given out wednesday night, eight o'clock; brought in thursday morning, half after nine." the tail of mr. snagsby's eye becomes conscious of the head of mrs. snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means by deserting his tea. mr. snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to mrs. snagsby, as who should say, "my dear, a customer!" "half after nine, sir," repeats mr. snagsby. "our law-writers, who live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but it's the name he goes by. i remember now, sir, that he gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up down at the rule office, and the king's bench office, and the judges' chambers, and so forth. you know the kind of document, sir--wanting employ?" mr. tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of coavinses', the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine in coavinses' windows. coavinses' coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. mr. snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head to glance over his shoulder at his little woman and to make apologetic motions with his mouth to this effect: "tul-king-horn--rich--in-flu-en-tial!" "have you given this man work before?" asks mr. tulkinghorn. "oh, dear, yes, sir! work of yours." "thinking of more important matters, i forget where you said he lived?" "across the lane, sir. in fact, he lodges at a--" mr. snagsby makes another bolt, as if the bit of bread and butter were insurmountable "--at a rag and bottle shop." "can you show me the place as i go back?" "with the greatest pleasure, sir!" mr. snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat, pulls on his black coat, takes his hat from its peg. "oh! here is my little woman!" he says aloud. "my dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads to look after the shop while i step across the lane with mr. tulkinghorn? mrs. snagsby, sir--i shan't be two minutes, my love!" mrs. snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office, refers to the entries in the book still lying open. is evidently curious. "you will find that the place is rough, sir," says mr. snagsby, walking deferentially in the road and leaving the narrow pavement to the lawyer; "and the party is very rough. but they're a wild lot in general, sir. the advantage of this particular man is that he never wants sleep. he'll go at it right on end if you want him to, as long as ever you like." it is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their full effect. jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters, and against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and against plaintiffs and defendants and suitors of all sorts, and against the general crowd, in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has interposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the commonest business of life; diving through law and equity, and through that kindred mystery, the street mud, which is made of nobody knows what and collects about us nobody knows whence or how--we only knowing in general that when there is too much of it we find it necessary to shovel it away--the lawyer and the law-stationer come to a rag and bottle shop and general emporium of much disregarded merchandise, lying and being in the shadow of the wall of lincoln's inn, and kept, as is announced in paint, to all whom it may concern, by one krook. "this is where he lives, sir," says the law-stationer. "this is where he lives, is it?" says the lawyer unconcernedly. "thank you." "are you not going in, sir?" "no, thank you, no; i am going on to the fields at present. good evening. thank you!" mr. snagsby lifts his hat and returns to his little woman and his tea. but mr. tulkinghorn does not go on to the fields at present. he goes a short way, turns back, comes again to the shop of mr. krook, and enters it straight. it is dim enough, with a blot-headed candle or so in the windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in the back part by a fire. the old man rises and comes forward, with another blot-headed candle in his hand. "pray is your lodger within?" "male or female, sir?" says mr. krook. "male. the person who does copying." mr. krook has eyed his man narrowly. knows him by sight. has an indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute. "did you wish to see him, sir?" "yes." "it's what i seldom do myself," says mr. krook with a grin. "shall i call him down? but it's a weak chance if he'd come, sir!" "i'll go up to him, then," says mr. tulkinghorn. "second floor, sir. take the candle. up there!" mr. krook, with his cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the staircase, looking after mr. tulkinghorn. "hi-hi!" he says when mr. tulkinghorn has nearly disappeared. the lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. the cat expands her wicked mouth and snarls at him. "order, lady jane! behave yourself to visitors, my lady! you know what they say of my lodger?" whispers krook, going up a step or two. "what do they say of him?" "they say he has sold himself to the enemy, but you and i know better--he don't buy. i'll tell you what, though; my lodger is so black-humoured and gloomy that i believe he'd as soon make that bargain as any other. don't put him out, sir. that's my advice!" mr. tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. he comes to the dark door on the second floor. he knocks, receives no answer, opens it, and accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so. the air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished it if he had not. it is a small room, nearly black with soot, and grease, and dirt. in the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middle as if poverty had gripped it, a red coke fire burns low. in the corner by the chimney stand a deal table and a broken desk, a wilderness marked with a rain of ink. in another corner a ragged old portmanteau on one of the two chairs serves for cabinet or wardrobe; no larger one is needed, for it collapses like the cheeks of a starved man. the floor is bare, except that one old mat, trodden to shreds of rope-yarn, lies perishing upon the hearth. no curtain veils the darkness of the night, but the discoloured shutters are drawn together, and through the two gaunt holes pierced in them, famine might be staring in--the banshee of the man upon the bed. for, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patchwork, lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, the lawyer, hesitating just within the doorway, sees a man. he lies there, dressed in shirt and trousers, with bare feet. he has a yellow look in the spectral darkness of a candle that has guttered down until the whole length of its wick (still burning) has doubled over and left a tower of winding-sheet above it. his hair is ragged, mingling with his whiskers and his beard--the latter, ragged too, and grown, like the scum and mist around him, in neglect. foul and filthy as the room is, foul and filthy as the air is, it is not easy to perceive what fumes those are which most oppress the senses in it; but through the general sickliness and faintness, and the odour of stale tobacco, there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bitter, vapid taste of opium. "hallo, my friend!" he cries, and strikes his iron candlestick against the door. he thinks he has awakened his friend. he lies a little turned away, but his eyes are surely open. "hallo, my friend!" he cries again. "hallo! hallo!" as he rattles on the door, the candle which has drooped so long goes out and leaves him in the dark, with the gaunt eyes in the shutters staring down upon the bed. chapter xi our dear brother a touch on the lawyer's wrinkled hand as he stands in the dark room, irresolute, makes him start and say, "what's that?" "it's me," returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in his ear. "can't you wake him?" "no." "what have you done with your candle?" "it's gone out. here it is." krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, and tries to get a light. the dying ashes have no light to spare, and his endeavours are vain. muttering, after an ineffectual call to his lodger, that he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candle from the shop, the old man departs. mr. tulkinghorn, for some new reason that he has, does not await his return in the room, but on the stairs outside. the welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as krook comes slowly up with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. "does the man generally sleep like this?" inquired the lawyer in a low voice. "hi! i don't know," says krook, shaking his head and lifting his eyebrows. "i know next to nothing of his habits except that he keeps himself very close." thus whispering, they both go in together. as the light goes in, the great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. not so the eyes upon the bed. "god save us!" exclaims mr. tulkinghorn. "he is dead!" krook drops the heavy hand he has taken up so suddenly that the arm swings over the bedside. they look at one another for a moment. "send for some doctor! call for miss flite up the stairs, sir. here's poison by the bed! call out for flite, will you?" says krook, with his lean hands spread out above the body like a vampire's wings. mr. tulkinghorn hurries to the landing and calls, "miss flite! flite! make haste, here, whoever you are! flite!" krook follows him with his eyes, and while he is calling, finds opportunity to steal to the old portmanteau and steal back again. "run, flite, run! the nearest doctor! run!" so mr. krook addresses a crazy little woman who is his female lodger, who appears and vanishes in a breath, who soon returns accompanied by a testy medical man brought from his dinner, with a broad, snuffy upper lip and a broad scotch tongue. "ey! bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up at them after a moment's examination. "he's just as dead as phairy!" mr. tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he has been dead any time. "any time, sir?" says the medical gentleman. "it's probable he wull have been dead aboot three hours." "about that time, i should say," observes a dark young man on the other side of the bed. "air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?" inquires the first. the dark young man says yes. "then i'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other, "for i'm nae gude here!" with which remark he finishes his brief attendance and returns to finish his dinner. the dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his pretensions to his name by becoming indeed no one. "i knew this person by sight very well," says he. "he has purchased opium of me for the last year and a half. was anybody present related to him?" glancing round upon the three bystanders. "i was his landlord," grimly answers krook, taking the candle from the surgeon's outstretched hand. "he told me once i was the nearest relation he had." "he has died," says the surgeon, "of an over-dose of opium, there is no doubt. the room is strongly flavoured with it. there is enough here now," taking an old tea-pot from mr. krook, "to kill a dozen people." "do you think he did it on purpose?" asks krook. "took the over-dose?" "yes!" krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible interest. "i can't say. i should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit of taking so much. but nobody can tell. he was very poor, i suppose?" "i suppose he was. his room--don't look rich," says krook, who might have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance around. "but i have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to name his circumstances to me." "did he owe you any rent?" "six weeks." "he will never pay it!" says the young man, resuming his examination. "it is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as pharaoh; and to judge from his appearance and condition, i should think it a happy release. yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and i dare say, good-looking." he says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on the bedstead's edge with his face towards that other face and his hand upon the region of the heart. "i recollect once thinking there was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. was that so?" he continues, looking round. krook replies, "you might as well ask me to describe the ladies whose heads of hair i have got in sacks downstairs. than that he was my lodger for a year and a half and lived--or didn't live--by law-writing, i know no more of him." during this dialogue mr. tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the bed--from the young surgeon's professional interest in death, noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as an individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazy woman's awe. his imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes. one could not even say he has been thinking all this while. he has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention nor abstraction. he has shown nothing but his shell. as easily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case, as the tone of mr. tulkinghorn from his case. he now interposes, addressing the young surgeon in his unmoved, professional way. "i looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with the intention of giving this deceased man, whom i never saw alive, some employment at his trade of copying. i had heard of him from my stationer--snagsby of cook's court. since no one here knows anything about him, it might be as well to send for snagsby. ah!" to the little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court, and whom he has often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for the law-stationer. "suppose you do!" while she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. mr. krook and he interchange a word or two. mr. tulkinghorn says nothing, but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau. mr. snagsby arrives hastily in his grey coat and his black sleeves. "dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this, has it! bless my soul!" "can you give the person of the house any information about this unfortunate creature, snagsby?" inquires mr. tulkinghorn. "he was in arrears with his rent, it seems. and he must be buried, you know." "well, sir," says mr. snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind his hand, "i really don't know what advice i could offer, except sending for the beadle." "i don't speak of advice," returns mr. tulkinghorn. "i could advise--" "no one better, sir, i am sure," says mr. snagsby, with his deferential cough. "i speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he came from, or to anything concerning him." "i assure you, sir," says mr. snagsby after prefacing his reply with his cough of general propitiation, "that i no more know where he came from than i know--" "where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon to help him out. a pause. mr. tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. mr. krook, with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next. "as to his connexions, sir," says mr. snagsby, "if a person was to say to me, 'snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready for you in the bank of england if you'll only name one of 'em,' i couldn't do it, sir! about a year and a half ago--to the best of my belief, at the time when he first came to lodge at the present rag and bottle shop--" "that was the time!" says krook with a nod. "about a year and a half ago," says mr. snagsby, strengthened, "he came into our place one morning after breakfast, and finding my little woman (which i name mrs. snagsby when i use that appellation) in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and gave her to understand that he was in want of copying work to do and was, not to put too fine a point upon it," a favourite apology for plain speaking with mr. snagsby, which he always offers with a sort of argumentative frankness, "hard up! my little woman is not in general partial to strangers, particular--not to put too fine a point upon it--when they want anything. but she was rather took by something about this person, whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies' reasons, i leave you to judge; and she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address. my little woman hasn't a good ear for names," proceeds mr. snagsby after consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, "and she considered nemo equally the same as nimrod. in consequence of which, she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, 'mr. snagsby, you haven't found nimrod any work yet!' or 'mr. snagsby, why didn't you give that eight and thirty chancery folio in jarndyce to nimrod?' or such like. and that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our place; and that is the most i know of him except that he was a quick hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work, and that if you gave him out, say, five and forty folio on the wednesday night, you would have it brought in on the thursday morning. all of which--" mr. snagsby concludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, as much as to add, "i have no doubt my honourable friend would confirm if he were in a condition to do it." "hadn't you better see," says mr. tulkinghorn to krook, "whether he had any papers that may enlighten you? there will be an inquest, and you will be asked the question. you can read?" "no, i can't," returns the old man with a sudden grin. "snagsby," says mr. tulkinghorn, "look over the room for him. he will get into some trouble or difficulty otherwise. being here, i'll wait if you make haste, and then i can testify on his behalf, if it should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. if you will hold the candle for mr. snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see whether there is anything to help you." "in the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says snagsby. ah, to be sure, so there is! mr. tulkinghorn does not appear to have seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though there is very little else, heaven knows. the marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationer conducts the search. the surgeon leans against the corner of the chimney-piece; miss flite peeps and trembles just within the door. the apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied in the bow the peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same place and attitude. there are some worthless articles of clothing in the old portmanteau; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, those turnpike tickets on the road of poverty; there is a crumpled paper, smelling of opium, on which are scrawled rough memoranda--as, took, such a day, so many grains; took, such another day, so many more--begun some time ago, as if with the intention of being regularly continued, but soon left off. there are a few dirty scraps of newspapers, all referring to coroners' inquests; there is nothing else. they search the cupboard and the drawer of the ink-splashed table. there is not a morsel of an old letter or of any other writing in either. the young surgeon examines the dress on the law-writer. a knife and some odd halfpence are all he finds. mr. snagsby's suggestion is the practical suggestion after all, and the beadle must be called in. so the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest come out of the room. "don't leave the cat there!" says the surgeon; "that won't do!" mr. krook therefore drives her out before him, and she goes furtively downstairs, winding her lithe tail and licking her lips. "good night!" says mr. tulkinghorn, and goes home to allegory and meditation. by this time the news has got into the court. groups of its inhabitants assemble to discuss the thing, and the outposts of the army of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to mr. krook's window, which they closely invest. a policeman has already walked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where he stands like a tower, only condescending to see the boys at his base occasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fall back. mrs. perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speaking terms with mrs. piper in consequence for an unpleasantness originating in young perkins' having "fetched" young piper "a crack," renews her friendly intercourse on this auspicious occasion. the potboy at the corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessing official knowledge of life and having to deal with drunken men occasionally, exchanges confidential communications with the policeman and has the appearance of an impregnable youth, unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable in station-houses. people talk across the court out of window, and bare-headed scouts come hurrying in from chancery lane to know what's the matter. the general feeling seems to be that it's a blessing mr. krook warn't made away with first, mingled with a little natural disappointment that he was not. in the midst of this sensation, the beadle arrives. the beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood to be a ridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for the moment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body. the policeman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of the barbarous watchmen times, but gives him admission as something that must be borne with until government shall abolish him. the sensation is heightened as the tidings spread from mouth to mouth that the beadle is on the ground and has gone in. by and by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying the sensation, which has rather languished in the interval. he is understood to be in want of witnesses for the inquest to-morrow who can tell the coroner and jury anything whatever respecting the deceased. is immediately referred to innumerable people who can tell nothing whatever. is made more imbecile by being constantly informed that mrs. green's son "was a law-writer his-self and knowed him better than anybody," which son of mrs. green's appears, on inquiry, to be at the present time aboard a vessel bound for china, three months out, but considered accessible by telegraph on application to the lords of the admiralty. beadle goes into various shops and parlours, examining the inhabitants, always shutting the door first, and by exclusion, delay, and general idiotcy exasperating the public. policeman seen to smile to potboy. public loses interest and undergoes reaction. taunts the beadle in shrill youthful voices with having boiled a boy, choruses fragments of a popular song to that effect and importing that the boy was made into soup for the workhouse. policeman at last finds it necessary to support the law and seize a vocalist, who is released upon the flight of the rest on condition of his getting out of this then, come, and cutting it--a condition he immediately observes. so the sensation dies off for the time; and the unmoved policeman (to whom a little opium, more or less, is nothing), with his shining hat, stiff stock, inflexible great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and all things fitting, pursues his lounging way with a heavy tread, beating the palms of his white gloves one against the other and stopping now and then at a street-corner to look casually about for anything between a lost child and a murder. under cover of the night, the feeble-minded beadle comes flitting about chancery lane with his summonses, in which every juror's name is wrongly spelt, and nothing rightly spelt but the beadle's own name, which nobody can read or wants to know. the summonses served and his witnesses forewarned, the beadle goes to mr. krook's to keep a small appointment he has made with certain paupers, who, presently arriving, are conducted upstairs, where they leave the great eyes in the shutter something new to stare at, in that last shape which earthly lodgings take for no one--and for every one. and all that night the coffin stands ready by the old portmanteau; and the lonely figure on the bed, whose path in life has lain through five and forty years, lies there with no more track behind him that any one can trace than a deserted infant. next day the court is all alive--is like a fair, as mrs. perkins, more than reconciled to mrs. piper, says in amicable conversation with that excellent woman. the coroner is to sit in the first-floor room at the sol's arms, where the harmonic meetings take place twice a week and where the chair is filled by a gentleman of professional celebrity, faced by little swills, the comic vocalist, who hopes (according to the bill in the window) that his friends will rally round him and support first-rate talent. the sol's arms does a brisk stroke of business all the morning. even children so require sustaining under the general excitement that a pieman who has established himself for the occasion at the corner of the court says his brandy-balls go off like smoke. what time the beadle, hovering between the door of mr. krook's establishment and the door of the sol's arms, shows the curiosity in his keeping to a few discreet spirits and accepts the compliment of a glass of ale or so in return. at the appointed hour arrives the coroner, for whom the jurymen are waiting and who is received with a salute of skittles from the good dry skittle-ground attached to the sol's arms. the coroner frequents more public-houses than any man alive. the smell of sawdust, beer, tobacco-smoke, and spirits is inseparable in his vocation from death in its most awful shapes. he is conducted by the beadle and the landlord to the harmonic meeting room, where he puts his hat on the piano and takes a windsor-chair at the head of a long table formed of several short tables put together and ornamented with glutinous rings in endless involutions, made by pots and glasses. as many of the jury as can crowd together at the table sit there. the rest get among the spittoons and pipes or lean against the piano. over the coroner's head is a small iron garland, the pendant handle of a bell, which rather gives the majesty of the court the appearance of going to be hanged presently. call over and swear the jury! while the ceremony is in progress, sensation is created by the entrance of a chubby little man in a large shirt-collar, with a moist eye and an inflamed nose, who modestly takes a position near the door as one of the general public, but seems familiar with the room too. a whisper circulates that this is little swills. it is considered not unlikely that he will get up an imitation of the coroner and make it the principal feature of the harmonic meeting in the evening. "well, gentlemen--" the coroner begins. "silence there, will you!" says the beadle. not to the coroner, though it might appear so. "well, gentlemen," resumes the coroner. "you are impanelled here to inquire into the death of a certain man. evidence will be given before you as to the circumstances attending that death, and you will give your verdict according to the--skittles; they must be stopped, you know, beadle!--evidence, and not according to anything else. the first thing to be done is to view the body." "make way there!" cries the beadle. so they go out in a loose procession, something after the manner of a straggling funeral, and make their inspection in mr. krook's back second floor, from which a few of the jurymen retire pale and precipitately. the beadle is very careful that two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and buttons (for whose accommodation he has provided a special little table near the coroner in the harmonic meeting room) should see all that is to be seen. for they are the public chroniclers of such inquiries by the line; and he is not superior to the universal human infirmity, but hopes to read in print what "mooney, the active and intelligent beadle of the district," said and did and even aspires to see the name of mooney as familiarly and patronizingly mentioned as the name of the hangman is, according to the latest examples. little swills is waiting for the coroner and jury on their return. mr. tulkinghorn, also. mr. tulkinghorn is received with distinction and seated near the coroner between that high judicial officer, a bagatelle-board, and the coal-box. the inquiry proceeds. the jury learn how the subject of their inquiry died, and learn no more about him. "a very eminent solicitor is in attendance, gentlemen," says the coroner, "who, i am informed, was accidentally present when discovery of the death was made, but he could only repeat the evidence you have already heard from the surgeon, the landlord, the lodger, and the law-stationer, and it is not necessary to trouble him. is anybody in attendance who knows anything more?" mrs. piper pushed forward by mrs. perkins. mrs. piper sworn. anastasia piper, gentlemen. married woman. now, mrs. piper, what have you got to say about this? why, mrs. piper has a good deal to say, chiefly in parentheses and without punctuation, but not much to tell. mrs. piper lives in the court (which her husband is a cabinet-maker), and it has long been well beknown among the neighbours (counting from the day next but one before the half-baptizing of alexander james piper aged eighteen months and four days old on accounts of not being expected to live such was the sufferings gentlemen of that child in his gums) as the plaintive--so mrs. piper insists on calling the deceased--was reported to have sold himself. thinks it was the plaintive's air in which that report originatinin. see the plaintive often and considered as his air was feariocious and not to be allowed to go about some children being timid (and if doubted hoping mrs. perkins may be brought forard for she is here and will do credit to her husband and herself and family). has seen the plaintive wexed and worrited by the children (for children they will ever be and you cannot expect them specially if of playful dispositions to be methoozellers which you was not yourself). on accounts of this and his dark looks has often dreamed as she see him take a pick-axe from his pocket and split johnny's head (which the child knows not fear and has repeatually called after him close at his eels). never however see the plaintive take a pick-axe or any other wepping far from it. has seen him hurry away when run and called after as if not partial to children and never see him speak to neither child nor grown person at any time (excepting the boy that sweeps the crossing down the lane over the way round the corner which if he was here would tell you that he has been seen a-speaking to him frequent). says the coroner, is that boy here? says the beadle, no, sir, he is not here. says the coroner, go and fetch him then. in the absence of the active and intelligent, the coroner converses with mr. tulkinghorn. oh! here's the boy, gentlemen! here he is, very muddy, very hoarse, very ragged. now, boy! but stop a minute. caution. this boy must be put through a few preliminary paces. name, jo. nothing else that he knows on. don't know that everybody has two names. never heerd of sich a think. don't know that jo is short for a longer name. thinks it long enough for him. he don't find no fault with it. spell it? no. he can't spell it. no father, no mother, no friends. never been to school. what's home? knows a broom's a broom, and knows it's wicked to tell a lie. don't recollect who told him about the broom or about the lie, but knows both. can't exactly say what'll be done to him arter he's dead if he tells a lie to the gentlemen here, but believes it'll be something wery bad to punish him, and serve him right--and so he'll tell the truth. "this won't do, gentlemen!" says the coroner with a melancholy shake of the head. "don't you think you can receive his evidence, sir?" asks an attentive juryman. "out of the question," says the coroner. "you have heard the boy. 'can't exactly say' won't do, you know. we can't take that in a court of justice, gentlemen. it's terrible depravity. put the boy aside." boy put aside, to the great edification of the audience, especially of little swills, the comic vocalist. now. is there any other witness? no other witness. very well, gentlemen! here's a man unknown, proved to have been in the habit of taking opium in large quantities for a year and a half, found dead of too much opium. if you think you have any evidence to lead you to the conclusion that he committed suicide, you will come to that conclusion. if you think it is a case of accidental death, you will find a verdict accordingly. verdict accordingly. accidental death. no doubt. gentlemen, you are discharged. good afternoon. while the coroner buttons his great-coat, mr. tulkinghorn and he give private audience to the rejected witness in a corner. that graceless creature only knows that the dead man (whom he recognized just now by his yellow face and black hair) was sometimes hooted and pursued about the streets. that one cold winter night when he, the boy, was shivering in a doorway near his crossing, the man turned to look at him, and came back, and having questioned him and found that he had not a friend in the world, said, "neither have i. not one!" and gave him the price of a supper and a night's lodging. that the man had often spoken to him since and asked him whether he slept sound at night, and how he bore cold and hunger, and whether he ever wished to die, and similar strange questions. that when the man had no money, he would say in passing, "i am as poor as you to-day, jo," but that when he had any, he had always (as the boy most heartily believes) been glad to give him some. "he was wery good to me," says the boy, wiping his eyes with his wretched sleeve. "wen i see him a-layin' so stritched out just now, i wished he could have heerd me tell him so. he wos wery good to me, he wos!" as he shuffles downstairs, mr. snagsby, lying in wait for him, puts a half-crown in his hand. "if you ever see me coming past your crossing with my little woman--i mean a lady--" says mr. snagsby with his finger on his nose, "don't allude to it!" for some little time the jurymen hang about the sol's arms colloquially. in the sequel, half-a-dozen are caught up in a cloud of pipe-smoke that pervades the parlour of the sol's arms; two stroll to hampstead; and four engage to go half-price to the play at night, and top up with oysters. little swills is treated on several hands. being asked what he thinks of the proceedings, characterizes them (his strength lying in a slangular direction) as "a rummy start." the landlord of the sol's arms, finding little swills so popular, commends him highly to the jurymen and public, observing that for a song in character he don't know his equal and that that man's character-wardrobe would fill a cart. thus, gradually the sol's arms melts into the shadowy night and then flares out of it strong in gas. the harmonic meeting hour arriving, the gentleman of professional celebrity takes the chair, is faced (red-faced) by little swills; their friends rally round them and support first-rate talent. in the zenith of the evening, little swills says, "gentlemen, if you'll permit me, i'll attempt a short description of a scene of real life that came off here to-day." is much applauded and encouraged; goes out of the room as swills; comes in as the coroner (not the least in the world like him); describes the inquest, with recreative intervals of piano-forte accompaniment, to the refrain: with his (the coroner's) tippy tol li doll, tippy tol lo doll, tippy tol li doll, dee! the jingling piano at last is silent, and the harmonic friends rally round their pillows. then there is rest around the lonely figure, now laid in its last earthly habitation; and it is watched by the gaunt eyes in the shutters through some quiet hours of night. if this forlorn man could have been prophetically seen lying here by the mother at whose breast he nestled, a little child, with eyes upraised to her loving face, and soft hand scarcely knowing how to close upon the neck to which it crept, what an impossibility the vision would have seemed! oh, if in brighter days the now-extinguished fire within him ever burned for one woman who held him in her heart, where is she, while these ashes are above the ground! it is anything but a night of rest at mr. snagsby's, in cook's court, where guster murders sleep by going, as mr. snagsby himself allows--not to put too fine a point upon it--out of one fit into twenty. the occasion of this seizure is that guster has a tender heart and a susceptible something that possibly might have been imagination, but for tooting and her patron saint. be it what it may, now, it was so direfully impressed at tea-time by mr. snagsby's account of the inquiry at which he had assisted that at supper-time she projected herself into the kitchen, preceded by a flying dutch cheese, and fell into a fit of unusual duration, which she only came out of to go into another, and another, and so on through a chain of fits, with short intervals between, of which she has pathetically availed herself by consuming them in entreaties to mrs. snagsby not to give her warning "when she quite comes to," and also in appeals to the whole establishment to lay her down on the stones and go to bed. hence, mr. snagsby, at last hearing the cock at the little dairy in cursitor street go into that disinterested ecstasy of his on the subject of daylight, says, drawing a long breath, though the most patient of men, "i thought you was dead, i am sure!" what question this enthusiastic fowl supposes he settles when he strains himself to such an extent, or why he should thus crow (so men crow on various triumphant public occasions, however) about what cannot be of any moment to him, is his affair. it is enough that daylight comes, morning comes, noon comes. then the active and intelligent, who has got into the morning papers as such, comes with his pauper company to mr. krook's and bears off the body of our dear brother here departed to a hemmed-in churchyard, pestiferous and obscene, whence malignant diseases are communicated to the bodies of our dear brothers and sisters who have not departed, while our dear brothers and sisters who hang about official back-stairs--would to heaven they had departed!--are very complacent and agreeable. into a beastly scrap of ground which a turk would reject as a savage abomination and a caffre would shudder at, they bring our dear brother here departed to receive christian burial. with houses looking on, on every side, save where a reeking little tunnel of a court gives access to the iron gate--with every villainy of life in action close on death, and every poisonous element of death in action close on life--here they lower our dear brother down a foot or two, here sow him in corruption, to be raised in corruption: an avenging ghost at many a sick-bedside, a shameful testimony to future ages how civilization and barbarism walked this boastful island together. come night, come darkness, for you cannot come too soon or stay too long by such a place as this! come, straggling lights into the windows of the ugly houses; and you who do iniquity therein, do it at least with this dread scene shut out! come, flame of gas, burning so sullenly above the iron gate, on which the poisoned air deposits its witch-ointment slimy to the touch! it is well that you should call to every passerby, "look here!" with the night comes a slouching figure through the tunnel-court to the outside of the iron gate. it holds the gate with its hands and looks in between the bars, stands looking in for a little while. it then, with an old broom it carries, softly sweeps the step and makes the archway clean. it does so very busily and trimly, looks in again a little while, and so departs. jo, is it thou? well, well! though a rejected witness, who "can't exactly say" what will be done to him in greater hands than men's, thou art not quite in outer darkness. there is something like a distant ray of light in thy muttered reason for this: "he wos wery good to me, he wos!" chapter xii on the watch it has left off raining down in lincolnshire at last, and chesney wold has taken heart. mrs. rouncewell is full of hospitable cares, for sir leicester and my lady are coming home from paris. the fashionable intelligence has found it out and communicates the glad tidings to benighted england. it has also found out that they will entertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the elite of the beau monde (the fashionable intelligence is weak in english, but a giant refreshed in french) at the ancient and hospitable family seat in lincolnshire. for the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle, and of chesney wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridge in the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper limits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in the prospect from the house. the clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittle woods and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves and drying the moss. it glides over the park after the moving shadows of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day. it looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraits with bars and patches of brightness never contemplated by the painters. athwart the picture of my lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down crookedly into the hearth and seems to rend it. through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my lady and sir leicester, in their travelling chariot (my lady's woman and sir leicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. with a considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging demonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and two centaurs with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails, they rattle out of the yard of the hotel bristol in the place vendome and canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade of the rue de rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king and queen, off by the place of concord, and the elysian fields, and the gate of the star, out of paris. sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast, for even here my lady dedlock has been bored to death. concert, assembly, opera, theatre, drive, nothing is new to my lady under the worn-out heavens. only last sunday, when poor wretches were gay--within the walls playing with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the palace garden; walking, a score abreast, in the elysian fields, made more elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whiles filtering (a few) through the gloomy cathedral of our lady to say a word or two at the base of a pillar within flare of a rusty little gridiron-full of gusty little tapers; without the walls encompassing paris with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking, tomb-visiting, billiard card and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and much murderous refuse, animate and inanimate--only last sunday, my lady, in the desolation of boredom and the clutch of giant despair, almost hated her own maid for being in spirits. she cannot, therefore, go too fast from paris. weariness of soul lies before her, as it lies behind--her ariel has put a girdle of it round the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped--but the imperfect remedy is always to fly from the last place where it has been experienced. fling paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! and, when next beheld, let it be some leagues away, with the gate of the star a white speck glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in a plain--two dark square towers rising out of it, and light and shadow descending on it aslant, like the angels in jacob's dream! sir leicester is generally in a complacent state, and rarely bored. when he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own greatness. it is a considerable advantage to a man to have so inexhaustible a subject. after reading his letters, he leans back in his corner of the carriage and generally reviews his importance to society. "you have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?" says my lady after a long time. she is fatigued with reading. has almost read a page in twenty miles. "nothing in it, though. nothing whatever." "i saw one of mr. tulkinghorn's long effusions, i think?" "you see everything," says sir leicester with admiration. "ha!" sighs my lady. "he is the most tiresome of men!" "he sends--i really beg your pardon--he sends," says sir leicester, selecting the letter and unfolding it, "a message to you. our stopping to change horses as i came to his postscript drove it out of my memory. i beg you'll excuse me. he says--" sir leicester is so long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it that my lady looks a little irritated. "he says 'in the matter of the right of way--' i beg your pardon, that's not the place. he says--yes! here i have it! he says, 'i beg my respectful compliments to my lady, who, i hope, has benefited by the change. will you do me the favour to mention (as it may interest her) that i have something to tell her on her return in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the chancery suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. i have seen him.'" my lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window. "that's the message," observes sir leicester. "i should like to walk a little," says my lady, still looking out of her window. "walk?" repeats sir leicester in a tone of surprise. "i should like to walk a little," says my lady with unmistakable distinctness. "please to stop the carriage." the carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from the rumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to an impatient motion of my lady's hand. my lady alights so quickly and walks away so quickly that sir leicester, for all his scrupulous politeness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. a space of a minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. she smiles, looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for a quarter of a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in the carriage. the rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of three days, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and more or less plunging of centaurs and bare-backed horses. their courtly politeness to each other at the hotels where they tarry is the theme of general admiration. though my lord is a little aged for my lady, says madame, the hostess of the golden ape, and though he might be her amiable father, one can see at a glance that they love each other. one observes my lord with his white hair, standing, hat in hand, to help my lady to and from the carriage. one observes my lady, how recognisant of my lord's politeness, with an inclination of her gracious head and the concession of her so-genteel fingers! it is ravishing! the sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks them about like the small fry. it is habitually hard upon sir leicester, whose countenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese and in whose aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. it is the radical of nature to him. nevertheless, his dignity gets over it after stopping to refit, and he goes on with my lady for chesney wold, lying only one night in london on the way to lincolnshire. through the same cold sunlight, colder as the day declines, and through the same sharp wind, sharper as the separate shadows of bare trees gloom together in the woods, and as the ghost's walk, touched at the western corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to coming night, they drive into the park. the rooks, swinging in their lofty houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss the question of the occupancy of the carriage as it passes underneath, some agreeing that sir leicester and my lady are come down, some arguing with malcontents who won't admit it, now all consenting to consider the question disposed of, now all breaking out again in violent debate, incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird who will persist in putting in a last contradictory croak. leaving them to swing and caw, the travelling chariot rolls on to the house, where fires gleam warmly through some of the windows, though not through so many as to give an inhabited expression to the darkening mass of front. but the brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that. mrs. rouncewell is in attendance and receives sir leicester's customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsy. "how do you do, mrs. rouncewell? i am glad to see you." "i hope i have the honour of welcoming you in good health, sir leicester?" "in excellent health, mrs. rouncewell." "my lady is looking charmingly well," says mrs. rouncewell with another curtsy. my lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that she is as wearily well as she can hope to be. but rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper; and my lady, who has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever else she may have conquered, asks, "who is that girl?" "a young scholar of mine, my lady. rosa." "come here, rosa!" lady dedlock beckons her, with even an appearance of interest. "why, do you know how pretty you are, child?" she says, touching her shoulder with her two forefingers. rosa, very much abashed, says, "no, if you please, my lady!" and glances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look, but looks all the prettier. "how old are you?" "nineteen, my lady." "nineteen," repeats my lady thoughtfully. "take care they don't spoil you by flattery." "yes, my lady." my lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingers and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where sir leicester pauses for her as her knightly escort. a staring old dedlock in a panel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know what to make of it, which was probably his general state of mind in the days of queen elizabeth. that evening, in the housekeeper's room, rosa can do nothing but murmur lady dedlock's praises. she is so affable, so graceful, so beautiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrilling touch that rosa can feel it yet! mrs. rouncewell confirms all this, not without personal pride, reserving only the one point of affability. mrs. rouncewell is not quite sure as to that. heaven forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any member of that excellent family, above all, of my lady, whom the whole world admires; but if my lady would only be "a little more free," not quite so cold and distant, mrs. rouncewell thinks she would be more affable. "'tis almost a pity," mrs. rouncewell adds--only "almost" because it borders on impiety to suppose that anything could be better than it is, in such an express dispensation as the dedlock affairs--"that my lady has no family. if she had had a daughter now, a grown young lady, to interest her, i think she would have had the only kind of excellence she wants." "might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?" says watt, who has been home and come back again, he is such a good grandson. "more and most, my dear," returns the housekeeper with dignity, "are words it's not my place to use--nor so much as to hear--applied to any drawback on my lady." "i beg your pardon, grandmother. but she is proud, is she not?" "if she is, she has reason to be. the dedlock family have always reason to be." "well," says watt, "it's to be hoped they line out of their prayer-books a certain passage for the common people about pride and vainglory. forgive me, grandmother! only a joke!" "sir leicester and lady dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects for joking." "sir leicester is no joke by any means," says watt, "and i humbly ask his pardon. i suppose, grandmother, that even with the family and their guests down here, there is no objection to my prolonging my stay at the dedlock arms for a day or two, as any other traveller might?" "surely, none in the world, child." "i am glad of that," says watt, "because i have an inexpressible desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighbourhood." he happens to glance at rosa, who looks down and is very shy indeed. but according to the old superstition, it should be rosa's ears that burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks, for my lady's maid is holding forth about her at this moment with surpassing energy. my lady's maid is a frenchwoman of two and thirty, from somewhere in the southern country about avignon and marseilles, a large-eyed brown woman with black hair who would be handsome but for a certain feline mouth and general uncomfortable tightness of face, rendering the jaws too eager and the skull too prominent. there is something indefinably keen and wan about her anatomy, and she has a watchful way of looking out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head which could be pleasantly dispensed with, especially when she is in an ill humour and near knives. through all the good taste of her dress and little adornments, these objections so express themselves that she seems to go about like a very neat she-wolf imperfectly tamed. besides being accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining to her post, she is almost an englishwoman in her acquaintance with the language; consequently, she is in no want of words to shower upon rosa for having attracted my lady's attention, and she pours them out with such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner that her companion, the affectionate man, is rather relieved when she arrives at the spoon stage of that performance. ha, ha, ha! she, hortense, been in my lady's service since five years and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet, caressed--absolutely caressed--by my lady on the moment of her arriving at the house! ha, ha, ha! "and do you know how pretty you are, child?" "no, my lady." you are right there! "and how old are you, child! and take care they do not spoil you by flattery, child!" oh, how droll! it is the best thing altogether. in short, it is such an admirable thing that mademoiselle hortense can't forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even among her countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop of visitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke--an enjoyment expressed, in her own convivial manner, by an additional tightness of face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look, which intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in my lady's mirrors when my lady is not among them. all the mirrors in the house are brought into action now, many of them after a long blank. they reflect handsome faces, simpering faces, youthful faces, faces of threescore and ten that will not submit to be old; the entire collection of faces that have come to pass a january week or two at chesney wold, and which the fashionable intelligence, a mighty hunter before the lord, hunts with a keen scent, from their breaking cover at the court of st. james's to their being run down to death. the place in lincolnshire is all alive. by day guns and voices are heard ringing in the woods, horsemen and carriages enliven the park roads, servants and hangers-on pervade the village and the dedlock arms. seen by night from distant openings in the trees, the row of windows in the long drawing-room, where my lady's picture hangs over the great chimney-piece, is like a row of jewels set in a black frame. on sunday the chill little church is almost warmed by so much gallant company, and the general flavour of the dedlock dust is quenched in delicate perfumes. the brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it no contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, and virtue. yet there is something a little wrong about it in despite of its immense advantages. what can it be? dandyism? there is no king george the fourth now (more the pity) to set the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towel neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays. there are no caricatures, now, of effeminate exquisites so arrayed, swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight and being revived by other dainty creatures poking long-necked scent-bottles at their noses. there is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shake into his buckskins, or who goes to see all the executions, or who is troubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. but is there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circle notwithstanding, dandyism of a more mischievous sort, that has got below the surface and is doing less harmless things than jack-towelling itself and stopping its own digestion, to which no rational person need particularly object? why, yes. it cannot be disguised. there are at chesney wold this january week some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who have set up a dandyism--in religion, for instance. who in mere lackadaisical want of an emotion have agreed upon a little dandy talk about the vulgar wanting faith in things in general, meaning in the things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a low fellow should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling after finding it out! who would make the vulgar very picturesque and faithful by putting back the hands upon the clock of time and cancelling a few hundred years of history. there are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so new, but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the world and to keep down all its realities. for whom everything must be languid and pretty. who have found out the perpetual stoppage. who are to rejoice at nothing and be sorry for nothing. who are not to be disturbed by ideas. on whom even the fine arts, attending in powder and walking backward like the lord chamberlain, must array themselves in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of past generations and be particularly careful not to be in earnest or to receive any impress from the moving age. then there is my lord boodle, of considerable reputation with his party, who has known what office is and who tells sir leicester dedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not see to what the present age is tending. a debate is not what a debate used to be; the house is not what the house used to be; even a cabinet is not what it formerly was. he perceives with astonishment that supposing the present government to be overthrown, the limited choice of the crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would lie between lord coodle and sir thomas doodle--supposing it to be impossible for the duke of foodle to act with goodle, which may be assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of that affair with hoodle. then, giving the home department and the leadership of the house of commons to joodle, the exchequer to koodle, the colonies to loodle, and the foreign office to moodle, what are you to do with noodle? you can't offer him the presidency of the council; that is reserved for poodle. you can't put him in the woods and forests; that is hardly good enough for quoodle. what follows? that the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces (as is made manifest to the patriotism of sir leicester dedlock) because you can't provide for noodle! on the other hand, the right honourable william buffy, m.p., contends across the table with some one else that the shipwreck of the country--about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner of it that is in question--is attributable to cuffy. if you had done with cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came into parliament, and had prevented him from going over to duffy, you would have got him into alliance with fuffy, you would have had with you the weight attaching as a smart debater to guffy, you would have brought to bear upon the elections the wealth of huffy, you would have got in for three counties juffy, kuffy, and luffy, and you would have strengthened your administration by the official knowledge and the business habits of muffy. all this, instead of being as you now are, dependent on the mere caprice of puffy! as to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differences of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and distinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question but boodle and his retinue, and buffy and his retinue. these are the great actors for whom the stage is reserved. a people there are, no doubt--a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to be occasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, as on the theatrical stage; but boodle and buffy, their followers and families, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, are the born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can appear upon the scene for ever and ever. in this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at chesney wold than the brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in the long run. for it is, even with the stillest and politest circles, as with the circle the necromancer draws around him--very strange appearances may be seen in active motion outside. with this difference, that being realities and not phantoms, there is the greater danger of their breaking in. chesney wold is quite full anyhow, so full that a burning sense of injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'-maids, and is not to be extinguished. only one room is empty. it is a turret chamber of the third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished and having an old-fashioned business air. it is mr. tulkinghorn's room, and is never bestowed on anybody else, for he may come at any time. he is not come yet. it is his quiet habit to walk across the park from the village in fine weather, to drop into this room as if he had never been out of it since he was last seen there, to request a servant to inform sir leicester that he is arrived in case he should be wanted, and to appear ten minutes before dinner in the shadow of the library-door. he sleeps in his turret with a complaining flag-staff over his head, and has some leads outside on which, any fine morning when he is down here, his black figure may be seen walking before breakfast like a larger species of rook. every day before dinner, my lady looks for him in the dusk of the library, but he is not there. every day at dinner, my lady glances down the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receive him if he had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. every night my lady casually asks her maid, "is mr. tulkinghorn come?" every night the answer is, "no, my lady, not yet." one night, while having her hair undressed, my lady loses herself in deep thought after this reply until she sees her own brooding face in the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her. "be so good as to attend," says my lady then, addressing the reflection of hortense, "to your business. you can contemplate your beauty at another time." "pardon! it was your ladyship's beauty." "that," says my lady, "you needn't contemplate at all." at length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright groups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened the ghost's walk are all dispersed and only sir leicester and my lady remain upon the terrace, mr. tulkinghorn appears. he comes towards them at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, never slackened. he wears his usual expressionless mask--if it be a mask--and carries family secrets in every limb of his body and every crease of his dress. whether his whole soul is devoted to the great or whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells is his personal secret. he keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients; he is his own client in that matter, and will never betray himself. "how do you do, mr. tulkinghorn?" says sir leicester, giving him his hand. mr. tulkinghorn is quite well. sir leicester is quite well. my lady is quite well. all highly satisfactory. the lawyer, with his hands behind him, walks at sir leicester's side along the terrace. my lady walks upon the other side. "we expected you before," says sir leicester. a gracious observation. as much as to say, "mr. tulkinghorn, we remember your existence when you are not here to remind us of it by your presence. we bestow a fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!" mr. tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head and says he is much obliged. "i should have come down sooner," he explains, "but that i have been much engaged with those matters in the several suits between yourself and boythorn." "a man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes sir leicester with severity. "an extremely dangerous person in any community. a man of a very low character of mind." "he is obstinate," says mr. tulkinghorn. "it is natural to such a man to be so," says sir leicester, looking most profoundly obstinate himself. "i am not at all surprised to hear it." "the only question is," pursues the lawyer, "whether you will give up anything." "no, sir," replies sir leicester. "nothing. i give up?" "i don't mean anything of importance. that, of course, i know you would not abandon. i mean any minor point." "mr. tulkinghorn," returns sir leicester, "there can be no minor point between myself and mr. boythorn. if i go farther, and observe that i cannot readily conceive how any right of mine can be a minor point, i speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual as in reference to the family position i have it in charge to maintain." mr. tulkinghorn inclines his head again. "i have now my instructions," he says. "mr. boythorn will give us a good deal of trouble--" "it is the character of such a mind, mr. tulkinghorn," sir leicester interrupts him, "to give trouble. an exceedingly ill-conditioned, levelling person. a person who, fifty years ago, would probably have been tried at the old bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and severely punished--if not," adds sir leicester after a moment's pause, "if not hanged, drawn, and quartered." sir leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden in passing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactory thing to having the sentence executed. "but night is coming on," says he, "and my lady will take cold. my dear, let us go in." as they turn towards the hall-door, lady dedlock addresses mr. tulkinghorn for the first time. "you sent me a message respecting the person whose writing i happened to inquire about. it was like you to remember the circumstance; i had quite forgotten it. your message reminded me of it again. i can't imagine what association i had with a hand like that, but i surely had some." "you had some?" mr. tulkinghorn repeats. "oh, yes!" returns my lady carelessly. "i think i must have had some. and did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that actual thing--what is it!--affidavit?" "yes." "how very odd!" they pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lighted in the day by two deep windows. it is now twilight. the fire glows brightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where, through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape shudders in the wind and a grey mist creeps along, the only traveller besides the waste of clouds. my lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and sir leicester takes another great chair opposite. the lawyer stands before the fire with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face. he looks across his arm at my lady. "yes," he says, "i inquired about the man, and found him. and, what is very strange, i found him--" "not to be any out-of-the-way person, i am afraid!" lady dedlock languidly anticipates. "i found him dead." "oh, dear me!" remonstrated sir leicester. not so much shocked by the fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned. "i was directed to his lodging--a miserable, poverty-stricken place--and i found him dead." "you will excuse me, mr. tulkinghorn," observes sir leicester. "i think the less said--" "pray, sir leicester, let me hear the story out" (it is my lady speaking). "it is quite a story for twilight. how very shocking! dead?" mr. tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head. "whether by his own hand--" "upon my honour!" cries sir leicester. "really!" "do let me hear the story!" says my lady. "whatever you desire, my dear. but, i must say--" "no, you mustn't say! go on, mr. tulkinghorn." sir leicester's gallantry concedes the point, though he still feels that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is really--really-- "i was about to say," resumes the lawyer with undisturbed calmness, "that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my power to tell you. i should amend that phrase, however, by saying that he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether by his own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly be known. the coroner's jury found that he took the poison accidentally." "and what kind of man," my lady asks, "was this deplorable creature?" "very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his head. "he had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colour and his wild black hair and beard, that i should have considered him the commonest of the common. the surgeon had a notion that he had once been something better, both in appearance and condition." "what did they call the wretched being?" "they called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his name." "not even any one who had attended on him?" "no one had attended on him. he was found dead. in fact, i found him." "without any clue to anything more?" "without any; there was," says the lawyer meditatively, "an old portmanteau, but--no, there were no papers." during the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, lady dedlock and mr. tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another--as was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. sir leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the dedlock on the staircase. the story being told, he renews his stately protest, saying that as it is quite clear that no association in my lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more about a subject so far removed from my lady's station. "certainly, a collection of horrors," says my lady, gathering up her mantles and furs, "but they interest one for the moment! have the kindness, mr. tulkinghorn, to open the door for me." mr. tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while she passes out. she passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner and insolent grace. they meet again at dinner--again, next day--again, for many days in succession. lady dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. mr. tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble confidences, so oddly out of place and yet so perfectly at home. they appear to take as little note of one another as any two people enclosed within the same walls could. but whether each evermore watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know how much the other knows--all this is hidden, for the time, in their own hearts. chapter xiii esther's narrative we held many consultations about what richard was to be, first without mr. jarndyce, as he had requested, and afterwards with him, but it was a long time before we seemed to make progress. richard said he was ready for anything. when mr. jarndyce doubted whether he might not already be too old to enter the navy, richard said he had thought of that, and perhaps he was. when mr. jarndyce asked him what he thought of the army, richard said he had thought of that, too, and it wasn't a bad idea. when mr. jarndyce advised him to try and decide within himself whether his old preference for the sea was an ordinary boyish inclination or a strong impulse, richard answered, well he really had tried very often, and he couldn't make out. "how much of this indecision of character," mr. jarndyce said to me, "is chargeable on that incomprehensible heap of uncertainty and procrastination on which he has been thrown from his birth, i don't pretend to say; but that chancery, among its other sins, is responsible for some of it, i can plainly see. it has engendered or confirmed in him a habit of putting off--and trusting to this, that, and the other chance, without knowing what chance--and dismissing everything as unsettled, uncertain, and confused. the character of much older and steadier people may be even changed by the circumstances surrounding them. it would be too much to expect that a boy's, in its formation, should be the subject of such influences and escape them." i felt this to be true; though if i may venture to mention what i thought besides, i thought it much to be regretted that richard's education had not counteracted those influences or directed his character. he had been eight years at a public school and had learnt, i understood, to make latin verses of several sorts in the most admirable manner. but i never heard that it had been anybody's business to find out what his natural bent was, or where his failings lay, or to adapt any kind of knowledge to him. he had been adapted to the verses and had learnt the art of making them to such perfection that if he had remained at school until he was of age, i suppose he could only have gone on making them over and over again unless he had enlarged his education by forgetting how to do it. still, although i had no doubt that they were very beautiful, and very improving, and very sufficient for a great many purposes of life, and always remembered all through life, i did doubt whether richard would not have profited by some one studying him a little, instead of his studying them quite so much. to be sure, i knew nothing of the subject and do not even now know whether the young gentlemen of classic rome or greece made verses to the same extent--or whether the young gentlemen of any country ever did. "i haven't the least idea," said richard, musing, "what i had better be. except that i am quite sure i don't want to go into the church, it's a toss-up." "you have no inclination in mr. kenge's way?" suggested mr. jarndyce. "i don't know that, sir!" replied richard. "i am fond of boating. articled clerks go a good deal on the water. it's a capital profession!" "surgeon--" suggested mr. jarndyce. "that's the thing, sir!" cried richard. i doubt if he had ever once thought of it before. "that's the thing, sir," repeated richard with the greatest enthusiasm. "we have got it at last. m.r.c.s.!" he was not to be laughed out of it, though he laughed at it heartily. he said he had chosen his profession, and the more he thought of it, the more he felt that his destiny was clear; the art of healing was the art of all others for him. mistrusting that he only came to this conclusion because, having never had much chance of finding out for himself what he was fitted for and having never been guided to the discovery, he was taken by the newest idea and was glad to get rid of the trouble of consideration, i wondered whether the latin verses often ended in this or whether richard's was a solitary case. mr. jarndyce took great pains to talk with him seriously and to put it to his good sense not to deceive himself in so important a matter. richard was a little grave after these interviews, but invariably told ada and me that it was all right, and then began to talk about something else. "by heaven!" cried mr. boythorn, who interested himself strongly in the subject--though i need not say that, for he could do nothing weakly; "i rejoice to find a young gentleman of spirit and gallantry devoting himself to that noble profession! the more spirit there is in it, the better for mankind and the worse for those mercenary task-masters and low tricksters who delight in putting that illustrious art at a disadvantage in the world. by all that is base and despicable," cried mr. boythorn, "the treatment of surgeons aboard ship is such that i would submit the legs--both legs--of every member of the admiralty board to a compound fracture and render it a transportable offence in any qualified practitioner to set them if the system were not wholly changed in eight and forty hours!" "wouldn't you give them a week?" asked mr. jarndyce. "no!" cried mr. boythorn firmly. "not on any consideration! eight and forty hours! as to corporations, parishes, vestry-boards, and similar gatherings of jolter-headed clods who assemble to exchange such speeches that, by heaven, they ought to be worked in quicksilver mines for the short remainder of their miserable existence, if it were only to prevent their detestable english from contaminating a language spoken in the presence of the sun--as to those fellows, who meanly take advantage of the ardour of gentlemen in the pursuit of knowledge to recompense the inestimable services of the best years of their lives, their long study, and their expensive education with pittances too small for the acceptance of clerks, i would have the necks of every one of them wrung and their skulls arranged in surgeons' hall for the contemplation of the whole profession in order that its younger members might understand from actual measurement, in early life, how thick skulls may become!" he wound up this vehement declaration by looking round upon us with a most agreeable smile and suddenly thundering, "ha, ha, ha!" over and over again, until anybody else might have been expected to be quite subdued by the exertion. as richard still continued to say that he was fixed in his choice after repeated periods for consideration had been recommended by mr. jarndyce and had expired, and he still continued to assure ada and me in the same final manner that it was "all right," it became advisable to take mr. kenge into council. mr. kenge, therefore, came down to dinner one day, and leaned back in his chair, and turned his eye-glasses over and over, and spoke in a sonorous voice, and did exactly what i remembered to have seen him do when i was a little girl. "ah!" said mr. kenge. "yes. well! a very good profession, mr. jarndyce, a very good profession." "the course of study and preparation requires to be diligently pursued," observed my guardian with a glance at richard. "oh, no doubt," said mr. kenge. "diligently." "but that being the case, more or less, with all pursuits that are worth much," said mr. jarndyce, "it is not a special consideration which another choice would be likely to escape." "truly," said mr. kenge. "and mr. richard carstone, who has so meritoriously acquitted himself in the--shall i say the classic shades?--in which his youth had been passed, will, no doubt, apply the habits, if not the principles and practice, of versification in that tongue in which a poet was said (unless i mistake) to be born, not made, to the more eminently practical field of action on which he enters." "you may rely upon it," said richard in his off-hand manner, "that i shall go at it and do my best." "very well, mr. jarndyce!" said mr. kenge, gently nodding his head. "really, when we are assured by mr. richard that he means to go at it and to do his best," nodding feelingly and smoothly over those expressions, "i would submit to you that we have only to inquire into the best mode of carrying out the object of his ambition. now, with reference to placing mr. richard with some sufficiently eminent practitioner. is there any one in view at present?" "no one, rick, i think?" said my guardian. "no one, sir," said richard. "quite so!" observed mr. kenge. "as to situation, now. is there any particular feeling on that head?" "n--no," said richard. "quite so!" observed mr. kenge again. "i should like a little variety," said richard; "i mean a good range of experience." "very requisite, no doubt," returned mr. kenge. "i think this may be easily arranged, mr. jarndyce? we have only, in the first place, to discover a sufficiently eligible practitioner; and as soon as we make our want--and shall i add, our ability to pay a premium?--known, our only difficulty will be in the selection of one from a large number. we have only, in the second place, to observe those little formalities which are rendered necessary by our time of life and our being under the guardianship of the court. we shall soon be--shall i say, in mr. richard's own light-hearted manner, 'going at it'--to our heart's content. it is a coincidence," said mr. kenge with a tinge of melancholy in his smile, "one of those coincidences which may or may not require an explanation beyond our present limited faculties, that i have a cousin in the medical profession. he might be deemed eligible by you and might be disposed to respond to this proposal. i can answer for him as little as for you, but he might!" as this was an opening in the prospect, it was arranged that mr. kenge should see his cousin. and as mr. jarndyce had before proposed to take us to london for a few weeks, it was settled next day that we should make our visit at once and combine richard's business with it. mr. boythorn leaving us within a week, we took up our abode at a cheerful lodging near oxford street over an upholsterer's shop. london was a great wonder to us, and we were out for hours and hours at a time, seeing the sights, which appeared to be less capable of exhaustion than we were. we made the round of the principal theatres, too, with great delight, and saw all the plays that were worth seeing. i mention this because it was at the theatre that i began to be made uncomfortable again by mr. guppy. i was sitting in front of the box one night with ada, and richard was in the place he liked best, behind ada's chair, when, happening to look down into the pit, i saw mr. guppy, with his hair flattened down upon his head and woe depicted in his face, looking up at me. i felt all through the performance that he never looked at the actors but constantly looked at me, and always with a carefully prepared expression of the deepest misery and the profoundest dejection. it quite spoiled my pleasure for that night because it was so very embarrassing and so very ridiculous. but from that time forth, we never went to the play without my seeing mr. guppy in the pit, always with his hair straight and flat, his shirt-collar turned down, and a general feebleness about him. if he were not there when we went in, and i began to hope he would not come and yielded myself for a little while to the interest of the scene, i was certain to encounter his languishing eyes when i least expected it and, from that time, to be quite sure that they were fixed upon me all the evening. i really cannot express how uneasy this made me. if he would only have brushed up his hair or turned up his collar, it would have been bad enough; but to know that that absurd figure was always gazing at me, and always in that demonstrative state of despondency, put such a constraint upon me that i did not like to laugh at the play, or to cry at it, or to move, or to speak. i seemed able to do nothing naturally. as to escaping mr. guppy by going to the back of the box, i could not bear to do that because i knew richard and ada relied on having me next them and that they could never have talked together so happily if anybody else had been in my place. so there i sat, not knowing where to look--for wherever i looked, i knew mr. guppy's eyes were following me--and thinking of the dreadful expense to which this young man was putting himself on my account. sometimes i thought of telling mr. jarndyce. then i feared that the young man would lose his situation and that i might ruin him. sometimes i thought of confiding in richard, but was deterred by the possibility of his fighting mr. guppy and giving him black eyes. sometimes i thought, should i frown at him or shake my head. then i felt i could not do it. sometimes i considered whether i should write to his mother, but that ended in my being convinced that to open a correspondence would be to make the matter worse. i always came to the conclusion, finally, that i could do nothing. mr. guppy's perseverance, all this time, not only produced him regularly at any theatre to which we went, but caused him to appear in the crowd as we were coming out, and even to get up behind our fly--where i am sure i saw him, two or three times, struggling among the most dreadful spikes. after we got home, he haunted a post opposite our house. the upholsterer's where we lodged being at the corner of two streets, and my bedroom window being opposite the post, i was afraid to go near the window when i went upstairs, lest i should see him (as i did one moonlight night) leaning against the post and evidently catching cold. if mr. guppy had not been, fortunately for me, engaged in the daytime, i really should have had no rest from him. while we were making this round of gaieties, in which mr. guppy so extraordinarily participated, the business which had helped to bring us to town was not neglected. mr. kenge's cousin was a mr. bayham badger, who had a good practice at chelsea and attended a large public institution besides. he was quite willing to receive richard into his house and to superintend his studies, and as it seemed that those could be pursued advantageously under mr. badger's roof, and mr. badger liked richard, and as richard said he liked mr. badger "well enough," an agreement was made, the lord chancellor's consent was obtained, and it was all settled. on the day when matters were concluded between richard and mr. badger, we were all under engagement to dine at mr. badger's house. we were to be "merely a family party," mrs. badger's note said; and we found no lady there but mrs. badger herself. she was surrounded in the drawing-room by various objects, indicative of her painting a little, playing the piano a little, playing the guitar a little, playing the harp a little, singing a little, working a little, reading a little, writing poetry a little, and botanizing a little. she was a lady of about fifty, i should think, youthfully dressed, and of a very fine complexion. if i add to the little list of her accomplishments that she rouged a little, i do not mean that there was any harm in it. mr. bayham badger himself was a pink, fresh-faced, crisp-looking gentleman with a weak voice, white teeth, light hair, and surprised eyes, some years younger, i should say, than mrs. bayham badger. he admired her exceedingly, but principally, and to begin with, on the curious ground (as it seemed to us) of her having had three husbands. we had barely taken our seats when he said to mr. jarndyce quite triumphantly, "you would hardly suppose that i am mrs. bayham badger's third!" "indeed?" said mr. jarndyce. "her third!" said mr. badger. "mrs. bayham badger has not the appearance, miss summerson, of a lady who has had two former husbands?" i said "not at all!" "and most remarkable men!" said mr. badger in a tone of confidence. "captain swosser of the royal navy, who was mrs. badger's first husband, was a very distinguished officer indeed. the name of professor dingo, my immediate predecessor, is one of european reputation." mrs. badger overheard him and smiled. "yes, my dear!" mr. badger replied to the smile, "i was observing to mr. jarndyce and miss summerson that you had had two former husbands--both very distinguished men. and they found it, as people generally do, difficult to believe." "i was barely twenty," said mrs. badger, "when i married captain swosser of the royal navy. i was in the mediterranean with him; i am quite a sailor. on the twelfth anniversary of my wedding-day, i became the wife of professor dingo." "of european reputation," added mr. badger in an undertone. "and when mr. badger and myself were married," pursued mrs. badger, "we were married on the same day of the year. i had become attached to the day." "so that mrs. badger has been married to three husbands--two of them highly distinguished men," said mr. badger, summing up the facts, "and each time upon the twenty-first of march at eleven in the forenoon!" we all expressed our admiration. "but for mr. badger's modesty," said mr. jarndyce, "i would take leave to correct him and say three distinguished men." "thank you, mr. jarndyce! what i always tell him!" observed mrs. badger. "and, my dear," said mr. badger, "what do i always tell you? that without any affectation of disparaging such professional distinction as i may have attained (which our friend mr. carstone will have many opportunities of estimating), i am not so weak--no, really," said mr. badger to us generally, "so unreasonable--as to put my reputation on the same footing with such first-rate men as captain swosser and professor dingo. perhaps you may be interested, mr. jarndyce," continued mr. bayham badger, leading the way into the next drawing-room, "in this portrait of captain swosser. it was taken on his return home from the african station, where he had suffered from the fever of the country. mrs. badger considers it too yellow. but it's a very fine head. a very fine head!" we all echoed, "a very fine head!" "i feel when i look at it," said mr. badger, "'that's a man i should like to have seen!' it strikingly bespeaks the first-class man that captain swosser pre-eminently was. on the other side, professor dingo. i knew him well--attended him in his last illness--a speaking likeness! over the piano, mrs. bayham badger when mrs. swosser. over the sofa, mrs. bayham badger when mrs. dingo. of mrs. bayham badger in esse, i possess the original and have no copy." dinner was now announced, and we went downstairs. it was a very genteel entertainment, very handsomely served. but the captain and the professor still ran in mr. badger's head, and as ada and i had the honour of being under his particular care, we had the full benefit of them. "water, miss summerson? allow me! not in that tumbler, pray. bring me the professor's goblet, james!" ada very much admired some artificial flowers under a glass. "astonishing how they keep!" said mr. badger. "they were presented to mrs. bayham badger when she was in the mediterranean." he invited mr. jarndyce to take a glass of claret. "not that claret!" he said. "excuse me! this is an occasion, and on an occasion i produce some very special claret i happen to have. (james, captain swosser's wine!) mr. jarndyce, this is a wine that was imported by the captain, we will not say how many years ago. you will find it very curious. my dear, i shall be happy to take some of this wine with you. (captain swosser's claret to your mistress, james!) my love, your health!" after dinner, when we ladies retired, we took mrs. badger's first and second husband with us. mrs. badger gave us in the drawing-room a biographical sketch of the life and services of captain swosser before his marriage and a more minute account of him dating from the time when he fell in love with her at a ball on board the crippler, given to the officers of that ship when she lay in plymouth harbour. "the dear old crippler!" said mrs. badger, shaking her head. "she was a noble vessel. trim, ship-shape, all a taunto, as captain swosser used to say. you must excuse me if i occasionally introduce a nautical expression; i was quite a sailor once. captain swosser loved that craft for my sake. when she was no longer in commission, he frequently said that if he were rich enough to buy her old hulk, he would have an inscription let into the timbers of the quarter-deck where we stood as partners in the dance to mark the spot where he fell--raked fore and aft (captain swosser used to say) by the fire from my tops. it was his naval way of mentioning my eyes." mrs. badger shook her head, sighed, and looked in the glass. "it was a great change from captain swosser to professor dingo," she resumed with a plaintive smile. "i felt it a good deal at first. such an entire revolution in my mode of life! but custom, combined with science--particularly science--inured me to it. being the professor's sole companion in his botanical excursions, i almost forgot that i had ever been afloat, and became quite learned. it is singular that the professor was the antipodes of captain swosser and that mr. badger is not in the least like either!" we then passed into a narrative of the deaths of captain swosser and professor dingo, both of whom seem to have had very bad complaints. in the course of it, mrs. badger signified to us that she had never madly loved but once and that the object of that wild affection, never to be recalled in its fresh enthusiasm, was captain swosser. the professor was yet dying by inches in the most dismal manner, and mrs. badger was giving us imitations of his way of saying, with great difficulty, "where is laura? let laura give me my toast and water!" when the entrance of the gentlemen consigned him to the tomb. now, i observed that evening, as i had observed for some days past, that ada and richard were more than ever attached to each other's society, which was but natural, seeing that they were going to be separated so soon. i was therefore not very much surprised when we got home, and ada and i retired upstairs, to find ada more silent than usual, though i was not quite prepared for her coming into my arms and beginning to speak to me, with her face hidden. "my darling esther!" murmured ada. "i have a great secret to tell you!" a mighty secret, my pretty one, no doubt! "what is it, ada?" "oh, esther, you would never guess!" "shall i try to guess?" said i. "oh, no! don't! pray don't!" cried ada, very much startled by the idea of my doing so. "now, i wonder who it can be about?" said i, pretending to consider. "it's about--" said ada in a whisper. "it's about--my cousin richard!" "well, my own!" said i, kissing her bright hair, which was all i could see. "and what about him?" "oh, esther, you would never guess!" it was so pretty to have her clinging to me in that way, hiding her face, and to know that she was not crying in sorrow but in a little glow of joy, and pride, and hope, that i would not help her just yet. "he says--i know it's very foolish, we are both so young--but he says," with a burst of tears, "that he loves me dearly, esther." "does he indeed?" said i. "i never heard of such a thing! why, my pet of pets, i could have told you that weeks and weeks ago!" to see ada lift up her flushed face in joyful surprise, and hold me round the neck, and laugh, and cry, and blush, was so pleasant! "why, my darling," said i, "what a goose you must take me for! your cousin richard has been loving you as plainly as he could for i don't know how long!" "and yet you never said a word about it!" cried ada, kissing me. "no, my love," said i. "i waited to be told." "but now i have told you, you don't think it wrong of me, do you?" returned ada. she might have coaxed me to say no if i had been the hardest-hearted duenna in the world. not being that yet, i said no very freely. "and now," said i, "i know the worst of it." "oh, that's not quite the worst of it, esther dear!" cried ada, holding me tighter and laying down her face again upon my breast. "no?" said i. "not even that?" "no, not even that!" said ada, shaking her head. "why, you never mean to say--" i was beginning in joke. but ada, looking up and smiling through her tears, cried, "yes, i do! you know, you know i do!" and then sobbed out, "with all my heart i do! with all my whole heart, esther!" i told her, laughing, why i had known that, too, just as well as i had known the other! and we sat before the fire, and i had all the talking to myself for a little while (though there was not much of it); and ada was soon quiet and happy. "do you think my cousin john knows, dear dame durden?" she asked. "unless my cousin john is blind, my pet," said i, "i should think my cousin john knows pretty well as much as we know." "we want to speak to him before richard goes," said ada timidly, "and we wanted you to advise us, and to tell him so. perhaps you wouldn't mind richard's coming in, dame durden?" "oh! richard is outside, is he, my dear?" said i. "i am not quite certain," returned ada with a bashful simplicity that would have won my heart if she had not won it long before, "but i think he's waiting at the door." there he was, of course. they brought a chair on either side of me, and put me between them, and really seemed to have fallen in love with me instead of one another, they were so confiding, and so trustful, and so fond of me. they went on in their own wild way for a little while--i never stopped them; i enjoyed it too much myself--and then we gradually fell to considering how young they were, and how there must be a lapse of several years before this early love could come to anything, and how it could come to happiness only if it were real and lasting and inspired them with a steady resolution to do their duty to each other, with constancy, fortitude, and perseverance, each always for the other's sake. well! richard said that he would work his fingers to the bone for ada, and ada said that she would work her fingers to the bone for richard, and they called me all sorts of endearing and sensible names, and we sat there, advising and talking, half the night. finally, before we parted, i gave them my promise to speak to their cousin john to-morrow. so, when to-morrow came, i went to my guardian after breakfast, in the room that was our town-substitute for the growlery, and told him that i had it in trust to tell him something. "well, little woman," said he, shutting up his book, "if you have accepted the trust, there can be no harm in it." "i hope not, guardian," said i. "i can guarantee that there is no secrecy in it. for it only happened yesterday." "aye? and what is it, esther?" "guardian," said i, "you remember the happy night when first we came down to bleak house? when ada was singing in the dark room?" i wished to call to his remembrance the look he had given me then. unless i am much mistaken, i saw that i did so. "because--" said i with a little hesitation. "yes, my dear!" said he. "don't hurry." "because," said i, "ada and richard have fallen in love. and have told each other so." "already!" cried my guardian, quite astonished. "yes!" said i. "and to tell you the truth, guardian, i rather expected it." "the deuce you did!" said he. he sat considering for a minute or two, with his smile, at once so handsome and so kind, upon his changing face, and then requested me to let them know that he wished to see them. when they came, he encircled ada with one arm in his fatherly way and addressed himself to richard with a cheerful gravity. "rick," said mr. jarndyce, "i am glad to have won your confidence. i hope to preserve it. when i contemplated these relations between us four which have so brightened my life and so invested it with new interests and pleasures, i certainly did contemplate, afar off, the possibility of you and your pretty cousin here (don't be shy, ada, don't be shy, my dear!) being in a mind to go through life together. i saw, and do see, many reasons to make it desirable. but that was afar off, rick, afar off!" "we look afar off, sir," returned richard. "well!" said mr. jarndyce. "that's rational. now, hear me, my dears! i might tell you that you don't know your own minds yet, that a thousand things may happen to divert you from one another, that it is well this chain of flowers you have taken up is very easily broken, or it might become a chain of lead. but i will not do that. such wisdom will come soon enough, i dare say, if it is to come at all. i will assume that a few years hence you will be in your hearts to one another what you are to-day. all i say before speaking to you according to that assumption is, if you do change--if you do come to find that you are more commonplace cousins to each other as man and woman than you were as boy and girl (your manhood will excuse me, rick!)--don't be ashamed still to confide in me, for there will be nothing monstrous or uncommon in it. i am only your friend and distant kinsman. i have no power over you whatever. but i wish and hope to retain your confidence if i do nothing to forfeit it." "i am very sure, sir," returned richard, "that i speak for ada too when i say that you have the strongest power over us both--rooted in respect, gratitude, and affection--strengthening every day." "dear cousin john," said ada, on his shoulder, "my father's place can never be empty again. all the love and duty i could ever have rendered to him is transferred to you." "come!" said mr. jarndyce. "now for our assumption. now we lift our eyes up and look hopefully at the distance! rick, the world is before you; and it is most probable that as you enter it, so it will receive you. trust in nothing but in providence and your own efforts. never separate the two, like the heathen waggoner. constancy in love is a good thing, but it means nothing, and is nothing, without constancy in every kind of effort. if you had the abilities of all the great men, past and present, you could do nothing well without sincerely meaning it and setting about it. if you entertain the supposition that any real success, in great things or in small, ever was or could be, ever will or can be, wrested from fortune by fits and starts, leave that wrong idea here or leave your cousin ada here." "i will leave it here, sir," replied richard smiling, "if i brought it here just now (but i hope i did not), and will work my way on to my cousin ada in the hopeful distance." "right!" said mr. jarndyce. "if you are not to make her happy, why should you pursue her?" "i wouldn't make her unhappy--no, not even for her love," retorted richard proudly. "well said!" cried mr. jarndyce. "that's well said! she remains here, in her home with me. love her, rick, in your active life, no less than in her home when you revisit it, and all will go well. otherwise, all will go ill. that's the end of my preaching. i think you and ada had better take a walk." ada tenderly embraced him, and richard heartily shook hands with him, and then the cousins went out of the room, looking back again directly, though, to say that they would wait for me. the door stood open, and we both followed them with our eyes as they passed down the adjoining room, on which the sun was shining, and out at its farther end. richard with his head bent, and her hand drawn through his arm, was talking to her very earnestly; and she looked up in his face, listening, and seemed to see nothing else. so young, so beautiful, so full of hope and promise, they went on lightly through the sunlight as their own happy thoughts might then be traversing the years to come and making them all years of brightness. so they passed away into the shadow and were gone. it was only a burst of light that had been so radiant. the room darkened as they went out, and the sun was clouded over. "am i right, esther?" said my guardian when they were gone. he was so good and wise to ask me whether he was right! "rick may gain, out of this, the quality he wants. wants, at the core of so much that is good!" said mr. jarndyce, shaking his head. "i have said nothing to ada, esther. she has her friend and counsellor always near." and he laid his hand lovingly upon my head. i could not help showing that i was a little moved, though i did all i could to conceal it. "tut tut!" said he. "but we must take care, too, that our little woman's life is not all consumed in care for others." "care? my dear guardian, i believe i am the happiest creature in the world!" "i believe so, too," said he. "but some one may find out what esther never will--that the little woman is to be held in remembrance above all other people!" i have omitted to mention in its place that there was some one else at the family dinner party. it was not a lady. it was a gentleman. it was a gentleman of a dark complexion--a young surgeon. he was rather reserved, but i thought him very sensible and agreeable. at least, ada asked me if i did not, and i said yes. chapter xiv deportment richard left us on the very next evening to begin his new career, and committed ada to my charge with great love for her and great trust in me. it touched me then to reflect, and it touches me now, more nearly, to remember (having what i have to tell) how they both thought of me, even at that engrossing time. i was a part of all their plans, for the present and the future. i was to write richard once a week, making my faithful report of ada, who was to write to him every alternate day. i was to be informed, under his own hand, of all his labours and successes; i was to observe how resolute and persevering he would be; i was to be ada's bridesmaid when they were married; i was to live with them afterwards; i was to keep all the keys of their house; i was to be made happy for ever and a day. "and if the suit should make us rich, esther--which it may, you know!" said richard to crown all. a shade crossed ada's face. "my dearest ada," asked richard, "why not?" "it had better declare us poor at once," said ada. "oh! i don't know about that," returned richard, "but at all events, it won't declare anything at once. it hasn't declared anything in heaven knows how many years." "too true," said ada. "yes, but," urged richard, answering what her look suggested rather than her words, "the longer it goes on, dear cousin, the nearer it must be to a settlement one way or other. now, is not that reasonable?" "you know best, richard. but i am afraid if we trust to it, it will make us unhappy." "but, my ada, we are not going to trust to it!" cried richard gaily. "we know it better than to trust to it. we only say that if it should make us rich, we have no constitutional objection to being rich. the court is, by solemn settlement of law, our grim old guardian, and we are to suppose that what it gives us (when it gives us anything) is our right. it is not necessary to quarrel with our right." "no," said ada, "but it may be better to forget all about it." "well, well," cried richard, "then we will forget all about it! we consign the whole thing to oblivion. dame durden puts on her approving face, and it's done!" "dame durden's approving face," said i, looking out of the box in which i was packing his books, "was not very visible when you called it by that name; but it does approve, and she thinks you can't do better." so, richard said there was an end of it, and immediately began, on no other foundation, to build as many castles in the air as would man the great wall of china. he went away in high spirits. ada and i, prepared to miss him very much, commenced our quieter career. on our arrival in london, we had called with mr. jarndyce at mrs. jellyby's but had not been so fortunate as to find her at home. it appeared that she had gone somewhere to a tea-drinking and had taken miss jellyby with her. besides the tea-drinking, there was to be some considerable speech-making and letter-writing on the general merits of the cultivation of coffee, conjointly with natives, at the settlement of borrioboola-gha. all this involved, no doubt, sufficient active exercise of pen and ink to make her daughter's part in the proceedings anything but a holiday. it being now beyond the time appointed for mrs. jellyby's return, we called again. she was in town, but not at home, having gone to mile end directly after breakfast on some borrioboolan business, arising out of a society called the east london branch aid ramification. as i had not seen peepy on the occasion of our last call (when he was not to be found anywhere, and when the cook rather thought he must have strolled away with the dustman's cart), i now inquired for him again. the oyster shells he had been building a house with were still in the passage, but he was nowhere discoverable, and the cook supposed that he had "gone after the sheep." when we repeated, with some surprise, "the sheep?" she said, oh, yes, on market days he sometimes followed them quite out of town and came back in such a state as never was! i was sitting at the window with my guardian on the following morning, and ada was busy writing--of course to richard--when miss jellyby was announced, and entered, leading the identical peepy, whom she had made some endeavours to render presentable by wiping the dirt into corners of his face and hands and making his hair very wet and then violently frizzling it with her fingers. everything the dear child wore was either too large for him or too small. among his other contradictory decorations he had the hat of a bishop and the little gloves of a baby. his boots were, on a small scale, the boots of a ploughman, while his legs, so crossed and recrossed with scratches that they looked like maps, were bare below a very short pair of plaid drawers finished off with two frills of perfectly different patterns. the deficient buttons on his plaid frock had evidently been supplied from one of mr. jellyby's coats, they were so extremely brazen and so much too large. most extraordinary specimens of needlework appeared on several parts of his dress, where it had been hastily mended, and i recognized the same hand on miss jellyby's. she was, however, unaccountably improved in her appearance and looked very pretty. she was conscious of poor little peepy being but a failure after all her trouble, and she showed it as she came in by the way in which she glanced first at him and then at us. "oh, dear me!" said my guardian. "due east!" ada and i gave her a cordial welcome and presented her to mr. jarndyce, to whom she said as she sat down, "ma's compliments, and she hopes you'll excuse her, because she's correcting proofs of the plan. she's going to put out five thousand new circulars, and she knows you'll be interested to hear that. i have brought one of them with me. ma's compliments." with which she presented it sulkily enough. "thank you," said my guardian. "i am much obliged to mrs. jellyby. oh, dear me! this is a very trying wind!" we were busy with peepy, taking off his clerical hat, asking him if he remembered us, and so on. peepy retired behind his elbow at first, but relented at the sight of sponge-cake and allowed me to take him on my lap, where he sat munching quietly. mr. jarndyce then withdrawing into the temporary growlery, miss jellyby opened a conversation with her usual abruptness. "we are going on just as bad as ever in thavies inn," said she. "i have no peace of my life. talk of africa! i couldn't be worse off if i was a what's-his-name--man and a brother!" i tried to say something soothing. "oh, it's of no use, miss summerson," exclaimed miss jellyby, "though i thank you for the kind intention all the same. i know how i am used, and i am not to be talked over. you wouldn't be talked over if you were used so. peepy, go and play at wild beasts under the piano!" "i shan't!" said peepy. "very well, you ungrateful, naughty, hard-hearted boy!" returned miss jellyby with tears in her eyes. "i'll never take pains to dress you any more." "yes, i will go, caddy!" cried peepy, who was really a good child and who was so moved by his sister's vexation that he went at once. "it seems a little thing to cry about," said poor miss jellyby apologetically, "but i am quite worn out. i was directing the new circulars till two this morning. i detest the whole thing so that that alone makes my head ache till i can't see out of my eyes. and look at that poor unfortunate child! was there ever such a fright as he is!" peepy, happily unconscious of the defects in his appearance, sat on the carpet behind one of the legs of the piano, looking calmly out of his den at us while he ate his cake. "i have sent him to the other end of the room," observed miss jellyby, drawing her chair nearer ours, "because i don't want him to hear the conversation. those little things are so sharp! i was going to say, we really are going on worse than ever. pa will be a bankrupt before long, and then i hope ma will be satisfied. there'll he nobody but ma to thank for it." we said we hoped mr. jellyby's affairs were not in so bad a state as that. "it's of no use hoping, though it's very kind of you," returned miss jellyby, shaking her head. "pa told me only yesterday morning (and dreadfully unhappy he is) that he couldn't weather the storm. i should be surprised if he could. when all our tradesmen send into our house any stuff they like, and the servants do what they like with it, and i have no time to improve things if i knew how, and ma don't care about anything, i should like to make out how pa is to weather the storm. i declare if i was pa, i'd run away." "my dear!" said i, smiling. "your papa, no doubt, considers his family." "oh, yes, his family is all very fine, miss summerson," replied miss jellyby; "but what comfort is his family to him? his family is nothing but bills, dirt, waste, noise, tumbles downstairs, confusion, and wretchedness. his scrambling home, from week's end to week's end, is like one great washing-day--only nothing's washed!" miss jellyby tapped her foot upon the floor and wiped her eyes. "i am sure i pity pa to that degree," she said, "and am so angry with ma that i can't find words to express myself! however, i am not going to bear it, i am determined. i won't be a slave all my life, and i won't submit to be proposed to by mr. quale. a pretty thing, indeed, to marry a philanthropist. as if i hadn't had enough of that!" said poor miss jellyby. i must confess that i could not help feeling rather angry with mrs. jellyby myself, seeing and hearing this neglected girl and knowing how much of bitterly satirical truth there was in what she said. "if it wasn't that we had been intimate when you stopped at our house," pursued miss jellyby, "i should have been ashamed to come here to-day, for i know what a figure i must seem to you two. but as it is, i made up my mind to call, especially as i am not likely to see you again the next time you come to town." she said this with such great significance that ada and i glanced at one another, foreseeing something more. "no!" said miss jellyby, shaking her head. "not at all likely! i know i may trust you two. i am sure you won't betray me. i am engaged." "without their knowledge at home?" said i. "why, good gracious me, miss summerson," she returned, justifying herself in a fretful but not angry manner, "how can it be otherwise? you know what ma is--and i needn't make poor pa more miserable by telling him." "but would it not be adding to his unhappiness to marry without his knowledge or consent, my dear?" said i. "no," said miss jellyby, softening. "i hope not. i should try to make him happy and comfortable when he came to see me, and peepy and the others should take it in turns to come and stay with me, and they should have some care taken of them then." there was a good deal of affection in poor caddy. she softened more and more while saying this and cried so much over the unwonted little home-picture she had raised in her mind that peepy, in his cave under the piano, was touched, and turned himself over on his back with loud lamentations. it was not until i had brought him to kiss his sister, and had restored him to his place on my lap, and had shown him that caddy was laughing (she laughed expressly for the purpose), that we could recall his peace of mind; even then it was for some time conditional on his taking us in turns by the chin and smoothing our faces all over with his hand. at last, as his spirits were not equal to the piano, we put him on a chair to look out of window; and miss jellyby, holding him by one leg, resumed her confidence. "it began in your coming to our house," she said. we naturally asked how. "i felt i was so awkward," she replied, "that i made up my mind to be improved in that respect at all events and to learn to dance. i told ma i was ashamed of myself, and i must be taught to dance. ma looked at me in that provoking way of hers as if i wasn't in sight, but i was quite determined to be taught to dance, and so i went to mr. turveydrop's academy in newman street." "and was it there, my dear--" i began. "yes, it was there," said caddy, "and i am engaged to mr. turveydrop. there are two mr. turveydrops, father and son. my mr. turveydrop is the son, of course. i only wish i had been better brought up and was likely to make him a better wife, for i am very fond of him." "i am sorry to hear this," said i, "i must confess." "i don't know why you should be sorry," she retorted a little anxiously, "but i am engaged to mr. turveydrop, whether or no, and he is very fond of me. it's a secret as yet, even on his side, because old mr. turveydrop has a share in the connexion and it might break his heart or give him some other shock if he was told of it abruptly. old mr. turveydrop is a very gentlemanly man indeed--very gentlemanly." "does his wife know of it?" asked ada. "old mr. turveydrop's wife, miss clare?" returned miss jellyby, opening her eyes. "there's no such person. he is a widower." we were here interrupted by peepy, whose leg had undergone so much on account of his sister's unconsciously jerking it like a bell-rope whenever she was emphatic that the afflicted child now bemoaned his sufferings with a very low-spirited noise. as he appealed to me for compassion, and as i was only a listener, i undertook to hold him. miss jellyby proceeded, after begging peepy's pardon with a kiss and assuring him that she hadn't meant to do it. "that's the state of the case," said caddy. "if i ever blame myself, i still think it's ma's fault. we are to be married whenever we can, and then i shall go to pa at the office and write to ma. it won't much agitate ma; i am only pen and ink to her. one great comfort is," said caddy with a sob, "that i shall never hear of africa after i am married. young mr. turveydrop hates it for my sake, and if old mr. turveydrop knows there is such a place, it's as much as he does." "it was he who was very gentlemanly, i think!" said i. "very gentlemanly indeed," said caddy. "he is celebrated almost everywhere for his deportment." "does he teach?" asked ada. "no, he don't teach anything in particular," replied caddy. "but his deportment is beautiful." caddy went on to say with considerable hesitation and reluctance that there was one thing more she wished us to know, and felt we ought to know, and which she hoped would not offend us. it was that she had improved her acquaintance with miss flite, the little crazy old lady, and that she frequently went there early in the morning and met her lover for a few minutes before breakfast--only for a few minutes. "i go there at other times," said caddy, "but prince does not come then. young mr. turveydrop's name is prince; i wish it wasn't, because it sounds like a dog, but of course he didn't christen himself. old mr. turveydrop had him christened prince in remembrance of the prince regent. old mr. turveydrop adored the prince regent on account of his deportment. i hope you won't think the worse of me for having made these little appointments at miss flite's, where i first went with you, because i like the poor thing for her own sake and i believe she likes me. if you could see young mr. turveydrop, i am sure you would think well of him--at least, i am sure you couldn't possibly think any ill of him. i am going there now for my lesson. i couldn't ask you to go with me, miss summerson; but if you would," said caddy, who had said all this earnestly and tremblingly, "i should be very glad--very glad." it happened that we had arranged with my guardian to go to miss flite's that day. we had told him of our former visit, and our account had interested him; but something had always happened to prevent our going there again. as i trusted that i might have sufficient influence with miss jellyby to prevent her taking any very rash step if i fully accepted the confidence she was so willing to place in me, poor girl, i proposed that she and i and peepy should go to the academy and afterwards meet my guardian and ada at miss flite's, whose name i now learnt for the first time. this was on condition that miss jellyby and peepy should come back with us to dinner. the last article of the agreement being joyfully acceded to by both, we smartened peepy up a little with the assistance of a few pins, some soap and water, and a hair-brush, and went out, bending our steps towards newman street, which was very near. i found the academy established in a sufficiently dingy house at the corner of an archway, with busts in all the staircase windows. in the same house there were also established, as i gathered from the plates on the door, a drawing-master, a coal-merchant (there was, certainly, no room for his coals), and a lithographic artist. on the plate which, in size and situation, took precedence of all the rest, i read, mr. turveydrop. the door was open, and the hall was blocked up by a grand piano, a harp, and several other musical instruments in cases, all in progress of removal, and all looking rakish in the daylight. miss jellyby informed me that the academy had been lent, last night, for a concert. we went upstairs--it had been quite a fine house once, when it was anybody's business to keep it clean and fresh, and nobody's business to smoke in it all day--and into mr. turveydrop's great room, which was built out into a mews at the back and was lighted by a skylight. it was a bare, resounding room smelling of stables, with cane forms along the walls, and the walls ornamented at regular intervals with painted lyres and little cut-glass branches for candles, which seemed to be shedding their old-fashioned drops as other branches might shed autumn leaves. several young lady pupils, ranging from thirteen or fourteen years of age to two or three and twenty, were assembled; and i was looking among them for their instructor when caddy, pinching my arm, repeated the ceremony of introduction. "miss summerson, mr. prince turveydrop!" i curtsied to a little blue-eyed fair man of youthful appearance with flaxen hair parted in the middle and curling at the ends all round his head. he had a little fiddle, which we used to call at school a kit, under his left arm, and its little bow in the same hand. his little dancing-shoes were particularly diminutive, and he had a little innocent, feminine manner which not only appealed to me in an amiable way, but made this singular effect upon me, that i received the impression that he was like his mother and that his mother had not been much considered or well used. "i am very happy to see miss jellyby's friend," he said, bowing low to me. "i began to fear," with timid tenderness, "as it was past the usual time, that miss jellyby was not coming." "i beg you will have the goodness to attribute that to me, who have detained her, and to receive my excuses, sir," said i. "oh, dear!" said he. "and pray," i entreated, "do not allow me to be the cause of any more delay." with that apology i withdrew to a seat between peepy (who, being well used to it, had already climbed into a corner place) and an old lady of a censorious countenance whose two nieces were in the class and who was very indignant with peepy's boots. prince turveydrop then tinkled the strings of his kit with his fingers, and the young ladies stood up to dance. just then there appeared from a side-door old mr. turveydrop, in the full lustre of his deportment. he was a fat old gentleman with a false complexion, false teeth, false whiskers, and a wig. he had a fur collar, and he had a padded breast to his coat, which only wanted a star or a broad blue ribbon to be complete. he was pinched in, and swelled out, and got up, and strapped down, as much as he could possibly bear. he had such a neckcloth on (puffing his very eyes out of their natural shape), and his chin and even his ears so sunk into it, that it seemed as though he must inevitably double up if it were cast loose. he had under his arm a hat of great size and weight, shelving downward from the crown to the brim, and in his hand a pair of white gloves with which he flapped it as he stood poised on one leg in a high-shouldered, round-elbowed state of elegance not to be surpassed. he had a cane, he had an eye-glass, he had a snuff-box, he had rings, he had wristbands, he had everything but any touch of nature; he was not like youth, he was not like age, he was not like anything in the world but a model of deportment. "father! a visitor. miss jellyby's friend, miss summerson." "distinguished," said mr. turveydrop, "by miss summerson's presence." as he bowed to me in that tight state, i almost believe i saw creases come into the whites of his eyes. "my father," said the son, aside, to me with quite an affecting belief in him, "is a celebrated character. my father is greatly admired." "go on, prince! go on!" said mr. turveydrop, standing with his back to the fire and waving his gloves condescendingly. "go on, my son!" at this command, or by this gracious permission, the lesson went on. prince turveydrop sometimes played the kit, dancing; sometimes played the piano, standing; sometimes hummed the tune with what little breath he could spare, while he set a pupil right; always conscientiously moved with the least proficient through every step and every part of the figure; and never rested for an instant. his distinguished father did nothing whatever but stand before the fire, a model of deportment. "and he never does anything else," said the old lady of the censorious countenance. "yet would you believe that it's his name on the door-plate?" "his son's name is the same, you know," said i. "he wouldn't let his son have any name if he could take it from him," returned the old lady. "look at the son's dress!" it certainly was plain--threadbare--almost shabby. "yet the father must be garnished and tricked out," said the old lady, "because of his deportment. i'd deport him! transport him would be better!" i felt curious to know more concerning this person. i asked, "does he give lessons in deportment now?" "now!" returned the old lady shortly. "never did." after a moment's consideration, i suggested that perhaps fencing had been his accomplishment. "i don't believe he can fence at all, ma'am," said the old lady. i looked surprised and inquisitive. the old lady, becoming more and more incensed against the master of deportment as she dwelt upon the subject, gave me some particulars of his career, with strong assurances that they were mildly stated. he had married a meek little dancing-mistress, with a tolerable connexion (having never in his life before done anything but deport himself), and had worked her to death, or had, at the best, suffered her to work herself to death, to maintain him in those expenses which were indispensable to his position. at once to exhibit his deportment to the best models and to keep the best models constantly before himself, he had found it necessary to frequent all public places of fashionable and lounging resort, to be seen at brighton and elsewhere at fashionable times, and to lead an idle life in the very best clothes. to enable him to do this, the affectionate little dancing-mistress had toiled and laboured and would have toiled and laboured to that hour if her strength had lasted so long. for the mainspring of the story was that in spite of the man's absorbing selfishness, his wife (overpowered by his deportment) had, to the last, believed in him and had, on her death-bed, in the most moving terms, confided him to their son as one who had an inextinguishable claim upon him and whom he could never regard with too much pride and deference. the son, inheriting his mother's belief, and having the deportment always before him, had lived and grown in the same faith, and now, at thirty years of age, worked for his father twelve hours a day and looked up to him with veneration on the old imaginary pinnacle. "the airs the fellow gives himself!" said my informant, shaking her head at old mr. turveydrop with speechless indignation as he drew on his tight gloves, of course unconscious of the homage she was rendering. "he fully believes he is one of the aristocracy! and he is so condescending to the son he so egregiously deludes that you might suppose him the most virtuous of parents. oh!" said the old lady, apostrophizing him with infinite vehemence. "i could bite you!" i could not help being amused, though i heard the old lady out with feelings of real concern. it was difficult to doubt her with the father and son before me. what i might have thought of them without the old lady's account, or what i might have thought of the old lady's account without them, i cannot say. there was a fitness of things in the whole that carried conviction with it. my eyes were yet wandering, from young mr. turveydrop working so hard, to old mr. turveydrop deporting himself so beautifully, when the latter came ambling up to me and entered into conversation. he asked me, first of all, whether i conferred a charm and a distinction on london by residing in it? i did not think it necessary to reply that i was perfectly aware i should not do that, in any case, but merely told him where i did reside. "a lady so graceful and accomplished," he said, kissing his right glove and afterwards extending it towards the pupils, "will look leniently on the deficiencies here. we do our best to polish--polish--polish!" he sat down beside me, taking some pains to sit on the form, i thought, in imitation of the print of his illustrious model on the sofa. and really he did look very like it. "to polish--polish--polish!" he repeated, taking a pinch of snuff and gently fluttering his fingers. "but we are not, if i may say so to one formed to be graceful both by nature and art--" with the high-shouldered bow, which it seemed impossible for him to make without lifting up his eyebrows and shutting his eyes "--we are not what we used to be in point of deportment." "are we not, sir?" said i. "we have degenerated," he returned, shaking his head, which he could do to a very limited extent in his cravat. "a levelling age is not favourable to deportment. it develops vulgarity. perhaps i speak with some little partiality. it may not be for me to say that i have been called, for some years now, gentleman turveydrop, or that his royal highness the prince regent did me the honour to inquire, on my removing my hat as he drove out of the pavilion at brighton (that fine building), 'who is he? who the devil is he? why don't i know him? why hasn't he thirty thousand a year?' but these are little matters of anecdote--the general property, ma'am--still repeated occasionally among the upper classes." "indeed?" said i. he replied with the high-shouldered bow. "where what is left among us of deportment," he added, "still lingers. england--alas, my country!--has degenerated very much, and is degenerating every day. she has not many gentlemen left. we are few. i see nothing to succeed us but a race of weavers." "one might hope that the race of gentlemen would be perpetuated here," said i. "you are very good." he smiled with a high-shouldered bow again. "you flatter me. but, no--no! i have never been able to imbue my poor boy with that part of his art. heaven forbid that i should disparage my dear child, but he has--no deportment." "he appears to be an excellent master," i observed. "understand me, my dear madam, he is an excellent master. all that can be acquired, he has acquired. all that can be imparted, he can impart. but there are things--" he took another pinch of snuff and made the bow again, as if to add, "this kind of thing, for instance." i glanced towards the centre of the room, where miss jellyby's lover, now engaged with single pupils, was undergoing greater drudgery than ever. "my amiable child," murmured mr. turveydrop, adjusting his cravat. "your son is indefatigable," said i. "it is my reward," said mr. turveydrop, "to hear you say so. in some respects, he treads in the footsteps of his sainted mother. she was a devoted creature. but wooman, lovely wooman," said mr. turveydrop with very disagreeable gallantry, "what a sex you are!" i rose and joined miss jellyby, who was by this time putting on her bonnet. the time allotted to a lesson having fully elapsed, there was a general putting on of bonnets. when miss jellyby and the unfortunate prince found an opportunity to become betrothed i don't know, but they certainly found none on this occasion to exchange a dozen words. "my dear," said mr. turveydrop benignly to his son, "do you know the hour?" "no, father." the son had no watch. the father had a handsome gold one, which he pulled out with an air that was an example to mankind. "my son," said he, "it's two o'clock. recollect your school at kensington at three." "that's time enough for me, father," said prince. "i can take a morsel of dinner standing and be off." "my dear boy," returned his father, "you must be very quick. you will find the cold mutton on the table." "thank you, father. are you off now, father?" "yes, my dear. i suppose," said mr. turveydrop, shutting his eyes and lifting up his shoulders with modest consciousness, "that i must show myself, as usual, about town." "you had better dine out comfortably somewhere," said his son. "my dear child, i intend to. i shall take my little meal, i think, at the french house, in the opera colonnade." "that's right. good-bye, father!" said prince, shaking hands. "good-bye, my son. bless you!" mr. turveydrop said this in quite a pious manner, and it seemed to do his son good, who, in parting from him, was so pleased with him, so dutiful to him, and so proud of him that i almost felt as if it were an unkindness to the younger man not to be able to believe implicitly in the elder. the few moments that were occupied by prince in taking leave of us (and particularly of one of us, as i saw, being in the secret), enhanced my favourable impression of his almost childish character. i felt a liking for him and a compassion for him as he put his little kit in his pocket--and with it his desire to stay a little while with caddy--and went away good-humouredly to his cold mutton and his school at kensington, that made me scarcely less irate with his father than the censorious old lady. the father opened the room door for us and bowed us out in a manner, i must acknowledge, worthy of his shining original. in the same style he presently passed us on the other side of the street, on his way to the aristocratic part of the town, where he was going to show himself among the few other gentlemen left. for some moments, i was so lost in reconsidering what i had heard and seen in newman street that i was quite unable to talk to caddy or even to fix my attention on what she said to me, especially when i began to inquire in my mind whether there were, or ever had been, any other gentlemen, not in the dancing profession, who lived and founded a reputation entirely on their deportment. this became so bewildering and suggested the possibility of so many mr. turveydrops that i said, "esther, you must make up your mind to abandon this subject altogether and attend to caddy." i accordingly did so, and we chatted all the rest of the way to lincoln's inn. caddy told me that her lover's education had been so neglected that it was not always easy to read his notes. she said if he were not so anxious about his spelling and took less pains to make it clear, he would do better; but he put so many unnecessary letters into short words that they sometimes quite lost their english appearance. "he does it with the best intention," observed caddy, "but it hasn't the effect he means, poor fellow!" caddy then went on to reason, how could he be expected to be a scholar when he had passed his whole life in the dancing-school and had done nothing but teach and fag, fag and teach, morning, noon, and night! and what did it matter? she could write letters enough for both, as she knew to her cost, and it was far better for him to be amiable than learned. "besides, it's not as if i was an accomplished girl who had any right to give herself airs," said caddy. "i know little enough, i am sure, thanks to ma! "there's another thing i want to tell you, now we are alone," continued caddy, "which i should not have liked to mention unless you had seen prince, miss summerson. you know what a house ours is. it's of no use my trying to learn anything that it would be useful for prince's wife to know in our house. we live in such a state of muddle that it's impossible, and i have only been more disheartened whenever i have tried. so i get a little practice with--who do you think? poor miss flite! early in the morning i help her to tidy her room and clean her birds, and i make her cup of coffee for her (of course she taught me), and i have learnt to make it so well that prince says it's the very best coffee he ever tasted, and would quite delight old mr. turveydrop, who is very particular indeed about his coffee. i can make little puddings too; and i know how to buy neck of mutton, and tea, and sugar, and butter, and a good many housekeeping things. i am not clever at my needle, yet," said caddy, glancing at the repairs on peepy's frock, "but perhaps i shall improve, and since i have been engaged to prince and have been doing all this, i have felt better-tempered, i hope, and more forgiving to ma. it rather put me out at first this morning to see you and miss clare looking so neat and pretty and to feel ashamed of peepy and myself too, but on the whole i hope i am better-tempered than i was and more forgiving to ma." the poor girl, trying so hard, said it from her heart, and touched mine. "caddy, my love," i replied, "i begin to have a great affection for you, and i hope we shall become friends." "oh, do you?" cried caddy. "how happy that would make me!" "my dear caddy," said i, "let us be friends from this time, and let us often have a chat about these matters and try to find the right way through them." caddy was overjoyed. i said everything i could in my old-fashioned way to comfort and encourage her, and i would not have objected to old mr. turveydrop that day for any smaller consideration than a settlement on his daughter-in-law. by this time we were come to mr. krook's, whose private door stood open. there was a bill, pasted on the door-post, announcing a room to let on the second floor. it reminded caddy to tell me as we proceeded upstairs that there had been a sudden death there and an inquest and that our little friend had been ill of the fright. the door and window of the vacant room being open, we looked in. it was the room with the dark door to which miss flite had secretly directed my attention when i was last in the house. a sad and desolate place it was, a gloomy, sorrowful place that gave me a strange sensation of mournfulness and even dread. "you look pale," said caddy when we came out, "and cold!" i felt as if the room had chilled me. we had walked slowly while we were talking, and my guardian and ada were here before us. we found them in miss flite's garret. they were looking at the birds, while a medical gentleman who was so good as to attend miss flite with much solicitude and compassion spoke with her cheerfully by the fire. "i have finished my professional visit," he said, coming forward. "miss flite is much better and may appear in court (as her mind is set upon it) to-morrow. she has been greatly missed there, i understand." miss flite received the compliment with complacency and dropped a general curtsy to us. "honoured, indeed," said she, "by another visit from the wards in jarndyce! ve-ry happy to receive jarndyce of bleak house beneath my humble roof!" with a special curtsy. "fitz-jarndyce, my dear"--she had bestowed that name on caddy, it appeared, and always called her by it--"a double welcome!" "has she been very ill?" asked mr. jarndyce of the gentleman whom we had found in attendance on her. she answered for herself directly, though he had put the question in a whisper. "oh, decidedly unwell! oh, very unwell indeed," she said confidentially. "not pain, you know--trouble. not bodily so much as nervous, nervous! the truth is," in a subdued voice and trembling, "we have had death here. there was poison in the house. i am very susceptible to such horrid things. it frightened me. only mr. woodcourt knows how much. my physician, mr. woodcourt!" with great stateliness. "the wards in jarndyce--jarndyce of bleak house--fitz-jarndyce!" "miss flite," said mr. woodcourt in a grave kind of voice, as if he were appealing to her while speaking to us, and laying his hand gently on her arm, "miss flite describes her illness with her usual accuracy. she was alarmed by an occurrence in the house which might have alarmed a stronger person, and was made ill by the distress and agitation. she brought me here in the first hurry of the discovery, though too late for me to be of any use to the unfortunate man. i have compensated myself for that disappointment by coming here since and being of some small use to her." "the kindest physician in the college," whispered miss flite to me. "i expect a judgment. on the day of judgment. and shall then confer estates." "she will be as well in a day or two," said mr. woodcourt, looking at her with an observant smile, "as she ever will be. in other words, quite well of course. have you heard of her good fortune?" "most extraordinary!" said miss flite, smiling brightly. "you never heard of such a thing, my dear! every saturday, conversation kenge or guppy (clerk to conversation k.) places in my hand a paper of shillings. shillings. i assure you! always the same number in the paper. always one for every day in the week. now you know, really! so well-timed, is it not? ye-es! from whence do these papers come, you say? that is the great question. naturally. shall i tell you what i think? i think," said miss flite, drawing herself back with a very shrewd look and shaking her right forefinger in a most significant manner, "that the lord chancellor, aware of the length of time during which the great seal has been open (for it has been open a long time!), forwards them. until the judgment i expect is given. now that's very creditable, you know. to confess in that way that he is a little slow for human life. so delicate! attending court the other day--i attend it regularly, with my documents--i taxed him with it, and he almost confessed. that is, i smiled at him from my bench, and he smiled at me from his bench. but it's great good fortune, is it not? and fitz-jarndyce lays the money out for me to great advantage. oh, i assure you to the greatest advantage!" i congratulated her (as she addressed herself to me) upon this fortunate addition to her income and wished her a long continuance of it. i did not speculate upon the source from which it came or wonder whose humanity was so considerate. my guardian stood before me, contemplating the birds, and i had no need to look beyond him. "and what do you call these little fellows, ma'am?" said he in his pleasant voice. "have they any names?" "i can answer for miss flite that they have," said i, "for she promised to tell us what they were. ada remembers?" ada remembered very well. "did i?" said miss flite. "who's that at my door? what are you listening at my door for, krook?" the old man of the house, pushing it open before him, appeared there with his fur cap in his hand and his cat at his heels. "i warn't listening, miss flite," he said, "i was going to give a rap with my knuckles, only you're so quick!" "make your cat go down. drive her away!" the old lady angrily exclaimed. "bah, bah! there ain't no danger, gentlefolks," said mr. krook, looking slowly and sharply from one to another until he had looked at all of us; "she'd never offer at the birds when i was here unless i told her to it." "you will excuse my landlord," said the old lady with a dignified air. "m, quite m! what do you want, krook, when i have company?" "hi!" said the old man. "you know i am the chancellor." "well?" returned miss flite. "what of that?" "for the chancellor," said the old man with a chuckle, "not to be acquainted with a jarndyce is queer, ain't it, miss flite? mightn't i take the liberty? your servant, sir. i know jarndyce and jarndyce a'most as well as you do, sir. i knowed old squire tom, sir. i never to my knowledge see you afore though, not even in court. yet, i go there a mortal sight of times in the course of the year, taking one day with another." "i never go there," said mr. jarndyce (which he never did on any consideration). "i would sooner go--somewhere else." "would you though?" returned krook, grinning. "you're bearing hard upon my noble and learned brother in your meaning, sir, though perhaps it is but nat'ral in a jarndyce. the burnt child, sir! what, you're looking at my lodger's birds, mr. jarndyce?" the old man had come by little and little into the room until he now touched my guardian with his elbow and looked close up into his face with his spectacled eyes. "it's one of her strange ways that she'll never tell the names of these birds if she can help it, though she named 'em all." this was in a whisper. "shall i run 'em over, flite?" he asked aloud, winking at us and pointing at her as she turned away, affecting to sweep the grate. "if you like," she answered hurriedly. the old man, looking up at the cages after another look at us, went through the list. "hope, joy, youth, peace, rest, life, dust, ashes, waste, want, ruin, despair, madness, death, cunning, folly, words, wigs, rags, sheepskin, plunder, precedent, jargon, gammon, and spinach. that's the whole collection," said the old man, "all cooped up together, by my noble and learned brother." "this is a bitter wind!" muttered my guardian. "when my noble and learned brother gives his judgment, they're to be let go free," said krook, winking at us again. "and then," he added, whispering and grinning, "if that ever was to happen--which it won't--the birds that have never been caged would kill 'em." "if ever the wind was in the east," said my guardian, pretending to look out of the window for a weathercock, "i think it's there to-day!" we found it very difficult to get away from the house. it was not miss flite who detained us; she was as reasonable a little creature in consulting the convenience of others as there possibly could be. it was mr. krook. he seemed unable to detach himself from mr. jarndyce. if he had been linked to him, he could hardly have attended him more closely. he proposed to show us his court of chancery and all the strange medley it contained; during the whole of our inspection (prolonged by himself) he kept close to mr. jarndyce and sometimes detained him under one pretence or other until we had passed on, as if he were tormented by an inclination to enter upon some secret subject which he could not make up his mind to approach. i cannot imagine a countenance and manner more singularly expressive of caution and indecision, and a perpetual impulse to do something he could not resolve to venture on, than mr. krook's was that day. his watchfulness of my guardian was incessant. he rarely removed his eyes from his face. if he went on beside him, he observed him with the slyness of an old white fox. if he went before, he looked back. when we stood still, he got opposite to him, and drawing his hand across and across his open mouth with a curious expression of a sense of power, and turning up his eyes, and lowering his grey eyebrows until they appeared to be shut, seemed to scan every lineament of his face. at last, having been (always attended by the cat) all over the house and having seen the whole stock of miscellaneous lumber, which was certainly curious, we came into the back part of the shop. here on the head of an empty barrel stood on end were an ink-bottle, some old stumps of pens, and some dirty playbills; and against the wall were pasted several large printed alphabets in several plain hands. "what are you doing here?" asked my guardian. "trying to learn myself to read and write," said krook. "and how do you get on?" "slow. bad," returned the old man impatiently. "it's hard at my time of life." "it would be easier to be taught by some one," said my guardian. "aye, but they might teach me wrong!" returned the old man with a wonderfully suspicious flash of his eye. "i don't know what i may have lost by not being learned afore. i wouldn't like to lose anything by being learned wrong now." "wrong?" said my guardian with his good-humoured smile. "who do you suppose would teach you wrong?" "i don't know, mr. jarndyce of bleak house!" replied the old man, turning up his spectacles on his forehead and rubbing his hands. "i don't suppose as anybody would, but i'd rather trust my own self than another!" these answers and his manner were strange enough to cause my guardian to inquire of mr. woodcourt, as we all walked across lincoln's inn together, whether mr. krook were really, as his lodger represented him, deranged. the young surgeon replied, no, he had seen no reason to think so. he was exceedingly distrustful, as ignorance usually was, and he was always more or less under the influence of raw gin, of which he drank great quantities and of which he and his back-shop, as we might have observed, smelt strongly; but he did not think him mad as yet. on our way home, i so conciliated peepy's affections by buying him a windmill and two flour-sacks that he would suffer nobody else to take off his hat and gloves and would sit nowhere at dinner but at my side. caddy sat upon the other side of me, next to ada, to whom we imparted the whole history of the engagement as soon as we got back. we made much of caddy, and peepy too; and caddy brightened exceedingly; and my guardian was as merry as we were; and we were all very happy indeed until caddy went home at night in a hackney-coach, with peepy fast asleep, but holding tight to the windmill. i have forgotten to mention--at least i have not mentioned--that mr. woodcourt was the same dark young surgeon whom we had met at mr. badger's. or that mr. jarndyce invited him to dinner that day. or that he came. or that when they were all gone and i said to ada, "now, my darling, let us have a little talk about richard!" ada laughed and said-- but i don't think it matters what my darling said. she was always merry. chapter xv bell yard while we were in london mr. jarndyce was constantly beset by the crowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings had so much astonished us. mr. quale, who presented himself soon after our arrival, was in all such excitements. he seemed to project those two shining knobs of temples of his into everything that went on and to brush his hair farther and farther back, until the very roots were almost ready to fly out of his head in inappeasable philanthropy. all objects were alike to him, but he was always particularly ready for anything in the way of a testimonial to any one. his great power seemed to be his power of indiscriminate admiration. he would sit for any length of time, with the utmost enjoyment, bathing his temples in the light of any order of luminary. having first seen him perfectly swallowed up in admiration of mrs. jellyby, i had supposed her to be the absorbing object of his devotion. i soon discovered my mistake and found him to be train-bearer and organ-blower to a whole procession of people. mrs. pardiggle came one day for a subscription to something, and with her, mr. quale. whatever mrs. pardiggle said, mr. quale repeated to us; and just as he had drawn mrs. jellyby out, he drew mrs. pardiggle out. mrs. pardiggle wrote a letter of introduction to my guardian in behalf of her eloquent friend mr. gusher. with mr. gusher appeared mr. quale again. mr. gusher, being a flabby gentleman with a moist surface and eyes so much too small for his moon of a face that they seemed to have been originally made for somebody else, was not at first sight prepossessing; yet he was scarcely seated before mr. quale asked ada and me, not inaudibly, whether he was not a great creature--which he certainly was, flabbily speaking, though mr. quale meant in intellectual beauty--and whether we were not struck by his massive configuration of brow. in short, we heard of a great many missions of various sorts among this set of people, but nothing respecting them was half so clear to us as that it was mr. quale's mission to be in ecstasies with everybody else's mission and that it was the most popular mission of all. mr. jarndyce had fallen into this company in the tenderness of his heart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power; but that he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory company, where benevolence took spasmodic forms, where charity was assumed as a regular uniform by loud professors and speculators in cheap notoriety, vehement in profession, restless and vain in action, servile in the last degree of meanness to the great, adulatory of one another, and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly to help the weak from failing rather than with a great deal of bluster and self-laudation to raise them up a little way when they were down, he plainly told us. when a testimonial was originated to mr. quale by mr. gusher (who had already got one, originated by mr. quale), and when mr. gusher spoke for an hour and a half on the subject to a meeting, including two charity schools of small boys and girls, who were specially reminded of the widow's mite, and requested to come forward with halfpence and be acceptable sacrifices, i think the wind was in the east for three whole weeks. i mention this because i am coming to mr. skimpole again. it seemed to me that his off-hand professions of childishness and carelessness were a great relief to my guardian, by contrast with such things, and were the more readily believed in since to find one perfectly undesigning and candid man among many opposites could not fail to give him pleasure. i should be sorry to imply that mr. skimpole divined this and was politic; i really never understood him well enough to know. what he was to my guardian, he certainly was to the rest of the world. he had not been very well; and thus, though he lived in london, we had seen nothing of him until now. he appeared one morning in his usual agreeable way and as full of pleasant spirits as ever. well, he said, here he was! he had been bilious, but rich men were often bilious, and therefore he had been persuading himself that he was a man of property. so he was, in a certain point of view--in his expansive intentions. he had been enriching his medical attendant in the most lavish manner. he had always doubled, and sometimes quadrupled, his fees. he had said to the doctor, "now, my dear doctor, it is quite a delusion on your part to suppose that you attend me for nothing. i am overwhelming you with money--in my expansive intentions--if you only knew it!" and really (he said) he meant it to that degree that he thought it much the same as doing it. if he had had those bits of metal or thin paper to which mankind attached so much importance to put in the doctor's hand, he would have put them in the doctor's hand. not having them, he substituted the will for the deed. very well! if he really meant it--if his will were genuine and real, which it was--it appeared to him that it was the same as coin, and cancelled the obligation. "it may be, partly, because i know nothing of the value of money," said mr. skimpole, "but i often feel this. it seems so reasonable! my butcher says to me he wants that little bill. it's a part of the pleasant unconscious poetry of the man's nature that he always calls it a 'little' bill--to make the payment appear easy to both of us. i reply to the butcher, 'my good friend, if you knew it, you are paid. you haven't had the trouble of coming to ask for the little bill. you are paid. i mean it.'" "but, suppose," said my guardian, laughing, "he had meant the meat in the bill, instead of providing it?" "my dear jarndyce," he returned, "you surprise me. you take the butcher's position. a butcher i once dealt with occupied that very ground. says he, 'sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eighteen pence a pound?' 'why did i eat spring lamb at eighteen pence a pound, my honest friend?' said i, naturally amazed by the question. 'i like spring lamb!' this was so far convincing. 'well, sir,' says he, 'i wish i had meant the lamb as you mean the money!' 'my good fellow,' said i, 'pray let us reason like intellectual beings. how could that be? it was impossible. you had got the lamb, and i have not got the money. you couldn't really mean the lamb without sending it in, whereas i can, and do, really mean the money without paying it!' he had not a word. there was an end of the subject." "did he take no legal proceedings?" inquired my guardian. "yes, he took legal proceedings," said mr. skimpole. "but in that he was influenced by passion, not by reason. passion reminds me of boythorn. he writes me that you and the ladies have promised him a short visit at his bachelor-house in lincolnshire." "he is a great favourite with my girls," said mr. jarndyce, "and i have promised for them." "nature forgot to shade him off, i think," observed mr. skimpole to ada and me. "a little too boisterous--like the sea. a little too vehement--like a bull who has made up his mind to consider every colour scarlet. but i grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit in him!" i should have been surprised if those two could have thought very highly of one another, mr. boythorn attaching so much importance to many things and mr. skimpole caring so little for anything. besides which, i had noticed mr. boythorn more than once on the point of breaking out into some strong opinion when mr. skimpole was referred to. of course i merely joined ada in saying that we had been greatly pleased with him. "he has invited me," said mr. skimpole; "and if a child may trust himself in such hands--which the present child is encouraged to do, with the united tenderness of two angels to guard him--i shall go. he proposes to frank me down and back again. i suppose it will cost money? shillings perhaps? or pounds? or something of that sort? by the by, coavinses. you remember our friend coavinses, miss summerson?" he asked me as the subject arose in his mind, in his graceful, light-hearted manner and without the least embarrassment. "oh, yes!" said i. "coavinses has been arrested by the great bailiff," said mr. skimpole. "he will never do violence to the sunshine any more." it quite shocked me to hear it, for i had already recalled with anything but a serious association the image of the man sitting on the sofa that night wiping his head. "his successor informed me of it yesterday," said mr. skimpole. "his successor is in my house now--in possession, i think he calls it. he came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter's birthday. i put it to him, 'this is unreasonable and inconvenient. if you had a blue-eyed daughter you wouldn't like me to come, uninvited, on her birthday?' but he stayed." mr. skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity and lightly touched the piano by which he was seated. "and he told me," he said, playing little chords where i shall put full stops, "the coavinses had left. three children. no mother. and that coavinses' profession. being unpopular. the rising coavinses. were at a considerable disadvantage." mr. jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk about. mr. skimpole played the melody of one of ada's favourite songs. ada and i both looked at mr. jarndyce, thinking that we knew what was passing in his mind. after walking and stopping, and several times leaving off rubbing his head, and beginning again, my guardian put his hand upon the keys and stopped mr. skimpole's playing. "i don't like this, skimpole," he said thoughtfully. mr. skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked up surprised. "the man was necessary," pursued my guardian, walking backward and forward in the very short space between the piano and the end of the room and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if a high east wind had blown it into that form. "if we make such men necessary by our faults and follies, or by our want of worldly knowledge, or by our misfortunes, we must not revenge ourselves upon them. there was no harm in his trade. he maintained his children. one would like to know more about this." "oh! coavinses?" cried mr. skimpole, at length perceiving what he meant. "nothing easier. a walk to coavinses' headquarters, and you can know what you will." mr. jarndyce nodded to us, who were only waiting for the signal. "come! we will walk that way, my dears. why not that way as soon as another!" we were quickly ready and went out. mr. skimpole went with us and quite enjoyed the expedition. it was so new and so refreshing, he said, for him to want coavinses instead of coavinses wanting him! he took us, first, to cursitor street, chancery lane, where there was a house with barred windows, which he called coavinses' castle. on our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very hideous boy came out of a sort of office and looked at us over a spiked wicket. "who did you want?" said the boy, fitting two of the spikes into his chin. "there was a follower, or an officer, or something, here," said mr. jarndyce, "who is dead." "yes?" said the boy. "well?" "i want to know his name, if you please?" "name of neckett," said the boy. "and his address?" "bell yard," said the boy. "chandler's shop, left hand side, name of blinder." "was he--i don't know how to shape the question--" murmured my guardian, "industrious?" "was neckett?" said the boy. "yes, wery much so. he was never tired of watching. he'd set upon a post at a street corner eight or ten hours at a stretch if he undertook to do it." "he might have done worse," i heard my guardian soliloquize. "he might have undertaken to do it and not done it. thank you. that's all i want." we left the boy, with his head on one side and his arms on the gate, fondling and sucking the spikes, and went back to lincoln's inn, where mr. skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearer coavinses, awaited us. then we all went to bell yard, a narrow alley at a very short distance. we soon found the chandler's shop. in it was a good-natured-looking old woman with a dropsy, or an asthma, or perhaps both. "neckett's children?" said she in reply to my inquiry. "yes, surely, miss. three pair, if you please. door right opposite the stairs." and she handed me the key across the counter. i glanced at the key and glanced at her, but she took it for granted that i knew what to do with it. as it could only be intended for the children's door, i came out without asking any more questions and led the way up the dark stairs. we went as quietly as we could, but four of us made some noise on the aged boards, and when we came to the second story we found we had disturbed a man who was standing there looking out of his room. "is it gridley that's wanted?" he said, fixing his eyes on me with an angry stare. "no, sir," said i; "i am going higher up." he looked at ada, and at mr. jarndyce, and at mr. skimpole, fixing the same angry stare on each in succession as they passed and followed me. mr. jarndyce gave him good day. "good day!" he said abruptly and fiercely. he was a tall, sallow man with a careworn head on which but little hair remained, a deeply lined face, and prominent eyes. he had a combative look and a chafing, irritable manner which, associated with his figure--still large and powerful, though evidently in its decline--rather alarmed me. he had a pen in his hand, and in the glimpse i caught of his room in passing, i saw that it was covered with a litter of papers. leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. i tapped at the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, "we are locked in. mrs. blinder's got the key!" i applied the key on hearing this and opened the door. in a poor room with a sloping ceiling and containing very little furniture was a mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and hushing a heavy child of eighteen months. there was no fire, though the weather was cold; both children were wrapped in some poor shawls and tippets as a substitute. their clothing was not so warm, however, but that their noses looked red and pinched and their small figures shrunken as the boy walked up and down nursing and hushing the child with its head on his shoulder. "who has locked you up here alone?" we naturally asked. "charley," said the boy, standing still to gaze at us. "is charley your brother?" "no. she's my sister, charlotte. father called her charley." "are there any more of you besides charley?" "me," said the boy, "and emma," patting the limp bonnet of the child he was nursing. "and charley." "where is charley now?" "out a-washing," said the boy, beginning to walk up and down again and taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead by trying to gaze at us at the same time. we were looking at one another and at these two children when there came into the room a very little girl, childish in figure but shrewd and older-looking in the face--pretty-faced too--wearing a womanly sort of bonnet much too large for her and drying her bare arms on a womanly sort of apron. her fingers were white and wrinkled with washing, and the soap-suds were yet smoking which she wiped off her arms. but for this, she might have been a child playing at washing and imitating a poor working-woman with a quick observation of the truth. she had come running from some place in the neighbourhood and had made all the haste she could. consequently, though she was very light, she was out of breath and could not speak at first, as she stood panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly at us. "oh, here's charley!" said the boy. the child he was nursing stretched forth its arms and cried out to be taken by charley. the little girl took it, in a womanly sort of manner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking at us over the burden that clung to her most affectionately. "is it possible," whispered my guardian as we put a chair for the little creature and got her to sit down with her load, the boy keeping close to her, holding to her apron, "that this child works for the rest? look at this! for god's sake, look at this!" it was a thing to look at. the three children close together, and two of them relying solely on the third, and the third so young and yet with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on the childish figure. "charley, charley!" said my guardian. "how old are you?" "over thirteen, sir," replied the child. "oh! what a great age," said my guardian. "what a great age, charley!" i cannot describe the tenderness with which he spoke to her, half playfully yet all the more compassionately and mournfully. "and do you live alone here with these babies, charley?" said my guardian. "yes, sir," returned the child, looking up into his face with perfect confidence, "since father died." "and how do you live, charley? oh! charley," said my guardian, turning his face away for a moment, "how do you live?" "since father died, sir, i've gone out to work. i'm out washing to-day." "god help you, charley!" said my guardian. "you're not tall enough to reach the tub!" "in pattens i am, sir," she said quickly. "i've got a high pair as belonged to mother." "and when did mother die? poor mother!" "mother died just after emma was born," said the child, glancing at the face upon her bosom. "then father said i was to be as good a mother to her as i could. and so i tried. and so i worked at home and did cleaning and nursing and washing for a long time before i began to go out. and that's how i know how; don't you see, sir?" "and do you often go out?" "as often as i can," said charley, opening her eyes and smiling, "because of earning sixpences and shillings!" "and do you always lock the babies up when you go out?" "to keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see?" said charley. "mrs. blinder comes up now and then, and mr. gridley comes up sometimes, and perhaps i can run in sometimes, and they can play you know, and tom an't afraid of being locked up, are you, tom?" "no-o!" said tom stoutly. "when it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the court, and they show up here quite bright--almost quite bright. don't they, tom?" "yes, charley," said tom, "almost quite bright." "then he's as good as gold," said the little creature--oh, in such a motherly, womanly way! "and when emma's tired, he puts her to bed. and when he's tired he goes to bed himself. and when i come home and light the candle and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and has it with me. don't you, tom?" "oh, yes, charley!" said tom. "that i do!" and either in this glimpse of the great pleasure of his life or in gratitude and love for charley, who was all in all to him, he laid his face among the scanty folds of her frock and passed from laughing into crying. it was the first time since our entry that a tear had been shed among these children. the little orphan girl had spoken of their father and their mother as if all that sorrow were subdued by the necessity of taking courage, and by her childish importance in being able to work, and by her bustling busy way. but now, when tom cried, although she sat quite tranquil, looking quietly at us, and did not by any movement disturb a hair of the head of either of her little charges, i saw two silent tears fall down her face. i stood at the window with ada, pretending to look at the housetops, and the blackened stack of chimneys, and the poor plants, and the birds in little cages belonging to the neighbours, when i found that mrs. blinder, from the shop below, had come in (perhaps it had taken her all this time to get upstairs) and was talking to my guardian. "it's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir," she said; "who could take it from them!" "well, well!" said my guardian to us two. "it is enough that the time will come when this good woman will find that it was much, and that forasmuch as she did it unto the least of these--this child," he added after a few moments, "could she possibly continue this?" "really, sir, i think she might," said mrs. blinder, getting her heavy breath by painful degrees. "she's as handy as it's possible to be. bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children after the mother died was the talk of the yard! and it was a wonder to see her with him after he was took ill, it really was! 'mrs. blinder,' he said to me the very last he spoke--he was lying there--'mrs. blinder, whatever my calling may have been, i see a angel sitting in this room last night along with my child, and i trust her to our father!'" "he had no other calling?" said my guardian. "no, sir," returned mrs. blinder, "he was nothing but a follerers. when he first came to lodge here, i didn't know what he was, and i confess that when i found out i gave him notice. it wasn't liked in the yard. it wasn't approved by the other lodgers. it is not a genteel calling," said mrs. blinder, "and most people do object to it. mr. gridley objected to it very strong, and he is a good lodger, though his temper has been hard tried." "so you gave him notice?" said my guardian. "so i gave him notice," said mrs. blinder. "but really when the time came, and i knew no other ill of him, i was in doubts. he was punctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir," said mrs. blinder, unconsciously fixing mr. skimpole with her eye, "and it's something in this world even to do that." "so you kept him after all?" "why, i said that if he could arrange with mr. gridley, i could arrange it with the other lodgers and should not so much mind its being liked or disliked in the yard. mr. gridley gave his consent gruff--but gave it. he was always gruff with him, but he has been kind to the children since. a person is never known till a person is proved." "have many people been kind to the children?" asked mr. jarndyce. "upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said mrs. blinder; "but certainly not so many as would have been if their father's calling had been different. mr. coavins gave a guinea, and the follerers made up a little purse. some neighbours in the yard that had always joked and tapped their shoulders when he went by came forward with a little subscription, and--in general--not so bad. similarly with charlotte. some people won't employ her because she was a follerer's child; some people that do employ her cast it at her; some make a merit of having her to work for them, with that and all her draw-backs upon her, and perhaps pay her less and put upon her more. but she's patienter than others would be, and is clever too, and always willing, up to the full mark of her strength and over. so i should say, in general, not so bad, sir, but might be better." mrs. blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable opportunity of recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so much talking before it was fully restored. mr. jarndyce was turning to speak to us when his attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into the room of the mr. gridley who had been mentioned and whom we had seen on our way up. "i don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentlemen," he said, as if he resented our presence, "but you'll excuse my coming in. i don't come in to stare about me. well, charley! well, tom! well, little one! how is it with us all to-day?" he bent over the group in a caressing way and clearly was regarded as a friend by the children, though his face retained its stern character and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. my guardian noticed it and respected it. "no one, surely, would come here to stare about him," he said mildly. "may be so, sir, may be so," returned the other, taking tom upon his knee and waving him off impatiently. "i don't want to argue with ladies and gentlemen. i have had enough of arguing to last one man his life." "you have sufficient reason, i dare say," said mr. jarndyce, "for being chafed and irritated--" "there again!" exclaimed the man, becoming violently angry. "i am of a quarrelsome temper. i am irascible. i am not polite!" "not very, i think." "sir," said gridley, putting down the child and going up to him as if he meant to strike him, "do you know anything of courts of equity?" "perhaps i do, to my sorrow." "to your sorrow?" said the man, pausing in his wrath, "if so, i beg your pardon. i am not polite, i know. i beg your pardon! sir," with renewed violence, "i have been dragged for five and twenty years over burning iron, and i have lost the habit of treading upon velvet. go into the court of chancery yonder and ask what is one of the standing jokes that brighten up their business sometimes, and they will tell you that the best joke they have is the man from shropshire. i," he said, beating one hand on the other passionately, "am the man from shropshire." "i believe i and my family have also had the honour of furnishing some entertainment in the same grave place," said my guardian composedly. "you may have heard my name--jarndyce." "mr. jarndyce," said gridley with a rough sort of salutation, "you bear your wrongs more quietly than i can bear mine. more than that, i tell you--and i tell this gentleman, and these young ladies, if they are friends of yours--that if i took my wrongs in any other way, i should be driven mad! it is only by resenting them, and by revenging them in my mind, and by angrily demanding the justice i never get, that i am able to keep my wits together. it is only that!" he said, speaking in a homely, rustic way and with great vehemence. "you may tell me that i over-excite myself. i answer that it's in my nature to do it, under wrong, and i must do it. there's nothing between doing it, and sinking into the smiling state of the poor little mad woman that haunts the court. if i was once to sit down under it, i should become imbecile." the passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in which his face worked, and the violent gestures with which he accompanied what he said, were most painful to see. "mr. jarndyce," he said, "consider my case. as true as there is a heaven above us, this is my case. i am one of two brothers. my father (a farmer) made a will and left his farm and stock and so forth to my mother for her life. after my mother's death, all was to come to me except a legacy of three hundred pounds that i was then to pay my brother. my mother died. my brother some time afterwards claimed his legacy. i and some of my relations said that he had had a part of it already in board and lodging and some other things. now mind! that was the question, and nothing else. no one disputed the will; no one disputed anything but whether part of that three hundred pounds had been already paid or not. to settle that question, my brother filing a bill, i was obliged to go into this accursed chancery; i was forced there because the law forced me and would let me go nowhere else. seventeen people were made defendants to that simple suit! it first came on after two years. it was then stopped for another two years while the master (may his head rot off!) inquired whether i was my father's son, about which there was no dispute at all with any mortal creature. he then found out that there were not defendants enough--remember, there were only seventeen as yet!--but that we must have another who had been left out and must begin all over again. the costs at that time--before the thing was begun!--were three times the legacy. my brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful, to escape more costs. my whole estate, left to me in that will of my father's, has gone in costs. the suit, still undecided, has fallen into rack, and ruin, and despair, with everything else--and here i stand, this day! now, mr. jarndyce, in your suit there are thousands and thousands involved, where in mine there are hundreds. is mine less hard to bear or is it harder to bear, when my whole living was in it and has been thus shamefully sucked away?" mr. jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his heart and that he set up no monopoly himself in being unjustly treated by this monstrous system. "there again!" said mr. gridley with no diminution of his rage. "the system! i am told on all hands, it's the system. i mustn't look to individuals. it's the system. i mustn't go into court and say, 'my lord, i beg to know this from you--is this right or wrong? have you the face to tell me i have received justice and therefore am dismissed?' my lord knows nothing of it. he sits there to administer the system. i mustn't go to mr. tulkinghorn, the solicitor in lincoln's inn fields, and say to him when he makes me furious by being so cool and satisfied--as they all do, for i know they gain by it while i lose, don't i?--i mustn't say to him, 'i will have something out of some one for my ruin, by fair means or foul!' he is not responsible. it's the system. but, if i do no violence to any of them, here--i may! i don't know what may happen if i am carried beyond myself at last! i will accuse the individual workers of that system against me, face to face, before the great eternal bar!" his passion was fearful. i could not have believed in such rage without seeing it. "i have done!" he said, sitting down and wiping his face. "mr. jarndyce, i have done! i am violent, i know. i ought to know it. i have been in prison for contempt of court. i have been in prison for threatening the solicitor. i have been in this trouble, and that trouble, and shall be again. i am the man from shropshire, and i sometimes go beyond amusing them, though they have found it amusing, too, to see me committed into custody and brought up in custody and all that. it would be better for me, they tell me, if i restrained myself. i tell them that if i did restrain myself i should become imbecile. i was a good-enough-tempered man once, i believe. people in my part of the country say they remember me so, but now i must have this vent under my sense of injury or nothing could hold my wits together. it would be far better for you, mr. gridley,' the lord chancellor told me last week, 'not to waste your time here, and to stay, usefully employed, down in shropshire.' 'my lord, my lord, i know it would,' said i to him, 'and it would have been far better for me never to have heard the name of your high office, but unhappily for me, i can't undo the past, and the past drives me here!' besides," he added, breaking fiercely out, "i'll shame them. to the last, i'll show myself in that court to its shame. if i knew when i was going to die, and could be carried there, and had a voice to speak with, i would die there, saying, 'you have brought me here and sent me from here many and many a time. now send me out feet foremost!'" his countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in its contentious expression that it did not soften, even now when he was quiet. "i came to take these babies down to my room for an hour," he said, going to them again, "and let them play about. i didn't mean to say all this, but it don't much signify. you're not afraid of me, tom, are you?" "no!" said tom. "you ain't angry with me." "you are right, my child. you're going back, charley? aye? come then, little one!" he took the youngest child on his arm, where she was willing enough to be carried. "i shouldn't wonder if we found a ginger-bread soldier downstairs. let's go and look for him!" he made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient in a certain respect, to mr. jarndyce, and bowing slightly to us, went downstairs to his room. upon that, mr. skimpole began to talk, for the first time since our arrival, in his usual gay strain. he said, well, it was really very pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to purposes. here was this mr. gridley, a man of a robust will and surprising energy--intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmonious blacksmith--and he could easily imagine that there gridley was, years ago, wandering about in life for something to expend his superfluous combativeness upon--a sort of young love among the thorns--when the court of chancery came in his way and accommodated him with the exact thing he wanted. there they were, matched, ever afterwards! otherwise he might have been a great general, blowing up all sorts of towns, or he might have been a great politician, dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric; but as it was, he and the court of chancery had fallen upon each other in the pleasantest way, and nobody was much the worse, and gridley was, so to speak, from that hour provided for. then look at coavinses! how delightfully poor coavinses (father of these charming children) illustrated the same principle! he, mr. skimpole, himself, had sometimes repined at the existence of coavinses. he had found coavinses in his way. he could had dispensed with coavinses. there had been times when, if he had been a sultan, and his grand vizier had said one morning, "what does the commander of the faithful require at the hands of his slave?" he might have even gone so far as to reply, "the head of coavinses!" but what turned out to be the case? that, all that time, he had been giving employment to a most deserving man, that he had been a benefactor to coavinses, that he had actually been enabling coavinses to bring up these charming children in this agreeable way, developing these social virtues! insomuch that his heart had just now swelled and the tears had come into his eyes when he had looked round the room and thought, "i was the great patron of coavinses, and his little comforts were my work!" there was something so captivating in his light way of touching these fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful child by the side of the graver childhood we had seen, that he made my guardian smile even as he turned towards us from a little private talk with mrs. blinder. we kissed charley, and took her downstairs with us, and stopped outside the house to see her run away to her work. i don't know where she was going, but we saw her run, such a little, little creature in her womanly bonnet and apron, through a covered way at the bottom of the court and melt into the city's strife and sound like a dewdrop in an ocean. chapter xvi tom-all-alone's my lady dedlock is restless, very restless. the astonished fashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. to-day she is at chesney wold; yesterday she was at her house in town; to-morrow she may be abroad, for anything the fashionable intelligence can with confidence predict. even sir leicester's gallantry has some trouble to keep pace with her. it would have more but that his other faithful ally, for better and for worse--the gout--darts into the old oak bed-chamber at chesney wold and grips him by both legs. sir leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still a demon of the patrician order. all the dedlocks, in the direct male line, through a course of time during and beyond which the memory of man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. it can be proved, sir. other men's fathers may have died of the rheumatism or may have taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick vulgar, but the dedlock family have communicated something exclusive even to the levelling process of dying by dying of their own family gout. it has come down through the illustrious line like the plate, or the pictures, or the place in lincolnshire. it is among their dignities. sir leicester is perhaps not wholly without an impression, though he has never resolved it into words, that the angel of death in the discharge of his necessary duties may observe to the shades of the aristocracy, "my lords and gentlemen, i have the honour to present to you another dedlock certified to have arrived per the family gout." hence sir leicester yields up his family legs to the family disorder as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure. he feels that for a dedlock to be laid upon his back and spasmodically twitched and stabbed in his extremities is a liberty taken somewhere, but he thinks, "we have all yielded to this; it belongs to us; it has for some hundreds of years been understood that we are not to make the vaults in the park interesting on more ignoble terms; and i submit myself to the compromise." and a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold in the midst of the great drawing-room before his favourite picture of my lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with soft reliefs of shadow. outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages in the green ground which has never known ploughshare, but was still a chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield and rode a-hunting with bow and arrow, bear witness to his greatness. inside, his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, "each of us was a passing reality here and left this coloured shadow of himself and melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voices of the rooks now lulling you to rest," and hear their testimony to his greatness too. and he is very great this day. and woe to boythorn or other daring wight who shall presumptuously contest an inch with him! my lady is at present represented, near sir leicester, by her portrait. she has flitted away to town, with no intention of remaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion of the fashionable intelligence. the house in town is not prepared for her reception. it is muffled and dreary. only one mercury in powder gapes disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned last night to another mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed to good society, that if that sort of thing was to last--which it couldn't, for a man of his spirits couldn't bear it, and a man of his figure couldn't be expected to bear it--there would be no resource for him, upon his honour, but to cut his throat! what connexion can there be between the place in lincolnshire, the house in town, the mercury in powder, and the whereabout of jo the outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon him when he swept the churchyard-step? what connexion can there have been between many people in the innumerable histories of this world who from opposite sides of great gulfs have, nevertheless, been very curiously brought together! jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if any link there be. he sums up his mental condition when asked a question by replying that he "don't know nothink." he knows that it's hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and harder still to live by doing it. nobody taught him even that much; he found it out. jo lives--that is to say, jo has not yet died--in a ruinous place known to the like of him by the name of tom-all-alone's. it is a black, dilapidated street, avoided by all decent people, where the crazy houses were seized upon, when their decay was far advanced, by some bold vagrants who after establishing their own possession took to letting them out in lodgings. now, these tumbling tenements contain, by night, a swarm of misery. as on the ruined human wretch vermin parasites appear, so these ruined shelters have bred a crowd of foul existence that crawls in and out of gaps in walls and boards; and coils itself to sleep, in maggot numbers, where the rain drips in; and comes and goes, fetching and carrying fever and sowing more evil in its every footprint than lord coodle, and sir thomas doodle, and the duke of foodle, and all the fine gentlemen in office, down to zoodle, shall set right in five hundred years--though born expressly to do it. twice lately there has been a crash and a cloud of dust, like the springing of a mine, in tom-all-alone's; and each time a house has fallen. these accidents have made a paragraph in the newspapers and have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. the gaps remain, and there are not unpopular lodgings among the rubbish. as several more houses are nearly ready to go, the next crash in tom-all-alone's may be expected to be a good one. this desirable property is in chancery, of course. it would be an insult to the discernment of any man with half an eye to tell him so. whether "tom" is the popular representative of the original plaintiff or defendant in jarndyce and jarndyce, or whether tom lived here when the suit had laid the street waste, all alone, until other settlers came to join him, or whether the traditional title is a comprehensive name for a retreat cut off from honest company and put out of the pale of hope, perhaps nobody knows. certainly jo don't know. "for i don't," says jo, "i don't know nothink." it must be a strange state to be like jo! to shuffle through the streets, unfamiliar with the shapes, and in utter darkness as to the meaning, of those mysterious symbols, so abundant over the shops, and at the corners of streets, and on the doors, and in the windows! to see people read, and to see people write, and to see the postmen deliver letters, and not to have the least idea of all that language--to be, to every scrap of it, stone blind and dumb! it must be very puzzling to see the good company going to the churches on sundays, with their books in their hands, and to think (for perhaps jo does think at odd times) what does it all mean, and if it means anything to anybody, how comes it that it means nothing to me? to be hustled, and jostled, and moved on; and really to feel that it would appear to be perfectly true that i have no business here, or there, or anywhere; and yet to be perplexed by the consideration that i am here somehow, too, and everybody overlooked me until i became the creature that i am! it must be a strange state, not merely to be told that i am scarcely human (as in the case of my offering myself for a witness), but to feel it of my own knowledge all my life! to see the horses, dogs, and cattle go by me and to know that in ignorance i belong to them and not to the superior beings in my shape, whose delicacy i offend! jo's ideas of a criminal trial, or a judge, or a bishop, or a government, or that inestimable jewel to him (if he only knew it) the constitution, should be strange! his whole material and immaterial life is wonderfully strange; his death, the strangest thing of all. jo comes out of tom-all-alone's, meeting the tardy morning which is always late in getting down there, and munches his dirty bit of bread as he comes along. his way lying through many streets, and the houses not yet being open, he sits down to breakfast on the door-step of the society for the propagation of the gospel in foreign parts and gives it a brush when he has finished as an acknowledgment of the accommodation. he admires the size of the edifice and wonders what it's all about. he has no idea, poor wretch, of the spiritual destitution of a coral reef in the pacific or what it costs to look up the precious souls among the coco-nuts and bread-fruit. he goes to his crossing and begins to lay it out for the day. the town awakes; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin and whirl; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has been suspended for a few hours, recommences. jo and the other lower animals get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. it is market-day. the blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, never guided, run into wrong places and are beaten out, and plunge red-eyed and foaming at stone walls, and often sorely hurt the innocent, and often sorely hurt themselves. very like jo and his order; very, very like! a band of music comes and plays. jo listens to it. so does a dog--a drover's dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher's shop, and evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind for some hours and is happily rid of. he seems perplexed respecting three or four, can't remember where he left them, looks up and down the street as half expecting to see them astray, suddenly pricks up his ears and remembers all about it. a thoroughly vagabond dog, accustomed to low company and public-houses; a terrific dog to sheep, ready at a whistle to scamper over their backs and tear out mouthfuls of their wool; but an educated, improved, developed dog who has been taught his duties and knows how to discharge them. he and jo listen to the music, probably with much the same amount of animal satisfaction; likewise as to awakened association, aspiration, or regret, melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses, they are probably upon a par. but, otherwise, how far above the human listener is the brute! turn that dog's descendants wild, like jo, and in a very few years they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark--but not their bite. the day changes as it wears itself away and becomes dark and drizzly. jo fights it out at his crossing among the mud and wheels, the horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty sum to pay for the unsavoury shelter of tom-all-alone's. twilight comes on; gas begins to start up in the shops; the lamplighter, with his ladder, runs along the margin of the pavement. a wretched evening is beginning to close in. in his chambers mr. tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to the nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. gridley, a disappointed suitor, has been here to-day and has been alarming. we are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditioned fellow shall be held to bail again. from the ceiling, foreshortened allegory, in the person of one impossible roman upside down, points with the arm of samson (out of joint, and an odd one) obtrusively toward the window. why should mr. tulkinghorn, for such no reason, look out of window? is the hand not always pointing there? so he does not look out of window. and if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? there are women enough in the world, mr. tulkinghorn thinks--too many; they are at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it, though, for the matter of that, they create business for lawyers. what would it be to see a woman going by, even though she were going secretly? they are all secret. mr. tulkinghorn knows that very well. but they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his house behind, between whose plain dress and her refined manner there is something exceedingly inconsistent. she should be an upper servant by her attire, yet in her air and step, though both are hurried and assumed--as far as she can assume in the muddy streets, which she treads with an unaccustomed foot--she is a lady. her face is veiled, and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than one of those who pass her look round sharply. she never turns her head. lady or servant, she has a purpose in her and can follow it. she never turns her head until she comes to the crossing where jo plies with his broom. he crosses with her and begs. still, she does not turn her head until she has landed on the other side. then she slightly beckons to him and says, "come here!" jo follows her a pace or two into a quiet court. "are you the boy i've read of in the papers?" she asked behind her veil. "i don't know," says jo, staring moodily at the veil, "nothink about no papers. i don't know nothink about nothink at all." "were you examined at an inquest?" "i don't know nothink about no--where i was took by the beadle, do you mean?" says jo. "was the boy's name at the inkwhich jo?" "yes." "that's me!" says jo. "come farther up." "you mean about the man?" says jo, following. "him as wos dead?" "hush! speak in a whisper! yes. did he look, when he was living, so very ill and poor?" "oh, jist!" says jo. "did he look like--not like you?" says the woman with abhorrence. "oh, not so bad as me," says jo. "i'm a reg'lar one i am! you didn't know him, did you?" "how dare you ask me if i knew him?" "no offence, my lady," says jo with much humility, for even he has got at the suspicion of her being a lady. "i am not a lady. i am a servant." "you are a jolly servant!" says jo without the least idea of saying anything offensive, merely as a tribute of admiration. "listen and be silent. don't talk to me, and stand farther from me! can you show me all those places that were spoken of in the account i read? the place he wrote for, the place he died at, the place where you were taken to, and the place where he was buried? do you know the place where he was buried?" jo answers with a nod, having also nodded as each other place was mentioned. "go before me and show me all those dreadful places. stop opposite to each, and don't speak to me unless i speak to you. don't look back. do what i want, and i will pay you well." jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them off on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard; pauses to consider their meaning; considers it satisfactory; and nods his ragged head. "i'm fly," says jo. "but fen larks, you know. stow hooking it!" "what does the horrible creature mean?" exclaims the servant, recoiling from him. "stow cutting away, you know!" says jo. "i don't understand you. go on before! i will give you more money than you ever had in your life." jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a rub, takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way, passing deftly with his bare feet over the hard stones and through the mud and mire. cook's court. jo stops. a pause. "who lives here?" "him wot give him his writing and give me half a bull," says jo in a whisper without looking over his shoulder. "go on to the next." krook's house. jo stops again. a longer pause. "who lives here?" "he lived here," jo answers as before. after a silence he is asked, "in which room?" "in the back room up there. you can see the winder from this corner. up there! that's where i see him stritched out. this is the public-ouse where i was took to." "go on to the next!" it is a longer walk to the next, but jo, relieved of his first suspicions, sticks to the forms imposed upon him and does not look round. by many devious ways, reeking with offence of many kinds, they come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp (lighted now), and to the iron gate. "he was put there," says jo, holding to the bars and looking in. "where? oh, what a scene of horror!" "there!" says jo, pointing. "over yinder. among them piles of bones, and close to that there kitchin winder! they put him wery nigh the top. they was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. i could unkiver it for you with my broom if the gate was open. that's why they locks it, i s'pose," giving it a shake. "it's always locked. look at the rat!" cries jo, excited. "hi! look! there he goes! ho! into the ground!" the servant shrinks into a corner, into a corner of that hideous archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress; and putting out her two hands and passionately telling him to keep away from her, for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some moments. jo stands staring and is still staring when she recovers herself. "is this place of abomination consecrated ground?" "i don't know nothink of consequential ground," says jo, still staring. "is it blessed?" "which?" says jo, in the last degree amazed. "is it blessed?" "i'm blest if i know," says jo, staring more than ever; "but i shouldn't think it warn't. blest?" repeats jo, something troubled in his mind. "it an't done it much good if it is. blest? i should think it was t'othered myself. but i don't know nothink!" the servant takes as little heed of what he says as she seems to take of what she has said herself. she draws off her glove to get some money from her purse. jo silently notices how white and small her hand is and what a jolly servant she must be to wear such sparkling rings. she drops a piece of money in his hand without touching it, and shuddering as their hands approach. "now," she adds, "show me the spot again!" jo thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the gate, and with his utmost power of elaboration, points it out. at length, looking aside to see if he has made himself intelligible, he finds that he is alone. his first proceeding is to hold the piece of money to the gas-light and to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow--gold. his next is to give it a one-sided bite at the edge as a test of its quality. his next, to put it in his mouth for safety and to sweep the step and passage with great care. his job done, he sets off for tom-all-alone's, stopping in the light of innumerable gas-lamps to produce the piece of gold and give it another one-sided bite as a reassurance of its being genuine. the mercury in powder is in no want of society to-night, for my lady goes to a grand dinner and three or four balls. sir leicester is fidgety down at chesney wold, with no better company than the gout; he complains to mrs. rouncewell that the rain makes such a monotonous pattering on the terrace that he can't read the paper even by the fireside in his own snug dressing-room. "sir leicester would have done better to try the other side of the house, my dear," says mrs. rouncewell to rosa. "his dressing-room is on my lady's side. and in all these years i never heard the step upon the ghost's walk more distinct than it is to-night!" chapter xvii esther's narrative richard very often came to see us while we remained in london (though he soon failed in his letter-writing), and with his quick abilities, his good spirits, his good temper, his gaiety and freshness, was always delightful. but though i liked him more and more the better i knew him, i still felt more and more how much it was to be regretted that he had been educated in no habits of application and concentration. the system which had addressed him in exactly the same manner as it had addressed hundreds of other boys, all varying in character and capacity, had enabled him to dash through his tasks, always with fair credit and often with distinction, but in a fitful, dazzling way that had confirmed his reliance on those very qualities in himself which it had been most desirable to direct and train. they were good qualities, without which no high place can be meritoriously won, but like fire and water, though excellent servants, they were very bad masters. if they had been under richard's direction, they would have been his friends; but richard being under their direction, they became his enemies. i write down these opinions not because i believe that this or any other thing was so because i thought so, but only because i did think so and i want to be quite candid about all i thought and did. these were my thoughts about richard. i thought i often observed besides how right my guardian was in what he had said, and that the uncertainties and delays of the chancery suit had imparted to his nature something of the careless spirit of a gamester who felt that he was part of a great gaming system. mr. and mrs. bayham badger coming one afternoon when my guardian was not at home, in the course of conversation i naturally inquired after richard. "why, mr. carstone," said mrs. badger, "is very well and is, i assure you, a great acquisition to our society. captain swosser used to say of me that i was always better than land a-head and a breeze a-starn to the midshipmen's mess when the purser's junk had become as tough as the fore-topsel weather earings. it was his naval way of mentioning generally that i was an acquisition to any society. i may render the same tribute, i am sure, to mr. carstone. but i--you won't think me premature if i mention it?" i said no, as mrs. badger's insinuating tone seemed to require such an answer. "nor miss clare?" said mrs. bayham badger sweetly. ada said no, too, and looked uneasy. "why, you see, my dears," said mrs. badger, "--you'll excuse me calling you my dears?" we entreated mrs. badger not to mention it. "because you really are, if i may take the liberty of saying so," pursued mrs. badger, "so perfectly charming. you see, my dears, that although i am still young--or mr. bayham badger pays me the compliment of saying so--" "no," mr. badger called out like some one contradicting at a public meeting. "not at all!" "very well," smiled mrs. badger, "we will say still young." "undoubtedly," said mr. badger. "my dears, though still young, i have had many opportunities of observing young men. there were many such on board the dear old crippler, i assure you. after that, when i was with captain swosser in the mediterranean, i embraced every opportunity of knowing and befriending the midshipmen under captain swosser's command. you never heard them called the young gentlemen, my dears, and probably would not understand allusions to their pipe-claying their weekly accounts, but it is otherwise with me, for blue water has been a second home to me, and i have been quite a sailor. again, with professor dingo." "a man of european reputation," murmured mr. badger. "when i lost my dear first and became the wife of my dear second," said mrs. badger, speaking of her former husbands as if they were parts of a charade, "i still enjoyed opportunities of observing youth. the class attendant on professor dingo's lectures was a large one, and it became my pride, as the wife of an eminent scientific man seeking herself in science the utmost consolation it could impart, to throw our house open to the students as a kind of scientific exchange. every tuesday evening there was lemonade and a mixed biscuit for all who chose to partake of those refreshments. and there was science to an unlimited extent." "remarkable assemblies those, miss summerson," said mr. badger reverentially. "there must have been great intellectual friction going on there under the auspices of such a man!" "and now," pursued mrs. badger, "now that i am the wife of my dear third, mr. badger, i still pursue those habits of observation which were formed during the lifetime of captain swosser and adapted to new and unexpected purposes during the lifetime of professor dingo. i therefore have not come to the consideration of mr. carstone as a neophyte. and yet i am very much of the opinion, my dears, that he has not chosen his profession advisedly." ada looked so very anxious now that i asked mrs. badger on what she founded her supposition. "my dear miss summerson," she replied, "on mr. carstone's character and conduct. he is of such a very easy disposition that probably he would never think it worth-while to mention how he really feels, but he feels languid about the profession. he has not that positive interest in it which makes it his vocation. if he has any decided impression in reference to it, i should say it was that it is a tiresome pursuit. now, this is not promising. young men like mr. allan woodcourt who take it from a strong interest in all that it can do will find some reward in it through a great deal of work for a very little money and through years of considerable endurance and disappointment. but i am quite convinced that this would never be the case with mr. carstone." "does mr. badger think so too?" asked ada timidly. "why," said mr. badger, "to tell the truth, miss clare, this view of the matter had not occurred to me until mrs. badger mentioned it. but when mrs. badger put it in that light, i naturally gave great consideration to it, knowing that mrs. badger's mind, in addition to its natural advantages, has had the rare advantage of being formed by two such very distinguished (i will even say illustrious) public men as captain swosser of the royal navy and professor dingo. the conclusion at which i have arrived is--in short, is mrs. badger's conclusion." "it was a maxim of captain swosser's," said mrs. badger, "speaking in his figurative naval manner, that when you make pitch hot, you cannot make it too hot; and that if you only have to swab a plank, you should swab it as if davy jones were after you. it appears to me that this maxim is applicable to the medical as well as to the nautical profession. "to all professions," observed mr. badger. "it was admirably said by captain swosser. beautifully said." "people objected to professor dingo when we were staying in the north of devon after our marriage," said mrs. badger, "that he disfigured some of the houses and other buildings by chipping off fragments of those edifices with his little geological hammer. but the professor replied that he knew of no building save the temple of science. the principle is the same, i think?" "precisely the same," said mr. badger. "finely expressed! the professor made the same remark, miss summerson, in his last illness, when (his mind wandering) he insisted on keeping his little hammer under the pillow and chipping at the countenances of the attendants. the ruling passion!" although we could have dispensed with the length at which mr. and mrs. badger pursued the conversation, we both felt that it was disinterested in them to express the opinion they had communicated to us and that there was a great probability of its being sound. we agreed to say nothing to mr. jarndyce until we had spoken to richard; and as he was coming next evening, we resolved to have a very serious talk with him. so after he had been a little while with ada, i went in and found my darling (as i knew she would be) prepared to consider him thoroughly right in whatever he said. "and how do you get on, richard?" said i. i always sat down on the other side of him. he made quite a sister of me. "oh! well enough!" said richard. "he can't say better than that, esther, can he?" cried my pet triumphantly. i tried to look at my pet in the wisest manner, but of course i couldn't. "well enough?" i repeated. "yes," said richard, "well enough. it's rather jog-trotty and humdrum. but it'll do as well as anything else!" "oh! my dear richard!" i remonstrated. "what's the matter?" said richard. "do as well as anything else!" "i don't think there's any harm in that, dame durden," said ada, looking so confidingly at me across him; "because if it will do as well as anything else, it will do very well, i hope." "oh, yes, i hope so," returned richard, carelessly tossing his hair from his forehead. "after all, it may be only a kind of probation till our suit is--i forgot though. i am not to mention the suit. forbidden ground! oh, yes, it's all right enough. let us talk about something else." ada would have done so willingly, and with a full persuasion that we had brought the question to a most satisfactory state. but i thought it would be useless to stop there, so i began again. "no, but richard," said i, "and my dear ada! consider how important it is to you both, and what a point of honour it is towards your cousin, that you, richard, should be quite in earnest without any reservation. i think we had better talk about this, really, ada. it will be too late very soon." "oh, yes! we must talk about it!" said ada. "but i think richard is right." what was the use of my trying to look wise when she was so pretty, and so engaging, and so fond of him! "mr. and mrs. badger were here yesterday, richard," said i, "and they seemed disposed to think that you had no great liking for the profession." "did they though?" said richard. "oh! well, that rather alters the case, because i had no idea that they thought so, and i should not have liked to disappoint or inconvenience them. the fact is, i don't care much about it. but, oh, it don't matter! it'll do as well as anything else!" "you hear him, ada!" said i. "the fact is," richard proceeded, half thoughtfully and half jocosely, "it is not quite in my way. i don't take to it. and i get too much of mrs. bayham badger's first and second." "i am sure that's very natural!" cried ada, quite delighted. "the very thing we both said yesterday, esther!" "then," pursued richard, "it's monotonous, and to-day is too like yesterday, and to-morrow is too like to-day." "but i am afraid," said i, "this is an objection to all kinds of application--to life itself, except under some very uncommon circumstances." "do you think so?" returned richard, still considering. "perhaps! ha! why, then, you know," he added, suddenly becoming gay again, "we travel outside a circle to what i said just now. it'll do as well as anything else. oh, it's all right enough! let us talk about something else." but even ada, with her loving face--and if it had seemed innocent and trusting when i first saw it in that memorable november fog, how much more did it seem now when i knew her innocent and trusting heart--even ada shook her head at this and looked serious. so i thought it a good opportunity to hint to richard that if he were sometimes a little careless of himself, i was very sure he never meant to be careless of ada, and that it was a part of his affectionate consideration for her not to slight the importance of a step that might influence both their lives. this made him almost grave. "my dear mother hubbard," he said, "that's the very thing! i have thought of that several times and have been quite angry with myself for meaning to be so much in earnest and--somehow--not exactly being so. i don't know how it is; i seem to want something or other to stand by. even you have no idea how fond i am of ada (my darling cousin, i love you, so much!), but i don't settle down to constancy in other things. it's such uphill work, and it takes such a time!" said richard with an air of vexation. "that may be," i suggested, "because you don't like what you have chosen." "poor fellow!" said ada. "i am sure i don't wonder at it!" no. it was not of the least use my trying to look wise. i tried again, but how could i do it, or how could it have any effect if i could, while ada rested her clasped hands upon his shoulder and while he looked at her tender blue eyes, and while they looked at him! "you see, my precious girl," said richard, passing her golden curls through and through his hand, "i was a little hasty perhaps; or i misunderstood my own inclinations perhaps. they don't seem to lie in that direction. i couldn't tell till i tried. now the question is whether it's worth-while to undo all that has been done. it seems like making a great disturbance about nothing particular." "my dear richard," said i, "how can you say about nothing particular?" "i don't mean absolutely that," he returned. "i mean that it may be nothing particular because i may never want it." both ada and i urged, in reply, not only that it was decidedly worth-while to undo what had been done, but that it must be undone. i then asked richard whether he had thought of any more congenial pursuit. "there, my dear mrs. shipton," said richard, "you touch me home. yes, i have. i have been thinking that the law is the boy for me." "the law!" repeated ada as if she were afraid of the name. "if i went into kenge's office," said richard, "and if i were placed under articles to kenge, i should have my eye on the--hum!--the forbidden ground--and should be able to study it, and master it, and to satisfy myself that it was not neglected and was being properly conducted. i should be able to look after ada's interests and my own interests (the same thing!); and i should peg away at blackstone and all those fellows with the most tremendous ardour." i was not by any means so sure of that, and i saw how his hankering after the vague things yet to come of those long-deferred hopes cast a shade on ada's face. but i thought it best to encourage him in any project of continuous exertion, and only advised him to be quite sure that his mind was made up now. "my dear minerva," said richard, "i am as steady as you are. i made a mistake; we are all liable to mistakes; i won't do so any more, and i'll become such a lawyer as is not often seen. that is, you know," said richard, relapsing into doubt, "if it really is worth-while, after all, to make such a disturbance about nothing particular!" this led to our saying again, with a great deal of gravity, all that we had said already and to our coming to much the same conclusion afterwards. but we so strongly advised richard to be frank and open with mr. jarndyce, without a moment's delay, and his disposition was naturally so opposed to concealment that he sought him out at once (taking us with him) and made a full avowal. "rick," said my guardian, after hearing him attentively, "we can retreat with honour, and we will. but we must be careful--for our cousin's sake, rick, for our cousin's sake--that we make no more such mistakes. therefore, in the matter of the law, we will have a good trial before we decide. we will look before we leap, and take plenty of time about it." richard's energy was of such an impatient and fitful kind that he would have liked nothing better than to have gone to mr. kenge's office in that hour and to have entered into articles with him on the spot. submitting, however, with a good grace to the caution that we had shown to be so necessary, he contented himself with sitting down among us in his lightest spirits and talking as if his one unvarying purpose in life from childhood had been that one which now held possession of him. my guardian was very kind and cordial with him, but rather grave, enough so to cause ada, when he had departed and we were going upstairs to bed, to say, "cousin john, i hope you don't think the worse of richard?" "no, my love," said he. "because it was very natural that richard should be mistaken in such a difficult case. it is not uncommon." "no, no, my love," said he. "don't look unhappy." "oh, i am not unhappy, cousin john!" said ada, smiling cheerfully, with her hand upon his shoulder, where she had put it in bidding him good night. "but i should be a little so if you thought at all the worse of richard." "my dear," said mr. jarndyce, "i should think the worse of him only if you were ever in the least unhappy through his means. i should be more disposed to quarrel with myself even then, than with poor rick, for i brought you together. but, tut, all this is nothing! he has time before him, and the race to run. i think the worse of him? not i, my loving cousin! and not you, i swear!" "no, indeed, cousin john," said ada, "i am sure i could not--i am sure i would not--think any ill of richard if the whole world did. i could, and i would, think better of him then than at any other time!" so quietly and honestly she said it, with her hands upon his shoulders--both hands now--and looking up into his face, like the picture of truth! "i think," said my guardian, thoughtfully regarding her, "i think it must be somewhere written that the virtues of the mothers shall occasionally be visited on the children, as well as the sins of the father. good night, my rosebud. good night, little woman. pleasant slumbers! happy dreams!" this was the first time i ever saw him follow ada with his eyes with something of a shadow on their benevolent expression. i well remembered the look with which he had contemplated her and richard when she was singing in the firelight; it was but a very little while since he had watched them passing down the room in which the sun was shining, and away into the shade; but his glance was changed, and even the silent look of confidence in me which now followed it once more was not quite so hopeful and untroubled as it had originally been. ada praised richard more to me that night than ever she had praised him yet. she went to sleep with a little bracelet he had given her clasped upon her arm. i fancied she was dreaming of him when i kissed her cheek after she had slept an hour and saw how tranquil and happy she looked. for i was so little inclined to sleep myself that night that i sat up working. it would not be worth mentioning for its own sake, but i was wakeful and rather low-spirited. i don't know why. at least i don't think i know why. at least, perhaps i do, but i don't think it matters. at any rate, i made up my mind to be so dreadfully industrious that i would leave myself not a moment's leisure to be low-spirited. for i naturally said, "esther! you to be low-spirited. you!" and it really was time to say so, for i--yes, i really did see myself in the glass, almost crying. "as if you had anything to make you unhappy, instead of everything to make you happy, you ungrateful heart!" said i. if i could have made myself go to sleep, i would have done it directly, but not being able to do that, i took out of my basket some ornamental work for our house (i mean bleak house) that i was busy with at that time and sat down to it with great determination. it was necessary to count all the stitches in that work, and i resolved to go on with it until i couldn't keep my eyes open, and then to go to bed. i soon found myself very busy. but i had left some silk downstairs in a work-table drawer in the temporary growlery, and coming to a stop for want of it, i took my candle and went softly down to get it. to my great surprise, on going in i found my guardian still there, and sitting looking at the ashes. he was lost in thought, his book lay unheeded by his side, his silvered iron-grey hair was scattered confusedly upon his forehead as though his hand had been wandering among it while his thoughts were elsewhere, and his face looked worn. almost frightened by coming upon him so unexpectedly, i stood still for a moment and should have retired without speaking had he not, in again passing his hand abstractedly through his hair, seen me and started. "esther!" i told him what i had come for. "at work so late, my dear?" "i am working late to-night," said i, "because i couldn't sleep and wished to tire myself. but, dear guardian, you are late too, and look weary. you have no trouble, i hope, to keep you waking?" "none, little woman, that you would readily understand," said he. he spoke in a regretful tone so new to me that i inwardly repeated, as if that would help me to his meaning, "that i could readily understand!" "remain a moment, esther," said he, "you were in my thoughts." "i hope i was not the trouble, guardian?" he slightly waved his hand and fell into his usual manner. the change was so remarkable, and he appeared to make it by dint of so much self-command, that i found myself again inwardly repeating, "none that i could understand!" "little woman," said my guardian, "i was thinking--that is, i have been thinking since i have been sitting here--that you ought to know of your own history all i know. it is very little. next to nothing." "dear guardian," i replied, "when you spoke to me before on that subject--" "but since then," he gravely interposed, anticipating what i meant to say, "i have reflected that your having anything to ask me, and my having anything to tell you, are different considerations, esther. it is perhaps my duty to impart to you the little i know." "if you think so, guardian, it is right." "i think so," he returned very gently, and kindly, and very distinctly. "my dear, i think so now. if any real disadvantage can attach to your position in the mind of any man or woman worth a thought, it is right that you at least of all the world should not magnify it to yourself by having vague impressions of its nature." i sat down and said after a little effort to be as calm as i ought to be, "one of my earliest remembrances, guardian, is of these words: 'your mother, esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. the time will come, and soon enough, when you will understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can.'" i had covered my face with my hands in repeating the words, but i took them away now with a better kind of shame, i hope, and told him that to him i owed the blessing that i had from my childhood to that hour never, never, never felt it. he put up his hand as if to stop me. i well knew that he was never to be thanked, and said no more. "nine years, my dear," he said after thinking for a little while, "have passed since i received a letter from a lady living in seclusion, written with a stern passion and power that rendered it unlike all other letters i have ever read. it was written to me (as it told me in so many words), perhaps because it was the writer's idiosyncrasy to put that trust in me, perhaps because it was mine to justify it. it told me of a child, an orphan girl then twelve years old, in some such cruel words as those which live in your remembrance. it told me that the writer had bred her in secrecy from her birth, had blotted out all trace of her existence, and that if the writer were to die before the child became a woman, she would be left entirely friendless, nameless, and unknown. it asked me to consider if i would, in that case, finish what the writer had begun." i listened in silence and looked attentively at him. "your early recollection, my dear, will supply the gloomy medium through which all this was seen and expressed by the writer, and the distorted religion which clouded her mind with impressions of the need there was for the child to expiate an offence of which she was quite innocent. i felt concerned for the little creature, in her darkened life, and replied to the letter." i took his hand and kissed it. "it laid the injunction on me that i should never propose to see the writer, who had long been estranged from all intercourse with the world, but who would see a confidential agent if i would appoint one. i accredited mr. kenge. the lady said, of her own accord and not of his seeking, that her name was an assumed one. that she was, if there were any ties of blood in such a case, the child's aunt. that more than this she would never (and he was well persuaded of the steadfastness of her resolution) for any human consideration disclose. my dear, i have told you all." i held his hand for a little while in mine. "i saw my ward oftener than she saw me," he added, cheerily making light of it, "and i always knew she was beloved, useful, and happy. she repays me twenty-thousandfold, and twenty more to that, every hour in every day!" "and oftener still," said i, "she blesses the guardian who is a father to her!" at the word father, i saw his former trouble come into his face. he subdued it as before, and it was gone in an instant; but it had been there and it had come so swiftly upon my words that i felt as if they had given him a shock. i again inwardly repeated, wondering, "that i could readily understand. none that i could readily understand!" no, it was true. i did not understand it. not for many and many a day. "take a fatherly good night, my dear," said he, kissing me on the forehead, "and so to rest. these are late hours for working and thinking. you do that for all of us, all day long, little housekeeper!" i neither worked nor thought any more that night. i opened my grateful heart to heaven in thankfulness for its providence to me and its care of me, and fell asleep. we had a visitor next day. mr. allan woodcourt came. he came to take leave of us; he had settled to do so beforehand. he was going to china and to india as a surgeon on board ship. he was to be away a long, long time. i believe--at least i know--that he was not rich. all his widowed mother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for his profession. it was not lucrative to a young practitioner, with very little influence in london; and although he was, night and day, at the service of numbers of poor people and did wonders of gentleness and skill for them, he gained very little by it in money. he was seven years older than i. not that i need mention it, for it hardly seems to belong to anything. i think--i mean, he told us--that he had been in practice three or four years and that if he could have hoped to contend through three or four more, he would not have made the voyage on which he was bound. but he had no fortune or private means, and so he was going away. he had been to see us several times altogether. we thought it a pity he should go away. because he was distinguished in his art among those who knew it best, and some of the greatest men belonging to it had a high opinion of him. when he came to bid us good-bye, he brought his mother with him for the first time. she was a pretty old lady, with bright black eyes, but she seemed proud. she came from wales and had had, a long time ago, an eminent person for an ancestor, of the name of morgan ap-kerrig--of some place that sounded like gimlet--who was the most illustrious person that ever was known and all of whose relations were a sort of royal family. he appeared to have passed his life in always getting up into mountains and fighting somebody; and a bard whose name sounded like crumlinwallinwer had sung his praises in a piece which was called, as nearly as i could catch it, mewlinnwillinwodd. mrs. woodcourt, after expatiating to us on the fame of her great kinsman, said that no doubt wherever her son allan went he would remember his pedigree and would on no account form an alliance below it. she told him that there were many handsome english ladies in india who went out on speculation, and that there were some to be picked up with property, but that neither charms nor wealth would suffice for the descendant from such a line without birth, which must ever be the first consideration. she talked so much about birth that for a moment i half fancied, and with pain--but what an idle fancy to suppose that she could think or care what mine was! mr. woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, but he was too considerate to let her see it and contrived delicately to bring the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to my guardian for his hospitality and for the very happy hours--he called them the very happy hours--he had passed with us. the recollection of them, he said, would go with him wherever he went and would be always treasured. and so we gave him our hands, one after another--at least, they did--and i did; and so he put his lips to ada's hand--and to mine; and so he went away upon his long, long voyage! i was very busy indeed all day and wrote directions home to the servants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted his books and papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal, one way and another. i was still busy between the lights, singing and working by the window, when who should come in but caddy, whom i had no expectation of seeing! "why, caddy, my dear," said i, "what beautiful flowers!" she had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand. "indeed, i think so, esther," replied caddy. "they are the loveliest i ever saw." "prince, my dear?" said i in a whisper. "no," answered caddy, shaking her head and holding them to me to smell. "not prince." "well, to be sure, caddy!" said i. "you must have two lovers!" "what? do they look like that sort of thing?" said caddy. "do they look like that sort of thing?" i repeated, pinching her cheek. caddy only laughed in return, and telling me that she had come for half an hour, at the expiration of which time prince would be waiting for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and ada in the window, every now and then handing me the flowers again or trying how they looked against my hair. at last, when she was going, she took me into my room and put them in my dress. "for me?" said i, surprised. "for you," said caddy with a kiss. "they were left behind by somebody." "left behind?" "at poor miss flite's," said caddy. "somebody who has been very good to her was hurrying away an hour ago to join a ship and left these flowers behind. no, no! don't take them out. let the pretty little things lie here," said caddy, adjusting them with a careful hand, "because i was present myself, and i shouldn't wonder if somebody left them on purpose!" "do they look like that sort of thing?" said ada, coming laughingly behind me and clasping me merrily round the waist. "oh, yes, indeed they do, dame durden! they look very, very like that sort of thing. oh, very like it indeed, my dear!" chapter xviii lady dedlock it was not so easy as it had appeared at first to arrange for richard's making a trial of mr. kenge's office. richard himself was the chief impediment. as soon as he had it in his power to leave mr. badger at any moment, he began to doubt whether he wanted to leave him at all. he didn't know, he said, really. it wasn't a bad profession; he couldn't assert that he disliked it; perhaps he liked it as well as he liked any other--suppose he gave it one more chance! upon that, he shut himself up for a few weeks with some books and some bones and seemed to acquire a considerable fund of information with great rapidity. his fervour, after lasting about a month, began to cool, and when it was quite cooled, began to grow warm again. his vacillations between law and medicine lasted so long that midsummer arrived before he finally separated from mr. badger and entered on an experimental course of messrs. kenge and carboy. for all his waywardness, he took great credit to himself as being determined to be in earnest "this time." and he was so good-natured throughout, and in such high spirits, and so fond of ada, that it was very difficult indeed to be otherwise than pleased with him. "as to mr. jarndyce," who, i may mention, found the wind much given, during this period, to stick in the east; "as to mr. jarndyce," richard would say to me, "he is the finest fellow in the world, esther! i must be particularly careful, if it were only for his satisfaction, to take myself well to task and have a regular wind-up of this business now." the idea of his taking himself well to task, with that laughing face and heedless manner and with a fancy that everything could catch and nothing could hold, was ludicrously anomalous. however, he told us between-whiles that he was doing it to such an extent that he wondered his hair didn't turn grey. his regular wind-up of the business was (as i have said) that he went to mr. kenge's about midsummer to try how he liked it. all this time he was, in money affairs, what i have described him in a former illustration--generous, profuse, wildly careless, but fully persuaded that he was rather calculating and prudent. i happened to say to ada, in his presence, half jestingly, half seriously, about the time of his going to mr. kenge's, that he needed to have fortunatus' purse, he made so light of money, which he answered in this way, "my jewel of a dear cousin, you hear this old woman! why does she say that? because i gave eight pounds odd (or whatever it was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons a few days ago. now, if i had stayed at badger's i should have been obliged to spend twelve pounds at a blow for some heart-breaking lecture-fees. so i make four pounds--in a lump--by the transaction!" it was a question much discussed between him and my guardian what arrangements should be made for his living in london while he experimented on the law, for we had long since gone back to bleak house, and it was too far off to admit of his coming there oftener than once a week. my guardian told me that if richard were to settle down at mr. kenge's he would take some apartments or chambers where we too could occasionally stay for a few days at a time; "but, little woman," he added, rubbing his head very significantly, "he hasn't settled down there yet!" the discussions ended in our hiring for him, by the month, a neat little furnished lodging in a quiet old house near queen square. he immediately began to spend all the money he had in buying the oddest little ornaments and luxuries for this lodging; and so often as ada and i dissuaded him from making any purchase that he had in contemplation which was particularly unnecessary and expensive, he took credit for what it would have cost and made out that to spend anything less on something else was to save the difference. while these affairs were in abeyance, our visit to mr. boythorn's was postponed. at length, richard having taken possession of his lodging, there was nothing to prevent our departure. he could have gone with us at that time of the year very well, but he was in the full novelty of his new position and was making most energetic attempts to unravel the mysteries of the fatal suit. consequently we went without him, and my darling was delighted to praise him for being so busy. we made a pleasant journey down into lincolnshire by the coach and had an entertaining companion in mr. skimpole. his furniture had been all cleared off, it appeared, by the person who took possession of it on his blue-eyed daughter's birthday, but he seemed quite relieved to think that it was gone. chairs and table, he said, were wearisome objects; they were monotonous ideas, they had no variety of expression, they looked you out of countenance, and you looked them out of countenance. how pleasant, then, to be bound to no particular chairs and tables, but to sport like a butterfly among all the furniture on hire, and to flit from rosewood to mahogany, and from mahogany to walnut, and from this shape to that, as the humour took one! "the oddity of the thing is," said mr. skimpole with a quickened sense of the ludicrous, "that my chairs and tables were not paid for, and yet my landlord walks off with them as composedly as possible. now, that seems droll! there is something grotesque in it. the chair and table merchant never engaged to pay my landlord my rent. why should my landlord quarrel with him? if i have a pimple on my nose which is disagreeable to my landlord's peculiar ideas of beauty, my landlord has no business to scratch my chair and table merchant's nose, which has no pimple on it. his reasoning seems defective!" "well," said my guardian good-humouredly, "it's pretty clear that whoever became security for those chairs and tables will have to pay for them." "exactly!" returned mr. skimpole. "that's the crowning point of unreason in the business! i said to my landlord, 'my good man, you are not aware that my excellent friend jarndyce will have to pay for those things that you are sweeping off in that indelicate manner. have you no consideration for his property?' he hadn't the least." "and refused all proposals," said my guardian. "refused all proposals," returned mr. skimpole. "i made him business proposals. i had him into my room. i said, 'you are a man of business, i believe?' he replied, 'i am,' 'very well,' said i, 'now let us be business-like. here is an inkstand, here are pens and paper, here are wafers. what do you want? i have occupied your house for a considerable period, i believe to our mutual satisfaction until this unpleasant misunderstanding arose; let us be at once friendly and business-like. what do you want?' in reply to this, he made use of the figurative expression--which has something eastern about it--that he had never seen the colour of my money. 'my amiable friend,' said i, 'i never have any money. i never know anything about money.' 'well, sir,' said he, 'what do you offer if i give you time?' 'my good fellow,' said i, 'i have no idea of time; but you say you are a man of business, and whatever you can suggest to be done in a business-like way with pen, and ink, and paper--and wafers--i am ready to do. don't pay yourself at another man's expense (which is foolish), but be business-like!' however, he wouldn't be, and there was an end of it." if these were some of the inconveniences of mr. skimpole's childhood, it assuredly possessed its advantages too. on the journey he had a very good appetite for such refreshment as came in our way (including a basket of choice hothouse peaches), but never thought of paying for anything. so when the coachman came round for his fee, he pleasantly asked him what he considered a very good fee indeed, now--a liberal one--and on his replying half a crown for a single passenger, said it was little enough too, all things considered, and left mr. jarndyce to give it him. it was delightful weather. the green corn waved so beautifully, the larks sang so joyfully, the hedges were so full of wild flowers, the trees were so thickly out in leaf, the bean-fields, with a light wind blowing over them, filled the air with such a delicious fragrance! late in the afternoon we came to the market-town where we were to alight from the coach--a dull little town with a church-spire, and a marketplace, and a market-cross, and one intensely sunny street, and a pond with an old horse cooling his legs in it, and a very few men sleepily lying and standing about in narrow little bits of shade. after the rustling of the leaves and the waving of the corn all along the road, it looked as still, as hot, as motionless a little town as england could produce. at the inn we found mr. boythorn on horseback, waiting with an open carriage to take us to his house, which was a few miles off. he was overjoyed to see us and dismounted with great alacrity. "by heaven!" said he after giving us a courteous greeting. "this a most infamous coach. it is the most flagrant example of an abominable public vehicle that ever encumbered the face of the earth. it is twenty-five minutes after its time this afternoon. the coachman ought to be put to death!" "is he after his time?" said mr. skimpole, to whom he happened to address himself. "you know my infirmity." "twenty-five minutes! twenty-six minutes!" replied mr. boythorn, referring to his watch. "with two ladies in the coach, this scoundrel has deliberately delayed his arrival six and twenty minutes. deliberately! it is impossible that it can be accidental! but his father--and his uncle--were the most profligate coachmen that ever sat upon a box." while he said this in tones of the greatest indignation, he handed us into the little phaeton with the utmost gentleness and was all smiles and pleasure. "i am sorry, ladies," he said, standing bare-headed at the carriage-door when all was ready, "that i am obliged to conduct you nearly two miles out of the way. but our direct road lies through sir leicester dedlock's park, and in that fellow's property i have sworn never to set foot of mine, or horse's foot of mine, pending the present relations between us, while i breathe the breath of life!" and here, catching my guardian's eye, he broke into one of his tremendous laughs, which seemed to shake even the motionless little market-town. "are the dedlocks down here, lawrence?" said my guardian as we drove along and mr. boythorn trotted on the green turf by the roadside. "sir arrogant numskull is here," replied mr. boythorn. "ha ha ha! sir arrogant is here, and i am glad to say, has been laid by the heels here. my lady," in naming whom he always made a courtly gesture as if particularly to exclude her from any part in the quarrel, "is expected, i believe, daily. i am not in the least surprised that she postpones her appearance as long as possible. whatever can have induced that transcendent woman to marry that effigy and figure-head of a baronet is one of the most impenetrable mysteries that ever baffled human inquiry. ha ha ha ha!" "i suppose," said my guardian, laughing, "we may set foot in the park while we are here? the prohibition does not extend to us, does it?" "i can lay no prohibition on my guests," he said, bending his head to ada and me with the smiling politeness which sat so gracefully upon him, "except in the matter of their departure. i am only sorry that i cannot have the happiness of being their escort about chesney wold, which is a very fine place! but by the light of this summer day, jarndyce, if you call upon the owner while you stay with me, you are likely to have but a cool reception. he carries himself like an eight-day clock at all times, like one of a race of eight-day clocks in gorgeous cases that never go and never went--ha ha ha!--but he will have some extra stiffness, i can promise you, for the friends of his friend and neighbour boythorn!" "i shall not put him to the proof," said my guardian. "he is as indifferent to the honour of knowing me, i dare say, as i am to the honour of knowing him. the air of the grounds and perhaps such a view of the house as any other sightseer might get are quite enough for me." "well!" said mr. boythorn. "i am glad of it on the whole. it's in better keeping. i am looked upon about here as a second ajax defying the lightning. ha ha ha ha! when i go into our little church on a sunday, a considerable part of the inconsiderable congregation expect to see me drop, scorched and withered, on the pavement under the dedlock displeasure. ha ha ha ha! i have no doubt he is surprised that i don't. for he is, by heaven, the most self-satisfied, and the shallowest, and the most coxcombical and utterly brainless ass!" our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending enabled our friend to point out chesney wold itself to us and diverted his attention from its master. it was a picturesque old house in a fine park richly wooded. among the trees and not far from the residence he pointed out the spire of the little church of which he had spoken. oh, the solemn woods over which the light and shadow travelled swiftly, as if heavenly wings were sweeping on benignant errands through the summer air; the smooth green slopes, the glittering water, the garden where the flowers were so symmetrically arranged in clusters of the richest colours, how beautiful they looked! the house, with gable and chimney, and tower, and turret, and dark doorway, and broad terrace-walk, twining among the balustrades of which, and lying heaped upon the vases, there was one great flush of roses, seemed scarcely real in its light solidity and in the serene and peaceful hush that rested on all around it. to ada and to me, that above all appeared the pervading influence. on everything, house, garden, terrace, green slopes, water, old oaks, fern, moss, woods again, and far away across the openings in the prospect to the distance lying wide before us with a purple bloom upon it, there seemed to be such undisturbed repose. when we came into the little village and passed a small inn with the sign of the dedlock arms swinging over the road in front, mr. boythorn interchanged greetings with a young gentleman sitting on a bench outside the inn-door who had some fishing-tackle lying beside him. "that's the housekeeper's grandson, mr. rouncewell by name," said, he, "and he is in love with a pretty girl up at the house. lady dedlock has taken a fancy to the pretty girl and is going to keep her about her own fair person--an honour which my young friend himself does not at all appreciate. however, he can't marry just yet, even if his rosebud were willing; so he is fain to make the best of it. in the meanwhile, he comes here pretty often for a day or two at a time to--fish. ha ha ha ha!" "are he and the pretty girl engaged, mr. boythorn?" asked ada. "why, my dear miss clare," he returned, "i think they may perhaps understand each other; but you will see them soon, i dare say, and i must learn from you on such a point--not you from me." ada blushed, and mr. boythorn, trotting forward on his comely grey horse, dismounted at his own door and stood ready with extended arm and uncovered head to welcome us when we arrived. he lived in a pretty house, formerly the parsonage house, with a lawn in front, a bright flower-garden at the side, and a well-stocked orchard and kitchen-garden in the rear, enclosed with a venerable wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look. but, indeed, everything about the place wore an aspect of maturity and abundance. the old lime-tree walk was like green cloisters, the very shadows of the cherry-trees and apple-trees were heavy with fruit, the gooseberry-bushes were so laden that their branches arched and rested on the earth, the strawberries and raspberries grew in like profusion, and the peaches basked by the hundred on the wall. tumbled about among the spread nets and the glass frames sparkling and winking in the sun there were such heaps of drooping pods, and marrows, and cucumbers, that every foot of ground appeared a vegetable treasury, while the smell of sweet herbs and all kinds of wholesome growth (to say nothing of the neighbouring meadows where the hay was carrying) made the whole air a great nosegay. such stillness and composure reigned within the orderly precincts of the old red wall that even the feathers hung in garlands to scare the birds hardly stirred; and the wall had such a ripening influence that where, here and there high up, a disused nail and scrap of list still clung to it, it was easy to fancy that they had mellowed with the changing seasons and that they had rusted and decayed according to the common fate. the house, though a little disorderly in comparison with the garden, was a real old house with settles in the chimney of the brick-floored kitchen and great beams across the ceilings. on one side of it was the terrible piece of ground in dispute, where mr. boythorn maintained a sentry in a smock-frock day and night, whose duty was supposed to be, in cases of aggression, immediately to ring a large bell hung up there for the purpose, to unchain a great bull-dog established in a kennel as his ally, and generally to deal destruction on the enemy. not content with these precautions, mr. boythorn had himself composed and posted there, on painted boards to which his name was attached in large letters, the following solemn warnings: "beware of the bull-dog. he is most ferocious. lawrence boythorn." "the blunderbus is loaded with slugs. lawrence boythorn." "man-traps and spring-guns are set here at all times of the day and night. lawrence boythorn." "take notice. that any person or persons audaciously presuming to trespass on this property will be punished with the utmost severity of private chastisement and prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law. lawrence boythorn." these he showed us from the drawing-room window, while his bird was hopping about his head, and he laughed, "ha ha ha ha! ha ha ha ha!" to that extent as he pointed them out that i really thought he would have hurt himself. "but this is taking a good deal of trouble," said mr. skimpole in his light way, "when you are not in earnest after all." "not in earnest!" returned mr. boythorn with unspeakable warmth. "not in earnest! if i could have hoped to train him, i would have bought a lion instead of that dog and would have turned him loose upon the first intolerable robber who should dare to make an encroachment on my rights. let sir leicester dedlock consent to come out and decide this question by single combat, and i will meet him with any weapon known to mankind in any age or country. i am that much in earnest. not more!" we arrived at his house on a saturday. on the sunday morning we all set forth to walk to the little church in the park. entering the park, almost immediately by the disputed ground, we pursued a pleasant footpath winding among the verdant turf and the beautiful trees until it brought us to the church-porch. the congregation was extremely small and quite a rustic one with the exception of a large muster of servants from the house, some of whom were already in their seats, while others were yet dropping in. there were some stately footmen, and there was a perfect picture of an old coachman, who looked as if he were the official representative of all the pomps and vanities that had ever been put into his coach. there was a very pretty show of young women, and above them, the handsome old face and fine responsible portly figure of the housekeeper towered pre-eminent. the pretty girl of whom mr. boythorn had told us was close by her. she was so very pretty that i might have known her by her beauty even if i had not seen how blushingly conscious she was of the eyes of the young fisherman, whom i discovered not far off. one face, and not an agreeable one, though it was handsome, seemed maliciously watchful of this pretty girl, and indeed of every one and everything there. it was a frenchwoman's. as the bell was yet ringing and the great people were not yet come, i had leisure to glance over the church, which smelt as earthy as a grave, and to think what a shady, ancient, solemn little church it was. the windows, heavily shaded by trees, admitted a subdued light that made the faces around me pale, and darkened the old brasses in the pavement and the time and damp-worn monuments, and rendered the sunshine in the little porch, where a monotonous ringer was working at the bell, inestimably bright. but a stir in that direction, a gathering of reverential awe in the rustic faces, and a blandly ferocious assumption on the part of mr. boythorn of being resolutely unconscious of somebody's existence forewarned me that the great people were come and that the service was going to begin. "'enter not into judgment with thy servant, o lord, for in thy sight--'" shall i ever forget the rapid beating at my heart, occasioned by the look i met as i stood up! shall i ever forget the manner in which those handsome proud eyes seemed to spring out of their languor and to hold mine! it was only a moment before i cast mine down--released again, if i may say so--on my book; but i knew the beautiful face quite well in that short space of time. and, very strangely, there was something quickened within me, associated with the lonely days at my godmother's; yes, away even to the days when i had stood on tiptoe to dress myself at my little glass after dressing my doll. and this, although i had never seen this lady's face before in all my life--i was quite sure of it--absolutely certain. it was easy to know that the ceremonious, gouty, grey-haired gentleman, the only other occupant of the great pew, was sir leicester dedlock, and that the lady was lady dedlock. but why her face should be, in a confused way, like a broken glass to me, in which i saw scraps of old remembrances, and why i should be so fluttered and troubled (for i was still) by having casually met her eyes, i could not think. i felt it to be an unmeaning weakness in me and tried to overcome it by attending to the words i heard. then, very strangely, i seemed to hear them, not in the reader's voice, but in the well-remembered voice of my godmother. this made me think, did lady dedlock's face accidentally resemble my godmother's? it might be that it did, a little; but the expression was so different, and the stern decision which had worn into my godmother's face, like weather into rocks, was so completely wanting in the face before me that it could not be that resemblance which had struck me. neither did i know the loftiness and haughtiness of lady dedlock's face, at all, in any one. and yet i--i, little esther summerson, the child who lived a life apart and on whose birthday there was no rejoicing--seemed to arise before my own eyes, evoked out of the past by some power in this fashionable lady, whom i not only entertained no fancy that i had ever seen, but whom i perfectly well knew i had never seen until that hour. it made me tremble so to be thrown into this unaccountable agitation that i was conscious of being distressed even by the observation of the french maid, though i knew she had been looking watchfully here, and there, and everywhere, from the moment of her coming into the church. by degrees, though very slowly, i at last overcame my strange emotion. after a long time, i looked towards lady dedlock again. it was while they were preparing to sing, before the sermon. she took no heed of me, and the beating at my heart was gone. neither did it revive for more than a few moments when she once or twice afterwards glanced at ada or at me through her glass. the service being concluded, sir leicester gave his arm with much taste and gallantry to lady dedlock--though he was obliged to walk by the help of a thick stick--and escorted her out of church to the pony carriage in which they had come. the servants then dispersed, and so did the congregation, whom sir leicester had contemplated all along (mr. skimpole said to mr. boythorn's infinite delight) as if he were a considerable landed proprietor in heaven. "he believes he is!" said mr. boythorn. "he firmly believes it. so did his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather!" "do you know," pursued mr. skimpole very unexpectedly to mr. boythorn, "it's agreeable to me to see a man of that sort." "is it!" said mr. boythorn. "say that he wants to patronize me," pursued mr. skimpole. "very well! i don't object." "i do," said mr. boythorn with great vigour. "do you really?" returned mr. skimpole in his easy light vein. "but that's taking trouble, surely. and why should you take trouble? here am i, content to receive things childishly as they fall out, and i never take trouble! i come down here, for instance, and i find a mighty potentate exacting homage. very well! i say 'mighty potentate, here is my homage! it's easier to give it than to withhold it. here it is. if you have anything of an agreeable nature to show me, i shall be happy to see it; if you have anything of an agreeable nature to give me, i shall be happy to accept it.' mighty potentate replies in effect, 'this is a sensible fellow. i find him accord with my digestion and my bilious system. he doesn't impose upon me the necessity of rolling myself up like a hedgehog with my points outward. i expand, i open, i turn my silver lining outward like milton's cloud, and it's more agreeable to both of us.' that's my view of such things, speaking as a child!" "but suppose you went down somewhere else to-morrow," said mr. boythorn, "where there was the opposite of that fellow--or of this fellow. how then?" "how then?" said mr. skimpole with an appearance of the utmost simplicity and candour. "just the same then! i should say, 'my esteemed boythorn'--to make you the personification of our imaginary friend--'my esteemed boythorn, you object to the mighty potentate? very good. so do i. i take it that my business in the social system is to be agreeable; i take it that everybody's business in the social system is to be agreeable. it's a system of harmony, in short. therefore if you object, i object. now, excellent boythorn, let us go to dinner!'" "but excellent boythorn might say," returned our host, swelling and growing very red, "i'll be--" "i understand," said mr. skimpole. "very likely he would." "--if i will go to dinner!" cried mr. boythorn in a violent burst and stopping to strike his stick upon the ground. "and he would probably add, 'is there such a thing as principle, mr. harold skimpole?'" "to which harold skimpole would reply, you know," he returned in his gayest manner and with his most ingenuous smile, "'upon my life i have not the least idea! i don't know what it is you call by that name, or where it is, or who possesses it. if you possess it and find it comfortable, i am quite delighted and congratulate you heartily. but i know nothing about it, i assure you; for i am a mere child, and i lay no claim to it, and i don't want it!' so, you see, excellent boythorn and i would go to dinner after all!" this was one of many little dialogues between them which i always expected to end, and which i dare say would have ended under other circumstances, in some violent explosion on the part of our host. but he had so high a sense of his hospitable and responsible position as our entertainer, and my guardian laughed so sincerely at and with mr. skimpole, as a child who blew bubbles and broke them all day long, that matters never went beyond this point. mr. skimpole, who always seemed quite unconscious of having been on delicate ground, then betook himself to beginning some sketch in the park which he never finished, or to playing fragments of airs on the piano, or to singing scraps of songs, or to lying down on his back under a tree and looking at the sky--which he couldn't help thinking, he said, was what he was meant for; it suited him so exactly. "enterprise and effort," he would say to us (on his back), "are delightful to me. i believe i am truly cosmopolitan. i have the deepest sympathy with them. i lie in a shady place like this and think of adventurous spirits going to the north pole or penetrating to the heart of the torrid zone with admiration. mercenary creatures ask, 'what is the use of a man's going to the north pole? what good does it do?' i can't say; but, for anything i can say, he may go for the purpose--though he don't know it--of employing my thoughts as i lie here. take an extreme case. take the case of the slaves on american plantations. i dare say they are worked hard, i dare say they don't altogether like it. i dare say theirs is an unpleasant experience on the whole; but they people the landscape for me, they give it a poetry for me, and perhaps that is one of the pleasanter objects of their existence. i am very sensible of it, if it be, and i shouldn't wonder if it were!" i always wondered on these occasions whether he ever thought of mrs. skimpole and the children, and in what point of view they presented themselves to his cosmopolitan mind. so far as i could understand, they rarely presented themselves at all. the week had gone round to the saturday following that beating of my heart in the church; and every day had been so bright and blue that to ramble in the woods, and to see the light striking down among the transparent leaves and sparkling in the beautiful interlacings of the shadows of the trees, while the birds poured out their songs and the air was drowsy with the hum of insects, had been most delightful. we had one favourite spot, deep in moss and last year's leaves, where there were some felled trees from which the bark was all stripped off. seated among these, we looked through a green vista supported by thousands of natural columns, the whitened stems of trees, upon a distant prospect made so radiant by its contrast with the shade in which we sat and made so precious by the arched perspective through which we saw it that it was like a glimpse of the better land. upon the saturday we sat here, mr. jarndyce, ada, and i, until we heard thunder muttering in the distance and felt the large raindrops rattle through the leaves. the weather had been all the week extremely sultry, but the storm broke so suddenly--upon us, at least, in that sheltered spot--that before we reached the outskirts of the wood the thunder and lightning were frequent and the rain came plunging through the leaves as if every drop were a great leaden bead. as it was not a time for standing among trees, we ran out of the wood, and up and down the moss-grown steps which crossed the plantation-fence like two broad-staved ladders placed back to back, and made for a keeper's lodge which was close at hand. we had often noticed the dark beauty of this lodge standing in a deep twilight of trees, and how the ivy clustered over it, and how there was a steep hollow near, where we had once seen the keeper's dog dive down into the fern as if it were water. the lodge was so dark within, now the sky was overcast, that we only clearly saw the man who came to the door when we took shelter there and put two chairs for ada and me. the lattice-windows were all thrown open, and we sat just within the doorway watching the storm. it was grand to see how the wind awoke, and bent the trees, and drove the rain before it like a cloud of smoke; and to hear the solemn thunder and to see the lightning; and while thinking with awe of the tremendous powers by which our little lives are encompassed, to consider how beneficent they are and how upon the smallest flower and leaf there was already a freshness poured from all this seeming rage which seemed to make creation new again. "is it not dangerous to sit in so exposed a place?" "oh, no, esther dear!" said ada quietly. ada said it to me, but i had not spoken. the beating of my heart came back again. i had never heard the voice, as i had never seen the face, but it affected me in the same strange way. again, in a moment, there arose before my mind innumerable pictures of myself. lady dedlock had taken shelter in the lodge before our arrival there and had come out of the gloom within. she stood behind my chair with her hand upon it. i saw her with her hand close to my shoulder when i turned my head. "i have frightened you?" she said. no. it was not fright. why should i be frightened! "i believe," said lady dedlock to my guardian, "i have the pleasure of speaking to mr. jarndyce." "your remembrance does me more honour than i had supposed it would, lady dedlock," he returned. "i recognized you in church on sunday. i am sorry that any local disputes of sir leicester's--they are not of his seeking, however, i believe--should render it a matter of some absurd difficulty to show you any attention here." "i am aware of the circumstances," returned my guardian with a smile, "and am sufficiently obliged." she had given him her hand in an indifferent way that seemed habitual to her and spoke in a correspondingly indifferent manner, though in a very pleasant voice. she was as graceful as she was beautiful, perfectly self-possessed, and had the air, i thought, of being able to attract and interest any one if she had thought it worth her while. the keeper had brought her a chair on which she sat in the middle of the porch between us. "is the young gentleman disposed of whom you wrote to sir leicester about and whose wishes sir leicester was sorry not to have it in his power to advance in any way?" she said over her shoulder to my guardian. "i hope so," said he. she seemed to respect him and even to wish to conciliate him. there was something very winning in her haughty manner, and it became more familiar--i was going to say more easy, but that could hardly be--as she spoke to him over her shoulder. "i presume this is your other ward, miss clare?" he presented ada, in form. "you will lose the disinterested part of your don quixote character," said lady dedlock to mr. jarndyce over her shoulder again, "if you only redress the wrongs of beauty like this. but present me," and she turned full upon me, "to this young lady too!" "miss summerson really is my ward," said mr. jarndyce. "i am responsible to no lord chancellor in her case." "has miss summerson lost both her parents?" said my lady. "yes." "she is very fortunate in her guardian." lady dedlock looked at me, and i looked at her and said i was indeed. all at once she turned from me with a hasty air, almost expressive of displeasure or dislike, and spoke to him over her shoulder again. "ages have passed since we were in the habit of meeting, mr. jarndyce." "a long time. at least i thought it was a long time, until i saw you last sunday," he returned. "what! even you are a courtier, or think it necessary to become one to me!" she said with some disdain. "i have achieved that reputation, i suppose." "you have achieved so much, lady dedlock," said my guardian, "that you pay some little penalty, i dare say. but none to me." "so much!" she repeated, slightly laughing. "yes!" with her air of superiority, and power, and fascination, and i know not what, she seemed to regard ada and me as little more than children. so, as she slightly laughed and afterwards sat looking at the rain, she was as self-possessed and as free to occupy herself with her own thoughts as if she had been alone. "i think you knew my sister when we were abroad together better than you know me?" she said, looking at him again. "yes, we happened to meet oftener," he returned. "we went our several ways," said lady dedlock, "and had little in common even before we agreed to differ. it is to be regretted, i suppose, but it could not be helped." lady dedlock again sat looking at the rain. the storm soon began to pass upon its way. the shower greatly abated, the lightning ceased, the thunder rolled among the distant hills, and the sun began to glisten on the wet leaves and the falling rain. as we sat there, silently, we saw a little pony phaeton coming towards us at a merry pace. "the messenger is coming back, my lady," said the keeper, "with the carriage." as it drove up, we saw that there were two people inside. there alighted from it, with some cloaks and wrappers, first the frenchwoman whom i had seen in church, and secondly the pretty girl, the frenchwoman with a defiant confidence, the pretty girl confused and hesitating. "what now?" said lady dedlock. "two!" "i am your maid, my lady, at the present," said the frenchwoman. "the message was for the attendant." "i was afraid you might mean me, my lady," said the pretty girl. "i did mean you, child," replied her mistress calmly. "put that shawl on me." she slightly stooped her shoulders to receive it, and the pretty girl lightly dropped it in its place. the frenchwoman stood unnoticed, looking on with her lips very tightly set. "i am sorry," said lady dedlock to mr. jarndyce, "that we are not likely to renew our former acquaintance. you will allow me to send the carriage back for your two wards. it shall be here directly." but as he would on no account accept this offer, she took a graceful leave of ada--none of me--and put her hand upon his proffered arm, and got into the carriage, which was a little, low, park carriage with a hood. "come in, child," she said to the pretty girl; "i shall want you. go on!" the carriage rolled away, and the frenchwoman, with the wrappers she had brought hanging over her arm, remained standing where she had alighted. i suppose there is nothing pride can so little bear with as pride itself, and that she was punished for her imperious manner. her retaliation was the most singular i could have imagined. she remained perfectly still until the carriage had turned into the drive, and then, without the least discomposure of countenance, slipped off her shoes, left them on the ground, and walked deliberately in the same direction through the wettest of the wet grass. "is that young woman mad?" said my guardian. "oh, no, sir!" said the keeper, who, with his wife, was looking after her. "hortense is not one of that sort. she has as good a head-piece as the best. but she's mortal high and passionate--powerful high and passionate; and what with having notice to leave, and having others put above her, she don't take kindly to it." "but why should she walk shoeless through all that water?" said my guardian. "why, indeed, sir, unless it is to cool her down!" said the man. "or unless she fancies it's blood," said the woman. "she'd as soon walk through that as anything else, i think, when her own's up!" we passed not far from the house a few minutes afterwards. peaceful as it had looked when we first saw it, it looked even more so now, with a diamond spray glittering all about it, a light wind blowing, the birds no longer hushed but singing strongly, everything refreshed by the late rain, and the little carriage shining at the doorway like a fairy carriage made of silver. still, very steadfastly and quietly walking towards it, a peaceful figure too in the landscape, went mademoiselle hortense, shoeless, through the wet grass. chapter xix moving on it is the long vacation in the regions of chancery lane. the good ships law and equity, those teak-built, copper-bottomed, iron-fastened, brazen-faced, and not by any means fast-sailing clippers are laid up in ordinary. the flying dutchman, with a crew of ghostly clients imploring all whom they may encounter to peruse their papers, has drifted, for the time being, heaven knows where. the courts are all shut up; the public offices lie in a hot sleep. westminster hall itself is a shady solitude where nightingales might sing, and a tenderer class of suitors than is usually found there, walk. the temple, chancery lane, serjeants' inn, and lincoln's inn even unto the fields are like tidal harbours at low water, where stranded proceedings, offices at anchor, idle clerks lounging on lop-sided stools that will not recover their perpendicular until the current of term sets in, lie high and dry upon the ooze of the long vacation. outer doors of chambers are shut up by the score, messages and parcels are to be left at the porter's lodge by the bushel. a crop of grass would grow in the chinks of the stone pavement outside lincoln's inn hall, but that the ticket-porters, who have nothing to do beyond sitting in the shade there, with their white aprons over their heads to keep the flies off, grub it up and eat it thoughtfully. there is only one judge in town. even he only comes twice a week to sit in chambers. if the country folks of those assize towns on his circuit could see him now! no full-bottomed wig, no red petticoats, no fur, no javelin-men, no white wands. merely a close-shaved gentleman in white trousers and a white hat, with sea-bronze on the judicial countenance, and a strip of bark peeled by the solar rays from the judicial nose, who calls in at the shell-fish shop as he comes along and drinks iced ginger-beer! the bar of england is scattered over the face of the earth. how england can get on through four long summer months without its bar--which is its acknowledged refuge in adversity and its only legitimate triumph in prosperity--is beside the question; assuredly that shield and buckler of britannia are not in present wear. the learned gentleman who is always so tremendously indignant at the unprecedented outrage committed on the feelings of his client by the opposite party that he never seems likely to recover it is doing infinitely better than might be expected in switzerland. the learned gentleman who does the withering business and who blights all opponents with his gloomy sarcasm is as merry as a grig at a french watering-place. the learned gentleman who weeps by the pint on the smallest provocation has not shed a tear these six weeks. the very learned gentleman who has cooled the natural heat of his gingery complexion in pools and fountains of law until he has become great in knotty arguments for term-time, when he poses the drowsy bench with legal "chaff," inexplicable to the uninitiated and to most of the initiated too, is roaming, with a characteristic delight in aridity and dust, about constantinople. other dispersed fragments of the same great palladium are to be found on the canals of venice, at the second cataract of the nile, in the baths of germany, and sprinkled on the sea-sand all over the english coast. scarcely one is to be encountered in the deserted region of chancery lane. if such a lonely member of the bar do flit across the waste and come upon a prowling suitor who is unable to leave off haunting the scenes of his anxiety, they frighten one another and retreat into opposite shades. it is the hottest long vacation known for many years. all the young clerks are madly in love, and according to their various degrees, pine for bliss with the beloved object, at margate, ramsgate, or gravesend. all the middle-aged clerks think their families too large. all the unowned dogs who stray into the inns of court and pant about staircases and other dry places seeking water give short howls of aggravation. all the blind men's dogs in the streets draw their masters against pumps or trip them over buckets. a shop with a sun-blind, and a watered pavement, and a bowl of gold and silver fish in the window, is a sanctuary. temple bar gets so hot that it is, to the adjacent strand and fleet street, what a heater is in an urn, and keeps them simmering all night. there are offices about the inns of court in which a man might be cool, if any coolness were worth purchasing at such a price in dullness; but the little thoroughfares immediately outside those retirements seem to blaze. in mr. krook's court, it is so hot that the people turn their houses inside out and sit in chairs upon the pavement--mr. krook included, who there pursues his studies, with his cat (who never is too hot) by his side. the sol's arms has discontinued the harmonic meetings for the season, and little swills is engaged at the pastoral gardens down the river, where he comes out in quite an innocent manner and sings comic ditties of a juvenile complexion calculated (as the bill says) not to wound the feelings of the most fastidious mind. over all the legal neighbourhood there hangs, like some great veil of rust or gigantic cobweb, the idleness and pensiveness of the long vacation. mr. snagsby, law-stationer of cook's court, cursitor street, is sensible of the influence not only in his mind as a sympathetic and contemplative man, but also in his business as a law-stationer aforesaid. he has more leisure for musing in staple inn and in the rolls yard during the long vacation than at other seasons, and he says to the two 'prentices, what a thing it is in such hot weather to think that you live in an island with the sea a-rolling and a-bowling right round you. guster is busy in the little drawing-room on this present afternoon in the long vacation, when mr. and mrs. snagsby have it in contemplation to receive company. the expected guests are rather select than numerous, being mr. and mrs. chadband and no more. from mr. chadband's being much given to describe himself, both verbally and in writing, as a vessel, he is occasionally mistaken by strangers for a gentleman connected with navigation, but he is, as he expresses it, "in the ministry." mr. chadband is attached to no particular denomination and is considered by his persecutors to have nothing so very remarkable to say on the greatest of subjects as to render his volunteering, on his own account, at all incumbent on his conscience; but he has his followers, and mrs. snagsby is of the number. mrs. snagsby has but recently taken a passage upward by the vessel, chadband; and her attention was attracted to that bark a , when she was something flushed by the hot weather. "my little woman," says mr. snagsby to the sparrows in staple inn, "likes to have her religion rather sharp, you see!" so guster, much impressed by regarding herself for the time as the handmaid of chadband, whom she knows to be endowed with the gift of holding forth for four hours at a stretch, prepares the little drawing-room for tea. all the furniture is shaken and dusted, the portraits of mr. and mrs. snagsby are touched up with a wet cloth, the best tea-service is set forth, and there is excellent provision made of dainty new bread, crusty twists, cool fresh butter, thin slices of ham, tongue, and german sausage, and delicate little rows of anchovies nestling in parsley, not to mention new-laid eggs, to be brought up warm in a napkin, and hot buttered toast. for chadband is rather a consuming vessel--the persecutors say a gorging vessel--and can wield such weapons of the flesh as a knife and fork remarkably well. mr. snagsby in his best coat, looking at all the preparations when they are completed and coughing his cough of deference behind his hand, says to mrs. snagsby, "at what time did you expect mr. and mrs. chadband, my love?" "at six," says mrs. snagsby. mr. snagsby observes in a mild and casual way that "it's gone that." "perhaps you'd like to begin without them," is mrs. snagsby's reproachful remark. mr. snagsby does look as if he would like it very much, but he says, with his cough of mildness, "no, my dear, no. i merely named the time." "what's time," says mrs. snagsby, "to eternity?" "very true, my dear," says mr. snagsby. "only when a person lays in victuals for tea, a person does it with a view--perhaps--more to time. and when a time is named for having tea, it's better to come up to it." "to come up to it!" mrs. snagsby repeats with severity. "up to it! as if mr. chadband was a fighter!" "not at all, my dear," says mr. snagsby. here, guster, who had been looking out of the bedroom window, comes rustling and scratching down the little staircase like a popular ghost, and falling flushed into the drawing-room, announces that mr. and mrs. chadband have appeared in the court. the bell at the inner door in the passage immediately thereafter tinkling, she is admonished by mrs. snagsby, on pain of instant reconsignment to her patron saint, not to omit the ceremony of announcement. much discomposed in her nerves (which were previously in the best order) by this threat, she so fearfully mutilates that point of state as to announce "mr. and mrs. cheeseming, least which, imeantersay, whatsername!" and retires conscience-stricken from the presence. mr. chadband is a large yellow man with a fat smile and a general appearance of having a good deal of train oil in his system. mrs. chadband is a stern, severe-looking, silent woman. mr. chadband moves softly and cumbrously, not unlike a bear who has been taught to walk upright. he is very much embarrassed about the arms, as if they were inconvenient to him and he wanted to grovel, is very much in a perspiration about the head, and never speaks without first putting up his great hand, as delivering a token to his hearers that he is going to edify them. "my friends," says mr. chadband, "peace be on this house! on the master thereof, on the mistress thereof, on the young maidens, and on the young men! my friends, why do i wish for peace? what is peace? is it war? no. is it strife? no. is it lovely, and gentle, and beautiful, and pleasant, and serene, and joyful? oh, yes! therefore, my friends, i wish for peace, upon you and upon yours." in consequence of mrs. snagsby looking deeply edified, mr. snagsby thinks it expedient on the whole to say amen, which is well received. "now, my friends," proceeds mr. chadband, "since i am upon this theme--" guster presents herself. mrs. snagsby, in a spectral bass voice and without removing her eyes from chadband, says with dreadful distinctness, "go away!" "now, my friends," says chadband, "since i am upon this theme, and in my lowly path improving it--" guster is heard unaccountably to murmur "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two." the spectral voice repeats more solemnly, "go away!" "now, my friends," says mr. chadband, "we will inquire in a spirit of love--" still guster reiterates "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two." mr. chadband, pausing with the resignation of a man accustomed to be persecuted and languidly folding up his chin into his fat smile, says, "let us hear the maiden! speak, maiden!" "one thousing seven hundred and eighty-two, if you please, sir. which he wish to know what the shilling ware for," says guster, breathless. "for?" returns mrs. chadband. "for his fare!" guster replied that "he insistes on one and eightpence or on summonsizzing the party." mrs. snagsby and mrs. chadband are proceeding to grow shrill in indignation when mr. chadband quiets the tumult by lifting up his hand. "my friends," says he, "i remember a duty unfulfilled yesterday. it is right that i should be chastened in some penalty. i ought not to murmur. rachael, pay the eightpence!" while mrs. snagsby, drawing her breath, looks hard at mr. snagsby, as who should say, "you hear this apostle!" and while mr. chadband glows with humility and train oil, mrs. chadband pays the money. it is mr. chadband's habit--it is the head and front of his pretensions indeed--to keep this sort of debtor and creditor account in the smallest items and to post it publicly on the most trivial occasions. "my friends," says chadband, "eightpence is not much; it might justly have been one and fourpence; it might justly have been half a crown. o let us be joyful, joyful! o let us be joyful!" with which remark, which appears from its sound to be an extract in verse, mr. chadband stalks to the table, and before taking a chair, lifts up his admonitory hand. "my friends," says he, "what is this which we now behold as being spread before us? refreshment. do we need refreshment then, my friends? we do. and why do we need refreshment, my friends? because we are but mortal, because we are but sinful, because we are but of the earth, because we are not of the air. can we fly, my friends? we cannot. why can we not fly, my friends?" mr. snagsby, presuming on the success of his last point, ventures to observe in a cheerful and rather knowing tone, "no wings." but is immediately frowned down by mrs. snagsby. "i say, my friends," pursues mr. chadband, utterly rejecting and obliterating mr. snagsby's suggestion, "why can we not fly? is it because we are calculated to walk? it is. could we walk, my friends, without strength? we could not. what should we do without strength, my friends? our legs would refuse to bear us, our knees would double up, our ankles would turn over, and we should come to the ground. then from whence, my friends, in a human point of view, do we derive the strength that is necessary to our limbs? is it," says chadband, glancing over the table, "from bread in various forms, from butter which is churned from the milk which is yielded unto us by the cow, from the eggs which are laid by the fowl, from ham, from tongue, from sausage, and from such like? it is. then let us partake of the good things which are set before us!" the persecutors denied that there was any particular gift in mr. chadband's piling verbose flights of stairs, one upon another, after this fashion. but this can only be received as a proof of their determination to persecute, since it must be within everybody's experience that the chadband style of oratory is widely received and much admired. mr. chadband, however, having concluded for the present, sits down at mr. snagsby's table and lays about him prodigiously. the conversion of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality already mentioned appears to be a process so inseparable from the constitution of this exemplary vessel that in beginning to eat and drink, he may be described as always becoming a kind of considerable oil mills or other large factory for the production of that article on a wholesale scale. on the present evening of the long vacation, in cook's court, cursitor street, he does such a powerful stroke of business that the warehouse appears to be quite full when the works cease. at this period of the entertainment, guster, who has never recovered her first failure, but has neglected no possible or impossible means of bringing the establishment and herself into contempt--among which may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedly performing clashing military music on mr. chadband's head with plates, and afterwards crowning that gentleman with muffins--at which period of the entertainment, guster whispers mr. snagsby that he is wanted. "and being wanted in the--not to put too fine a point upon it--in the shop," says mr. snagsby, rising, "perhaps this good company will excuse me for half a minute." mr. snagsby descends and finds the two 'prentices intently contemplating a police constable, who holds a ragged boy by the arm. "why, bless my heart," says mr. snagsby, "what's the matter!" "this boy," says the constable, "although he's repeatedly told to, won't move on--" "i'm always a-moving on, sar," cries the boy, wiping away his grimy tears with his arm. "i've always been a-moving and a-moving on, ever since i was born. where can i possibly move to, sir, more nor i do move!" "he won't move on," says the constable calmly, with a slight professional hitch of his neck involving its better settlement in his stiff stock, "although he has been repeatedly cautioned, and therefore i am obliged to take him into custody. he's as obstinate a young gonoph as i know. he won't move on." "oh, my eye! where can i move to!" cries the boy, clutching quite desperately at his hair and beating his bare feet upon the floor of mr. snagsby's passage. "don't you come none of that or i shall make blessed short work of you!" says the constable, giving him a passionless shake. "my instructions are that you are to move on. i have told you so five hundred times." "but where?" cries the boy. "well! really, constable, you know," says mr. snagsby wistfully, and coughing behind his hand his cough of great perplexity and doubt, "really, that does seem a question. where, you know?" "my instructions don't go to that," replies the constable. "my instructions are that this boy is to move on." do you hear, jo? it is nothing to you or to any one else that the great lights of the parliamentary sky have failed for some few years in this business to set you the example of moving on. the one grand recipe remains for you--the profound philosophical prescription--the be-all and the end-all of your strange existence upon earth. move on! you are by no means to move off, jo, for the great lights can't at all agree about that. move on! mr. snagsby says nothing to this effect, says nothing at all indeed, but coughs his forlornest cough, expressive of no thoroughfare in any direction. by this time mr. and mrs. chadband and mrs. snagsby, hearing the altercation, have appeared upon the stairs. guster having never left the end of the passage, the whole household are assembled. "the simple question is, sir," says the constable, "whether you know this boy. he says you do." mrs. snagsby, from her elevation, instantly cries out, "no he don't!" "my lit-tle woman!" says mr. snagsby, looking up the staircase. "my love, permit me! pray have a moment's patience, my dear. i do know something of this lad, and in what i know of him, i can't say that there's any harm; perhaps on the contrary, constable." to whom the law-stationer relates his joful and woeful experience, suppressing the half-crown fact. "well!" says the constable, "so far, it seems, he had grounds for what he said. when i took him into custody up in holborn, he said you knew him. upon that, a young man who was in the crowd said he was acquainted with you, and you were a respectable housekeeper, and if i'd call and make the inquiry, he'd appear. the young man don't seem inclined to keep his word, but--oh! here is the young man!" enter mr. guppy, who nods to mr. snagsby and touches his hat with the chivalry of clerkship to the ladies on the stairs. "i was strolling away from the office just now when i found this row going on," says mr. guppy to the law-stationer, "and as your name was mentioned, i thought it was right the thing should be looked into." "it was very good-natured of you, sir," says mr. snagsby, "and i am obliged to you." and mr. snagsby again relates his experience, again suppressing the half-crown fact. "now, i know where you live," says the constable, then, to jo. "you live down in tom-all-alone's. that's a nice innocent place to live in, ain't it?" "i can't go and live in no nicer place, sir," replies jo. "they wouldn't have nothink to say to me if i wos to go to a nice innocent place fur to live. who ud go and let a nice innocent lodging to such a reg'lar one as me!" "you are very poor, ain't you?" says the constable. "yes, i am indeed, sir, wery poor in gin'ral," replies jo. "i leave you to judge now! i shook these two half-crowns out of him," says the constable, producing them to the company, "in only putting my hand upon him!" "they're wot's left, mr. snagsby," says jo, "out of a sov-ring as wos give me by a lady in a wale as sed she wos a servant and as come to my crossin one night and asked to be showd this 'ere ouse and the ouse wot him as you giv the writin to died at, and the berrin-ground wot he's berrid in. she ses to me she ses 'are you the boy at the inkwhich?' she ses. i ses 'yes' i ses. she ses to me she ses 'can you show me all them places?' i ses 'yes i can' i ses. and she ses to me 'do it' and i dun it and she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it. and i an't had much of the sov'ring neither," says jo, with dirty tears, "fur i had to pay five bob, down in tom-all-alone's, afore they'd square it fur to give me change, and then a young man he thieved another five while i was asleep and another boy he thieved ninepence and the landlord he stood drains round with a lot more on it." "you don't expect anybody to believe this, about the lady and the sovereign, do you?" says the constable, eyeing him aside with ineffable disdain. "i don't know as i do, sir," replies jo. "i don't expect nothink at all, sir, much, but that's the true hist'ry on it." "you see what he is!" the constable observes to the audience. "well, mr. snagsby, if i don't lock him up this time, will you engage for his moving on?" "no!" cries mrs. snagsby from the stairs. "my little woman!" pleads her husband. "constable, i have no doubt he'll move on. you know you really must do it," says mr. snagsby. "i'm everyways agreeable, sir," says the hapless jo. "do it, then," observes the constable. "you know what you have got to do. do it! and recollect you won't get off so easy next time. catch hold of your money. now, the sooner you're five mile off, the better for all parties." with this farewell hint and pointing generally to the setting sun as a likely place to move on to, the constable bids his auditors good afternoon and makes the echoes of cook's court perform slow music for him as he walks away on the shady side, carrying his iron-bound hat in his hand for a little ventilation. now, jo's improbable story concerning the lady and the sovereign has awakened more or less the curiosity of all the company. mr. guppy, who has an inquiring mind in matters of evidence and who has been suffering severely from the lassitude of the long vacation, takes that interest in the case that he enters on a regular cross-examination of the witness, which is found so interesting by the ladies that mrs. snagsby politely invites him to step upstairs and drink a cup of tea, if he will excuse the disarranged state of the tea-table, consequent on their previous exertions. mr. guppy yielding his assent to this proposal, jo is requested to follow into the drawing-room doorway, where mr. guppy takes him in hand as a witness, patting him into this shape, that shape, and the other shape like a butterman dealing with so much butter, and worrying him according to the best models. nor is the examination unlike many such model displays, both in respect of its eliciting nothing and of its being lengthy, for mr. guppy is sensible of his talent, and mrs. snagsby feels not only that it gratifies her inquisitive disposition, but that it lifts her husband's establishment higher up in the law. during the progress of this keen encounter, the vessel chadband, being merely engaged in the oil trade, gets aground and waits to be floated off. "well!" says mr. guppy. "either this boy sticks to it like cobbler's-wax or there is something out of the common here that beats anything that ever came into my way at kenge and carboy's." mrs. chadband whispers mrs. snagsby, who exclaims, "you don't say so!" "for years!" replied mrs. chadband. "has known kenge and carboy's office for years," mrs. snagsby triumphantly explains to mr. guppy. "mrs. chadband--this gentleman's wife--reverend mr. chadband." "oh, indeed!" says mr. guppy. "before i married my present husband," says mrs. chadband. "was you a party in anything, ma'am?" says mr. guppy, transferring his cross-examination. "no." "not a party in anything, ma'am?" says mr. guppy. mrs. chadband shakes her head. "perhaps you were acquainted with somebody who was a party in something, ma'am?" says mr. guppy, who likes nothing better than to model his conversation on forensic principles. "not exactly that, either," replies mrs. chadband, humouring the joke with a hard-favoured smile. "not exactly that, either!" repeats mr. guppy. "very good. pray, ma'am, was it a lady of your acquaintance who had some transactions (we will not at present say what transactions) with kenge and carboy's office, or was it a gentleman of your acquaintance? take time, ma'am. we shall come to it presently. man or woman, ma'am?" "neither," says mrs. chadband as before. "oh! a child!" says mr. guppy, throwing on the admiring mrs. snagsby the regular acute professional eye which is thrown on british jurymen. "now, ma'am, perhaps you'll have the kindness to tell us what child." "you have got it at last, sir," says mrs. chadband with another hard-favoured smile. "well, sir, it was before your time, most likely, judging from your appearance. i was left in charge of a child named esther summerson, who was put out in life by messrs. kenge and carboy." "miss summerson, ma'am!" cries mr. guppy, excited. "i call her esther summerson," says mrs. chadband with austerity. "there was no miss-ing of the girl in my time. it was esther. 'esther, do this! esther, do that!' and she was made to do it." "my dear ma'am," returns mr. guppy, moving across the small apartment, "the humble individual who now addresses you received that young lady in london when she first came here from the establishment to which you have alluded. allow me to have the pleasure of taking you by the hand." mr. chadband, at last seeing his opportunity, makes his accustomed signal and rises with a smoking head, which he dabs with his pocket-handkerchief. mrs. snagsby whispers "hush!" "my friends," says chadband, "we have partaken in moderation" (which was certainly not the case so far as he was concerned) "of the comforts which have been provided for us. may this house live upon the fatness of the land; may corn and wine be plentiful therein; may it grow, may it thrive, may it prosper, may it advance, may it proceed, may it press forward! but, my friends, have we partaken of anything else? we have. my friends, of what else have we partaken? of spiritual profit? yes. from whence have we derived that spiritual profit? my young friend, stand forth!" jo, thus apostrophized, gives a slouch backward, and another slouch forward, and another slouch to each side, and confronts the eloquent chadband with evident doubts of his intentions. "my young friend," says chadband, "you are to us a pearl, you are to us a diamond, you are to us a gem, you are to us a jewel. and why, my young friend?" "i don't know," replies jo. "i don't know nothink." "my young friend," says chadband, "it is because you know nothing that you are to us a gem and jewel. for what are you, my young friend? are you a beast of the field? no. a bird of the air? no. a fish of the sea or river? no. you are a human boy, my young friend. a human boy. o glorious to be a human boy! and why glorious, my young friend? because you are capable of receiving the lessons of wisdom, because you are capable of profiting by this discourse which i now deliver for your good, because you are not a stick, or a staff, or a stock, or a stone, or a post, or a pillar. o running stream of sparkling joy to be a soaring human boy! and do you cool yourself in that stream now, my young friend? no. why do you not cool yourself in that stream now? because you are in a state of darkness, because you are in a state of obscurity, because you are in a state of sinfulness, because you are in a state of bondage. my young friend, what is bondage? let us, in a spirit of love, inquire." at this threatening stage of the discourse, jo, who seems to have been gradually going out of his mind, smears his right arm over his face and gives a terrible yawn. mrs. snagsby indignantly expresses her belief that he is a limb of the arch-fiend. "my friends," says mr. chadband with his persecuted chin folding itself into its fat smile again as he looks round, "it is right that i should be humbled, it is right that i should be tried, it is right that i should be mortified, it is right that i should be corrected. i stumbled, on sabbath last, when i thought with pride of my three hours' improving. the account is now favourably balanced: my creditor has accepted a composition. o let us be joyful, joyful! o let us be joyful!" great sensation on the part of mrs. snagsby. "my friends," says chadband, looking round him in conclusion, "i will not proceed with my young friend now. will you come to-morrow, my young friend, and inquire of this good lady where i am to be found to deliver a discourse unto you, and will you come like the thirsty swallow upon the next day, and upon the day after that, and upon the day after that, and upon many pleasant days, to hear discourses?" (this with a cow-like lightness.) jo, whose immediate object seems to be to get away on any terms, gives a shuffling nod. mr. guppy then throws him a penny, and mrs. snagsby calls to guster to see him safely out of the house. but before he goes downstairs, mr. snagsby loads him with some broken meats from the table, which he carries away, hugging in his arms. so, mr. chadband--of whom the persecutors say that it is no wonder he should go on for any length of time uttering such abominable nonsense, but that the wonder rather is that he should ever leave off, having once the audacity to begin--retires into private life until he invests a little capital of supper in the oil-trade. jo moves on, through the long vacation, down to blackfriars bridge, where he finds a baking stony corner wherein to settle to his repast. and there he sits, munching and gnawing, and looking up at the great cross on the summit of st. paul's cathedral, glittering above a red-and-violet-tinted cloud of smoke. from the boy's face one might suppose that sacred emblem to be, in his eyes, the crowning confusion of the great, confused city--so golden, so high up, so far out of his reach. there he sits, the sun going down, the river running fast, the crowd flowing by him in two streams--everything moving on to some purpose and to one end--until he is stirred up and told to "move on" too. chapter xx a new lodger the long vacation saunters on towards term-time like an idle river very leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. mr. guppy saunters along with it congenially. he has blunted the blade of his penknife and broken the point off by sticking that instrument into his desk in every direction. not that he bears the desk any ill will, but he must do something, and it must be something of an unexciting nature, which will lay neither his physical nor his intellectual energies under too heavy contribution. he finds that nothing agrees with him so well as to make little gyrations on one leg of his stool, and stab his desk, and gape. kenge and carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has taken out a shooting license and gone down to his father's, and mr. guppy's two fellow-stipendiaries are away on leave. mr. guppy and mr. richard carstone divide the dignity of the office. but mr. carstone is for the time being established in kenge's room, whereat mr. guppy chafes. so exceedingly that he with biting sarcasm informs his mother, in the confidential moments when he sups with her off a lobster and lettuce in the old street road, that he is afraid the office is hardly good enough for swells, and that if he had known there was a swell coming, he would have got it painted. mr. guppy suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of a stool in kenge and carboy's office of entertaining, as a matter of course, sinister designs upon him. he is clear that every such person wants to depose him. if he be ever asked how, why, when, or wherefore, he shuts up one eye and shakes his head. on the strength of these profound views, he in the most ingenious manner takes infinite pains to counterplot when there is no plot, and plays the deepest games of chess without any adversary. it is a source of much gratification to mr. guppy, therefore, to find the new-comer constantly poring over the papers in jarndyce and jarndyce, for he well knows that nothing but confusion and failure can come of that. his satisfaction communicates itself to a third saunterer through the long vacation in kenge and carboy's office, to wit, young smallweed. whether young smallweed (metaphorically called small and eke chick weed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling) was ever a boy is much doubted in lincoln's inn. he is now something under fifteen and an old limb of the law. he is facetiously understood to entertain a passion for a lady at a cigar-shop in the neighbourhood of chancery lane and for her sake to have broken off a contract with another lady, to whom he had been engaged some years. he is a town-made article, of small stature and weazen features, but may be perceived from a considerable distance by means of his very tall hat. to become a guppy is the object of his ambition. he dresses at that gentleman (by whom he is patronized), talks at him, walks at him, founds himself entirely on him. he is honoured with mr. guppy's particular confidence and occasionally advises him, from the deep wells of his experience, on difficult points in private life. mr. guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning after trying all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy, and after several times putting his head into the iron safe with a notion of cooling it. mr. smallweed has been twice dispatched for effervescent drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two official tumblers and stirred them up with the ruler. mr. guppy propounds for mr. smallweed's consideration the paradox that the more you drink the thirstier you are and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a state of hopeless languor. while thus looking out into the shade of old square, lincoln's inn, surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, mr. guppy becomes conscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walk below and turning itself up in the direction of his face. at the same time, a low whistle is wafted through the inn and a suppressed voice cries, "hip! gup-py!" "why, you don't mean it!" says mr. guppy, aroused. "small! here's jobling!" small's head looks out of window too and nods to jobling. "where have you sprung up from?" inquires mr. guppy. "from the market-gardens down by deptford. i can't stand it any longer. i must enlist. i say! i wish you'd lend me half a crown. upon my soul, i'm hungry." jobling looks hungry and also has the appearance of having run to seed in the market-gardens down by deptford. "i say! just throw out half a crown if you have got one to spare. i want to get some dinner." "will you come and dine with me?" says mr. guppy, throwing out the coin, which mr. jobling catches neatly. "how long should i have to hold out?" says jobling. "not half an hour. i am only waiting here till the enemy goes, returns mr. guppy, butting inward with his head. "what enemy?" "a new one. going to be articled. will you wait?" "can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime?" says mr. jobling. smallweed suggests the law list. but mr. jobling declares with much earnestness that he "can't stand it." "you shall have the paper," says mr. guppy. "he shall bring it down. but you had better not be seen about here. sit on our staircase and read. it's a quiet place." jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. the sagacious smallweed supplies him with the newspaper and occasionally drops his eye upon him from the landing as a precaution against his becoming disgusted with waiting and making an untimely departure. at last the enemy retreats, and then smallweed fetches mr. jobling up. "well, and how are you?" says mr. guppy, shaking hands with him. "so, so. how are you?" mr. guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, mr. jobling ventures on the question, "how is she?" this mr. guppy resents as a liberty, retorting, "jobling, there are chords in the human mind--" jobling begs pardon. "any subject but that!" says mr. guppy with a gloomy enjoyment of his injury. "for there are chords, jobling--" mr. jobling begs pardon again. during this short colloquy, the active smallweed, who is of the dinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper, "return immediately." this notification to all whom it may concern, he inserts in the letter-box, and then putting on the tall hat at the angle of inclination at which mr. guppy wears his, informs his patron that they may now make themselves scarce. accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring dining-house, of the class known among its frequenters by the denomination slap-bang, where the waitress, a bouncing young female of forty, is supposed to have made some impression on the susceptible smallweed, of whom it may be remarked that he is a weird changeling to whom years are nothing. he stands precociously possessed of centuries of owlish wisdom. if he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if he must have lain there in a tail-coat. he has an old, old eye, has smallweed; and he drinks and smokes in a monkeyish way; and his neck is stiff in his collar; and he is never to be taken in; and he knows all about it, whatever it is. in short, in his bringing up he has been so nursed by law and equity that he has become a kind of fossil imp, to account for whose terrestrial existence it is reported at the public offices that his father was john doe and his mother the only female member of the roe family, also that his first long-clothes were made from a blue bag. into the dining-house, unaffected by the seductive show in the window of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdant baskets of peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready for the spit, mr. smallweed leads the way. they know him there and defer to him. he has his favourite box, he bespeaks all the papers, he is down upon bald patriarchs, who keep them more than ten minutes afterwards. it is of no use trying him with anything less than a full-sized "bread" or proposing to him any joint in cut unless it is in the very best cut. in the matter of gravy he is adamant. conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dread experience, mr. guppy consults him in the choice of that day's banquet, turning an appealing look towards him as the waitress repeats the catalogue of viands and saying "what do you take, chick?" chick, out of the profundity of his artfulness, preferring "veal and ham and french beans--and don't you forget the stuffing, polly" (with an unearthly cock of his venerable eye), mr. guppy and mr. jobling give the like order. three pint pots of half-and-half are superadded. quickly the waitress returns bearing what is apparently a model of the tower of babel but what is really a pile of plates and flat tin dish-covers. mr. smallweed, approving of what is set before him, conveys intelligent benignity into his ancient eye and winks upon her. then, amid a constant coming in, and going out, and running about, and a clatter of crockery, and a rumbling up and down of the machine which brings the nice cuts from the kitchen, and a shrill crying for more nice cuts down the speaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts that have been disposed of, and a general flush and steam of hot joints, cut and uncut, and a considerably heated atmosphere in which the soiled knives and tablecloths seem to break out spontaneously into eruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the legal triumvirate appease their appetites. mr. jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might require. his hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a glistening nature, as if it had been a favourite snail-promenade. the same phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, and particularly at the seams. he has the faded appearance of a gentleman in embarrassed circumstances; even his light whiskers droop with something of a shabby air. his appetite is so vigorous that it suggests spare living for some little time back. he makes such a speedy end of his plate of veal and ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midway in theirs, that mr. guppy proposes another. "thank you, guppy," says mr. jobling, "i really don't know but what i will take another." another being brought, he falls to with great goodwill. mr. guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals until he is half way through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull at his pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed) and stretches out his legs and rubs his hands. beholding him in which glow of contentment, mr. guppy says, "you are a man again, tony!" "well, not quite yet," says mr. jobling. "say, just born." "will you take any other vegetables? grass? peas? summer cabbage?" "thank you, guppy," says mr. jobling. "i really don't know but what i will take summer cabbage." order given; with the sarcastic addition (from mr. smallweed) of "without slugs, polly!" and cabbage produced. "i am growing up, guppy," says mr. jobling, plying his knife and fork with a relishing steadiness. "glad to hear it." "in fact, i have just turned into my teens," says mr. jobling. he says no more until he has performed his task, which he achieves as messrs. guppy and smallweed finish theirs, thus getting over the ground in excellent style and beating those two gentlemen easily by a veal and ham and a cabbage. "now, small," says mr. guppy, "what would you recommend about pastry?" "marrow puddings," says mr. smallweed instantly. "aye, aye!" cries mr. jobling with an arch look. "you're there, are you? thank you, mr. guppy, i don't know but what i will take a marrow pudding." three marrow puddings being produced, mr. jobling adds in a pleasant humour that he is coming of age fast. to these succeed, by command of mr. smallweed, "three cheshires," and to those "three small rums." this apex of the entertainment happily reached, mr. jobling puts up his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own side of the box to himself), leans against the wall, and says, "i am grown up now, guppy. i have arrived at maturity." "what do you think, now," says mr. guppy, "about--you don't mind smallweed?" "not the least in the world. i have the pleasure of drinking his good health." "sir, to you!" says mr. smallweed. "i was saying, what do you think now," pursues mr. guppy, "of enlisting?" "why, what i may think after dinner," returns mr. jobling, "is one thing, my dear guppy, and what i may think before dinner is another thing. still, even after dinner, i ask myself the question, what am i to do? how am i to live? ill fo manger, you know," says mr. jobling, pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary fixture in an english stable. "ill fo manger. that's the french saying, and mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a frenchman. or more so." mr. smallweed is decidedly of opinion "much more so." "if any man had told me," pursues jobling, "even so lately as when you and i had the frisk down in lincolnshire, guppy, and drove over to see that house at castle wold--" mr. smallweed corrects him--chesney wold. "chesney wold. (i thank my honourable friend for that cheer.) if any man had told me then that i should be as hard up at the present time as i literally find myself, i should have--well, i should have pitched into him," says mr. jobling, taking a little rum-and-water with an air of desperate resignation; "i should have let fly at his head." "still, tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then," remonstrates mr. guppy. "you were talking about nothing else in the gig." "guppy," says mr. jobling, "i will not deny it. i was on the wrong side of the post. but i trusted to things coming round." that very popular trust in flat things coming round! not in their being beaten round, or worked round, but in their "coming" round! as though a lunatic should trust in the world's "coming" triangular! "i had confident expectations that things would come round and be all square," says mr. jobling with some vagueness of expression and perhaps of meaning too. "but i was disappointed. they never did. and when it came to creditors making rows at the office and to people that the office dealt with making complaints about dirty trifles of borrowed money, why there was an end of that connexion. and of any new professional connexion too, for if i was to give a reference to-morrow, it would be mentioned and would sew me up. then what's a fellow to do? i have been keeping out of the way and living cheap down about the market-gardens, but what's the use of living cheap when you have got no money? you might as well live dear." "better," mr. smallweed thinks. "certainly. it's the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskers have been my weaknesses, and i don't care who knows it," says mr. jobling. "they are great weaknesses--damme, sir, they are great. well," proceeds mr. jobling after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water, "what can a fellow do, i ask you, but enlist?" mr. guppy comes more fully into the conversation to state what, in his opinion, a fellow can do. his manner is the gravely impressive manner of a man who has not committed himself in life otherwise than as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart. "jobling," says mr. guppy, "myself and our mutual friend smallweed--" mr. smallweed modestly observes, "gentlemen both!" and drinks. "--have had a little conversation on this matter more than once since you--" "say, got the sack!" cries mr. jobling bitterly. "say it, guppy. you mean it." "no-o-o! left the inn," mr. smallweed delicately suggests. "since you left the inn, jobling," says mr. guppy; "and i have mentioned to our mutual friend smallweed a plan i have lately thought of proposing. you know snagsby the stationer?" "i know there is such a stationer," returns mr. jobling. "he was not ours, and i am not acquainted with him." "he is ours, jobling, and i am acquainted with him," mr. guppy retorts. "well, sir! i have lately become better acquainted with him through some accidental circumstances that have made me a visitor of his in private life. those circumstances it is not necessary to offer in argument. they may--or they may not--have some reference to a subject which may--or may not--have cast its shadow on my existence." as it is mr. guppy's perplexing way with boastful misery to tempt his particular friends into this subject, and the moment they touch it, to turn on them with that trenchant severity about the chords in the human mind, both mr. jobling and mr. smallweed decline the pitfall by remaining silent. "such things may be," repeats mr. guppy, "or they may not be. they are no part of the case. it is enough to mention that both mr. and mrs. snagsby are very willing to oblige me and that snagsby has, in busy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. he has all tulkinghorn's, and an excellent business besides. i believe if our mutual friend smallweed were put into the box, he could prove this?" mr. smallweed nods and appears greedy to be sworn. "now, gentlemen of the jury," says mr. guppy, "--i mean, now, jobling--you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. granted. but it's better than nothing, and better than enlistment. you want time. there must be time for these late affairs to blow over. you might live through it on much worse terms than by writing for snagsby." mr. jobling is about to interrupt when the sagacious smallweed checks him with a dry cough and the words, "hem! shakspeare!" "there are two branches to this subject, jobling," says mr. guppy. "that is the first. i come to the second. you know krook, the chancellor, across the lane. come, jobling," says mr. guppy in his encouraging cross-examination-tone, "i think you know krook, the chancellor, across the lane?" "i know him by sight," says mr. jobling. "you know him by sight. very well. and you know little flite?" "everybody knows her," says mr. jobling. "everybody knows her. very well. now it has been one of my duties of late to pay flite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from it the amount of her weekly rent, which i have paid (in consequence of instructions i have received) to krook himself, regularly in her presence. this has brought me into communication with krook and into a knowledge of his house and his habits. i know he has a room to let. you may live there at a very low charge under any name you like, as quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. he'll ask no questions and would accept you as a tenant at a word from me--before the clock strikes, if you chose. and i tell you another thing, jobling," says mr. guppy, who has suddenly lowered his voice and become familiar again, "he's an extraordinary old chap--always rummaging among a litter of papers and grubbing away at teaching himself to read and write, without getting on a bit, as it seems to me. he is a most extraordinary old chap, sir. i don't know but what it might be worth a fellow's while to look him up a bit." "you don't mean--" mr. jobling begins. "i mean," returns mr. guppy, shrugging his shoulders with becoming modesty, "that i can't make him out. i appeal to our mutual friend smallweed whether he has or has not heard me remark that i can't make him out." mr. smallweed bears the concise testimony, "a few!" "i have seen something of the profession and something of life, tony," says mr. guppy, "and it's seldom i can't make a man out, more or less. but such an old card as this, so deep, so sly, and secret (though i don't believe he is ever sober), i never came across. now, he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a soul about him, and he is reported to be immensely rich; and whether he is a smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a money-lender--all of which i have thought likely at different times--it might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him. i don't see why you shouldn't go in for it, when everything else suits." mr. jobling, mr. guppy, and mr. smallweed all lean their elbows on the table and their chins upon their hands, and look at the ceiling. after a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put their hands in their pockets, and look at one another. "if i had the energy i once possessed, tony!" says mr. guppy with a sigh. "but there are chords in the human mind--" expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum-and-water, mr. guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to tony jobling and informing him that during the vacation and while things are slack, his purse, "as far as three or four or even five pound goes," will be at his disposal. "for never shall it be said," mr. guppy adds with emphasis, "that william guppy turned his back upon his friend!" the latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose that mr. jobling says with emotion, "guppy, my trump, your fist!" mr. guppy presents it, saying, "jobling, my boy, there it is!" mr. jobling returns, "guppy, we have been pals now for some years!" mr. guppy replies, "jobling, we have." they then shake hands, and mr. jobling adds in a feeling manner, "thank you, guppy, i don't know but what i will take another glass for old acquaintance sake." "krook's last lodger died there," observes mr. guppy in an incidental way. "did he though!" says mr. jobling. "there was a verdict. accidental death. you don't mind that?" "no," says mr. jobling, "i don't mind it; but he might as well have died somewhere else. it's devilish odd that he need go and die at my place!" mr. jobling quite resents this liberty, several times returning to it with such remarks as, "there are places enough to die in, i should think!" or, "he wouldn't have liked my dying at his place, i dare say!" however, the compact being virtually made, mr. guppy proposes to dispatch the trusty smallweed to ascertain if mr. krook is at home, as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay. mr. jobling approving, smallweed puts himself under the tall hat and conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the guppy manner. he soon returns with the intelligence that mr. krook is at home and that he has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in the back premises, sleeping "like one o'clock." "then i'll pay," says mr. guppy, "and we'll go and see him. small, what will it be?" mr. smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with one hitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows: "four veals and hams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one summer cabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and six, and six breads is five, and three cheshires is five and three, and four half-pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four small rums is eight and three, and three pollys is eight and six. eight and six in half a sovereign, polly, and eighteenpence out!" not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, smallweed dismisses his friends with a cool nod and remains behind to take a little admiring notice of polly, as opportunity may serve, and to read the daily papers, which are so very large in proportion to himself, shorn of his hat, that when he holds up the times to run his eye over the columns, he seems to have retired for the night and to have disappeared under the bedclothes. mr. guppy and mr. jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop, where they find krook still sleeping like one o'clock, that is to say, breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast and quite insensible to any external sounds or even to gentle shaking. on the table beside him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin-bottle and a glass. the unwholesome air is so stained with this liquor that even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as they open and shut and glimmer on the visitors, look drunk. "hold up here!" says mr. guppy, giving the relaxed figure of the old man another shake. "mr. krook! halloa, sir!" but it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes with a spirituous heat smouldering in it. "did you ever see such a stupor as he falls into, between drink and sleep?" says mr. guppy. "if this is his regular sleep," returns jobling, rather alarmed, "it'll last a long time one of these days, i am thinking." "it's always more like a fit than a nap," says mr. guppy, shaking him again. "halloa, your lordship! why, he might be robbed fifty times over! open your eyes!" after much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see his visitors or any other objects. though he crosses one leg on another, and folds his hands, and several times closes and opens his parched lips, he seems to all intents and purposes as insensible as before. "he is alive, at any rate," says mr. guppy. "how are you, my lord chancellor. i have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a little matter of business." the old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips without the least consciousness. after some minutes he makes an attempt to rise. they help him up, and he staggers against the wall and stares at them. "how do you do, mr. krook?" says mr. guppy in some discomfiture. "how do you do, sir? you are looking charming, mr. krook. i hope you are pretty well?" the old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at mr. guppy, or at nothing, feebly swings himself round and comes with his face against the wall. so he remains for a minute or two, heaped up against it, and then staggers down the shop to the front door. the air, the movement in the court, the lapse of time, or the combination of these things recovers him. he comes back pretty steadily, adjusting his fur cap on his head and looking keenly at them. "your servant, gentlemen; i've been dozing. hi! i am hard to wake, odd times." "rather so, indeed, sir," responds mr. guppy. "what? you've been a-trying to do it, have you?" says the suspicious krook. "only a little," mr. guppy explains. the old man's eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up, examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down. "i say!" he cries like the hobgoblin in the story. "somebody's been making free here!" "i assure you we found it so," says mr. guppy. "would you allow me to get it filled for you?" "yes, certainly i would!" cries krook in high glee. "certainly i would! don't mention it! get it filled next door--sol's arms--the lord chancellor's fourteenpenny. bless you, they know me!" he so presses the empty bottle upon mr. guppy that that gentleman, with a nod to his friend, accepts the trust and hurries out and hurries in again with the bottle filled. the old man receives it in his arms like a beloved grandchild and pats it tenderly. "but, i say," he whispers, with his eyes screwed up, after tasting it, "this ain't the lord chancellor's fourteenpenny. this is eighteenpenny!" "i thought you might like that better," says mr. guppy. "you're a nobleman, sir," returns krook with another taste, and his hot breath seems to come towards them like a flame. "you're a baron of the land." taking advantage of this auspicious moment, mr. guppy presents his friend under the impromptu name of mr. weevle and states the object of their visit. krook, with his bottle under his arm (he never gets beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety), takes time to survey his proposed lodger and seems to approve of him. "you'd like to see the room, young man?" he says. "ah! it's a good room! been whitewashed. been cleaned down with soft soap and soda. hi! it's worth twice the rent, letting alone my company when you want it and such a cat to keep the mice away." commending the room after this manner, the old man takes them upstairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to be and also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dug up from his inexhaustible stores. the terms are easily concluded--for the lord chancellor cannot be hard on mr. guppy, associated as he is with kenge and carboy, jarndyce and jarndyce, and other famous claims on his professional consideration--and it is agreed that mr. weevle shall take possession on the morrow. mr. weevle and mr. guppy then repair to cook's court, cursitor street, where the personal introduction of the former to mr. snagsby is effected and (more important) the vote and interest of mrs. snagsby are secured. they then report progress to the eminent smallweed, waiting at the office in his tall hat for that purpose, and separate, mr. guppy explaining that he would terminate his little entertainment by standing treat at the play but that there are chords in the human mind which would render it a hollow mockery. on the morrow, in the dusk of evening, mr. weevle modestly appears at krook's, by no means incommoded with luggage, and establishes himself in his new lodging, where the two eyes in the shutters stare at him in his sleep, as if they were full of wonder. on the following day mr. weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind of young fellow, borrows a needle and thread of miss flite and a hammer of his landlord and goes to work devising apologies for window-curtains, and knocking up apologies for shelves, and hanging up his two teacups, milkpot, and crockery sundries on a pennyworth of little hooks, like a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it. but what mr. weevle prizes most of all his few possessions (next after his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that only whiskers can awaken in the breast of man) is a choice collection of copper-plate impressions from that truly national work the divinities of albion, or galaxy gallery of british beauty, representing ladies of title and fashion in every variety of smirk that art, combined with capital, is capable of producing. with these magnificent portraits, unworthily confined in a band-box during his seclusion among the market-gardens, he decorates his apartment; and as the galaxy gallery of british beauty wears every variety of fancy dress, plays every variety of musical instrument, fondles every variety of dog, ogles every variety of prospect, and is backed up by every variety of flower-pot and balustrade, the result is very imposing. but fashion is mr. weevle's, as it was tony jobling's, weakness. to borrow yesterday's paper from the sol's arms of an evening and read about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are shooting across the fashionable sky in every direction is unspeakable consolation to him. to know what member of what brilliant and distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant and distinguished feat of joining it yesterday or contemplates the no less brilliant and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow gives him a thrill of joy. to be informed what the galaxy gallery of british beauty is about, and means to be about, and what galaxy marriages are on the tapis, and what galaxy rumours are in circulation, is to become acquainted with the most glorious destinies of mankind. mr. weevle reverts from this intelligence to the galaxy portraits implicated, and seems to know the originals, and to be known of them. for the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts and devices as before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well as to carpenter, and developing social inclinations after the shades of evening have fallen on the court. at those times, when he is not visited by mr. guppy or by a small light in his likeness quenched in a dark hat, he comes out of his dull room--where he has inherited the deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain of ink--and talks to krook or is "very free," as they call it in the court, commendingly, with any one disposed for conversation. wherefore, mrs. piper, who leads the court, is impelled to offer two remarks to mrs. perkins: firstly, that if her johnny was to have whiskers, she could wish 'em to be identically like that young man's; and secondly, "mark my words, mrs. perkins, ma'am, and don't you be surprised, lord bless you, if that young man comes in at last for old krook's money!" chapter xxi the smallweed family in a rather ill-favoured and ill-savoured neighbourhood, though one of its rising grounds bears the name of mount pleasant, the elfin smallweed, christened bartholomew and known on the domestic hearth as bart, passes that limited portion of his time on which the office and its contingencies have no claim. he dwells in a little narrow street, always solitary, shady, and sad, closely bricked in on all sides like a tomb, but where there yet lingers the stump of an old forest tree whose flavour is about as fresh and natural as the smallweed smack of youth. there has been only one child in the smallweed family for several generations. little old men and women there have been, but no child, until mr. smallweed's grandmother, now living, became weak in her intellect and fell (for the first time) into a childish state. with such infantine graces as a total want of observation, memory, understanding, and interest, and an eternal disposition to fall asleep over the fire and into it, mr. smallweed's grandmother has undoubtedly brightened the family. mr. smallweed's grandfather is likewise of the party. he is in a helpless condition as to his lower, and nearly so as to his upper, limbs, but his mind is unimpaired. it holds, as well as it ever held, the first four rules of arithmetic and a certain small collection of the hardest facts. in respect of ideality, reverence, wonder, and other such phrenological attributes, it is no worse off than it used to be. everything that mr. smallweed's grandfather ever put away in his mind was a grub at first, and is a grub at last. in all his life he has never bred a single butterfly. the father of this pleasant grandfather, of the neighbourhood of mount pleasant, was a horny-skinned, two-legged, money-getting species of spider who spun webs to catch unwary flies and retired into holes until they were entrapped. the name of this old pagan's god was compound interest. he lived for it, married it, died of it. meeting with a heavy loss in an honest little enterprise in which all the loss was intended to have been on the other side, he broke something--something necessary to his existence, therefore it couldn't have been his heart--and made an end of his career. as his character was not good, and he had been bred at a charity school in a complete course, according to question and answer, of those ancient people the amorites and hittites, he was frequently quoted as an example of the failure of education. his spirit shone through his son, to whom he had always preached of "going out" early in life and whom he made a clerk in a sharp scrivener's office at twelve years old. there the young gentleman improved his mind, which was of a lean and anxious character, and developing the family gifts, gradually elevated himself into the discounting profession. going out early in life and marrying late, as his father had done before him, he too begat a lean and anxious-minded son, who in his turn, going out early in life and marrying late, became the father of bartholomew and judith smallweed, twins. during the whole time consumed in the slow growth of this family tree, the house of smallweed, always early to go out and late to marry, has strengthened itself in its practical character, has discarded all amusements, discountenanced all story-books, fairy-tales, fictions, and fables, and banished all levities whatsoever. hence the gratifying fact that it has had no child born to it and that the complete little men and women whom it has produced have been observed to bear a likeness to old monkeys with something depressing on their minds. at the present time, in the dark little parlour certain feet below the level of the street--a grim, hard, uncouth parlour, only ornamented with the coarsest of baize table-covers, and the hardest of sheet-iron tea-trays, and offering in its decorative character no bad allegorical representation of grandfather smallweed's mind--seated in two black horsehair porter's chairs, one on each side of the fire-place, the superannuated mr. and mrs. smallweed while away the rosy hours. on the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles which it is grandfather smallweed's usual occupation to watch, and projecting from the chimney-piece between them is a sort of brass gallows for roasting, which he also superintends when it is in action. under the venerable mr. smallweed's seat and guarded by his spindle legs is a drawer in his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous amount. beside him is a spare cushion with which he is always provided in order that he may have something to throw at the venerable partner of his respected age whenever she makes an allusion to money--a subject on which he is particularly sensitive. "and where's bart?" grandfather smallweed inquires of judy, bart's twin sister. "he an't come in yet," says judy. "it's his tea-time, isn't it?" "no." "how much do you mean to say it wants then?" "ten minutes." "hey?" "ten minutes." (loud on the part of judy.) "ho!" says grandfather smallweed. "ten minutes." grandmother smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her head at the trivets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them with money and screeches like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, "ten ten-pound notes!" grandfather smallweed immediately throws the cushion at her. "drat you, be quiet!" says the good old man. the effect of this act of jaculation is twofold. it not only doubles up mrs. smallweed's head against the side of her porter's chair and causes her to present, when extricated by her granddaughter, a highly unbecoming state of cap, but the necessary exertion recoils on mr. smallweed himself, whom it throws back into his porter's chair like a broken puppet. the excellent old gentleman being at these times a mere clothes-bag with a black skull-cap on the top of it, does not present a very animated appearance until he has undergone the two operations at the hands of his granddaughter of being shaken up like a great bottle and poked and punched like a great bolster. some indication of a neck being developed in him by these means, he and the sharer of his life's evening again fronting one another in their two porter's chairs, like a couple of sentinels long forgotten on their post by the black serjeant, death. judy the twin is worthy company for these associates. she is so indubitably sister to mr. smallweed the younger that the two kneaded into one would hardly make a young person of average proportions, while she so happily exemplifies the before-mentioned family likeness to the monkey tribe that attired in a spangled robe and cap she might walk about the table-land on the top of a barrel-organ without exciting much remark as an unusual specimen. under existing circumstances, however, she is dressed in a plain, spare gown of brown stuff. judy never owned a doll, never heard of cinderella, never played at any game. she once or twice fell into children's company when she was about ten years old, but the children couldn't get on with judy, and judy couldn't get on with them. she seemed like an animal of another species, and there was instinctive repugnance on both sides. it is very doubtful whether judy knows how to laugh. she has so rarely seen the thing done that the probabilities are strong the other way. of anything like a youthful laugh, she certainly can have no conception. if she were to try one, she would find her teeth in her way, modelling that action of her face, as she has unconsciously modelled all its other expressions, on her pattern of sordid age. such is judy. and her twin brother couldn't wind up a top for his life. he knows no more of jack the giant killer or of sinbad the sailor than he knows of the people in the stars. he could as soon play at leap-frog or at cricket as change into a cricket or a frog himself. but he is so much the better off than his sister that on his narrow world of fact an opening has dawned into such broader regions as lie within the ken of mr. guppy. hence his admiration and his emulation of that shining enchanter. judy, with a gong-like clash and clatter, sets one of the sheet-iron tea-trays on the table and arranges cups and saucers. the bread she puts on in an iron basket, and the butter (and not much of it) in a small pewter plate. grandfather smallweed looks hard after the tea as it is served out and asks judy where the girl is. "charley, do you mean?" says judy. "hey?" from grandfather smallweed. "charley, do you mean?" this touches a spring in grandmother smallweed, who, chuckling as usual at the trivets, cries, "over the water! charley over the water, charley over the water, over the water to charley, charley over the water, over the water to charley!" and becomes quite energetic about it. grandfather looks at the cushion but has not sufficiently recovered his late exertion. "ha!" he says when there is silence. "if that's her name. she eats a deal. it would be better to allow her for her keep." judy, with her brother's wink, shakes her head and purses up her mouth into no without saying it. "no?" returns the old man. "why not?" "she'd want sixpence a day, and we can do it for less," says judy. "sure?" judy answers with a nod of deepest meaning and calls, as she scrapes the butter on the loaf with every precaution against waste and cuts it into slices, "you, charley, where are you?" timidly obedient to the summons, a little girl in a rough apron and a large bonnet, with her hands covered with soap and water and a scrubbing brush in one of them, appears, and curtsys. "what work are you about now?" says judy, making an ancient snap at her like a very sharp old beldame. "i'm a-cleaning the upstairs back room, miss," replies charley. "mind you do it thoroughly, and don't loiter. shirking won't do for me. make haste! go along!" cries judy with a stamp upon the ground. "you girls are more trouble than you're worth, by half." on this severe matron, as she returns to her task of scraping the butter and cutting the bread, falls the shadow of her brother, looking in at the window. for whom, knife and loaf in hand, she opens the street-door. "aye, aye, bart!" says grandfather smallweed. "here you are, hey?" "here i am," says bart. "been along with your friend again, bart?" small nods. "dining at his expense, bart?" small nods again. "that's right. live at his expense as much as you can, and take warning by his foolish example. that's the use of such a friend. the only use you can put him to," says the venerable sage. his grandson, without receiving this good counsel as dutifully as he might, honours it with all such acceptance as may lie in a slight wink and a nod and takes a chair at the tea-table. the four old faces then hover over teacups like a company of ghastly cherubim, mrs. smallweed perpetually twitching her head and chattering at the trivets and mr. smallweed requiring to be repeatedly shaken up like a large black draught. "yes, yes," says the good old gentleman, reverting to his lesson of wisdom. "that's such advice as your father would have given you, bart. you never saw your father. more's the pity. he was my true son." whether it is intended to be conveyed that he was particularly pleasant to look at, on that account, does not appear. "he was my true son," repeats the old gentleman, folding his bread and butter on his knee, "a good accountant, and died fifteen years ago." mrs. smallweed, following her usual instinct, breaks out with "fifteen hundred pound. fifteen hundred pound in a black box, fifteen hundred pound locked up, fifteen hundred pound put away and hid!" her worthy husband, setting aside his bread and butter, immediately discharges the cushion at her, crushes her against the side of her chair, and falls back in his own, overpowered. his appearance, after visiting mrs. smallweed with one of these admonitions, is particularly impressive and not wholly prepossessing, firstly because the exertion generally twists his black skull-cap over one eye and gives him an air of goblin rakishness, secondly because he mutters violent imprecations against mrs. smallweed, and thirdly because the contrast between those powerful expressions and his powerless figure is suggestive of a baleful old malignant who would be very wicked if he could. all this, however, is so common in the smallweed family circle that it produces no impression. the old gentleman is merely shaken and has his internal feathers beaten up, the cushion is restored to its usual place beside him, and the old lady, perhaps with her cap adjusted and perhaps not, is planted in her chair again, ready to be bowled down like a ninepin. some time elapses in the present instance before the old gentleman is sufficiently cool to resume his discourse, and even then he mixes it up with several edifying expletives addressed to the unconscious partner of his bosom, who holds communication with nothing on earth but the trivets. as thus: "if your father, bart, had lived longer, he might have been worth a deal of money--you brimstone chatterer!--but just as he was beginning to build up the house that he had been making the foundations for, through many a year--you jade of a magpie, jackdaw, and poll-parrot, what do you mean!--he took ill and died of a low fever, always being a sparing and a spare man, full of business care--i should like to throw a cat at you instead of a cushion, and i will too if you make such a confounded fool of yourself!--and your mother, who was a prudent woman as dry as a chip, just dwindled away like touchwood after you and judy were born--you are an old pig. you are a brimstone pig. you're a head of swine!" judy, not interested in what she has often heard, begins to collect in a basin various tributary streams of tea, from the bottoms of cups and saucers and from the bottom of the tea-pot for the little charwoman's evening meal. in like manner she gets together, in the iron bread-basket, as many outside fragments and worn-down heels of loaves as the rigid economy of the house has left in existence. "but your father and me were partners, bart," says the old gentleman, "and when i am gone, you and judy will have all there is. it's rare for you both that you went out early in life--judy to the flower business, and you to the law. you won't want to spend it. you'll get your living without it, and put more to it. when i am gone, judy will go back to the flower business and you'll still stick to the law." one might infer from judy's appearance that her business rather lay with the thorns than the flowers, but she has in her time been apprenticed to the art and mystery of artificial flower-making. a close observer might perhaps detect both in her eye and her brother's, when their venerable grandsire anticipates his being gone, some little impatience to know when he may be going, and some resentful opinion that it is time he went. "now, if everybody has done," says judy, completing her preparations, "i'll have that girl in to her tea. she would never leave off if she took it by herself in the kitchen." charley is accordingly introduced, and under a heavy fire of eyes, sits down to her basin and a druidical ruin of bread and butter. in the active superintendence of this young person, judy smallweed appears to attain a perfectly geological age and to date from the remotest periods. her systematic manner of flying at her and pouncing on her, with or without pretence, whether or no, is wonderful, evincing an accomplishment in the art of girl-driving seldom reached by the oldest practitioners. "now, don't stare about you all the afternoon," cries judy, shaking her head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch the glance which has been previously sounding the basin of tea, "but take your victuals and get back to your work." "yes, miss," says charley. "don't say yes," returns miss smallweed, "for i know what you girls are. do it without saying it, and then i may begin to believe you." charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission and so disperses the druidical ruins that miss smallweed charges her not to gormandize, which "in you girls," she observes, is disgusting. charley might find some more difficulty in meeting her views on the general subject of girls but for a knock at the door. "see who it is, and don't chew when you open it!" cries judy. the object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose, miss smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of the bread and butter together and launching two or three dirty tea-cups into the ebb-tide of the basin of tea as a hint that she considers the eating and drinking terminated. "now! who is it, and what's wanted?" says the snappish judy. it is one mr. george, it appears. without other announcement or ceremony, mr. george walks in. "whew!" says mr. george. "you are hot here. always a fire, eh? well! perhaps you do right to get used to one." mr. george makes the latter remark to himself as he nods to grandfather smallweed. "ho! it's you!" cries the old gentleman. "how de do? how de do?" "middling," replies mr. george, taking a chair. "your granddaughter i have had the honour of seeing before; my service to you, miss." "this is my grandson," says grandfather smallweed. "you ha'n't seen him before. he is in the law and not much at home." "my service to him, too! he is like his sister. he is very like his sister. he is devilish like his sister," says mr. george, laying a great and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective. "and how does the world use you, mr. george?" grandfather smallweed inquires, slowly rubbing his legs. "pretty much as usual. like a football." he is a swarthy brown man of fifty, well made, and good looking, with crisp dark hair, bright eyes, and a broad chest. his sinewy and powerful hands, as sunburnt as his face, have evidently been used to a pretty rough life. what is curious about him is that he sits forward on his chair as if he were, from long habit, allowing space for some dress or accoutrements that he has altogether laid aside. his step too is measured and heavy and would go well with a weighty clash and jingle of spurs. he is close-shaved now, but his mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for years familiar with a great moustache; and his manner of occasionally laying the open palm of his broad brown hand upon it is to the same effect. altogether one might guess mr. george to have been a trooper once upon a time. a special contrast mr. george makes to the smallweed family. trooper was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him. it is a broadsword to an oyster-knife. his developed figure and their stunted forms, his large manner filling any amount of room and their little narrow pinched ways, his sounding voice and their sharp spare tones, are in the strongest and the strangest opposition. as he sits in the middle of the grim parlour, leaning a little forward, with his hands upon his thighs and his elbows squared, he looks as though, if he remained there long, he would absorb into himself the whole family and the whole four-roomed house, extra little back-kitchen and all. "do you rub your legs to rub life into 'em?" he asks of grandfather smallweed after looking round the room. "why, it's partly a habit, mr. george, and--yes--it partly helps the circulation," he replies. "the cir-cu-la-tion!" repeats mr. george, folding his arms upon his chest and seeming to become two sizes larger. "not much of that, i should think." "truly i'm old, mr. george," says grandfather smallweed. "but i can carry my years. i'm older than her," nodding at his wife, "and see what she is? you're a brimstone chatterer!" with a sudden revival of his late hostility. "unlucky old soul!" says mr. george, turning his head in that direction. "don't scold the old lady. look at her here, with her poor cap half off her head and her poor hair all in a muddle. hold up, ma'am. that's better. there we are! think of your mother, mr. smallweed," says mr. george, coming back to his seat from assisting her, "if your wife an't enough." "i suppose you were an excellent son, mr. george?" the old man hints with a leer. the colour of mr. george's face rather deepens as he replies, "why no. i wasn't." "i am astonished at it." "so am i. i ought to have been a good son, and i think i meant to have been one. but i wasn't. i was a thundering bad son, that's the long and the short of it, and never was a credit to anybody." "surprising!" cries the old man. "however," mr. george resumes, "the less said about it, the better now. come! you know the agreement. always a pipe out of the two months' interest! (bosh! it's all correct. you needn't be afraid to order the pipe. here's the new bill, and here's the two months' interest-money, and a devil-and-all of a scrape it is to get it together in my business.)" mr. george sits, with his arms folded, consuming the family and the parlour while grandfather smallweed is assisted by judy to two black leathern cases out of a locked bureau, in one of which he secures the document he has just received, and from the other takes another similar document which he hands to mr. george, who twists it up for a pipelight. as the old man inspects, through his glasses, every up-stroke and down-stroke of both documents before he releases them from their leathern prison, and as he counts the money three times over and requires judy to say every word she utters at least twice, and is as tremulously slow of speech and action as it is possible to be, this business is a long time in progress. when it is quite concluded, and not before, he disengages his ravenous eyes and fingers from it and answers mr. george's last remark by saying, "afraid to order the pipe? we are not so mercenary as that, sir. judy, see directly to the pipe and the glass of cold brandy-and-water for mr. george." the sportive twins, who have been looking straight before them all this time except when they have been engrossed by the black leathern cases, retire together, generally disdainful of the visitor, but leaving him to the old man as two young cubs might leave a traveller to the parental bear. "and there you sit, i suppose, all the day long, eh?" says mr. george with folded arms. "just so, just so," the old man nods. "and don't you occupy yourself at all?" "i watch the fire--and the boiling and the roasting--" "when there is any," says mr. george with great expression. "just so. when there is any." "don't you read or get read to?" the old man shakes his head with sharp sly triumph. "no, no. we have never been readers in our family. it don't pay. stuff. idleness. folly. no, no!" "there's not much to choose between your two states," says the visitor in a key too low for the old man's dull hearing as he looks from him to the old woman and back again. "i say!" in a louder voice. "i hear you." "you'll sell me up at last, i suppose, when i am a day in arrear." "my dear friend!" cries grandfather smallweed, stretching out both hands to embrace him. "never! never, my dear friend! but my friend in the city that i got to lend you the money--he might!" "oh! you can't answer for him?" says mr. george, finishing the inquiry in his lower key with the words "you lying old rascal!" "my dear friend, he is not to be depended on. i wouldn't trust him. he will have his bond, my dear friend." "devil doubt him," says mr. george. charley appearing with a tray, on which are the pipe, a small paper of tobacco, and the brandy-and-water, he asks her, "how do you come here! you haven't got the family face." "i goes out to work, sir," returns charley. the trooper (if trooper he be or have been) takes her bonnet off, with a light touch for so strong a hand, and pats her on the head. "you give the house almost a wholesome look. it wants a bit of youth as much as it wants fresh air." then he dismisses her, lights his pipe, and drinks to mr. smallweed's friend in the city--the one solitary flight of that esteemed old gentleman's imagination. "so you think he might be hard upon me, eh?" "i think he might--i am afraid he would. i have known him do it," says grandfather smallweed incautiously, "twenty times." incautiously, because his stricken better-half, who has been dozing over the fire for some time, is instantly aroused and jabbers "twenty thousand pounds, twenty twenty-pound notes in a money-box, twenty guineas, twenty million twenty per cent, twenty--" and is then cut short by the flying cushion, which the visitor, to whom this singular experiment appears to be a novelty, snatches from her face as it crushes her in the usual manner. "you're a brimstone idiot. you're a scorpion--a brimstone scorpion! you're a sweltering toad. you're a chattering clattering broomstick witch that ought to be burnt!" gasps the old man, prostrate in his chair. "my dear friend, will you shake me up a little?" mr. george, who has been looking first at one of them and then at the other, as if he were demented, takes his venerable acquaintance by the throat on receiving this request, and dragging him upright in his chair as easily as if he were a doll, appears in two minds whether or no to shake all future power of cushioning out of him and shake him into his grave. resisting the temptation, but agitating him violently enough to make his head roll like a harlequin's, he puts him smartly down in his chair again and adjusts his skull-cap with such a rub that the old man winks with both eyes for a minute afterwards. "o lord!" gasps mr. smallweed. "that'll do. thank you, my dear friend, that'll do. oh, dear me, i'm out of breath. o lord!" and mr. smallweed says it not without evident apprehensions of his dear friend, who still stands over him looming larger than ever. the alarming presence, however, gradually subsides into its chair and falls to smoking in long puffs, consoling itself with the philosophical reflection, "the name of your friend in the city begins with a d, comrade, and you're about right respecting the bond." "did you speak, mr. george?" inquires the old man. the trooper shakes his head, and leaning forward with his right elbow on his right knee and his pipe supported in that hand, while his other hand, resting on his left leg, squares his left elbow in a martial manner, continues to smoke. meanwhile he looks at mr. smallweed with grave attention and now and then fans the cloud of smoke away in order that he may see him the more clearly. "i take it," he says, making just as much and as little change in his position as will enable him to reach the glass to his lips with a round, full action, "that i am the only man alive (or dead either) that gets the value of a pipe out of you?" "well," returns the old man, "it's true that i don't see company, mr. george, and that i don't treat. i can't afford to it. but as you, in your pleasant way, made your pipe a condition--" "why, it's not for the value of it; that's no great thing. it was a fancy to get it out of you. to have something in for my money." "ha! you're prudent, prudent, sir!" cries grandfather smallweed, rubbing his legs. "very. i always was." puff. "it's a sure sign of my prudence that i ever found the way here." puff. "also, that i am what i am." puff. "i am well known to be prudent," says mr. george, composedly smoking. "i rose in life that way." "don't be down-hearted, sir. you may rise yet." mr. george laughs and drinks. "ha'n't you no relations, now," asks grandfather smallweed with a twinkle in his eyes, "who would pay off this little principal or who would lend you a good name or two that i could persuade my friend in the city to make you a further advance upon? two good names would be sufficient for my friend in the city. ha'n't you no such relations, mr. george?" mr. george, still composedly smoking, replies, "if i had, i shouldn't trouble them. i have been trouble enough to my belongings in my day. it may be a very good sort of penitence in a vagabond, who has wasted the best time of his life, to go back then to decent people that he never was a credit to and live upon them, but it's not my sort. the best kind of amends then for having gone away is to keep away, in my opinion." "but natural affection, mr. george," hints grandfather smallweed. "for two good names, hey?" says mr. george, shaking his head and still composedly smoking. "no. that's not my sort either." grandfather smallweed has been gradually sliding down in his chair since his last adjustment and is now a bundle of clothes with a voice in it calling for judy. that houri, appearing, shakes him up in the usual manner and is charged by the old gentleman to remain near him. for he seems chary of putting his visitor to the trouble of repeating his late attentions. "ha!" he observes when he is in trim again. "if you could have traced out the captain, mr. george, it would have been the making of you. if when you first came here, in consequence of our advertisement in the newspapers--when i say 'our,' i'm alluding to the advertisements of my friend in the city, and one or two others who embark their capital in the same way, and are so friendly towards me as sometimes to give me a lift with my little pittance--if at that time you could have helped us, mr. george, it would have been the making of you." "i was willing enough to be 'made,' as you call it," says mr. george, smoking not quite so placidly as before, for since the entrance of judy he has been in some measure disturbed by a fascination, not of the admiring kind, which obliges him to look at her as she stands by her grandfather's chair, "but on the whole, i am glad i wasn't now." "why, mr. george? in the name of--of brimstone, why?" says grandfather smallweed with a plain appearance of exasperation. (brimstone apparently suggested by his eye lighting on mrs. smallweed in her slumber.) "for two reasons, comrade." "and what two reasons, mr. george? in the name of the--" "of our friend in the city?" suggests mr. george, composedly drinking. "aye, if you like. what two reasons?" "in the first place," returns mr. george, but still looking at judy as if she being so old and so like her grandfather it is indifferent which of the two he addresses, "you gentlemen took me in. you advertised that mr. hawdon (captain hawdon, if you hold to the saying 'once a captain, always a captain') was to hear of something to his advantage." "well?" returns the old man shrilly and sharply. "well!" says mr. george, smoking on. "it wouldn't have been much to his advantage to have been clapped into prison by the whole bill and judgment trade of london." "how do you know that? some of his rich relations might have paid his debts or compounded for 'em. besides, he had taken us in. he owed us immense sums all round. i would sooner have strangled him than had no return. if i sit here thinking of him," snarls the old man, holding up his impotent ten fingers, "i want to strangle him now." and in a sudden access of fury, he throws the cushion at the unoffending mrs. smallweed, but it passes harmlessly on one side of her chair. "i don't need to be told," returns the trooper, taking his pipe from his lips for a moment and carrying his eyes back from following the progress of the cushion to the pipe-bowl which is burning low, "that he carried on heavily and went to ruin. i have been at his right hand many a day when he was charging upon ruin full-gallop. i was with him when he was sick and well, rich and poor. i laid this hand upon him after he had run through everything and broken down everything beneath him--when he held a pistol to his head." "i wish he had let it off," says the benevolent old man, "and blown his head into as many pieces as he owed pounds!" "that would have been a smash indeed," returns the trooper coolly; "any way, he had been young, hopeful, and handsome in the days gone by, and i am glad i never found him, when he was neither, to lead to a result so much to his advantage. that's reason number one." "i hope number two's as good?" snarls the old man. "why, no. it's more of a selfish reason. if i had found him, i must have gone to the other world to look. he was there." "how do you know he was there?" "he wasn't here." "how do you know he wasn't here?" "don't lose your temper as well as your money," says mr. george, calmly knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "he was drowned long before. i am convinced of it. he went over a ship's side. whether intentionally or accidentally, i don't know. perhaps your friend in the city does. do you know what that tune is, mr. smallweed?" he adds after breaking off to whistle one, accompanied on the table with the empty pipe. "tune!" replied the old man. "no. we never have tunes here." "that's the dead march in saul. they bury soldiers to it, so it's the natural end of the subject. now, if your pretty granddaughter--excuse me, miss--will condescend to take care of this pipe for two months, we shall save the cost of one next time. good evening, mr. smallweed!" "my dear friend!" the old man gives him both his hands. "so you think your friend in the city will be hard upon me if i fall in a payment?" says the trooper, looking down upon him like a giant. "my dear friend, i am afraid he will," returns the old man, looking up at him like a pygmy. mr. george laughs, and with a glance at mr. smallweed and a parting salutation to the scornful judy, strides out of the parlour, clashing imaginary sabres and other metallic appurtenances as he goes. "you're a damned rogue," says the old gentleman, making a hideous grimace at the door as he shuts it. "but i'll lime you, you dog, i'll lime you!" after this amiable remark, his spirit soars into those enchanting regions of reflection which its education and pursuits have opened to it, and again he and mrs. smallweed while away the rosy hours, two unrelieved sentinels forgotten as aforesaid by the black serjeant. while the twain are faithful to their post, mr. george strides through the streets with a massive kind of swagger and a grave-enough face. it is eight o'clock now, and the day is fast drawing in. he stops hard by waterloo bridge and reads a playbill, decides to go to astley's theatre. being there, is much delighted with the horses and the feats of strength; looks at the weapons with a critical eye; disapproves of the combats as giving evidences of unskilful swordsmanship; but is touched home by the sentiments. in the last scene, when the emperor of tartary gets up into a cart and condescends to bless the united lovers by hovering over them with the union jack, his eyelashes are moistened with emotion. the theatre over, mr. george comes across the water again and makes his way to that curious region lying about the haymarket and leicester square which is a centre of attraction to indifferent foreign hotels and indifferent foreigners, racket-courts, fighting-men, swordsmen, footguards, old china, gaming-houses, exhibitions, and a large medley of shabbiness and shrinking out of sight. penetrating to the heart of this region, he arrives by a court and a long whitewashed passage at a great brick building composed of bare walls, floors, roof-rafters, and skylights, on the front of which, if it can be said to have any front, is painted george's shooting gallery, &c. into george's shooting gallery, &c., he goes; and in it there are gaslights (partly turned off now), and two whitened targets for rifle-shooting, and archery accommodation, and fencing appliances, and all necessaries for the british art of boxing. none of these sports or exercises being pursued in george's shooting gallery to-night, which is so devoid of company that a little grotesque man with a large head has it all to himself and lies asleep upon the floor. the little man is dressed something like a gunsmith, in a green-baize apron and cap; and his face and hands are dirty with gunpowder and begrimed with the loading of guns. as he lies in the light before a glaring white target, the black upon him shines again. not far off is the strong, rough, primitive table with a vice upon it at which he has been working. he is a little man with a face all crushed together, who appears, from a certain blue and speckled appearance that one of his cheeks presents, to have been blown up, in the way of business, at some odd time or times. "phil!" says the trooper in a quiet voice. "all right!" cries phil, scrambling to his feet. "anything been doing?" "flat as ever so much swipes," says phil. "five dozen rifle and a dozen pistol. as to aim!" phil gives a howl at the recollection. "shut up shop, phil!" as phil moves about to execute this order, it appears that he is lame, though able to move very quickly. on the speckled side of his face he has no eyebrow, and on the other side he has a bushy black one, which want of uniformity gives him a very singular and rather sinister appearance. everything seems to have happened to his hands that could possibly take place consistently with the retention of all the fingers, for they are notched, and seamed, and crumpled all over. he appears to be very strong and lifts heavy benches about as if he had no idea what weight was. he has a curious way of limping round the gallery with his shoulder against the wall and tacking off at objects he wants to lay hold of instead of going straight to them, which has left a smear all round the four walls, conventionally called "phil's mark." this custodian of george's gallery in george's absence concludes his proceedings, when he has locked the great doors and turned out all the lights but one, which he leaves to glimmer, by dragging out from a wooden cabin in a corner two mattresses and bedding. these being drawn to opposite ends of the gallery, the trooper makes his own bed and phil makes his. "phil!" says the master, walking towards him without his coat and waistcoat, and looking more soldierly than ever in his braces. "you were found in a doorway, weren't you?" "gutter," says phil. "watchman tumbled over me." "then vagabondizing came natural to you from the beginning." "as nat'ral as possible," says phil. "good night!" "good night, guv'ner." phil cannot even go straight to bed, but finds it necessary to shoulder round two sides of the gallery and then tack off at his mattress. the trooper, after taking a turn or two in the rifle-distance and looking up at the moon now shining through the skylights, strides to his own mattress by a shorter route and goes to bed too. chapter xxii mr. bucket allegory looks pretty cool in lincoln's inn fields, though the evening is hot, for both mr. tulkinghorn's windows are wide open, and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. these may not be desirable characteristics when november comes with fog and sleet or january with ice and snow, but they have their merits in the sultry long vacation weather. they enable allegory, though it has cheeks like peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosy swellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to look tolerably cool to-night. plenty of dust comes in at mr. tulkinghorn's windows, and plenty more has generated among his furniture and papers. it lies thick everywhere. when a breeze from the country that has lost its way takes fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flings as much dust in the eyes of allegory as the law--or mr. tulkinghorn, one of its trustiest representatives--may scatter, on occasion, in the eyes of the laity. in his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into which his papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things of earth, animate and inanimate, are resolving, mr. tulkinghorn sits at one of the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. though a hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. he has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the fields, which is one of his many secrets. when he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and heralded by a remote reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back encircled by an earthy atmosphere and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two score and ten years old, that blushes in the glass to find itself so famous and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern grapes. mr. tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys his wine. as if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. more impenetrable than ever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy, pondering at that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history, and his money, and his will--all a mystery to every one--and that one bachelor friend of his, a man of the same mould and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of life until he was seventy-five years old, and then suddenly conceiving (as it is supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gave his gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walked leisurely home to the temple and hanged himself. but mr. tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usual length. seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild, shining man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass. "now, snagsby," says mr. tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd story again." "if you please, sir." "you told me when you were so good as to step round here last night--" "for which i must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but i remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person, and i thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--" mr. tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or to admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. so mr. snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "i must ask you to excuse the liberty, sir, i am sure." "not at all," says mr. tulkinghorn. "you told me, snagsby, that you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to your wife. that was prudent i think, because it's not a matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned." "well, sir," returns mr. snagsby, "you see, my little woman is--not to put too fine a point upon it--inquisitive. she's inquisitive. poor little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her to have her mind employed. in consequence of which she employs it--i should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it concerns her or not--especially not. my little woman has a very active mind, sir." mr. snagsby drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his hand, "dear me, very fine wine indeed!" "therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night?" says mr. tulkinghorn. "and to-night too?" "yes, sir, and to-night, too. my little woman is at present in--not to put too fine a point on it--in a pious state, or in what she considers such, and attends the evening exertions (which is the name they go by) of a reverend party of the name of chadband. he has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but i am not quite favourable to his style myself. that's neither here nor there. my little woman being engaged in that way made it easier for me to step round in a quiet manner." mr. tulkinghorn assents. "fill your glass, snagsby." "thank you, sir, i am sure," returns the stationer with his cough of deference. "this is wonderfully fine wine, sir!" "it is a rare wine now," says mr. tulkinghorn. "it is fifty years old." "is it indeed, sir? but i am not surprised to hear it, i am sure. it might be--any age almost." after rendering this general tribute to the port, mr. snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behind his hand for drinking anything so precious. "will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" asks mr. tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair. "with pleasure, sir." then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationer repeats jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house. on coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start and breaks off with, "dear me, sir, i wasn't aware there was any other gentleman present!" mr. snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive face between himself and the lawyer at a little distance from the table, a person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when he himself came in and has not since entered by the door or by either of the windows. there is a press in the room, but its hinges have not creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. yet this third person stands there with his attentive face, and his hat and stick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quiet listener. he is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man in black, of about the middle-age. except that he looks at mr. snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is nothing remarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner of appearing. "don't mind this gentleman," says mr. tulkinghorn in his quiet way. "this is only mr. bucket." "oh, indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a cough that he is quite in the dark as to who mr. bucket may be. "i wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because i have half a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is very intelligent in such things. what do you say to this, bucket?" "it's very plain, sir. since our people have moved this boy on, and he's not to be found on his old lay, if mr. snagsby don't object to go down with me to tom-all-alone's and point him out, we can have him here in less than a couple of hours' time. i can do it without mr. snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way." "mr. bucket is a detective officer, snagsby," says the lawyer in explanation. "is he indeed, sir?" says mr. snagsby with a strong tendency in his clump of hair to stand on end. "and if you have no real objection to accompany mr. bucket to the place in question," pursues the lawyer, "i shall feel obliged to you if you will do so." in a moment's hesitation on the part of mr. snagsby, bucket dips down to the bottom of his mind. "don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. "you won't do that. it's all right as far as the boy's concerned. we shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so i want to put to him, and he'll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. it'll be a good job for him. i promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all right. don't you be afraid of hurting him; you an't going to do that." "very well, mr. tulkinghorn!" cries mr. snagsby cheerfully. and reassured, "since that's the case--" "yes! and lookee here, mr. snagsby," resumes bucket, taking him aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a confidential tone. "you're a man of the world, you know, and a man of business, and a man of sense. that's what you are." "i am sure i am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returns the stationer with his cough of modesty, "but--" "that's what you are, you know," says bucket. "now, it an't necessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his senses about him and his head screwed on tight (i had an uncle in your business once)--it an't necessary to say to a man like you that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. don't you see? quiet!" "certainly, certainly," returns the other. "i don't mind telling you," says bucket with an engaging appearance of frankness, "that as far as i can understand it, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that property, don't you see?" "oh!" says mr. snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly. "now, what you want," pursues bucket, again tapping mr. snagsby on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is that every person should have their rights according to justice. that's what you want." "to be sure," returns mr. snagsby with a nod. "on account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you call it, in your business, customer or client? i forget how my uncle used to call it." "why, i generally say customer myself," replies mr. snagsby. "you're right!" returns mr. bucket, shaking hands with him quite affectionately. "--on account of which, and at the same time to oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to tom-all-alone's and to keep the whole thing quiet ever afterwards and never mention it to any one. that's about your intentions, if i understand you?" "you are right, sir. you are right," says mr. snagsby. "then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimate with it as if he had made it; "and if you're ready, i am." they leave mr. tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of his unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into the streets. "you don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of gridley, do you?" says bucket in friendly converse as they descend the stairs. "no," says mr. snagsby, considering, "i don't know anybody of that name. why?" "nothing particular," says bucket; "only having allowed his temper to get a little the better of him and having been threatening some respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant i have got against him--which it's a pity that a man of sense should do." as they walk along, mr. snagsby observes, as a novelty, that however quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in some undefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he is going to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixed purpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off, sharply, at the very last moment. now and then, when they pass a police-constable on his beat, mr. snagsby notices that both the constable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they come towards each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, and to gaze into space. in a few instances, mr. bucket, coming behind some under-sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleek hair twisted into one flat curl on each side of his head, almost without glancing at him touches him with his stick, upon which the young man, looking round, instantly evaporates. for the most part mr. bucket notices things in general, with a face as unchanging as the great mourning ring on his little finger or the brooch, composed of not much diamond and a good deal of setting, which he wears in his shirt. when they come at last to tom-all-alone's, mr. bucket stops for a moment at the corner and takes a lighted bull's-eye from the constable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his own particular bull's-eye at his waist. between his two conductors, mr. snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street, undrained, unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water--though the roads are dry elsewhere--and reeking with such smells and sights that he, who has lived in london all his life, can scarce believe his senses. branching from this street and its heaps of ruins are other streets and courts so infamous that mr. snagsby sickens in body and mind and feels as if he were going every moment deeper down into the infernal gulf. "draw off a bit here, mr. snagsby," says bucket as a kind of shabby palanquin is borne towards them, surrounded by a noisy crowd. "here's the fever coming up the street!" as the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object of attraction, hovers round the three visitors like a dream of horrible faces and fades away up alleys and into ruins and behind walls, and with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning, thenceforth flits about them until they leave the place. "are those the fever-houses, darby?" mr. bucket coolly asks as he turns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins. darby replies that "all them are," and further that in all, for months and months, the people "have been down by dozens" and have been carried out dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." bucket observing to mr. snagsby as they go on again that he looks a little poorly, mr. snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathe the dreadful air. there is inquiry made at various houses for a boy named jo. as few people are known in tom-all-alone's by any christian sign, there is much reference to mr. snagsby whether he means carrots, or the colonel, or gallows, or young chisel, or terrier tip, or lanky, or the brick. mr. snagsby describes over and over again. there are conflicting opinions respecting the original of his picture. some think it must be carrots, some say the brick. the colonel is produced, but is not at all near the thing. whenever mr. snagsby and his conductors are stationary, the crowd flows round, and from its squalid depths obsequious advice heaves up to mr. bucket. whenever they move, and the angry bull's-eyes glare, it fades away and flits about them up the alleys, and in the ruins, and behind the walls, as before. at last there is a lair found out where toughy, or the tough subject, lays him down at night; and it is thought that the tough subject may be jo. comparison of notes between mr. snagsby and the proprietress of the house--a drunken face tied up in a black bundle, and flaring out of a heap of rags on the floor of a dog-hutch which is her private apartment--leads to the establishment of this conclusion. toughy has gone to the doctor's to get a bottle of stuff for a sick woman but will be here anon. "and who have we got here to-night?" says mr. bucket, opening another door and glaring in with his bull's-eye. "two drunken men, eh? and two women? the men are sound enough," turning back each sleeper's arm from his face to look at him. "are these your good men, my dears?" "yes, sir," returns one of the women. "they are our husbands." "brickmakers, eh?" "yes, sir." "what are you doing here? you don't belong to london." "no, sir. we belong to hertfordshire." "whereabouts in hertfordshire?" "saint albans." "come up on the tramp?" "we walked up yesterday. there's no work down with us at present, but we have done no good by coming here, and shall do none, i expect." "that's not the way to do much good," says mr. bucket, turning his head in the direction of the unconscious figures on the ground. "it an't indeed," replies the woman with a sigh. "jenny and me knows it full well." the room, though two or three feet higher than the door, is so low that the head of the tallest of the visitors would touch the blackened ceiling if he stood upright. it is offensive to every sense; even the gross candle burns pale and sickly in the polluted air. there are a couple of benches and a higher bench by way of table. the men lie asleep where they stumbled down, but the women sit by the candle. lying in the arms of the woman who has spoken is a very young child. "why, what age do you call that little creature?" says bucket. "it looks as if it was born yesterday." he is not at all rough about it; and as he turns his light gently on the infant, mr. snagsby is strangely reminded of another infant, encircled with light, that he has seen in pictures. "he is not three weeks old yet, sir," says the woman. "is he your child?" "mine." the other woman, who was bending over it when they came in, stoops down again and kisses it as it lies asleep. "you seem as fond of it as if you were the mother yourself," says mr. bucket. "i was the mother of one like it, master, and it died." "ah, jenny, jenny!" says the other woman to her. "better so. much better to think of dead than alive, jenny! much better!" "why, you an't such an unnatural woman, i hope," returns bucket sternly, "as to wish your own child dead?" "god knows you are right, master," she returns. "i am not. i'd stand between it and death with my own life if i could, as true as any pretty lady." "then don't talk in that wrong manner," says mr. bucket, mollified again. "why do you do it?" "it's brought into my head, master," returns the woman, her eyes filling with tears, "when i look down at the child lying so. if it was never to wake no more, you'd think me mad, i should take on so. i know that very well. i was with jenny when she lost hers--warn't i, jenny?--and i know how she grieved. but look around you at this place. look at them," glancing at the sleepers on the ground. "look at the boy you're waiting for, who's gone out to do me a good turn. think of the children that your business lays with often and often, and that you see grow up!" "well, well," says mr. bucket, "you train him respectable, and he'll be a comfort to you, and look after you in your old age, you know." "i mean to try hard," she answers, wiping her eyes. "but i have been a-thinking, being over-tired to-night and not well with the ague, of all the many things that'll come in his way. my master will be against it, and he'll be beat, and see me beat, and made to fear his home, and perhaps to stray wild. if i work for him ever so much, and ever so hard, there's no one to help me; and if he should be turned bad 'spite of all i could do, and the time should come when i should sit by him in his sleep, made hard and changed, an't it likely i should think of him as he lies in my lap now and wish he had died as jenny's child died!" "there, there!" says jenny. "liz, you're tired and ill. let me take him." in doing so, she displaces the mother's dress, but quickly readjusts it over the wounded and bruised bosom where the baby has been lying. "it's my dead child," says jenny, walking up and down as she nurses, "that makes me love this child so dear, and it's my dead child that makes her love it so dear too, as even to think of its being taken away from her now. while she thinks that, i think what fortune would i give to have my darling back. but we mean the same thing, if we knew how to say it, us two mothers does in our poor hearts!" as mr. snagsby blows his nose and coughs his cough of sympathy, a step is heard without. mr. bucket throws his light into the doorway and says to mr. snagsby, "now, what do you say to toughy? will he do?" "that's jo," says mr. snagsby. jo stands amazed in the disk of light, like a ragged figure in a magic-lantern, trembling to think that he has offended against the law in not having moved on far enough. mr. snagsby, however, giving him the consolatory assurance, "it's only a job you will be paid for, jo," he recovers; and on being taken outside by mr. bucket for a little private confabulation, tells his tale satisfactorily, though out of breath. "i have squared it with the lad," says mr. bucket, returning, "and it's all right. now, mr. snagsby, we're ready for you." first, jo has to complete his errand of good nature by handing over the physic he has been to get, which he delivers with the laconic verbal direction that "it's to be all took d'rectly." secondly, mr. snagsby has to lay upon the table half a crown, his usual panacea for an immense variety of afflictions. thirdly, mr. bucket has to take jo by the arm a little above the elbow and walk him on before him, without which observance neither the tough subject nor any other subject could be professionally conducted to lincoln's inn fields. these arrangements completed, they give the women good night and come out once more into black and foul tom-all-alone's. by the noisome ways through which they descended into that pit, they gradually emerge from it, the crowd flitting, and whistling, and skulking about them until they come to the verge, where restoration of the bull's-eyes is made to darby. here the crowd, like a concourse of imprisoned demons, turns back, yelling, and is seen no more. through the clearer and fresher streets, never so clear and fresh to mr. snagsby's mind as now, they walk and ride until they come to mr. tulkinghorn's gate. as they ascend the dim stairs (mr. tulkinghorn's chambers being on the first floor), mr. bucket mentions that he has the key of the outer door in his pocket and that there is no need to ring. for a man so expert in most things of that kind, bucket takes time to open the door and makes some noise too. it may be that he sounds a note of preparation. howbeit, they come at last into the hall, where a lamp is burning, and so into mr. tulkinghorn's usual room--the room where he drank his old wine to-night. he is not there, but his two old-fashioned candlesticks are, and the room is tolerably light. mr. bucket, still having his professional hold of jo and appearing to mr. snagsby to possess an unlimited number of eyes, makes a little way into this room, when jo starts and stops. "what's the matter?" says bucket in a whisper. "there she is!" cries jo. "who!" "the lady!" a female figure, closely veiled, stands in the middle of the room, where the light falls upon it. it is quite still and silent. the front of the figure is towards them, but it takes no notice of their entrance and remains like a statue. "now, tell me," says bucket aloud, "how you know that to be the lady." "i know the wale," replies jo, staring, "and the bonnet, and the gownd." "be quite sure of what you say, tough," returns bucket, narrowly observant of him. "look again." "i am a-looking as hard as ever i can look," says jo with starting eyes, "and that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd." "what about those rings you told me of?" asks bucket. "a-sparkling all over here," says jo, rubbing the fingers of his left hand on the knuckles of his right without taking his eyes from the figure. the figure removes the right-hand glove and shows the hand. "now, what do you say to that?" asks bucket. jo shakes his head. "not rings a bit like them. not a hand like that." "what are you talking of?" says bucket, evidently pleased though, and well pleased too. "hand was a deal whiter, a deal delicater, and a deal smaller," returns jo. "why, you'll tell me i'm my own mother next," says mr. bucket. "do you recollect the lady's voice?" "i think i does," says jo. the figure speaks. "was it at all like this? i will speak as long as you like if you are not sure. was it this voice, or at all like this voice?" jo looks aghast at mr. bucket. "not a bit!" "then, what," retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, "did you say it was the lady for?" "cos," says jo with a perplexed stare but without being at all shaken in his certainty, "cos that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd. it is her and it an't her. it an't her hand, nor yet her rings, nor yet her woice. but that there's the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they're wore the same way wot she wore 'em, and it's her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov'ring and hooked it." "well!" says mr. bucket slightly, "we haven't got much good out of you. but, however, here's five shillings for you. take care how you spend it, and don't get yourself into trouble." bucket stealthily tells the coins from one hand into the other like counters--which is a way he has, his principal use of them being in these games of skill--and then puts them, in a little pile, into the boy's hand and takes him out to the door, leaving mr. snagsby, not by any means comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, alone with the veiled figure. but on mr. tulkinghorn's coming into the room, the veil is raised and a sufficiently good-looking frenchwoman is revealed, though her expression is something of the intensest. "thank you, mademoiselle hortense," says mr. tulkinghorn with his usual equanimity. "i will give you no further trouble about this little wager." "you will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that i am not at present placed?" says mademoiselle. "certainly, certainly!" "and to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished recommendation?" "by all means, mademoiselle hortense." "a word from mr. tulkinghorn is so powerful." "it shall not be wanting, mademoiselle." "receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir." "good night." mademoiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and mr. bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom of the ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows her downstairs, not without gallantry. "well, bucket?" quoth mr. tulkinghorn on his return. "it's all squared, you see, as i squared it myself, sir. there an't a doubt that it was the other one with this one's dress on. the boy was exact respecting colours and everything. mr. snagsby, i promised you as a man that he should be sent away all right. don't say it wasn't done!" "you have kept your word, sir," returns the stationer; "and if i can be of no further use, mr. tulkinghorn, i think, as my little woman will be getting anxious--" "thank you, snagsby, no further use," says mr. tulkinghorn. "i am quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already." "not at all, sir. i wish you good night." "you see, mr. snagsby," says mr. bucket, accompanying him to the door and shaking hands with him over and over again, "what i like in you is that you're a man it's of no use pumping; that's what you are. when you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it's done with and gone, and there's an end of it. that's what you do." "that is certainly what i endeavour to do, sir," returns mr. snagsby. "no, you don't do yourself justice. it an't what you endeavour to do," says mr. bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him in the tenderest manner, "it's what you do. that's what i estimate in a man in your way of business." mr. snagsby makes a suitable response and goes homeward so confused by the events of the evening that he is doubtful of his being awake and out--doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he goes--doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him. he is presently reassured on these subjects by the unchallengeable reality of mrs. snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect beehive of curl-papers and night-cap, who has dispatched guster to the police-station with official intelligence of her husband's being made away with, and who within the last two hours has passed through every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. but as the little woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it! chapter xxiii esther's narrative we came home from mr. boythorn's after six pleasant weeks. we were often in the park and in the woods and seldom passed the lodge where we had taken shelter without looking in to speak to the keeper's wife; but we saw no more of lady dedlock, except at church on sundays. there was company at chesney wold; and although several beautiful faces surrounded her, her face retained the same influence on me as at first. i do not quite know even now whether it was painful or pleasurable, whether it drew me towards her or made me shrink from her. i think i admired her with a kind of fear, and i know that in her presence my thoughts always wandered back, as they had done at first, to that old time of my life. i had a fancy, on more than one of these sundays, that what this lady so curiously was to me, i was to her--i mean that i disturbed her thoughts as she influenced mine, though in some different way. but when i stole a glance at her and saw her so composed and distant and unapproachable, i felt this to be a foolish weakness. indeed, i felt the whole state of my mind in reference to her to be weak and unreasonable, and i remonstrated with myself about it as much as i could. one incident that occurred before we quitted mr. boythorn's house, i had better mention in this place. i was walking in the garden with ada when i was told that some one wished to see me. going into the breakfast-room where this person was waiting, i found it to be the french maid who had cast off her shoes and walked through the wet grass on the day when it thundered and lightened. "mademoiselle," she began, looking fixedly at me with her too-eager eyes, though otherwise presenting an agreeable appearance and speaking neither with boldness nor servility, "i have taken a great liberty in coming here, but you know how to excuse it, being so amiable, mademoiselle." "no excuse is necessary," i returned, "if you wish to speak to me." "that is my desire, mademoiselle. a thousand thanks for the permission. i have your leave to speak. is it not?" she said in a quick, natural way. "certainly," said i. "mademoiselle, you are so amiable! listen then, if you please. i have left my lady. we could not agree. my lady is so high, so very high. pardon! mademoiselle, you are right!" her quickness anticipated what i might have said presently but as yet had only thought. "it is not for me to come here to complain of my lady. but i say she is so high, so very high. i will not say a word more. all the world knows that." "go on, if you please," said i. "assuredly; mademoiselle, i am thankful for your politeness. mademoiselle, i have an inexpressible desire to find service with a young lady who is good, accomplished, beautiful. you are good, accomplished, and beautiful as an angel. ah, could i have the honour of being your domestic!" "i am sorry--" i began. "do not dismiss me so soon, mademoiselle!" she said with an involuntary contraction of her fine black eyebrows. "let me hope a moment! mademoiselle, i know this service would be more retired than that which i have quitted. well! i wish that. i know this service would be less distinguished than that which i have quitted. well! i wish that, i know that i should win less, as to wages here. good. i am content." "i assure you," said i, quite embarrassed by the mere idea of having such an attendant, "that i keep no maid--" "ah, mademoiselle, but why not? why not, when you can have one so devoted to you! who would be enchanted to serve you; who would be so true, so zealous, and so faithful every day! mademoiselle, i wish with all my heart to serve you. do not speak of money at present. take me as i am. for nothing!" she was so singularly earnest that i drew back, almost afraid of her. without appearing to notice it, in her ardour she still pressed herself upon me, speaking in a rapid subdued voice, though always with a certain grace and propriety. "mademoiselle, i come from the south country where we are quick and where we like and dislike very strong. my lady was too high for me; i was too high for her. it is done--past--finished! receive me as your domestic, and i will serve you well. i will do more for you than you figure to yourself now. chut! mademoiselle, i will--no matter, i will do my utmost possible in all things. if you accept my service, you will not repent it. mademoiselle, you will not repent it, and i will serve you well. you don't know how well!" there was a lowering energy in her face as she stood looking at me while i explained the impossibility of my engaging her (without thinking it necessary to say how very little i desired to do so), which seemed to bring visibly before me some woman from the streets of paris in the reign of terror. she heard me out without interruption and then said with her pretty accent and in her mildest voice, "hey, mademoiselle, i have received my answer! i am sorry of it. but i must go elsewhere and seek what i have not found here. will you graciously let me kiss your hand?" she looked at me more intently as she took it, and seemed to take note, with her momentary touch, of every vein in it. "i fear i surprised you, mademoiselle, on the day of the storm?" she said with a parting curtsy. i confessed that she had surprised us all. "i took an oath, mademoiselle," she said, smiling, "and i wanted to stamp it on my mind so that i might keep it faithfully. and i will! adieu, mademoiselle!" so ended our conference, which i was very glad to bring to a close. i supposed she went away from the village, for i saw her no more; and nothing else occurred to disturb our tranquil summer pleasures until six weeks were out and we returned home as i began just now by saying. at that time, and for a good many weeks after that time, richard was constant in his visits. besides coming every saturday or sunday and remaining with us until monday morning, he sometimes rode out on horseback unexpectedly and passed the evening with us and rode back again early next day. he was as vivacious as ever and told us he was very industrious, but i was not easy in my mind about him. it appeared to me that his industry was all misdirected. i could not find that it led to anything but the formation of delusive hopes in connexion with the suit already the pernicious cause of so much sorrow and ruin. he had got at the core of that mystery now, he told us, and nothing could be plainer than that the will under which he and ada were to take i don't know how many thousands of pounds must be finally established if there were any sense or justice in the court of chancery--but oh, what a great if that sounded in my ears--and that this happy conclusion could not be much longer delayed. he proved this to himself by all the weary arguments on that side he had read, and every one of them sunk him deeper in the infatuation. he had even begun to haunt the court. he told us how he saw miss flite there daily, how they talked together, and how he did her little kindnesses, and how, while he laughed at her, he pitied her from his heart. but he never thought--never, my poor, dear, sanguine richard, capable of so much happiness then, and with such better things before him--what a fatal link was riveting between his fresh youth and her faded age, between his free hopes and her caged birds, and her hungry garret, and her wandering mind. ada loved him too well to mistrust him much in anything he said or did, and my guardian, though he frequently complained of the east wind and read more than usual in the growlery, preserved a strict silence on the subject. so i thought one day when i went to london to meet caddy jellyby, at her solicitation, i would ask richard to be in waiting for me at the coach-office, that we might have a little talk together. i found him there when i arrived, and we walked away arm in arm. "well, richard," said i as soon as i could begin to be grave with him, "are you beginning to feel more settled now?" "oh, yes, my dear!" returned richard. "i'm all right enough." "but settled?" said i. "how do you mean, settled?" returned richard with his gay laugh. "settled in the law," said i. "oh, aye," replied richard, "i'm all right enough." "you said that before, my dear richard." "and you don't think it's an answer, eh? well! perhaps it's not. settled? you mean, do i feel as if i were settling down?" "yes." "why, no, i can't say i am settling down," said richard, strongly emphasizing "down," as if that expressed the difficulty, "because one can't settle down while this business remains in such an unsettled state. when i say this business, of course i mean the--forbidden subject." "do you think it will ever be in a settled state?" said i. "not the least doubt of it," answered richard. we walked a little way without speaking, and presently richard addressed me in his frankest and most feeling manner, thus: "my dear esther, i understand you, and i wish to heaven i were a more constant sort of fellow. i don't mean constant to ada, for i love her dearly--better and better every day--but constant to myself. (somehow, i mean something that i can't very well express, but you'll make it out.) if i were a more constant sort of fellow, i should have held on either to badger or to kenge and carboy like grim death, and should have begun to be steady and systematic by this time, and shouldn't be in debt, and--" "are you in debt, richard?" "yes," said richard, "i am a little so, my dear. also, i have taken rather too much to billiards and that sort of thing. now the murder's out; you despise me, esther, don't you?" "you know i don't," said i. "you are kinder to me than i often am to myself," he returned. "my dear esther, i am a very unfortunate dog not to be more settled, but how can i be more settled? if you lived in an unfinished house, you couldn't settle down in it; if you were condemned to leave everything you undertook unfinished, you would find it hard to apply yourself to anything; and yet that's my unhappy case. i was born into this unfinished contention with all its chances and changes, and it began to unsettle me before i quite knew the difference between a suit at law and a suit of clothes; and it has gone on unsettling me ever since; and here i am now, conscious sometimes that i am but a worthless fellow to love my confiding cousin ada." we were in a solitary place, and he put his hands before his eyes and sobbed as he said the words. "oh, richard!" said i. "do not be so moved. you have a noble nature, and ada's love may make you worthier every day." "i know, my dear," he replied, pressing my arm, "i know all that. you mustn't mind my being a little soft now, for i have had all this upon my mind for a long time, and have often meant to speak to you, and have sometimes wanted opportunity and sometimes courage. i know what the thought of ada ought to do for me, but it doesn't do it. i am too unsettled even for that. i love her most devotedly, and yet i do her wrong, in doing myself wrong, every day and hour. but it can't last for ever. we shall come on for a final hearing and get judgment in our favour, and then you and ada shall see what i can really be!" it had given me a pang to hear him sob and see the tears start out between his fingers, but that was infinitely less affecting to me than the hopeful animation with which he said these words. "i have looked well into the papers, esther. i have been deep in them for months," he continued, recovering his cheerfulness in a moment, "and you may rely upon it that we shall come out triumphant. as to years of delay, there has been no want of them, heaven knows! and there is the greater probability of our bringing the matter to a speedy close; in fact, it's on the paper now. it will be all right at last, and then you shall see!" recalling how he had just now placed messrs. kenge and carboy in the same category with mr. badger, i asked him when he intended to be articled in lincoln's inn. "there again! i think not at all, esther," he returned with an effort. "i fancy i have had enough of it. having worked at jarndyce and jarndyce like a galley slave, i have slaked my thirst for the law and satisfied myself that i shouldn't like it. besides, i find it unsettles me more and more to be so constantly upon the scene of action. so what," continued richard, confident again by this time, "do i naturally turn my thoughts to?" "i can't imagine," said i. "don't look so serious," returned richard, "because it's the best thing i can do, my dear esther, i am certain. it's not as if i wanted a profession for life. these proceedings will come to a termination, and then i am provided for. no. i look upon it as a pursuit which is in its nature more or less unsettled, and therefore suited to my temporary condition--i may say, precisely suited. what is it that i naturally turn my thoughts to?" i looked at him and shook my head. "what," said richard, in a tone of perfect conviction, "but the army!" "the army?" said i. "the army, of course. what i have to do is to get a commission; and--there i am, you know!" said richard. and then he showed me, proved by elaborate calculations in his pocket-book, that supposing he had contracted, say, two hundred pounds of debt in six months out of the army; and that he contracted no debt at all within a corresponding period in the army--as to which he had quite made up his mind; this step must involve a saving of four hundred pounds in a year, or two thousand pounds in five years, which was a considerable sum. and then he spoke so ingenuously and sincerely of the sacrifice he made in withdrawing himself for a time from ada, and of the earnestness with which he aspired--as in thought he always did, i know full well--to repay her love, and to ensure her happiness, and to conquer what was amiss in himself, and to acquire the very soul of decision, that he made my heart ache keenly, sorely. for, i thought, how would this end, how could this end, when so soon and so surely all his manly qualities were touched by the fatal blight that ruined everything it rested on! i spoke to richard with all the earnestness i felt, and all the hope i could not quite feel then, and implored him for ada's sake not to put any trust in chancery. to all i said, richard readily assented, riding over the court and everything else in his easy way and drawing the brightest pictures of the character he was to settle into--alas, when the grievous suit should loose its hold upon him! we had a long talk, but it always came back to that, in substance. at last we came to soho square, where caddy jellyby had appointed to wait for me, as a quiet place in the neighbourhood of newman street. caddy was in the garden in the centre and hurried out as soon as i appeared. after a few cheerful words, richard left us together. "prince has a pupil over the way, esther," said caddy, "and got the key for us. so if you will walk round and round here with me, we can lock ourselves in and i can tell you comfortably what i wanted to see your dear good face about." "very well, my dear," said i. "nothing could be better." so caddy, after affectionately squeezing the dear good face as she called it, locked the gate, and took my arm, and we began to walk round the garden very cosily. "you see, esther," said caddy, who thoroughly enjoyed a little confidence, "after you spoke to me about its being wrong to marry without ma's knowledge, or even to keep ma long in the dark respecting our engagement--though i don't believe ma cares much for me, i must say--i thought it right to mention your opinions to prince. in the first place because i want to profit by everything you tell me, and in the second place because i have no secrets from prince." "i hope he approved, caddy?" "oh, my dear! i assure you he would approve of anything you could say. you have no idea what an opinion he has of you!" "indeed!" "esther, it's enough to make anybody but me jealous," said caddy, laughing and shaking her head; "but it only makes me joyful, for you are the first friend i ever had, and the best friend i ever can have, and nobody can respect and love you too much to please me." "upon my word, caddy," said i, "you are in the general conspiracy to keep me in a good humour. well, my dear?" "well! i am going to tell you," replied caddy, crossing her hands confidentially upon my arm. "so we talked a good deal about it, and so i said to prince, 'prince, as miss summerson--'" "i hope you didn't say 'miss summerson'?" "no. i didn't!" cried caddy, greatly pleased and with the brightest of faces. "i said, 'esther.' i said to prince, 'as esther is decidedly of that opinion, prince, and has expressed it to me, and always hints it when she writes those kind notes, which you are so fond of hearing me read to you, i am prepared to disclose the truth to ma whenever you think proper. and i think, prince,' said i, 'that esther thinks that i should be in a better, and truer, and more honourable position altogether if you did the same to your papa.'" "yes, my dear," said i. "esther certainly does think so." "so i was right, you see!" exclaimed caddy. "well! this troubled prince a good deal, not because he had the least doubt about it, but because he is so considerate of the feelings of old mr. turveydrop; and he had his apprehensions that old mr. turveydrop might break his heart, or faint away, or be very much overcome in some affecting manner or other if he made such an announcement. he feared old mr. turveydrop might consider it undutiful and might receive too great a shock. for old mr. turveydrop's deportment is very beautiful, you know, esther," said caddy, "and his feelings are extremely sensitive." "are they, my dear?" "oh, extremely sensitive. prince says so. now, this has caused my darling child--i didn't mean to use the expression to you, esther," caddy apologized, her face suffused with blushes, "but i generally call prince my darling child." i laughed; and caddy laughed and blushed, and went on. "this has caused him, esther--" "caused whom, my dear?" "oh, you tiresome thing!" said caddy, laughing, with her pretty face on fire. "my darling child, if you insist upon it! this has caused him weeks of uneasiness and has made him delay, from day to day, in a very anxious manner. at last he said to me, 'caddy, if miss summerson, who is a great favourite with my father, could be prevailed upon to be present when i broke the subject, i think i could do it.' so i promised i would ask you. and i made up my mind, besides," said caddy, looking at me hopefully but timidly, "that if you consented, i would ask you afterwards to come with me to ma. this is what i meant when i said in my note that i had a great favour and a great assistance to beg of you. and if you thought you could grant it, esther, we should both be very grateful." "let me see, caddy," said i, pretending to consider. "really, i think i could do a greater thing than that if the need were pressing. i am at your service and the darling child's, my dear, whenever you like." caddy was quite transported by this reply of mine, being, i believe, as susceptible to the least kindness or encouragement as any tender heart that ever beat in this world; and after another turn or two round the garden, during which she put on an entirely new pair of gloves and made herself as resplendent as possible that she might do no avoidable discredit to the master of deportment, we went to newman street direct. prince was teaching, of course. we found him engaged with a not very hopeful pupil--a stubborn little girl with a sulky forehead, a deep voice, and an inanimate, dissatisfied mama--whose case was certainly not rendered more hopeful by the confusion into which we threw her preceptor. the lesson at last came to an end, after proceeding as discordantly as possible; and when the little girl had changed her shoes and had had her white muslin extinguished in shawls, she was taken away. after a few words of preparation, we then went in search of mr. turveydrop, whom we found, grouped with his hat and gloves, as a model of deportment, on the sofa in his private apartment--the only comfortable room in the house. he appeared to have dressed at his leisure in the intervals of a light collation, and his dressing-case, brushes, and so forth, all of quite an elegant kind, lay about. "father, miss summerson; miss jellyby." "charmed! enchanted!" said mr. turveydrop, rising with his high-shouldered bow. "permit me!" handing chairs. "be seated!" kissing the tips of his left fingers. "overjoyed!" shutting his eyes and rolling. "my little retreat is made a paradise." recomposing himself on the sofa like the second gentleman in europe. "again you find us, miss summerson," said he, "using our little arts to polish, polish! again the sex stimulates us and rewards us by the condescension of its lovely presence. it is much in these times (and we have made an awfully degenerating business of it since the days of his royal highness the prince regent--my patron, if i may presume to say so) to experience that deportment is not wholly trodden under foot by mechanics. that it can yet bask in the smile of beauty, my dear madam." i said nothing, which i thought a suitable reply; and he took a pinch of snuff. "my dear son," said mr. turveydrop, "you have four schools this afternoon. i would recommend a hasty sandwich." "thank you, father," returned prince, "i will be sure to be punctual. my dear father, may i beg you to prepare your mind for what i am going to say?" "good heaven!" exclaimed the model, pale and aghast as prince and caddy, hand in hand, bent down before him. "what is this? is this lunacy! or what is this?" "father," returned prince with great submission, "i love this young lady, and we are engaged." "engaged!" cried mr. turveydrop, reclining on the sofa and shutting out the sight with his hand. "an arrow launched at my brain by my own child!" "we have been engaged for some time, father," faltered prince, "and miss summerson, hearing of it, advised that we should declare the fact to you and was so very kind as to attend on the present occasion. miss jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects you, father." mr. turveydrop uttered a groan. "no, pray don't! pray don't, father," urged his son. "miss jellyby is a young lady who deeply respects you, and our first desire is to consider your comfort." mr. turveydrop sobbed. "no, pray don't, father!" cried his son. "boy," said mr. turveydrop, "it is well that your sainted mother is spared this pang. strike deep, and spare not. strike home, sir, strike home!" "pray don't say so, father," implored prince, in tears. "it goes to my heart. i do assure you, father, that our first wish and intention is to consider your comfort. caroline and i do not forget our duty--what is my duty is caroline's, as we have often said together--and with your approval and consent, father, we will devote ourselves to making your life agreeable." "strike home," murmured mr. turveydrop. "strike home!" but he seemed to listen, i thought, too. "my dear father," returned prince, "we well know what little comforts you are accustomed to and have a right to, and it will always be our study and our pride to provide those before anything. if you will bless us with your approval and consent, father, we shall not think of being married until it is quite agreeable to you; and when we are married, we shall always make you--of course--our first consideration. you must ever be the head and master here, father; and we feel how truly unnatural it would be in us if we failed to know it or if we failed to exert ourselves in every possible way to please you." mr. turveydrop underwent a severe internal struggle and came upright on the sofa again with his cheeks puffing over his stiff cravat, a perfect model of parental deportment. "my son!" said mr. turveydrop. "my children! i cannot resist your prayer. be happy!" his benignity as he raised his future daughter-in-law and stretched out his hand to his son (who kissed it with affectionate respect and gratitude) was the most confusing sight i ever saw. "my children," said mr. turveydrop, paternally encircling caddy with his left arm as she sat beside him, and putting his right hand gracefully on his hip. "my son and daughter, your happiness shall be my care. i will watch over you. you shall always live with me"--meaning, of course, i will always live with you--"this house is henceforth as much yours as mine; consider it your home. may you long live to share it with me!" the power of his deportment was such that they really were as much overcome with thankfulness as if, instead of quartering himself upon them for the rest of his life, he were making some munificent sacrifice in their favour. "for myself, my children," said mr. turveydrop, "i am falling into the sear and yellow leaf, and it is impossible to say how long the last feeble traces of gentlemanly deportment may linger in this weaving and spinning age. but, so long, i will do my duty to society and will show myself, as usual, about town. my wants are few and simple. my little apartment here, my few essentials for the toilet, my frugal morning meal, and my little dinner will suffice. i charge your dutiful affection with the supply of these requirements, and i charge myself with all the rest." they were overpowered afresh by his uncommon generosity. "my son," said mr. turveydrop, "for those little points in which you are deficient--points of deportment, which are born with a man, which may be improved by cultivation, but can never be originated--you may still rely on me. i have been faithful to my post since the days of his royal highness the prince regent, and i will not desert it now. no, my son. if you have ever contemplated your father's poor position with a feeling of pride, you may rest assured that he will do nothing to tarnish it. for yourself, prince, whose character is different (we cannot be all alike, nor is it advisable that we should), work, be industrious, earn money, and extend the connexion as much as possible." "that you may depend i will do, dear father, with all my heart," replied prince. "i have no doubt of it," said mr. turveydrop. "your qualities are not shining, my dear child, but they are steady and useful. and to both of you, my children, i would merely observe, in the spirit of a sainted wooman on whose path i had the happiness of casting, i believe, some ray of light, take care of the establishment, take care of my simple wants, and bless you both!" old mr. turveydrop then became so very gallant, in honour of the occasion, that i told caddy we must really go to thavies inn at once if we were to go at all that day. so we took our departure after a very loving farewell between caddy and her betrothed, and during our walk she was so happy and so full of old mr. turveydrop's praises that i would not have said a word in his disparagement for any consideration. the house in thavies inn had bills in the windows announcing that it was to let, and it looked dirtier and gloomier and ghastlier than ever. the name of poor mr. jellyby had appeared in the list of bankrupts but a day or two before, and he was shut up in the dining-room with two gentlemen and a heap of blue bags, account-books, and papers, making the most desperate endeavours to understand his affairs. they appeared to me to be quite beyond his comprehension, for when caddy took me into the dining-room by mistake and we came upon mr. jellyby in his spectacles, forlornly fenced into a corner by the great dining-table and the two gentlemen, he seemed to have given up the whole thing and to be speechless and insensible. going upstairs to mrs. jellyby's room (the children were all screaming in the kitchen, and there was no servant to be seen), we found that lady in the midst of a voluminous correspondence, opening, reading, and sorting letters, with a great accumulation of torn covers on the floor. she was so preoccupied that at first she did not know me, though she sat looking at me with that curious, bright-eyed, far-off look of hers. "ah! miss summerson!" she said at last. "i was thinking of something so different! i hope you are well. i am happy to see you. mr. jarndyce and miss clare quite well?" i hoped in return that mr. jellyby was quite well. "why, not quite, my dear," said mrs. jellyby in the calmest manner. "he has been unfortunate in his affairs and is a little out of spirits. happily for me, i am so much engaged that i have no time to think about it. we have, at the present moment, one hundred and seventy families, miss summerson, averaging five persons in each, either gone or going to the left bank of the niger." i thought of the one family so near us who were neither gone nor going to the left bank of the niger, and wondered how she could be so placid. "you have brought caddy back, i see," observed mrs. jellyby with a glance at her daughter. "it has become quite a novelty to see her here. she has almost deserted her old employment and in fact obliges me to employ a boy." "i am sure, ma--" began caddy. "now you know, caddy," her mother mildly interposed, "that i do employ a boy, who is now at his dinner. what is the use of your contradicting?" "i was not going to contradict, ma," returned caddy. "i was only going to say that surely you wouldn't have me be a mere drudge all my life." "i believe, my dear," said mrs. jellyby, still opening her letters, casting her bright eyes smilingly over them, and sorting them as she spoke, "that you have a business example before you in your mother. besides. a mere drudge? if you had any sympathy with the destinies of the human race, it would raise you high above any such idea. but you have none. i have often told you, caddy, you have no such sympathy." "not if it's africa, ma, i have not." "of course you have not. now, if i were not happily so much engaged, miss summerson," said mrs. jellyby, sweetly casting her eyes for a moment on me and considering where to put the particular letter she had just opened, "this would distress and disappoint me. but i have so much to think of, in connexion with borrioboola-gha and it is so necessary i should concentrate myself that there is my remedy, you see." as caddy gave me a glance of entreaty, and as mrs. jellyby was looking far away into africa straight through my bonnet and head, i thought it a good opportunity to come to the subject of my visit and to attract mrs. jellyby's attention. "perhaps," i began, "you will wonder what has brought me here to interrupt you." "i am always delighted to see miss summerson," said mrs. jellyby, pursuing her employment with a placid smile. "though i wish," and she shook her head, "she was more interested in the borrioboolan project." "i have come with caddy," said i, "because caddy justly thinks she ought not to have a secret from her mother and fancies i shall encourage and aid her (though i am sure i don't know how) in imparting one." "caddy," said mrs. jellyby, pausing for a moment in her occupation and then serenely pursuing it after shaking her head, "you are going to tell me some nonsense." caddy untied the strings of her bonnet, took her bonnet off, and letting it dangle on the floor by the strings, and crying heartily, said, "ma, i am engaged." "oh, you ridiculous child!" observed mrs. jellyby with an abstracted air as she looked over the dispatch last opened; "what a goose you are!" "i am engaged, ma," sobbed caddy, "to young mr. turveydrop, at the academy; and old mr. turveydrop (who is a very gentlemanly man indeed) has given his consent, and i beg and pray you'll give us yours, ma, because i never could be happy without it. i never, never could!" sobbed caddy, quite forgetful of her general complainings and of everything but her natural affection. "you see again, miss summerson," observed mrs. jellyby serenely, "what a happiness it is to be so much occupied as i am and to have this necessity for self-concentration that i have. here is caddy engaged to a dancing-master's son--mixed up with people who have no more sympathy with the destinies of the human race than she has herself! this, too, when mr. quale, one of the first philanthropists of our time, has mentioned to me that he was really disposed to be interested in her!" "ma, i always hated and detested mr. quale!" sobbed caddy. "caddy, caddy!" returned mrs. jellyby, opening another letter with the greatest complacency. "i have no doubt you did. how could you do otherwise, being totally destitute of the sympathies with which he overflows! now, if my public duties were not a favourite child to me, if i were not occupied with large measures on a vast scale, these petty details might grieve me very much, miss summerson. but can i permit the film of a silly proceeding on the part of caddy (from whom i expect nothing else) to interpose between me and the great african continent? no. no," repeated mrs. jellyby in a calm clear voice, and with an agreeable smile, as she opened more letters and sorted them. "no, indeed." i was so unprepared for the perfect coolness of this reception, though i might have expected it, that i did not know what to say. caddy seemed equally at a loss. mrs. jellyby continued to open and sort letters and to repeat occasionally in quite a charming tone of voice and with a smile of perfect composure, "no, indeed." "i hope, ma," sobbed poor caddy at last, "you are not angry?" "oh, caddy, you really are an absurd girl," returned mrs. jellyby, "to ask such questions after what i have said of the preoccupation of my mind." "and i hope, ma, you give us your consent and wish us well?" said caddy. "you are a nonsensical child to have done anything of this kind," said mrs. jellyby; "and a degenerate child, when you might have devoted yourself to the great public measure. but the step is taken, and i have engaged a boy, and there is no more to be said. now, pray, caddy," said mrs. jellyby, for caddy was kissing her, "don't delay me in my work, but let me clear off this heavy batch of papers before the afternoon post comes in!" i thought i could not do better than take my leave; i was detained for a moment by caddy's saying, "you won't object to my bringing him to see you, ma?" "oh, dear me, caddy," cried mrs. jellyby, who had relapsed into that distant contemplation, "have you begun again? bring whom?" "him, ma." "caddy, caddy!" said mrs. jellyby, quite weary of such little matters. "then you must bring him some evening which is not a parent society night, or a branch night, or a ramification night. you must accommodate the visit to the demands upon my time. my dear miss summerson, it was very kind of you to come here to help out this silly chit. good-bye! when i tell you that i have fifty-eight new letters from manufacturing families anxious to understand the details of the native and coffee-cultivation question this morning, i need not apologize for having very little leisure." i was not surprised by caddy's being in low spirits when we went downstairs, or by her sobbing afresh on my neck, or by her saying she would far rather have been scolded than treated with such indifference, or by her confiding to me that she was so poor in clothes that how she was ever to be married creditably she didn't know. i gradually cheered her up by dwelling on the many things she would do for her unfortunate father and for peepy when she had a home of her own; and finally we went downstairs into the damp dark kitchen, where peepy and his little brothers and sisters were grovelling on the stone floor and where we had such a game of play with them that to prevent myself from being quite torn to pieces i was obliged to fall back on my fairy-tales. from time to time i heard loud voices in the parlour overhead, and occasionally a violent tumbling about of the furniture. the last effect i am afraid was caused by poor mr. jellyby's breaking away from the dining-table and making rushes at the window with the intention of throwing himself into the area whenever he made any new attempt to understand his affairs. as i rode quietly home at night after the day's bustle, i thought a good deal of caddy's engagement and felt confirmed in my hopes (in spite of the elder mr. turveydrop) that she would be the happier and better for it. and if there seemed to be but a slender chance of her and her husband ever finding out what the model of deportment really was, why that was all for the best too, and who would wish them to be wiser? i did not wish them to be any wiser and indeed was half ashamed of not entirely believing in him myself. and i looked up at the stars, and thought about travellers in distant countries and the stars they saw, and hoped i might always be so blest and happy as to be useful to some one in my small way. they were so glad to see me when i got home, as they always were, that i could have sat down and cried for joy if that had not been a method of making myself disagreeable. everybody in the house, from the lowest to the highest, showed me such a bright face of welcome, and spoke so cheerily, and was so happy to do anything for me, that i suppose there never was such a fortunate little creature in the world. we got into such a chatty state that night, through ada and my guardian drawing me out to tell them all about caddy, that i went on prose, prose, prosing for a length of time. at last i got up to my own room, quite red to think how i had been holding forth, and then i heard a soft tap at my door. so i said, "come in!" and there came in a pretty little girl, neatly dressed in mourning, who dropped a curtsy. "if you please, miss," said the little girl in a soft voice, "i am charley." "why, so you are," said i, stooping down in astonishment and giving her a kiss. "how glad am i to see you, charley!" "if you please, miss," pursued charley in the same soft voice, "i'm your maid." "charley?" "if you please, miss, i'm a present to you, with mr. jarndyce's love." i sat down with my hand on charley's neck and looked at charley. "and oh, miss," says charley, clapping her hands, with the tears starting down her dimpled cheeks, "tom's at school, if you please, and learning so good! and little emma, she's with mrs. blinder, miss, a-being took such care of! and tom, he would have been at school--and emma, she would have been left with mrs. blinder--and me, i should have been here--all a deal sooner, miss; only mr. jarndyce thought that tom and emma and me had better get a little used to parting first, we was so small. don't cry, if you please, miss!" "i can't help it, charley." "no, miss, nor i can't help it," says charley. "and if you please, miss, mr. jarndyce's love, and he thinks you'll like to teach me now and then. and if you please, tom and emma and me is to see each other once a month. and i'm so happy and so thankful, miss," cried charley with a heaving heart, "and i'll try to be such a good maid!" "oh, charley dear, never forget who did all this!" "no, miss, i never will. nor tom won't. nor yet emma. it was all you, miss." "i have known nothing of it. it was mr. jarndyce, charley." "yes, miss, but it was all done for the love of you and that you might be my mistress. if you please, miss, i am a little present with his love, and it was all done for the love of you. me and tom was to be sure to remember it." charley dried her eyes and entered on her functions, going in her matronly little way about and about the room and folding up everything she could lay her hands upon. presently charley came creeping back to my side and said, "oh, don't cry, if you please, miss." and i said again, "i can't help it, charley." and charley said again, "no, miss, nor i can't help it." and so, after all, i did cry for joy indeed, and so did she. chapter xxiv an appeal case as soon as richard and i had held the conversation of which i have given an account, richard communicated the state of his mind to mr. jarndyce. i doubt if my guardian were altogether taken by surprise when he received the representation, though it caused him much uneasiness and disappointment. he and richard were often closeted together, late at night and early in the morning, and passed whole days in london, and had innumerable appointments with mr. kenge, and laboured through a quantity of disagreeable business. while they were thus employed, my guardian, though he underwent considerable inconvenience from the state of the wind and rubbed his head so constantly that not a single hair upon it ever rested in its right place, was as genial with ada and me as at any other time, but maintained a steady reserve on these matters. and as our utmost endeavours could only elicit from richard himself sweeping assurances that everything was going on capitally and that it really was all right at last, our anxiety was not much relieved by him. we learnt, however, as the time went on, that a new application was made to the lord chancellor on richard's behalf as an infant and a ward, and i don't know what, and that there was a quantity of talking, and that the lord chancellor described him in open court as a vexatious and capricious infant, and that the matter was adjourned and readjourned, and referred, and reported on, and petitioned about until richard began to doubt (as he told us) whether, if he entered the army at all, it would not be as a veteran of seventy or eighty years of age. at last an appointment was made for him to see the lord chancellor again in his private room, and there the lord chancellor very seriously reproved him for trifling with time and not knowing his mind--"a pretty good joke, i think," said richard, "from that quarter!"--and at last it was settled that his application should be granted. his name was entered at the horse guards as an applicant for an ensign's commission; the purchase-money was deposited at an agent's; and richard, in his usual characteristic way, plunged into a violent course of military study and got up at five o'clock every morning to practise the broadsword exercise. thus, vacation succeeded term, and term succeeded vacation. we sometimes heard of jarndyce and jarndyce as being in the paper or out of the paper, or as being to be mentioned, or as being to be spoken to; and it came on, and it went off. richard, who was now in a professor's house in london, was able to be with us less frequently than before; my guardian still maintained the same reserve; and so time passed until the commission was obtained and richard received directions with it to join a regiment in ireland. he arrived post-haste with the intelligence one evening, and had a long conference with my guardian. upwards of an hour elapsed before my guardian put his head into the room where ada and i were sitting and said, "come in, my dears!" we went in and found richard, whom we had last seen in high spirits, leaning on the chimney-piece looking mortified and angry. "rick and i, ada," said mr. jarndyce, "are not quite of one mind. come, come, rick, put a brighter face upon it!" "you are very hard with me, sir," said richard. "the harder because you have been so considerate to me in all other respects and have done me kindnesses that i can never acknowledge. i never could have been set right without you, sir." "well, well!" said mr. jarndyce. "i want to set you more right yet. i want to set you more right with yourself." "i hope you will excuse my saying, sir," returned richard in a fiery way, but yet respectfully, "that i think i am the best judge about myself." "i hope you will excuse my saying, my dear rick," observed mr. jarndyce with the sweetest cheerfulness and good humour, "that it's quite natural in you to think so, but i don't think so. i must do my duty, rick, or you could never care for me in cool blood; and i hope you will always care for me, cool and hot." ada had turned so pale that he made her sit down in his reading-chair and sat beside her. "it's nothing, my dear," he said, "it's nothing. rick and i have only had a friendly difference, which we must state to you, for you are the theme. now you are afraid of what's coming." "i am not indeed, cousin john," replied ada with a smile, "if it is to come from you." "thank you, my dear. do you give me a minute's calm attention, without looking at rick. and, little woman, do you likewise. my dear girl," putting his hand on hers as it lay on the side of the easy-chair, "you recollect the talk we had, we four when the little woman told me of a little love affair?" "it is not likely that either richard or i can ever forget your kindness that day, cousin john." "i can never forget it," said richard. "and i can never forget it," said ada. "so much the easier what i have to say, and so much the easier for us to agree," returned my guardian, his face irradiated by the gentleness and honour of his heart. "ada, my bird, you should know that rick has now chosen his profession for the last time. all that he has of certainty will be expended when he is fully equipped. he has exhausted his resources and is bound henceforward to the tree he has planted." "quite true that i have exhausted my present resources, and i am quite content to know it. but what i have of certainty, sir," said richard, "is not all i have." "rick, rick!" cried my guardian with a sudden terror in his manner, and in an altered voice, and putting up his hands as if he would have stopped his ears. "for the love of god, don't found a hope or expectation on the family curse! whatever you do on this side the grave, never give one lingering glance towards the horrible phantom that has haunted us so many years. better to borrow, better to beg, better to die!" we were all startled by the fervour of this warning. richard bit his lip and held his breath, and glanced at me as if he felt, and knew that i felt too, how much he needed it. "ada, my dear," said mr. jarndyce, recovering his cheerfulness, "these are strong words of advice, but i live in bleak house and have seen a sight here. enough of that. all richard had to start him in the race of life is ventured. i recommend to him and you, for his sake and your own, that he should depart from us with the understanding that there is no sort of contract between you. i must go further. i will be plain with you both. you were to confide freely in me, and i will confide freely in you. i ask you wholly to relinquish, for the present, any tie but your relationship." "better to say at once, sir," returned richard, "that you renounce all confidence in me and that you advise ada to do the same." "better to say nothing of the sort, rick, because i don't mean it." "you think i have begun ill, sir," retorted richard. "i have, i know." "how i hoped you would begin, and how go on, i told you when we spoke of these things last," said mr. jarndyce in a cordial and encouraging manner. "you have not made that beginning yet, but there is a time for all things, and yours is not gone by; rather, it is just now fully come. make a clear beginning altogether. you two (very young, my dears) are cousins. as yet, you are nothing more. what more may come must come of being worked out, rick, and no sooner." "you are very hard with me, sir," said richard. "harder than i could have supposed you would be." "my dear boy," said mr. jarndyce, "i am harder with myself when i do anything that gives you pain. you have your remedy in your own hands. ada, it is better for him that he should be free and that there should be no youthful engagement between you. rick, it is better for her, much better; you owe it to her. come! each of you will do what is best for the other, if not what is best for yourselves." "why is it best, sir?" returned richard hastily. "it was not when we opened our hearts to you. you did not say so then." "i have had experience since. i don't blame you, rick, but i have had experience since." "you mean of me, sir." "well! yes, of both of you," said mr. jarndyce kindly. "the time is not come for your standing pledged to one another. it is not right, and i must not recognize it. come, come, my young cousins, begin afresh! bygones shall be bygones, and a new page turned for you to write your lives in." richard gave an anxious glance at ada but said nothing. "i have avoided saying one word to either of you or to esther," said mr. jarndyce, "until now, in order that we might be open as the day, and all on equal terms. i now affectionately advise, i now most earnestly entreat, you two to part as you came here. leave all else to time, truth, and steadfastness. if you do otherwise, you will do wrong, and you will have made me do wrong in ever bringing you together." a long silence succeeded. "cousin richard," said ada then, raising her blue eyes tenderly to his face, "after what our cousin john has said, i think no choice is left us. your mind may be quite at ease about me, for you will leave me here under his care and will be sure that i can have nothing to wish for--quite sure if i guide myself by his advice. i--i don't doubt, cousin richard," said ada, a little confused, "that you are very fond of me, and i--i don't think you will fall in love with anybody else. but i should like you to consider well about it too, as i should like you to be in all things very happy. you may trust in me, cousin richard. i am not at all changeable; but i am not unreasonable, and should never blame you. even cousins may be sorry to part; and in truth i am very, very sorry, richard, though i know it's for your welfare. i shall always think of you affectionately, and often talk of you with esther, and--and perhaps you will sometimes think a little of me, cousin richard. so now," said ada, going up to him and giving him her trembling hand, "we are only cousins again, richard--for the time perhaps--and i pray for a blessing on my dear cousin, wherever he goes!" it was strange to me that richard should not be able to forgive my guardian for entertaining the very same opinion of him which he himself had expressed of himself in much stronger terms to me. but it was certainly the case. i observed with great regret that from this hour he never was as free and open with mr. jarndyce as he had been before. he had every reason given him to be so, but he was not; and solely on his side, an estrangement began to arise between them. in the business of preparation and equipment he soon lost himself, and even his grief at parting from ada, who remained in hertfordshire while he, mr. jarndyce, and i went up to london for a week. he remembered her by fits and starts, even with bursts of tears, and at such times would confide to me the heaviest self-reproaches. but in a few minutes he would recklessly conjure up some undefinable means by which they were both to be made rich and happy for ever, and would become as gay as possible. it was a busy time, and i trotted about with him all day long, buying a variety of things of which he stood in need. of the things he would have bought if he had been left to his own ways i say nothing. he was perfectly confidential with me, and often talked so sensibly and feelingly about his faults and his vigorous resolutions, and dwelt so much upon the encouragement he derived from these conversations that i could never have been tired if i had tried. there used, in that week, to come backward and forward to our lodging to fence with richard a person who had formerly been a cavalry soldier; he was a fine bluff-looking man, of a frank free bearing, with whom richard had practised for some months. i heard so much about him, not only from richard, but from my guardian too, that i was purposely in the room with my work one morning after breakfast when he came. "good morning, mr. george," said my guardian, who happened to be alone with me. "mr. carstone will be here directly. meanwhile, miss summerson is very happy to see you, i know. sit down." he sat down, a little disconcerted by my presence, i thought, and without looking at me, drew his heavy sunburnt hand across and across his upper lip. "you are as punctual as the sun," said mr. jarndyce. "military time, sir," he replied. "force of habit. a mere habit in me, sir. i am not at all business-like." "yet you have a large establishment, too, i am told?" said mr. jarndyce. "not much of a one, sir. i keep a shooting gallery, but not much of a one." "and what kind of a shot and what kind of a swordsman do you make of mr. carstone?" said my guardian. "pretty good, sir," he replied, folding his arms upon his broad chest and looking very large. "if mr. carstone was to give his full mind to it, he would come out very good." "but he don't, i suppose?" said my guardian. "he did at first, sir, but not afterwards. not his full mind. perhaps he has something else upon it--some young lady, perhaps." his bright dark eyes glanced at me for the first time. "he has not me upon his mind, i assure you, mr. george," said i, laughing, "though you seem to suspect me." he reddened a little through his brown and made me a trooper's bow. "no offence, i hope, miss. i am one of the roughs." "not at all," said i. "i take it as a compliment." if he had not looked at me before, he looked at me now in three or four quick successive glances. "i beg your pardon, sir," he said to my guardian with a manly kind of diffidence, "but you did me the honour to mention the young lady's name--" "miss summerson." "miss summerson," he repeated, and looked at me again. "do you know the name?" i asked. "no, miss. to my knowledge i never heard it. i thought i had seen you somewhere." "i think not," i returned, raising my head from my work to look at him; and there was something so genuine in his speech and manner that i was glad of the opportunity. "i remember faces very well." "so do i, miss!" he returned, meeting my look with the fullness of his dark eyes and broad forehead. "humph! what set me off, now, upon that!" his once more reddening through his brown and being disconcerted by his efforts to remember the association brought my guardian to his relief. "have you many pupils, mr. george?" "they vary in their number, sir. mostly they're but a small lot to live by." "and what classes of chance people come to practise at your gallery?" "all sorts, sir. natives and foreigners. from gentlemen to 'prentices. i have had frenchwomen come, before now, and show themselves dabs at pistol-shooting. mad people out of number, of course, but they go everywhere where the doors stand open." "people don't come with grudges and schemes of finishing their practice with live targets, i hope?" said my guardian, smiling. "not much of that, sir, though that has happened. mostly they come for skill--or idleness. six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other. i beg your pardon," said mr. george, sitting stiffly upright and squaring an elbow on each knee, "but i believe you're a chancery suitor, if i have heard correct?" "i am sorry to say i am." "i have had one of your compatriots in my time, sir." "a chancery suitor?" returned my guardian. "how was that?" "why, the man was so badgered and worried and tortured by being knocked about from post to pillar, and from pillar to post," said mr. george, "that he got out of sorts. i don't believe he had any idea of taking aim at anybody, but he was in that condition of resentment and violence that he would come and pay for fifty shots and fire away till he was red hot. one day i said to him when there was nobody by and he had been talking to me angrily about his wrongs, 'if this practice is a safety-valve, comrade, well and good; but i don't altogether like your being so bent upon it in your present state of mind; i'd rather you took to something else.' i was on my guard for a blow, he was that passionate; but he received it in very good part and left off directly. we shook hands and struck up a sort of friendship." "what was that man?" asked my guardian in a new tone of interest. "why, he began by being a small shropshire farmer before they made a baited bull of him," said mr. george. "was his name gridley?" "it was, sir." mr. george directed another succession of quick bright glances at me as my guardian and i exchanged a word or two of surprise at the coincidence, and i therefore explained to him how we knew the name. he made me another of his soldierly bows in acknowledgment of what he called my condescension. "i don't know," he said as he looked at me, "what it is that sets me off again--but--bosh! what's my head running against!" he passed one of his heavy hands over his crisp dark hair as if to sweep the broken thoughts out of his mind and sat a little forward, with one arm akimbo and the other resting on his leg, looking in a brown study at the ground. "i am sorry to learn that the same state of mind has got this gridley into new troubles and that he is in hiding," said my guardian. "so i am told, sir," returned mr. george, still musing and looking on the ground. "so i am told." "you don't know where?" "no, sir," returned the trooper, lifting up his eyes and coming out of his reverie. "i can't say anything about him. he will be worn out soon, i expect. you may file a strong man's heart away for a good many years, but it will tell all of a sudden at last." richard's entrance stopped the conversation. mr. george rose, made me another of his soldierly bows, wished my guardian a good day, and strode heavily out of the room. this was the morning of the day appointed for richard's departure. we had no more purchases to make now; i had completed all his packing early in the afternoon; and our time was disengaged until night, when he was to go to liverpool for holyhead. jarndyce and jarndyce being again expected to come on that day, richard proposed to me that we should go down to the court and hear what passed. as it was his last day, and he was eager to go, and i had never been there, i gave my consent and we walked down to westminster, where the court was then sitting. we beguiled the way with arrangements concerning the letters that richard was to write to me and the letters that i was to write to him and with a great many hopeful projects. my guardian knew where we were going and therefore was not with us. when we came to the court, there was the lord chancellor--the same whom i had seen in his private room in lincoln's inn--sitting in great state and gravity on the bench, with the mace and seals on a red table below him and an immense flat nosegay, like a little garden, which scented the whole court. below the table, again, was a long row of solicitors, with bundles of papers on the matting at their feet; and then there were the gentlemen of the bar in wigs and gowns--some awake and some asleep, and one talking, and nobody paying much attention to what he said. the lord chancellor leaned back in his very easy chair with his elbow on the cushioned arm and his forehead resting on his hand; some of those who were present dozed; some read the newspapers; some walked about or whispered in groups: all seemed perfectly at their ease, by no means in a hurry, very unconcerned, and extremely comfortable. to see everything going on so smoothly and to think of the roughness of the suitors' lives and deaths; to see all that full dress and ceremony and to think of the waste, and want, and beggared misery it represented; to consider that while the sickness of hope deferred was raging in so many hearts this polite show went calmly on from day to day, and year to year, in such good order and composure; to behold the lord chancellor and the whole array of practitioners under him looking at one another and at the spectators as if nobody had ever heard that all over england the name in which they were assembled was a bitter jest, was held in universal horror, contempt, and indignation, was known for something so flagrant and bad that little short of a miracle could bring any good out of it to any one--this was so curious and self-contradictory to me, who had no experience of it, that it was at first incredible, and i could not comprehend it. i sat where richard put me, and tried to listen, and looked about me; but there seemed to be no reality in the whole scene except poor little miss flite, the madwoman, standing on a bench and nodding at it. miss flite soon espied us and came to where we sat. she gave me a gracious welcome to her domain and indicated, with much gratification and pride, its principal attractions. mr. kenge also came to speak to us and did the honours of the place in much the same way, with the bland modesty of a proprietor. it was not a very good day for a visit, he said; he would have preferred the first day of term; but it was imposing, it was imposing. when we had been there half an hour or so, the case in progress--if i may use a phrase so ridiculous in such a connexion--seemed to die out of its own vapidity, without coming, or being by anybody expected to come, to any result. the lord chancellor then threw down a bundle of papers from his desk to the gentlemen below him, and somebody said, "jarndyce and jarndyce." upon this there was a buzz, and a laugh, and a general withdrawal of the bystanders, and a bringing in of great heaps, and piles, and bags and bags full of papers. i think it came on "for further directions"--about some bill of costs, to the best of my understanding, which was confused enough. but i counted twenty-three gentlemen in wigs who said they were "in it," and none of them appeared to understand it much better than i. they chatted about it with the lord chancellor, and contradicted and explained among themselves, and some of them said it was this way, and some of them said it was that way, and some of them jocosely proposed to read huge volumes of affidavits, and there was more buzzing and laughing, and everybody concerned was in a state of idle entertainment, and nothing could be made of it by anybody. after an hour or so of this, and a good many speeches being begun and cut short, it was "referred back for the present," as mr. kenge said, and the papers were bundled up again before the clerks had finished bringing them in. i glanced at richard on the termination of these hopeless proceedings and was shocked to see the worn look of his handsome young face. "it can't last for ever, dame durden. better luck next time!" was all he said. i had seen mr. guppy bringing in papers and arranging them for mr. kenge; and he had seen me and made me a forlorn bow, which rendered me desirous to get out of the court. richard had given me his arm and was taking me away when mr. guppy came up. "i beg your pardon, mr. carstone," said he in a whisper, "and miss summerson's also, but there's a lady here, a friend of mine, who knows her and wishes to have the pleasure of shaking hands." as he spoke, i saw before me, as if she had started into bodily shape from my remembrance, mrs. rachael of my godmother's house. "how do you do, esther?" said she. "do you recollect me?" i gave her my hand and told her yes and that she was very little altered. "i wonder you remember those times, esther," she returned with her old asperity. "they are changed now. well! i am glad to see you, and glad you are not too proud to know me." but indeed she seemed disappointed that i was not. "proud, mrs. rachael!" i remonstrated. "i am married, esther," she returned, coldly correcting me, "and am mrs. chadband. well! i wish you good day, and i hope you'll do well." mr. guppy, who had been attentive to this short dialogue, heaved a sigh in my ear and elbowed his own and mrs. rachael's way through the confused little crowd of people coming in and going out, which we were in the midst of and which the change in the business had brought together. richard and i were making our way through it, and i was yet in the first chill of the late unexpected recognition when i saw, coming towards us, but not seeing us, no less a person than mr. george. he made nothing of the people about him as he tramped on, staring over their heads into the body of the court. "george!" said richard as i called his attention to him. "you are well met, sir," he returned. "and you, miss. could you point a person out for me, i want? i don't understand these places." turning as he spoke and making an easy way for us, he stopped when we were out of the press in a corner behind a great red curtain. "there's a little cracked old woman," he began, "that--" i put up my finger, for miss flite was close by me, having kept beside me all the time and having called the attention of several of her legal acquaintance to me (as i had overheard to my confusion) by whispering in their ears, "hush! fitz jarndyce on my left!" "hem!" said mr. george. "you remember, miss, that we passed some conversation on a certain man this morning? gridley," in a low whisper behind his hand. "yes," said i. "he is hiding at my place. i couldn't mention it. hadn't his authority. he is on his last march, miss, and has a whim to see her. he says they can feel for one another, and she has been almost as good as a friend to him here. i came down to look for her, for when i sat by gridley this afternoon, i seemed to hear the roll of the muffled drums." "shall i tell her?" said i. "would you be so good?" he returned with a glance of something like apprehension at miss flite. "it's a providence i met you, miss; i doubt if i should have known how to get on with that lady." and he put one hand in his breast and stood upright in a martial attitude as i informed little miss flite, in her ear, of the purport of his kind errand. "my angry friend from shropshire! almost as celebrated as myself!" she exclaimed. "now really! my dear, i will wait upon him with the greatest pleasure." "he is living concealed at mr. george's," said i. "hush! this is mr. george." "in--deed!" returned miss flite. "very proud to have the honour! a military man, my dear. you know, a perfect general!" she whispered to me. poor miss flite deemed it necessary to be so courtly and polite, as a mark of her respect for the army, and to curtsy so very often that it was no easy matter to get her out of the court. when this was at last done, and addressing mr. george as "general," she gave him her arm, to the great entertainment of some idlers who were looking on, he was so discomposed and begged me so respectfully "not to desert him" that i could not make up my mind to do it, especially as miss flite was always tractable with me and as she too said, "fitz jarndyce, my dear, you will accompany us, of course." as richard seemed quite willing, and even anxious, that we should see them safely to their destination, we agreed to do so. and as mr. george informed us that gridley's mind had run on mr. jarndyce all the afternoon after hearing of their interview in the morning, i wrote a hasty note in pencil to my guardian to say where we were gone and why. mr. george sealed it at a coffee-house, that it might lead to no discovery, and we sent it off by a ticket-porter. we then took a hackney-coach and drove away to the neighbourhood of leicester square. we walked through some narrow courts, for which mr. george apologized, and soon came to the shooting gallery, the door of which was closed. as he pulled a bell-handle which hung by a chain to the door-post, a very respectable old gentleman with grey hair, wearing spectacles, and dressed in a black spencer and gaiters and a broad-brimmed hat, and carrying a large gold-beaded cane, addressed him. "i ask your pardon, my good friend," said he, "but is this george's shooting gallery?" "it is, sir," returned mr. george, glancing up at the great letters in which that inscription was painted on the whitewashed wall. "oh! to be sure!" said the old gentleman, following his eyes. "thank you. have you rung the bell?" "my name is george, sir, and i have rung the bell." "oh, indeed?" said the old gentleman. "your name is george? then i am here as soon as you, you see. you came for me, no doubt?" "no, sir. you have the advantage of me." "oh, indeed?" said the old gentleman. "then it was your young man who came for me. i am a physician and was requested--five minutes ago--to come and visit a sick man at george's shooting gallery." "the muffled drums," said mr. george, turning to richard and me and gravely shaking his head. "it's quite correct, sir. will you please to walk in." the door being at that moment opened by a very singular-looking little man in a green-baize cap and apron, whose face and hands and dress were blackened all over, we passed along a dreary passage into a large building with bare brick walls where there were targets, and guns, and swords, and other things of that kind. when we had all arrived here, the physician stopped, and taking off his hat, appeared to vanish by magic and to leave another and quite a different man in his place. "now lookee here, george," said the man, turning quickly round upon him and tapping him on the breast with a large forefinger. "you know me, and i know you. you're a man of the world, and i'm a man of the world. my name's bucket, as you are aware, and i have got a peace-warrant against gridley. you have kept him out of the way a long time, and you have been artful in it, and it does you credit." mr. george, looking hard at him, bit his lip and shook his head. "now, george," said the other, keeping close to him, "you're a sensible man and a well-conducted man; that's what you are, beyond a doubt. and mind you, i don't talk to you as a common character, because you have served your country and you know that when duty calls we must obey. consequently you're very far from wanting to give trouble. if i required assistance, you'd assist me; that's what you'd do. phil squod, don't you go a-sidling round the gallery like that"--the dirty little man was shuffling about with his shoulder against the wall, and his eyes on the intruder, in a manner that looked threatening--"because i know you and won't have it." "phil!" said mr. george. "yes, guv'ner." "be quiet." the little man, with a low growl, stood still. "ladies and gentlemen," said mr. bucket, "you'll excuse anything that may appear to be disagreeable in this, for my name's inspector bucket of the detective, and i have a duty to perform. george, i know where my man is because i was on the roof last night and saw him through the skylight, and you along with him. he is in there, you know," pointing; "that's where he is--on a sofy. now i must see my man, and i must tell my man to consider himself in custody; but you know me, and you know i don't want to take any uncomfortable measures. you give me your word, as from one man to another (and an old soldier, mind you, likewise), that it's honourable between us two, and i'll accommodate you to the utmost of my power." "i give it," was the reply. "but it wasn't handsome in you, mr. bucket." "gammon, george! not handsome?" said mr. bucket, tapping him on his broad breast again and shaking hands with him. "i don't say it wasn't handsome in you to keep my man so close, do i? be equally good-tempered to me, old boy! old william tell, old shaw, the life guardsman! why, he's a model of the whole british army in himself, ladies and gentlemen. i'd give a fifty-pun' note to be such a figure of a man!" the affair being brought to this head, mr. george, after a little consideration, proposed to go in first to his comrade (as he called him), taking miss flite with him. mr. bucket agreeing, they went away to the further end of the gallery, leaving us sitting and standing by a table covered with guns. mr. bucket took this opportunity of entering into a little light conversation, asking me if i were afraid of fire-arms, as most young ladies were; asking richard if he were a good shot; asking phil squod which he considered the best of those rifles and what it might be worth first-hand, telling him in return that it was a pity he ever gave way to his temper, for he was naturally so amiable that he might have been a young woman, and making himself generally agreeable. after a time he followed us to the further end of the gallery, and richard and i were going quietly away when mr. george came after us. he said that if we had no objection to see his comrade, he would take a visit from us very kindly. the words had hardly passed his lips when the bell was rung and my guardian appeared, "on the chance," he slightly observed, "of being able to do any little thing for a poor fellow involved in the same misfortune as himself." we all four went back together and went into the place where gridley was. it was a bare room, partitioned off from the gallery with unpainted wood. as the screening was not more than eight or ten feet high and only enclosed the sides, not the top, the rafters of the high gallery roof were overhead, and the skylight through which mr. bucket had looked down. the sun was low--near setting--and its light came redly in above, without descending to the ground. upon a plain canvas-covered sofa lay the man from shropshire, dressed much as we had seen him last, but so changed that at first i recognized no likeness in his colourless face to what i recollected. he had been still writing in his hiding-place, and still dwelling on his grievances, hour after hour. a table and some shelves were covered with manuscript papers and with worn pens and a medley of such tokens. touchingly and awfully drawn together, he and the little mad woman were side by side and, as it were, alone. she sat on a chair holding his hand, and none of us went close to them. his voice had faded, with the old expression of his face, with his strength, with his anger, with his resistance to the wrongs that had at last subdued him. the faintest shadow of an object full of form and colour is such a picture of it as he was of the man from shropshire whom we had spoken with before. he inclined his head to richard and me and spoke to my guardian. "mr. jarndyce, it is very kind of you to come to see me. i am not long to be seen, i think. i am very glad to take your hand, sir. you are a good man, superior to injustice, and god knows i honour you." they shook hands earnestly, and my guardian said some words of comfort to him. "it may seem strange to you, sir," returned gridley; "i should not have liked to see you if this had been the first time of our meeting. but you know i made a fight for it, you know i stood up with my single hand against them all, you know i told them the truth to the last, and told them what they were, and what they had done to me; so i don't mind your seeing me, this wreck." "you have been courageous with them many and many a time," returned my guardian. "sir, i have been," with a faint smile. "i told you what would come of it when i ceased to be so, and see here! look at us--look at us!" he drew the hand miss flite held through her arm and brought her something nearer to him. "this ends it. of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul alone comes natural to me, and i am fit for. there is a tie of many suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie i ever had on earth that chancery has not broken." "accept my blessing, gridley," said miss flite in tears. "accept my blessing!" "i thought, boastfully, that they never could break my heart, mr. jarndyce. i was resolved that they should not. i did believe that i could, and would, charge them with being the mockery they were until i died of some bodily disorder. but i am worn out. how long i have been wearing out, i don't know; i seemed to break down in an hour. i hope they may never come to hear of it. i hope everybody here will lead them to believe that i died defying them, consistently and perseveringly, as i did through so many years." here mr. bucket, who was sitting in a corner by the door, good-naturedly offered such consolation as he could administer. "come, come!" he said from his corner. "don't go on in that way, mr. gridley. you are only a little low. we are all of us a little low sometimes. i am. hold up, hold up! you'll lose your temper with the whole round of 'em, again and again; and i shall take you on a score of warrants yet, if i have luck." he only shook his head. "don't shake your head," said mr. bucket. "nod it; that's what i want to see you do. why, lord bless your soul, what times we have had together! haven't i seen you in the fleet over and over again for contempt? haven't i come into court, twenty afternoons for no other purpose than to see you pin the chancellor like a bull-dog? don't you remember when you first began to threaten the lawyers, and the peace was sworn against you two or three times a week? ask the little old lady there; she has been always present. hold up, mr. gridley, hold up, sir!" "what are you going to do about him?" asked george in a low voice. "i don't know yet," said bucket in the same tone. then resuming his encouragement, he pursued aloud: "worn out, mr. gridley? after dodging me for all these weeks and forcing me to climb the roof here like a tom cat and to come to see you as a doctor? that ain't like being worn out. i should think not! now i tell you what you want. you want excitement, you know, to keep you up; that's what you want. you're used to it, and you can't do without it. i couldn't myself. very well, then; here's this warrant got by mr. tulkinghorn of lincoln's inn fields, and backed into half-a-dozen counties since. what do you say to coming along with me, upon this warrant, and having a good angry argument before the magistrates? it'll do you good; it'll freshen you up and get you into training for another turn at the chancellor. give in? why, i am surprised to hear a man of your energy talk of giving in. you mustn't do that. you're half the fun of the fair in the court of chancery. george, you lend mr. gridley a hand, and let's see now whether he won't be better up than down." "he is very weak," said the trooper in a low voice. "is he?" returned bucket anxiously. "i only want to rouse him. i don't like to see an old acquaintance giving in like this. it would cheer him up more than anything if i could make him a little waxy with me. he's welcome to drop into me, right and left, if he likes. i shall never take advantage of it." the roof rang with a scream from miss flite, which still rings in my ears. "oh, no, gridley!" she cried as he fell heavily and calmly back from before her. "not without my blessing. after so many years!" the sun was down, the light had gradually stolen from the roof, and the shadow had crept upward. but to me the shadow of that pair, one living and one dead, fell heavier on richard's departure than the darkness of the darkest night. and through richard's farewell words i heard it echoed: "of all my old associations, of all my old pursuits and hopes, of all the living and the dead world, this one poor soul alone comes natural to me, and i am fit for. there is a tie of many suffering years between us two, and it is the only tie i ever had on earth that chancery has not broken!" chapter xxv mrs. snagsby sees it all there is disquietude in cook's court, cursitor street. black suspicion hides in that peaceful region. the mass of cook's courtiers are in their usual state of mind, no better and no worse; but mr. snagsby is changed, and his little woman knows it. for tom-all-alone's and lincoln's inn fields persist in harnessing themselves, a pair of ungovernable coursers, to the chariot of mr. snagsby's imagination; and mr. bucket drives; and the passengers are jo and mr. tulkinghorn; and the complete equipage whirls though the law-stationery business at wild speed all round the clock. even in the little front kitchen where the family meals are taken, it rattles away at a smoking pace from the dinner-table, when mr. snagsby pauses in carving the first slice of the leg of mutton baked with potatoes and stares at the kitchen wall. mr. snagsby cannot make out what it is that he has had to do with. something is wrong somewhere, but what something, what may come of it, to whom, when, and from which unthought of and unheard of quarter is the puzzle of his life. his remote impressions of the robes and coronets, the stars and garters, that sparkle through the surface-dust of mr. tulkinghorn's chambers; his veneration for the mysteries presided over by that best and closest of his customers, whom all the inns of court, all chancery lane, and all the legal neighbourhood agree to hold in awe; his remembrance of detective mr. bucket with his forefinger and his confidential manner, impossible to be evaded or declined, persuade him that he is a party to some dangerous secret without knowing what it is. and it is the fearful peculiarity of this condition that, at any hour of his daily life, at any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of the bell, at any entrance of a messenger, or any delivery of a letter, the secret may take air and fire, explode, and blow up--mr. bucket only knows whom. for which reason, whenever a man unknown comes into the shop (as many men unknown do) and says, "is mr. snagsby in?" or words to that innocent effect, mr. snagsby's heart knocks hard at his guilty breast. he undergoes so much from such inquiries that when they are made by boys he revenges himself by flipping at their ears over the counter and asking the young dogs what they mean by it and why they can't speak out at once? more impracticable men and boys persist in walking into mr. snagsby's sleep and terrifying him with unaccountable questions, so that often when the cock at the little dairy in cursitor street breaks out in his usual absurd way about the morning, mr. snagsby finds himself in a crisis of nightmare, with his little woman shaking him and saying "what's the matter with the man!" the little woman herself is not the least item in his difficulty. to know that he is always keeping a secret from her, that he has under all circumstances to conceal and hold fast a tender double tooth, which her sharpness is ever ready to twist out of his head, gives mr. snagsby, in her dentistical presence, much of the air of a dog who has a reservation from his master and will look anywhere rather than meet his eye. these various signs and tokens, marked by the little woman, are not lost upon her. they impel her to say, "snagsby has something on his mind!" and thus suspicion gets into cook's court, cursitor street. from suspicion to jealousy, mrs. snagsby finds the road as natural and short as from cook's court to chancery lane. and thus jealousy gets into cook's court, cursitor street. once there (and it was always lurking thereabout), it is very active and nimble in mrs. snagsby's breast, prompting her to nocturnal examinations of mr. snagsby's pockets; to secret perusals of mr. snagsby's letters; to private researches in the day book and ledger, till, cash-box, and iron safe; to watchings at windows, listenings behind doors, and a general putting of this and that together by the wrong end. mrs. snagsby is so perpetually on the alert that the house becomes ghostly with creaking boards and rustling garments. the 'prentices think somebody may have been murdered there in bygone times. guster holds certain loose atoms of an idea (picked up at tooting, where they were found floating among the orphans) that there is buried money underneath the cellar, guarded by an old man with a white beard, who cannot get out for seven thousand years because he said the lord's prayer backwards. "who was nimrod?" mrs. snagsby repeatedly inquires of herself. "who was that lady--that creature? and who is that boy?" now, nimrod being as dead as the mighty hunter whose name mrs. snagsby has appropriated, and the lady being unproducible, she directs her mental eye, for the present, with redoubled vigilance to the boy. "and who," quoth mrs. snagsby for the thousand and first time, "is that boy? who is that--!" and there mrs. snagsby is seized with an inspiration. he has no respect for mr. chadband. no, to be sure, and he wouldn't have, of course. naturally he wouldn't, under those contagious circumstances. he was invited and appointed by mr. chadband--why, mrs. snagsby heard it herself with her own ears!--to come back, and be told where he was to go, to be addressed by mr. chadband; and he never came! why did he never come? because he was told not to come. who told him not to come? who? ha, ha! mrs. snagsby sees it all. but happily (and mrs. snagsby tightly shakes her head and tightly smiles) that boy was met by mr. chadband yesterday in the streets; and that boy, as affording a subject which mr. chadband desires to improve for the spiritual delight of a select congregation, was seized by mr. chadband and threatened with being delivered over to the police unless he showed the reverend gentleman where he lived and unless he entered into, and fulfilled, an undertaking to appear in cook's court to-morrow night, "to--mor--row--night," mrs. snagsby repeats for mere emphasis with another tight smile and another tight shake of her head; and to-morrow night that boy will be here, and to-morrow night mrs. snagsby will have her eye upon him and upon some one else; and oh, you may walk a long while in your secret ways (says mrs. snagsby with haughtiness and scorn), but you can't blind me! mrs. snagsby sounds no timbrel in anybody's ears, but holds her purpose quietly, and keeps her counsel. to-morrow comes, the savoury preparations for the oil trade come, the evening comes. comes mr. snagsby in his black coat; come the chadbands; come (when the gorging vessel is replete) the 'prentices and guster, to be edified; comes at last, with his slouching head, and his shuffle backward, and his shuffle forward, and his shuffle to the right, and his shuffle to the left, and his bit of fur cap in his muddy hand, which he picks as if it were some mangy bird he had caught and was plucking before eating raw, jo, the very, very tough subject mr. chadband is to improve. mrs. snagsby screws a watchful glance on jo as he is brought into the little drawing-room by guster. he looks at mr. snagsby the moment he comes in. aha! why does he look at mr. snagsby? mr. snagsby looks at him. why should he do that, but that mrs. snagsby sees it all? why else should that look pass between them, why else should mr. snagsby be confused and cough a signal cough behind his hand? it is as clear as crystal that mr. snagsby is that boy's father. "peace, my friends," says chadband, rising and wiping the oily exudations from his reverend visage. "peace be with us! my friends, why with us? because," with his fat smile, "it cannot be against us, because it must be for us; because it is not hardening, because it is softening; because it does not make war like the hawk, but comes home unto us like the dove. therefore, my friends, peace be with us! my human boy, come forward!" stretching forth his flabby paw, mr. chadband lays the same on jo's arm and considers where to station him. jo, very doubtful of his reverend friend's intentions and not at all clear but that something practical and painful is going to be done to him, mutters, "you let me alone. i never said nothink to you. you let me alone." "no, my young friend," says chadband smoothly, "i will not let you alone. and why? because i am a harvest-labourer, because i am a toiler and a moiler, because you are delivered over unto me and are become as a precious instrument in my hands. my friends, may i so employ this instrument as to use it to your advantage, to your profit, to your gain, to your welfare, to your enrichment! my young friend, sit upon this stool." jo, apparently possessed by an impression that the reverend gentleman wants to cut his hair, shields his head with both arms and is got into the required position with great difficulty and every possible manifestation of reluctance. when he is at last adjusted like a lay-figure, mr. chadband, retiring behind the table, holds up his bear's-paw and says, "my friends!" this is the signal for a general settlement of the audience. the 'prentices giggle internally and nudge each other. guster falls into a staring and vacant state, compounded of a stunned admiration of mr. chadband and pity for the friendless outcast whose condition touches her nearly. mrs. snagsby silently lays trains of gunpowder. mrs. chadband composes herself grimly by the fire and warms her knees, finding that sensation favourable to the reception of eloquence. it happens that mr. chadband has a pulpit habit of fixing some member of his congregation with his eye and fatly arguing his points with that particular person, who is understood to be expected to be moved to an occasional grunt, groan, gasp, or other audible expression of inward working, which expression of inward working, being echoed by some elderly lady in the next pew and so communicated like a game of forfeits through a circle of the more fermentable sinners present, serves the purpose of parliamentary cheering and gets mr. chadband's steam up. from mere force of habit, mr. chadband in saying "my friends!" has rested his eye on mr. snagsby and proceeds to make that ill-starred stationer, already sufficiently confused, the immediate recipient of his discourse. "we have here among us, my friends," says chadband, "a gentile and a heathen, a dweller in the tents of tom-all-alone's and a mover-on upon the surface of the earth. we have here among us, my friends," and mr. chadband, untwisting the point with his dirty thumb-nail, bestows an oily smile on mr. snagsby, signifying that he will throw him an argumentative back-fall presently if he be not already down, "a brother and a boy. devoid of parents, devoid of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold and silver and of precious stones. now, my friends, why do i say he is devoid of these possessions? why? why is he?" mr. chadband states the question as if he were propounding an entirely new riddle of much ingenuity and merit to mr. snagsby and entreating him not to give it up. mr. snagsby, greatly perplexed by the mysterious look he received just now from his little woman--at about the period when mr. chadband mentioned the word parents--is tempted into modestly remarking, "i don't know, i'm sure, sir." on which interruption mrs. chadband glares and mrs. snagsby says, "for shame!" "i hear a voice," says chadband; "is it a still small voice, my friends? i fear not, though i fain would hope so--" "ah--h!" from mrs. snagsby. "which says, 'i don't know.' then i will tell you why. i say this brother present here among us is devoid of parents, devoid of relations, devoid of flocks and herds, devoid of gold, of silver, and of precious stones because he is devoid of the light that shines in upon some of us. what is that light? what is it? i ask you, what is that light?" mr. chadband draws back his head and pauses, but mr. snagsby is not to be lured on to his destruction again. mr. chadband, leaning forward over the table, pierces what he has got to follow directly into mr. snagsby with the thumb-nail already mentioned. "it is," says chadband, "the ray of rays, the sun of suns, the moon of moons, the star of stars. it is the light of terewth." mr. chadband draws himself up again and looks triumphantly at mr. snagsby as if he would be glad to know how he feels after that. "of terewth," says mr. chadband, hitting him again. "say not to me that it is not the lamp of lamps. i say to you it is. i say to you, a million of times over, it is. it is! i say to you that i will proclaim it to you, whether you like it or not; nay, that the less you like it, the more i will proclaim it to you. with a speaking-trumpet! i say to you that if you rear yourself against it, you shall fall, you shall be bruised, you shall be battered, you shall be flawed, you shall be smashed." the present effect of this flight of oratory--much admired for its general power by mr. chadband's followers--being not only to make mr. chadband unpleasantly warm, but to represent the innocent mr. snagsby in the light of a determined enemy to virtue, with a forehead of brass and a heart of adamant, that unfortunate tradesman becomes yet more disconcerted and is in a very advanced state of low spirits and false position when mr. chadband accidentally finishes him. "my friends," he resumes after dabbing his fat head for some time--and it smokes to such an extent that he seems to light his pocket-handkerchief at it, which smokes, too, after every dab--"to pursue the subject we are endeavouring with our lowly gifts to improve, let us in a spirit of love inquire what is that terewth to which i have alluded. for, my young friends," suddenly addressing the 'prentices and guster, to their consternation, "if i am told by the doctor that calomel or castor-oil is good for me, i may naturally ask what is calomel, and what is castor-oil. i may wish to be informed of that before i dose myself with either or with both. now, my young friends, what is this terewth then? firstly (in a spirit of love), what is the common sort of terewth--the working clothes--the every-day wear, my young friends? is it deception?" "ah--h!" from mrs. snagsby. "is it suppression?" a shiver in the negative from mrs. snagsby. "is it reservation?" a shake of the head from mrs. snagsby--very long and very tight. "no, my friends, it is neither of these. neither of these names belongs to it. when this young heathen now among us--who is now, my friends, asleep, the seal of indifference and perdition being set upon his eyelids; but do not wake him, for it is right that i should have to wrestle, and to combat and to struggle, and to conquer, for his sake--when this young hardened heathen told us a story of a cock, and of a bull, and of a lady, and of a sovereign, was that the terewth? no. or if it was partly, was it wholly and entirely? no, my friends, no!" if mr. snagsby could withstand his little woman's look as it enters at his eyes, the windows of his soul, and searches the whole tenement, he were other than the man he is. he cowers and droops. "or, my juvenile friends," says chadband, descending to the level of their comprehension with a very obtrusive demonstration in his greasily meek smile of coming a long way downstairs for the purpose, "if the master of this house was to go forth into the city and there see an eel, and was to come back, and was to call unto him the mistress of this house, and was to say, 'sarah, rejoice with me, for i have seen an elephant!' would that be terewth?" mrs. snagsby in tears. "or put it, my juvenile friends, that he saw an elephant, and returning said 'lo, the city is barren, i have seen but an eel,' would that be terewth?" mrs. snagsby sobbing loudly. "or put it, my juvenile friends," said chadband, stimulated by the sound, "that the unnatural parents of this slumbering heathen--for parents he had, my juvenile friends, beyond a doubt--after casting him forth to the wolves and the vultures, and the wild dogs and the young gazelles, and the serpents, went back to their dwellings and had their pipes, and their pots, and their flutings and their dancings, and their malt liquors, and their butcher's meat and poultry, would that be terewth?" mrs. snagsby replies by delivering herself a prey to spasms, not an unresisting prey, but a crying and a tearing one, so that cook's court re-echoes with her shrieks. finally, becoming cataleptic, she has to be carried up the narrow staircase like a grand piano. after unspeakable suffering, productive of the utmost consternation, she is pronounced, by expresses from the bedroom, free from pain, though much exhausted, in which state of affairs mr. snagsby, trampled and crushed in the piano-forte removal, and extremely timid and feeble, ventures to come out from behind the door in the drawing-room. all this time jo has been standing on the spot where he woke up, ever picking his cap and putting bits of fur in his mouth. he spits them out with a remorseful air, for he feels that it is in his nature to be an unimprovable reprobate and that it's no good his trying to keep awake, for he won't never know nothink. though it may be, jo, that there is a history so interesting and affecting even to minds as near the brutes as thine, recording deeds done on this earth for common men, that if the chadbands, removing their own persons from the light, would but show it thee in simple reverence, would but leave it unimproved, would but regard it as being eloquent enough without their modest aid--it might hold thee awake, and thou might learn from it yet! jo never heard of any such book. its compilers and the reverend chadband are all one to him, except that he knows the reverend chadband and would rather run away from him for an hour than hear him talk for five minutes. "it an't no good my waiting here no longer," thinks jo. "mr. snagsby an't a-going to say nothink to me to-night." and downstairs he shuffles. but downstairs is the charitable guster, holding by the handrail of the kitchen stairs and warding off a fit, as yet doubtfully, the same having been induced by mrs. snagsby's screaming. she has her own supper of bread and cheese to hand to jo, with whom she ventures to interchange a word or so for the first time. "here's something to eat, poor boy," says guster. "thank'ee, mum," says jo. "are you hungry?" "jist!" says jo. "what's gone of your father and your mother, eh?" jo stops in the middle of a bite and looks petrified. for this orphan charge of the christian saint whose shrine was at tooting has patted him on the shoulder, and it is the first time in his life that any decent hand has been so laid upon him. "i never know'd nothink about 'em," says jo. "no more didn't i of mine," cries guster. she is repressing symptoms favourable to the fit when she seems to take alarm at something and vanishes down the stairs. "jo," whispers the law-stationer softly as the boy lingers on the step. "here i am, mr. snagsby!" "i didn't know you were gone--there's another half-crown, jo. it was quite right of you to say nothing about the lady the other night when we were out together. it would breed trouble. you can't be too quiet, jo." "i am fly, master!" and so, good night. a ghostly shade, frilled and night-capped, follows the law-stationer to the room he came from and glides higher up. and henceforth he begins, go where he will, to be attended by another shadow than his own, hardly less constant than his own, hardly less quiet than his own. and into whatsoever atmosphere of secrecy his own shadow may pass, let all concerned in the secrecy beware! for the watchful mrs. snagsby is there too--bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, shadow of his shadow. chapter xxvi sharpshooters wintry morning, looking with dull eyes and sallow face upon the neighbourhood of leicester square, finds its inhabitants unwilling to get out of bed. many of them are not early risers at the brightest of times, being birds of night who roost when the sun is high and are wide awake and keen for prey when the stars shine out. behind dingy blind and curtain, in upper story and garret, skulking more or less under false names, false hair, false titles, false jewellery, and false histories, a colony of brigands lie in their first sleep. gentlemen of the green-baize road who could discourse from personal experience of foreign galleys and home treadmills; spies of strong governments that eternally quake with weakness and miserable fear, broken traitors, cowards, bullies, gamesters, shufflers, swindlers, and false witnesses; some not unmarked by the branding-iron beneath their dirty braid; all with more cruelty in them than was in nero, and more crime than is in newgate. for howsoever bad the devil can be in fustian or smock-frock (and he can be very bad in both), he is a more designing, callous, and intolerable devil when he sticks a pin in his shirt-front, calls himself a gentleman, backs a card or colour, plays a game or so of billiards, and knows a little about bills and promissory notes than in any other form he wears. and in such form mr. bucket shall find him, when he will, still pervading the tributary channels of leicester square. but the wintry morning wants him not and wakes him not. it wakes mr. george of the shooting gallery and his familiar. they arise, roll up and stow away their mattresses. mr. george, having shaved himself before a looking-glass of minute proportions, then marches out, bare-headed and bare-chested, to the pump in the little yard and anon comes back shining with yellow soap, friction, drifting rain, and exceedingly cold water. as he rubs himself upon a large jack-towel, blowing like a military sort of diver just come up, his hair curling tighter and tighter on his sunburnt temples the more he rubs it so that it looks as if it never could be loosened by any less coercive instrument than an iron rake or a curry-comb--as he rubs, and puffs, and polishes, and blows, turning his head from side to side the more conveniently to excoriate his throat, and standing with his body well bent forward to keep the wet from his martial legs, phil, on his knees lighting a fire, looks round as if it were enough washing for him to see all that done, and sufficient renovation for one day to take in the superfluous health his master throws off. when mr. george is dry, he goes to work to brush his head with two hard brushes at once, to that unmerciful degree that phil, shouldering his way round the gallery in the act of sweeping it, winks with sympathy. this chafing over, the ornamental part of mr. george's toilet is soon performed. he fills his pipe, lights it, and marches up and down smoking, as his custom is, while phil, raising a powerful odour of hot rolls and coffee, prepares breakfast. he smokes gravely and marches in slow time. perhaps this morning's pipe is devoted to the memory of gridley in his grave. "and so, phil," says george of the shooting gallery after several turns in silence, "you were dreaming of the country last night?" phil, by the by, said as much in a tone of surprise as he scrambled out of bed. "yes, guv'ner." "what was it like?" "i hardly know what it was like, guv'ner," said phil, considering. "how did you know it was the country?" "on account of the grass, i think. and the swans upon it," says phil after further consideration. "what were the swans doing on the grass?" "they was a-eating of it, i expect," says phil. the master resumes his march, and the man resumes his preparation of breakfast. it is not necessarily a lengthened preparation, being limited to the setting forth of very simple breakfast requisites for two and the broiling of a rasher of bacon at the fire in the rusty grate; but as phil has to sidle round a considerable part of the gallery for every object he wants, and never brings two objects at once, it takes time under the circumstances. at length the breakfast is ready. phil announcing it, mr. george knocks the ashes out of his pipe on the hob, stands his pipe itself in the chimney corner, and sits down to the meal. when he has helped himself, phil follows suit, sitting at the extreme end of the little oblong table and taking his plate on his knees. either in humility, or to hide his blackened hands, or because it is his natural manner of eating. "the country," says mr. george, plying his knife and fork; "why, i suppose you never clapped your eyes on the country, phil?" "i see the marshes once," says phil, contentedly eating his breakfast. "what marshes?" "the marshes, commander," returns phil. "where are they?" "i don't know where they are," says phil; "but i see 'em, guv'ner. they was flat. and miste." governor and commander are interchangeable terms with phil, expressive of the same respect and deference and applicable to nobody but mr. george. "i was born in the country, phil." "was you indeed, commander?" "yes. and bred there." phil elevates his one eyebrow, and after respectfully staring at his master to express interest, swallows a great gulp of coffee, still staring at him. "there's not a bird's note that i don't know," says mr. george. "not many an english leaf or berry that i couldn't name. not many a tree that i couldn't climb yet if i was put to it. i was a real country boy, once. my good mother lived in the country." "she must have been a fine old lady, guv'ner," phil observes. "aye! and not so old either, five and thirty years ago," says mr. george. "but i'll wager that at ninety she would be near as upright as me, and near as broad across the shoulders." "did she die at ninety, guv'ner?" inquires phil. "no. bosh! let her rest in peace, god bless her!" says the trooper. "what set me on about country boys, and runaways, and good-for-nothings? you, to be sure! so you never clapped your eyes upon the country--marshes and dreams excepted. eh?" phil shakes his head. "do you want to see it?" "n-no, i don't know as i do, particular," says phil. "the town's enough for you, eh?" "why, you see, commander," says phil, "i ain't acquainted with anythink else, and i doubt if i ain't a-getting too old to take to novelties." "how old are you, phil?" asks the trooper, pausing as he conveys his smoking saucer to his lips. "i'm something with a eight in it," says phil. "it can't be eighty. nor yet eighteen. it's betwixt 'em, somewheres." mr. george, slowly putting down his saucer without tasting its contents, is laughingly beginning, "why, what the deuce, phil--" when he stops, seeing that phil is counting on his dirty fingers. "i was just eight," says phil, "agreeable to the parish calculation, when i went with the tinker. i was sent on a errand, and i see him a-sittin under a old buildin with a fire all to himself wery comfortable, and he says, 'would you like to come along a me, my man?' i says 'yes,' and him and me and the fire goes home to clerkenwell together. that was april fool day. i was able to count up to ten; and when april fool day come round again, i says to myself, 'now, old chap, you're one and a eight in it.' april fool day after that, i says, 'now, old chap, you're two and a eight in it.' in course of time, i come to ten and a eight in it; two tens and a eight in it. when it got so high, it got the upper hand of me, but this is how i always know there's a eight in it." "ah!" says mr. george, resuming his breakfast. "and where's the tinker?" "drink put him in the hospital, guv'ner, and the hospital put him--in a glass-case, i have heerd," phil replies mysteriously. "by that means you got promotion? took the business, phil?" "yes, commander, i took the business. such as it was. it wasn't much of a beat--round saffron hill, hatton garden, clerkenwell, smiffeld, and there--poor neighbourhood, where they uses up the kettles till they're past mending. most of the tramping tinkers used to come and lodge at our place; that was the best part of my master's earnings. but they didn't come to me. i warn't like him. he could sing 'em a good song. i couldn't! he could play 'em a tune on any sort of pot you please, so as it was iron or block tin. i never could do nothing with a pot but mend it or bile it--never had a note of music in me. besides, i was too ill-looking, and their wives complained of me." "they were mighty particular. you would pass muster in a crowd, phil!" says the trooper with a pleasant smile. "no, guv'ner," returns phil, shaking his head. "no, i shouldn't. i was passable enough when i went with the tinker, though nothing to boast of then; but what with blowing the fire with my mouth when i was young, and spileing my complexion, and singeing my hair off, and swallering the smoke, and what with being nat'rally unfort'nate in the way of running against hot metal and marking myself by sich means, and what with having turn-ups with the tinker as i got older, almost whenever he was too far gone in drink--which was almost always--my beauty was queer, wery queer, even at that time. as to since, what with a dozen years in a dark forge where the men was given to larking, and what with being scorched in a accident at a gas-works, and what with being blowed out of winder case-filling at the firework business, i am ugly enough to be made a show on!" resigning himself to which condition with a perfectly satisfied manner, phil begs the favour of another cup of coffee. while drinking it, he says, "it was after the case-filling blow-up when i first see you, commander. you remember?" "i remember, phil. you were walking along in the sun." "crawling, guv'ner, again a wall--" "true, phil--shouldering your way on--" "in a night-cap!" exclaims phil, excited. "in a night-cap--" "and hobbling with a couple of sticks!" cries phil, still more excited. "with a couple of sticks. when--" "when you stops, you know," cries phil, putting down his cup and saucer and hastily removing his plate from his knees, "and says to me, 'what, comrade! you have been in the wars!' i didn't say much to you, commander, then, for i was took by surprise that a person so strong and healthy and bold as you was should stop to speak to such a limping bag of bones as i was. but you says to me, says you, delivering it out of your chest as hearty as possible, so that it was like a glass of something hot, 'what accident have you met with? you have been badly hurt. what's amiss, old boy? cheer up, and tell us about it!' cheer up! i was cheered already! i says as much to you, you says more to me, i says more to you, you says more to me, and here i am, commander! here i am, commander!" cries phil, who has started from his chair and unaccountably begun to sidle away. "if a mark's wanted, or if it will improve the business, let the customers take aim at me. they can't spoil my beauty. i'm all right. come on! if they want a man to box at, let 'em box at me. let 'em knock me well about the head. i don't mind. if they want a light-weight to be throwed for practice, cornwall, devonshire, or lancashire, let 'em throw me. they won't hurt me. i have been throwed, all sorts of styles, all my life!" with this unexpected speech, energetically delivered and accompanied by action illustrative of the various exercises referred to, phil squod shoulders his way round three sides of the gallery, and abruptly tacking off at his commander, makes a butt at him with his head, intended to express devotion to his service. he then begins to clear away the breakfast. mr. george, after laughing cheerfully and clapping him on the shoulder, assists in these arrangements and helps to get the gallery into business order. that done, he takes a turn at the dumb-bells, and afterwards weighing himself and opining that he is getting "too fleshy," engages with great gravity in solitary broadsword practice. meanwhile phil has fallen to work at his usual table, where he screws and unscrews, and cleans, and files, and whistles into small apertures, and blackens himself more and more, and seems to do and undo everything that can be done and undone about a gun. master and man are at length disturbed by footsteps in the passage, where they make an unusual sound, denoting the arrival of unusual company. these steps, advancing nearer and nearer to the gallery, bring into it a group at first sight scarcely reconcilable with any day in the year but the fifth of november. it consists of a limp and ugly figure carried in a chair by two bearers and attended by a lean female with a face like a pinched mask, who might be expected immediately to recite the popular verses commemorative of the time when they did contrive to blow old england up alive but for her keeping her lips tightly and defiantly closed as the chair is put down. at which point the figure in it gasping, "o lord! oh, dear me! i am shaken!" adds, "how de do, my dear friend, how de do?" mr. george then descries, in the procession, the venerable mr. smallweed out for an airing, attended by his granddaughter judy as body-guard. "mr. george, my dear friend," says grandfather smallweed, removing his right arm from the neck of one of his bearers, whom he has nearly throttled coming along, "how de do? you're surprised to see me, my dear friend." "i should hardly have been more surprised to have seen your friend in the city," returns mr. george. "i am very seldom out," pants mr. smallweed. "i haven't been out for many months. it's inconvenient--and it comes expensive. but i longed so much to see you, my dear mr. george. how de do, sir?" "i am well enough," says mr. george. "i hope you are the same." "you can't be too well, my dear friend." mr. smallweed takes him by both hands. "i have brought my granddaughter judy. i couldn't keep her away. she longed so much to see you." "hum! she bears it calmly!" mutters mr. george. "so we got a hackney-cab, and put a chair in it, and just round the corner they lifted me out of the cab and into the chair, and carried me here that i might see my dear friend in his own establishment! this," says grandfather smallweed, alluding to the bearer, who has been in danger of strangulation and who withdraws adjusting his windpipe, "is the driver of the cab. he has nothing extra. it is by agreement included in his fare. this person," the other bearer, "we engaged in the street outside for a pint of beer. which is twopence. judy, give the person twopence. i was not sure you had a workman of your own here, my dear friend, or we needn't have employed this person." grandfather smallweed refers to phil with a glance of considerable terror and a half-subdued "o lord! oh, dear me!" nor in his apprehension, on the surface of things, without some reason, for phil, who has never beheld the apparition in the black-velvet cap before, has stopped short with a gun in his hand with much of the air of a dead shot intent on picking mr. smallweed off as an ugly old bird of the crow species. "judy, my child," says grandfather smallweed, "give the person his twopence. it's a great deal for what he has done." the person, who is one of those extraordinary specimens of human fungus that spring up spontaneously in the western streets of london, ready dressed in an old red jacket, with a "mission" for holding horses and calling coaches, received his twopence with anything but transport, tosses the money into the air, catches it over-handed, and retires. "my dear mr. george," says grandfather smallweed, "would you be so kind as help to carry me to the fire? i am accustomed to a fire, and i am an old man, and i soon chill. oh, dear me!" his closing exclamation is jerked out of the venerable gentleman by the suddenness with which mr. squod, like a genie, catches him up, chair and all, and deposits him on the hearth-stone. "o lord!" says mr. smallweed, panting. "oh, dear me! oh, my stars! my dear friend, your workman is very strong--and very prompt. o lord, he is very prompt! judy, draw me back a little. i'm being scorched in the legs," which indeed is testified to the noses of all present by the smell of his worsted stockings. the gentle judy, having backed her grandfather a little way from the fire, and having shaken him up as usual, and having released his overshadowed eye from its black-velvet extinguisher, mr. smallweed again says, "oh, dear me! o lord!" and looking about and meeting mr. george's glance, again stretches out both hands. "my dear friend! so happy in this meeting! and this is your establishment? it's a delightful place. it's a picture! you never find that anything goes off here accidentally, do you, my dear friend?" adds grandfather smallweed, very ill at ease. "no, no. no fear of that." "and your workman. he--oh, dear me!--he never lets anything off without meaning it, does he, my dear friend?" "he has never hurt anybody but himself," says mr. george, smiling. "but he might, you know. he seems to have hurt himself a good deal, and he might hurt somebody else," the old gentleman returns. "he mightn't mean it--or he even might. mr. george, will you order him to leave his infernal fire-arms alone and go away?" obedient to a nod from the trooper, phil retires, empty-handed, to the other end of the gallery. mr. smallweed, reassured, falls to rubbing his legs. "and you're doing well, mr. george?" he says to the trooper, squarely standing faced about towards him with his broadsword in his hand. "you are prospering, please the powers?" mr. george answers with a cool nod, adding, "go on. you have not come to say that, i know." "you are so sprightly, mr. george," returns the venerable grandfather. "you are such good company." "ha ha! go on!" says mr. george. "my dear friend! but that sword looks awful gleaming and sharp. it might cut somebody, by accident. it makes me shiver, mr. george. curse him!" says the excellent old gentleman apart to judy as the trooper takes a step or two away to lay it aside. "he owes me money, and might think of paying off old scores in this murdering place. i wish your brimstone grandmother was here, and he'd shave her head off." mr. george, returning, folds his arms, and looking down at the old man, sliding every moment lower and lower in his chair, says quietly, "now for it!" "ho!" cries mr. smallweed, rubbing his hands with an artful chuckle. "yes. now for it. now for what, my dear friend?" "for a pipe," says mr. george, who with great composure sets his chair in the chimney-corner, takes his pipe from the grate, fills it and lights it, and falls to smoking peacefully. this tends to the discomfiture of mr. smallweed, who finds it so difficult to resume his object, whatever it may be, that he becomes exasperated and secretly claws the air with an impotent vindictiveness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend the visage of mr. george. as the excellent old gentleman's nails are long and leaden, and his hands lean and veinous, and his eyes green and watery; and, over and above this, as he continues, while he claws, to slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapeless bundle, he becomes such a ghastly spectacle, even in the accustomed eyes of judy, that that young virgin pounces at him with something more than the ardour of affection and so shakes him up and pats and pokes him in divers parts of his body, but particularly in that part which the science of self-defence would call his wind, that in his grievous distress he utters enforced sounds like a paviour's rammer. when judy has by these means set him up again in his chair, with a white face and a frosty nose (but still clawing), she stretches out her weazen forefinger and gives mr. george one poke in the back. the trooper raising his head, she makes another poke at her esteemed grandfather, and having thus brought them together, stares rigidly at the fire. "aye, aye! ho, ho! u--u--u--ugh!" chatters grandfather smallweed, swallowing his rage. "my dear friend!" (still clawing). "i tell you what," says mr. george. "if you want to converse with me, you must speak out. i am one of the roughs, and i can't go about and about. i haven't the art to do it. i am not clever enough. it don't suit me. when you go winding round and round me," says the trooper, putting his pipe between his lips again, "damme, if i don't feel as if i was being smothered!" and he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent as if to assure himself that he is not smothered yet. "if you have come to give me a friendly call," continues mr. george, "i am obliged to you; how are you? if you have come to see whether there's any property on the premises, look about you; you are welcome. if you want to out with something, out with it!" the blooming judy, without removing her gaze from the fire, gives her grandfather one ghostly poke. "you see! it's her opinion too. and why the devil that young woman won't sit down like a christian," says mr. george with his eyes musingly fixed on judy, "i can't comprehend." "she keeps at my side to attend to me, sir," says grandfather smallweed. "i am an old man, my dear mr. george, and i need some attention. i can carry my years; i am not a brimstone poll-parrot" (snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion), "but i need attention, my dear friend." "well!" returns the trooper, wheeling his chair to face the old man. "now then?" "my friend in the city, mr. george, has done a little business with a pupil of yours." "has he?" says mr. george. "i am sorry to hear it." "yes, sir." grandfather smallweed rubs his legs. "he is a fine young soldier now, mr. george, by the name of carstone. friends came forward and paid it all up, honourable." "did they?" returns mr. george. "do you think your friend in the city would like a piece of advice?" "i think he would, my dear friend. from you." "i advise him, then, to do no more business in that quarter. there's no more to be got by it. the young gentleman, to my knowledge, is brought to a dead halt." "no, no, my dear friend. no, no, mr. george. no, no, no, sir," remonstrates grandfather smallweed, cunningly rubbing his spare legs. "not quite a dead halt, i think. he has good friends, and he is good for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of his commission, and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit, and he is good for his chance in a wife, and--oh, do you know, mr. george, i think my friend would consider the young gentleman good for something yet?" says grandfather smallweed, turning up his velvet cap and scratching his ear like a monkey. mr. george, who has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on his chair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot as if he were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation has taken. "but to pass from one subject to another," resumes mr. smallweed. "'to promote the conversation,' as a joker might say. to pass, mr. george, from the ensign to the captain." "what are you up to, now?" asks mr. george, pausing with a frown in stroking the recollection of his moustache. "what captain?" "our captain. the captain we know of. captain hawdon." "oh! that's it, is it?" says mr. george with a low whistle as he sees both grandfather and granddaughter looking hard at him. "you are there! well? what about it? come, i won't be smothered any more. speak!" "my dear friend," returns the old man, "i was applied--judy, shake me up a little!--i was applied to yesterday about the captain, and my opinion still is that the captain is not dead." "bosh!" observes mr. george. "what was your remark, my dear friend?" inquires the old man with his hand to his ear. "bosh!" "ho!" says grandfather smallweed. "mr. george, of my opinion you can judge for yourself according to the questions asked of me and the reasons given for asking 'em. now, what do you think the lawyer making the inquiries wants?" "a job," says mr. george. "nothing of the kind!" "can't be a lawyer, then," says mr. george, folding his arms with an air of confirmed resolution. "my dear friend, he is a lawyer, and a famous one. he wants to see some fragment in captain hawdon's writing. he don't want to keep it. he only wants to see it and compare it with a writing in his possession." "well?" "well, mr. george. happening to remember the advertisement concerning captain hawdon and any information that could be given respecting him, he looked it up and came to me--just as you did, my dear friend. will you shake hands? so glad you came that day! i should have missed forming such a friendship if you hadn't come!" "well, mr. smallweed?" says mr. george again after going through the ceremony with some stiffness. "i had no such thing. i have nothing but his signature. plague pestilence and famine, battle murder and sudden death upon him," says the old man, making a curse out of one of his few remembrances of a prayer and squeezing up his velvet cap between his angry hands, "i have half a million of his signatures, i think! but you," breathlessly recovering his mildness of speech as judy re-adjusts the cap on his skittle-ball of a head, "you, my dear mr. george, are likely to have some letter or paper that would suit the purpose. anything would suit the purpose, written in the hand." "some writing in that hand," says the trooper, pondering; "may be, i have." "my dearest friend!" "may be, i have not." "ho!" says grandfather smallweed, crest-fallen. "but if i had bushels of it, i would not show as much as would make a cartridge without knowing why." "sir, i have told you why. my dear mr. george, i have told you why." "not enough," says the trooper, shaking his head. "i must know more, and approve it." "then, will you come to the lawyer? my dear friend, will you come and see the gentleman?" urges grandfather smallweed, pulling out a lean old silver watch with hands like the leg of a skeleton. "i told him it was probable i might call upon him between ten and eleven this forenoon, and it's now half after ten. will you come and see the gentleman, mr. george?" "hum!" says he gravely. "i don't mind that. though why this should concern you so much, i don't know." "everything concerns me that has a chance in it of bringing anything to light about him. didn't he take us all in? didn't he owe us immense sums, all round? concern me? who can anything about him concern more than me? not, my dear friend," says grandfather smallweed, lowering his tone, "that i want you to betray anything. far from it. are you ready to come, my dear friend?" "aye! i'll come in a moment. i promise nothing, you know." "no, my dear mr. george; no." "and you mean to say you're going to give me a lift to this place, wherever it is, without charging for it?" mr. george inquires, getting his hat and thick wash-leather gloves. this pleasantry so tickles mr. smallweed that he laughs, long and low, before the fire. but ever while he laughs, he glances over his paralytic shoulder at mr. george and eagerly watches him as he unlocks the padlock of a homely cupboard at the distant end of the gallery, looks here and there upon the higher shelves, and ultimately takes something out with a rustling of paper, folds it, and puts it in his breast. then judy pokes mr. smallweed once, and mr. smallweed pokes judy once. "i am ready," says the trooper, coming back. "phil, you can carry this old gentleman to his coach, and make nothing of him." "oh, dear me! o lord! stop a moment!" says mr. smallweed. "he's so very prompt! are you sure you can do it carefully, my worthy man?" phil makes no reply, but seizing the chair and its load, sidles away, tightly hugged by the now speechless mr. smallweed, and bolts along the passage as if he had an acceptable commission to carry the old gentleman to the nearest volcano. his shorter trust, however, terminating at the cab, he deposits him there; and the fair judy takes her place beside him, and the chair embellishes the roof, and mr. george takes the vacant place upon the box. mr. george is quite confounded by the spectacle he beholds from time to time as he peeps into the cab through the window behind him, where the grim judy is always motionless, and the old gentleman with his cap over one eye is always sliding off the seat into the straw and looking upward at him out of his other eye with a helpless expression of being jolted in the back. chapter xxvii more old soldiers than one mr. george has not far to ride with folded arms upon the box, for their destination is lincoln's inn fields. when the driver stops his horses, mr. george alights, and looking in at the window, says, "what, mr. tulkinghorn's your man, is he?" "yes, my dear friend. do you know him, mr. george?" "why, i have heard of him--seen him too, i think. but i don't know him, and he don't know me." there ensues the carrying of mr. smallweed upstairs, which is done to perfection with the trooper's help. he is borne into mr. tulkinghorn's great room and deposited on the turkey rug before the fire. mr. tulkinghorn is not within at the present moment but will be back directly. the occupant of the pew in the hall, having said thus much, stirs the fire and leaves the triumvirate to warm themselves. mr. george is mightily curious in respect of the room. he looks up at the painted ceiling, looks round at the old law-books, contemplates the portraits of the great clients, reads aloud the names on the boxes. "'sir leicester dedlock, baronet,'" mr. george reads thoughtfully. "ha! 'manor of chesney wold.' humph!" mr. george stands looking at these boxes a long while--as if they were pictures--and comes back to the fire repeating, "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, and manor of chesney wold, hey?" "worth a mint of money, mr. george!" whispers grandfather smallweed, rubbing his legs. "powerfully rich!" "who do you mean? this old gentleman, or the baronet?" "this gentleman, this gentleman." "so i have heard; and knows a thing or two, i'll hold a wager. not bad quarters, either," says mr. george, looking round again. "see the strong-box yonder!" this reply is cut short by mr. tulkinghorn's arrival. there is no change in him, of course. rustily drest, with his spectacles in his hand, and their very case worn threadbare. in manner, close and dry. in voice, husky and low. in face, watchful behind a blind; habitually not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps. the peerage may have warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers than mr. tulkinghorn, after all, if everything were known. "good morning, mr. smallweed, good morning!" he says as he comes in. "you have brought the sergeant, i see. sit down, sergeant." as mr. tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in his hat, he looks with half-closed eyes across the room to where the trooper stands and says within himself perchance, "you'll do, my friend!" "sit down, sergeant," he repeats as he comes to his table, which is set on one side of the fire, and takes his easy-chair. "cold and raw this morning, cold and raw!" mr. tulkinghorn warms before the bars, alternately, the palms and knuckles of his hands and looks (from behind that blind which is always down) at the trio sitting in a little semicircle before him. "now, i can feel what i am about" (as perhaps he can in two senses), "mr. smallweed." the old gentleman is newly shaken up by judy to bear his part in the conversation. "you have brought our good friend the sergeant, i see." "yes, sir," returns mr. smallweed, very servile to the lawyer's wealth and influence. "and what does the sergeant say about this business?" "mr. george," says grandfather smallweed with a tremulous wave of his shrivelled hand, "this is the gentleman, sir." mr. george salutes the gentleman but otherwise sits bolt upright and profoundly silent--very forward in his chair, as if the full complement of regulation appendages for a field-day hung about him. mr. tulkinghorn proceeds, "well, george--i believe your name is george?" "it is so, sir." "what do you say, george?" "i ask your pardon, sir," returns the trooper, "but i should wish to know what you say?" "do you mean in point of reward?" "i mean in point of everything, sir." this is so very trying to mr. smallweed's temper that he suddenly breaks out with "you're a brimstone beast!" and as suddenly asks pardon of mr. tulkinghorn, excusing himself for this slip of the tongue by saying to judy, "i was thinking of your grandmother, my dear." "i supposed, sergeant," mr. tulkinghorn resumes as he leans on one side of his chair and crosses his legs, "that mr. smallweed might have sufficiently explained the matter. it lies in the smallest compass, however. you served under captain hawdon at one time, and were his attendant in illness, and rendered him many little services, and were rather in his confidence, i am told. that is so, is it not?" "yes, sir, that is so," says mr. george with military brevity. "therefore you may happen to have in your possession something--anything, no matter what; accounts, instructions, orders, a letter, anything--in captain hawdon's writing. i wish to compare his writing with some that i have. if you can give me the opportunity, you shall be rewarded for your trouble. three, four, five, guineas, you would consider handsome, i dare say." "noble, my dear friend!" cries grandfather smallweed, screwing up his eyes. "if not, say how much more, in your conscience as a soldier, you can demand. there is no need for you to part with the writing, against your inclination--though i should prefer to have it." mr. george sits squared in exactly the same attitude, looks at the painted ceiling, and says never a word. the irascible mr. smallweed scratches the air. "the question is," says mr. tulkinghorn in his methodical, subdued, uninterested way, "first, whether you have any of captain hawdon's writing?" "first, whether i have any of captain hawdon's writing, sir," repeats mr. george. "secondly, what will satisfy you for the trouble of producing it?" "secondly, what will satisfy me for the trouble of producing it, sir," repeats mr. george. "thirdly, you can judge for yourself whether it is at all like that," says mr. tulkinghorn, suddenly handing him some sheets of written paper tied together. "whether it is at all like that, sir. just so," repeats mr. george. all three repetitions mr. george pronounces in a mechanical manner, looking straight at mr. tulkinghorn; nor does he so much as glance at the affidavit in jarndyce and jarndyce, that has been given to him for his inspection (though he still holds it in his hand), but continues to look at the lawyer with an air of troubled meditation. "well?" says mr. tulkinghorn. "what do you say?" "well, sir," replies mr. george, rising erect and looking immense, "i would rather, if you'll excuse me, have nothing to do with this." mr. tulkinghorn, outwardly quite undisturbed, demands, "why not?" "why, sir," returns the trooper. "except on military compulsion, i am not a man of business. among civilians i am what they call in scotland a ne'er-do-weel. i have no head for papers, sir. i can stand any fire better than a fire of cross questions. i mentioned to mr. smallweed, only an hour or so ago, that when i come into things of this kind i feel as if i was being smothered. and that is my sensation," says mr. george, looking round upon the company, "at the present moment." with that, he takes three strides forward to replace the papers on the lawyer's table and three strides backward to resume his former station, where he stands perfectly upright, now looking at the ground and now at the painted ceiling, with his hands behind him as if to prevent himself from accepting any other document whatever. under this provocation, mr. smallweed's favourite adjective of disparagement is so close to his tongue that he begins the words "my dear friend" with the monosyllable "brim," thus converting the possessive pronoun into brimmy and appearing to have an impediment in his speech. once past this difficulty, however, he exhorts his dear friend in the tenderest manner not to be rash, but to do what so eminent a gentleman requires, and to do it with a good grace, confident that it must be unobjectionable as well as profitable. mr. tulkinghorn merely utters an occasional sentence, as, "you are the best judge of your own interest, sergeant." "take care you do no harm by this." "please yourself, please yourself." "if you know what you mean, that's quite enough." these he utters with an appearance of perfect indifference as he looks over the papers on his table and prepares to write a letter. mr. george looks distrustfully from the painted ceiling to the ground, from the ground to mr. smallweed, from mr. smallweed to mr. tulkinghorn, and from mr. tulkinghorn to the painted ceiling again, often in his perplexity changing the leg on which he rests. "i do assure you, sir," says mr. george, "not to say it offensively, that between you and mr. smallweed here, i really am being smothered fifty times over. i really am, sir. i am not a match for you gentlemen. will you allow me to ask why you want to see the captain's hand, in the case that i could find any specimen of it?" mr. tulkinghorn quietly shakes his head. "no. if you were a man of business, sergeant, you would not need to be informed that there are confidential reasons, very harmless in themselves, for many such wants in the profession to which i belong. but if you are afraid of doing any injury to captain hawdon, you may set your mind at rest about that." "aye! he is dead, sir." "is he?" mr. tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write. "well, sir," says the trooper, looking into his hat after another disconcerted pause, "i am sorry not to have given you more satisfaction. if it would be any satisfaction to any one that i should be confirmed in my judgment that i would rather have nothing to do with this by a friend of mine who has a better head for business than i have, and who is an old soldier, i am willing to consult with him. i--i really am so completely smothered myself at present," says mr. george, passing his hand hopelessly across his brow, "that i don't know but what it might be a satisfaction to me." mr. smallweed, hearing that this authority is an old soldier, so strongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper's taking counsel with him, and particularly informing him of its being a question of five guineas or more, that mr. george engages to go and see him. mr. tulkinghorn says nothing either way. "i'll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir," says the trooper, "and i'll take the liberty of looking in again with the final answer in the course of the day. mr. smallweed, if you wish to be carried downstairs--" "in a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. will you first let me speak half a word with this gentleman in private?" "certainly, sir. don't hurry yourself on my account." the trooper retires to a distant part of the room and resumes his curious inspection of the boxes, strong and otherwise. "if i wasn't as weak as a brimstone baby, sir," whispers grandfather smallweed, drawing the lawyer down to his level by the lapel of his coat and flashing some half-quenched green fire out of his angry eyes, "i'd tear the writing away from him. he's got it buttoned in his breast. i saw him put it there. judy saw him put it there. speak up, you crabbed image for the sign of a walking-stick shop, and say you saw him put it there!" this vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies with such a thrust at his granddaughter that it is too much for his strength, and he slips away out of his chair, drawing mr. tulkinghorn with him, until he is arrested by judy, and well shaken. "violence will not do for me, my friend," mr. tulkinghorn then remarks coolly. "no, no, i know, i know, sir. but it's chafing and galling--it's--it's worse than your smattering chattering magpie of a grandmother," to the imperturbable judy, who only looks at the fire, "to know he has got what's wanted and won't give it up. he, not to give it up! he! a vagabond! but never mind, sir, never mind. at the most, he has only his own way for a little while. i have him periodically in a vice. i'll twist him, sir. i'll screw him, sir. if he won't do it with a good grace, i'll make him do it with a bad one, sir! now, my dear mr. george," says grandfather smallweed, winking at the lawyer hideously as he releases him, "i am ready for your kind assistance, my excellent friend!" mr. tulkinghorn, with some shadowy sign of amusement manifesting itself through his self-possession, stands on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, watching the disappearance of mr. smallweed and acknowledging the trooper's parting salute with one slight nod. it is more difficult to get rid of the old gentleman, mr. george finds, than to bear a hand in carrying him downstairs, for when he is replaced in his conveyance, he is so loquacious on the subject of the guineas and retains such an affectionate hold of his button--having, in truth, a secret longing to rip his coat open and rob him--that some degree of force is necessary on the trooper's part to effect a separation. it is accomplished at last, and he proceeds alone in quest of his adviser. by the cloisterly temple, and by whitefriars (there, not without a glance at hanging-sword alley, which would seem to be something in his way), and by blackfriars bridge, and blackfriars road, mr. george sedately marches to a street of little shops lying somewhere in that ganglion of roads from kent and surrey, and of streets from the bridges of london, centring in the far-famed elephant who has lost his castle formed of a thousand four-horse coaches to a stronger iron monster than he, ready to chop him into mince-meat any day he dares. to one of the little shops in this street, which is a musician's shop, having a few fiddles in the window, and some pan's pipes and a tambourine, and a triangle, and certain elongated scraps of music, mr. george directs his massive tread. and halting at a few paces from it, as he sees a soldierly looking woman, with her outer skirts tucked up, come forth with a small wooden tub, and in that tub commence a-whisking and a-splashing on the margin of the pavement, mr. george says to himself, "she's as usual, washing greens. i never saw her, except upon a baggage-waggon, when she wasn't washing greens!" the subject of this reflection is at all events so occupied in washing greens at present that she remains unsuspicious of mr. george's approach until, lifting up herself and her tub together when she has poured the water off into the gutter, she finds him standing near her. her reception of him is not flattering. "george, i never see you but i wish you was a hundred mile away!" the trooper, without remarking on this welcome, follows into the musical-instrument shop, where the lady places her tub of greens upon the counter, and having shaken hands with him, rests her arms upon it. "i never," she says, "george, consider matthew bagnet safe a minute when you're near him. you are that restless and that roving--" "yes! i know i am, mrs. bagnet. i know i am." "you know you are!" says mrs. bagnet. "what's the use of that? why are you?" "the nature of the animal, i suppose," returns the trooper good-humouredly. "ah!" cries mrs. bagnet, something shrilly. "but what satisfaction will the nature of the animal be to me when the animal shall have tempted my mat away from the musical business to new zealand or australey?" mrs. bagnet is not at all an ill-looking woman. rather large-boned, a little coarse in the grain, and freckled by the sun and wind which have tanned her hair upon the forehead, but healthy, wholesome, and bright-eyed. a strong, busy, active, honest-faced woman of from forty-five to fifty. clean, hardy, and so economically dressed (though substantially) that the only article of ornament of which she stands possessed appear's to be her wedding-ring, around which her finger has grown to be so large since it was put on that it will never come off again until it shall mingle with mrs. bagnet's dust. "mrs. bagnet," says the trooper, "i am on my parole with you. mat will get no harm from me. you may trust me so far." "well, i think i may. but the very looks of you are unsettling," mrs. bagnet rejoins. "ah, george, george! if you had only settled down and married joe pouch's widow when he died in north america, she'd have combed your hair for you." "it was a chance for me, certainly," returns the trooper half laughingly, half seriously, "but i shall never settle down into a respectable man now. joe pouch's widow might have done me good--there was something in her, and something of her--but i couldn't make up my mind to it. if i had had the luck to meet with such a wife as mat found!" mrs. bagnet, who seems in a virtuous way to be under little reserve with a good sort of fellow, but to be another good sort of fellow herself for that matter, receives this compliment by flicking mr. george in the face with a head of greens and taking her tub into the little room behind the shop. "why, quebec, my poppet," says george, following, on invitation, into that department. "and little malta, too! come and kiss your bluffy!" these young ladies--not supposed to have been actually christened by the names applied to them, though always so called in the family from the places of their birth in barracks--are respectively employed on three-legged stools, the younger (some five or six years old) in learning her letters out of a penny primer, the elder (eight or nine perhaps) in teaching her and sewing with great assiduity. both hail mr. george with acclamations as an old friend and after some kissing and romping plant their stools beside him. "and how's young woolwich?" says mr. george. "ah! there now!" cries mrs. bagnet, turning about from her saucepans (for she is cooking dinner) with a bright flush on her face. "would you believe it? got an engagement at the theayter, with his father, to play the fife in a military piece." "well done, my godson!" cries mr. george, slapping his thigh. "i believe you!" says mrs. bagnet. "he's a briton. that's what woolwich is. a briton!" "and mat blows away at his bassoon, and you're respectable civilians one and all," says mr. george. "family people. children growing up. mat's old mother in scotland, and your old father somewhere else, corresponded with, and helped a little, and--well, well! to be sure, i don't know why i shouldn't be wished a hundred mile away, for i have not much to do with all this!" mr. george is becoming thoughtful, sitting before the fire in the whitewashed room, which has a sanded floor and a barrack smell and contains nothing superfluous and has not a visible speck of dirt or dust in it, from the faces of quebec and malta to the bright tin pots and pannikins upon the dresser shelves--mr. george is becoming thoughtful, sitting here while mrs. bagnet is busy, when mr. bagnet and young woolwich opportunely come home. mr. bagnet is an ex-artilleryman, tall and upright, with shaggy eyebrows and whiskers like the fibres of a coco-nut, not a hair upon his head, and a torrid complexion. his voice, short, deep, and resonant, is not at all unlike the tones of the instrument to which he is devoted. indeed there may be generally observed in him an unbending, unyielding, brass-bound air, as if he were himself the bassoon of the human orchestra. young woolwich is the type and model of a young drummer. both father and son salute the trooper heartily. he saying, in due season, that he has come to advise with mr. bagnet, mr. bagnet hospitably declares that he will hear of no business until after dinner and that his friend shall not partake of his counsel without first partaking of boiled pork and greens. the trooper yielding to this invitation, he and mr. bagnet, not to embarrass the domestic preparations, go forth to take a turn up and down the little street, which they promenade with measured tread and folded arms, as if it were a rampart. "george," says mr. bagnet. "you know me. it's my old girl that advises. she has the head. but i never own to it before her. discipline must be maintained. wait till the greens is off her mind. then we'll consult. whatever the old girl says, do--do it!" "i intend to, mat," replies the other. "i would sooner take her opinion than that of a college." "college," returns mr. bagnet in short sentences, bassoon-like. "what college could you leave--in another quarter of the world--with nothing but a grey cloak and an umbrella--to make its way home to europe? the old girl would do it to-morrow. did it once!" "you are right," says mr. george. "what college," pursues bagnet, "could you set up in life--with two penn'orth of white lime--a penn'orth of fuller's earth--a ha'porth of sand--and the rest of the change out of sixpence in money? that's what the old girl started on. in the present business." "i am rejoiced to hear it's thriving, mat." "the old girl," says mr. bagnet, acquiescing, "saves. has a stocking somewhere. with money in it. i never saw it. but i know she's got it. wait till the greens is off her mind. then she'll set you up." "she is a treasure!" exclaims mr. george. "she's more. but i never own to it before her. discipline must be maintained. it was the old girl that brought out my musical abilities. i should have been in the artillery now but for the old girl. six years i hammered at the fiddle. ten at the flute. the old girl said it wouldn't do; intention good, but want of flexibility; try the bassoon. the old girl borrowed a bassoon from the bandmaster of the rifle regiment. i practised in the trenches. got on, got another, get a living by it!" george remarks that she looks as fresh as a rose and as sound as an apple. "the old girl," says mr. bagnet in reply, "is a thoroughly fine woman. consequently she is like a thoroughly fine day. gets finer as she gets on. i never saw the old girl's equal. but i never own to it before her. discipline must be maintained!" proceeding to converse on indifferent matters, they walk up and down the little street, keeping step and time, until summoned by quebec and malta to do justice to the pork and greens, over which mrs. bagnet, like a military chaplain, says a short grace. in the distribution of these comestibles, as in every other household duty, mrs. bagnet developes an exact system, sitting with every dish before her, allotting to every portion of pork its own portion of pot-liquor, greens, potatoes, and even mustard, and serving it out complete. having likewise served out the beer from a can and thus supplied the mess with all things necessary, mrs. bagnet proceeds to satisfy her own hunger, which is in a healthy state. the kit of the mess, if the table furniture may be so denominated, is chiefly composed of utensils of horn and tin that have done duty in several parts of the world. young woolwich's knife, in particular, which is of the oyster kind, with the additional feature of a strong shutting-up movement which frequently balks the appetite of that young musician, is mentioned as having gone in various hands the complete round of foreign service. the dinner done, mrs. bagnet, assisted by the younger branches (who polish their own cups and platters, knives and forks), makes all the dinner garniture shine as brightly as before and puts it all away, first sweeping the hearth, to the end that mr. bagnet and the visitor may not be retarded in the smoking of their pipes. these household cares involve much pattening and counter-pattening in the backyard and considerable use of a pail, which is finally so happy as to assist in the ablutions of mrs. bagnet herself. that old girl reappearing by and by, quite fresh, and sitting down to her needlework, then and only then--the greens being only then to be considered as entirely off her mind--mr. bagnet requests the trooper to state his case. this mr. george does with great discretion, appearing to address himself to mr. bagnet, but having an eye solely on the old girl all the time, as bagnet has himself. she, equally discreet, busies herself with her needlework. the case fully stated, mr. bagnet resorts to his standard artifice for the maintenance of discipline. "that's the whole of it, is it, george?" says he. "that's the whole of it." "you act according to my opinion?" "i shall be guided," replies george, "entirely by it." "old girl," says mr. bagnet, "give him my opinion. you know it. tell him what it is." it is that he cannot have too little to do with people who are too deep for him and cannot be too careful of interference with matters he does not understand--that the plain rule is to do nothing in the dark, to be a party to nothing underhanded or mysterious, and never to put his foot where he cannot see the ground. this, in effect, is mr. bagnet's opinion, as delivered through the old girl, and it so relieves mr. george's mind by confirming his own opinion and banishing his doubts that he composes himself to smoke another pipe on that exceptional occasion and to have a talk over old times with the whole bagnet family, according to their various ranges of experience. through these means it comes to pass that mr. george does not again rise to his full height in that parlour until the time is drawing on when the bassoon and fife are expected by a british public at the theatre; and as it takes time even then for mr. george, in his domestic character of bluffy, to take leave of quebec and malta and insinuate a sponsorial shilling into the pocket of his godson with felicitations on his success in life, it is dark when mr. george again turns his face towards lincoln's inn fields. "a family home," he ruminates as he marches along, "however small it is, makes a man like me look lonely. but it's well i never made that evolution of matrimony. i shouldn't have been fit for it. i am such a vagabond still, even at my present time of life, that i couldn't hold to the gallery a month together if it was a regular pursuit or if i didn't camp there, gipsy fashion. come! i disgrace nobody and cumber nobody; that's something. i have not done that for many a long year!" so he whistles it off and marches on. arrived in lincoln's inn fields and mounting mr. tulkinghorn's stair, he finds the outer door closed and the chambers shut, but the trooper not knowing much about outer doors, and the staircase being dark besides, he is yet fumbling and groping about, hoping to discover a bell-handle or to open the door for himself, when mr. tulkinghorn comes up the stairs (quietly, of course) and angrily asks, "who is that? what are you doing there?" "i ask your pardon, sir. it's george. the sergeant." "and couldn't george, the sergeant, see that my door was locked?" "why, no, sir, i couldn't. at any rate, i didn't," says the trooper, rather nettled. "have you changed your mind? or are you in the same mind?" mr. tulkinghorn demands. but he knows well enough at a glance. "in the same mind, sir." "i thought so. that's sufficient. you can go. so you are the man," says mr. tulkinghorn, opening his door with the key, "in whose hiding-place mr. gridley was found?" "yes, i am the man," says the trooper, stopping two or three stairs down. "what then, sir?" "what then? i don't like your associates. you should not have seen the inside of my door this morning if i had thought of your being that man. gridley? a threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow." with these words, spoken in an unusually high tone for him, the lawyer goes into his rooms and shuts the door with a thundering noise. mr. george takes his dismissal in great dudgeon, the greater because a clerk coming up the stairs has heard the last words of all and evidently applies them to him. "a pretty character to bear," the trooper growls with a hasty oath as he strides downstairs. "a threatening, murderous, dangerous fellow!" and looking up, he sees the clerk looking down at him and marking him as he passes a lamp. this so intensifies his dudgeon that for five minutes he is in an ill humour. but he whistles that off like the rest of it and marches home to the shooting gallery. chapter xxviii the ironmaster sir leicester dedlock has got the better, for the time being, of the family gout and is once more, in a literal no less than in a figurative point of view, upon his legs. he is at his place in lincolnshire; but the waters are out again on the low-lying grounds, and the cold and damp steal into chesney wold, though well defended, and eke into sir leicester's bones. the blazing fires of faggot and coal--dedlock timber and antediluvian forest--that blaze upon the broad wide hearths and wink in the twilight on the frowning woods, sullen to see how trees are sacrificed, do not exclude the enemy. the hot-water pipes that trail themselves all over the house, the cushioned doors and windows, and the screens and curtains fail to supply the fires' deficiencies and to satisfy sir leicester's need. hence the fashionable intelligence proclaims one morning to the listening earth that lady dedlock is expected shortly to return to town for a few weeks. it is a melancholy truth that even great men have their poor relations. indeed great men have often more than their fair share of poor relations, inasmuch as very red blood of the superior quality, like inferior blood unlawfully shed, will cry aloud and will be heard. sir leicester's cousins, in the remotest degree, are so many murders in the respect that they "will out." among whom there are cousins who are so poor that one might almost dare to think it would have been the happier for them never to have been plated links upon the dedlock chain of gold, but to have been made of common iron at first and done base service. service, however (with a few limited reservations, genteel but not profitable), they may not do, being of the dedlock dignity. so they visit their richer cousins, and get into debt when they can, and live but shabbily when they can't, and find--the women no husbands, and the men no wives--and ride in borrowed carriages, and sit at feasts that are never of their own making, and so go through high life. the rich family sum has been divided by so many figures, and they are the something over that nobody knows what to do with. everybody on sir leicester dedlock's side of the question and of his way of thinking would appear to be his cousin more or less. from my lord boodle, through the duke of foodle, down to noodle, sir leicester, like a glorious spider, stretches his threads of relationship. but while he is stately in the cousinship of the everybodys, he is a kind and generous man, according to his dignified way, in the cousinship of the nobodys; and at the present time, in despite of the damp, he stays out the visit of several such cousins at chesney wold with the constancy of a martyr. of these, foremost in the front rank stands volumnia dedlock, a young lady (of sixty) who is doubly highly related, having the honour to be a poor relation, by the mother's side, to another great family. miss volumnia, displaying in early life a pretty talent for cutting ornaments out of coloured paper, and also for singing to the guitar in the spanish tongue, and propounding french conundrums in country houses, passed the twenty years of her existence between twenty and forty in a sufficiently agreeable manner. lapsing then out of date and being considered to bore mankind by her vocal performances in the spanish language, she retired to bath, where she lives slenderly on an annual present from sir leicester and whence she makes occasional resurrections in the country houses of her cousins. she has an extensive acquaintance at bath among appalling old gentlemen with thin legs and nankeen trousers, and is of high standing in that dreary city. but she is a little dreaded elsewhere in consequence of an indiscreet profusion in the article of rouge and persistency in an obsolete pearl necklace like a rosary of little bird's-eggs. in any country in a wholesome state, volumnia would be a clear case for the pension list. efforts have been made to get her on it, and when william buffy came in, it was fully expected that her name would be put down for a couple of hundred a year. but william buffy somehow discovered, contrary to all expectation, that these were not the times when it could be done, and this was the first clear indication sir leicester dedlock had conveyed to him that the country was going to pieces. there is likewise the honourable bob stables, who can make warm mashes with the skill of a veterinary surgeon and is a better shot than most gamekeepers. he has been for some time particularly desirous to serve his country in a post of good emoluments, unaccompanied by any trouble or responsibility. in a well-regulated body politic this natural desire on the part of a spirited young gentleman so highly connected would be speedily recognized, but somehow william buffy found when he came in that these were not times in which he could manage that little matter either, and this was the second indication sir leicester dedlock had conveyed to him that the country was going to pieces. the rest of the cousins are ladies and gentlemen of various ages and capacities, the major part amiable and sensible and likely to have done well enough in life if they could have overcome their cousinship; as it is, they are almost all a little worsted by it, and lounge in purposeless and listless paths, and seem to be quite as much at a loss how to dispose of themselves as anybody else can be how to dispose of them. in this society, and where not, my lady dedlock reigns supreme. beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and powerful in her little world (for the world of fashion does not stretch all the way from pole to pole), her influence in sir leicester's house, however haughty and indifferent her manner, is greatly to improve it and refine it. the cousins, even those older cousins who were paralysed when sir leicester married her, do her feudal homage; and the honourable bob stables daily repeats to some chosen person between breakfast and lunch his favourite original remark, that she is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud. such the guests in the long drawing-room at chesney wold this dismal night when the step on the ghost's walk (inaudible here, however) might be the step of a deceased cousin shut out in the cold. it is near bed-time. bedroom fires blaze brightly all over the house, raising ghosts of grim furniture on wall and ceiling. bedroom candlesticks bristle on the distant table by the door, and cousins yawn on ottomans. cousins at the piano, cousins at the soda-water tray, cousins rising from the card-table, cousins gathered round the fire. standing on one side of his own peculiar fire (for there are two), sir leicester. on the opposite side of the broad hearth, my lady at her table. volumnia, as one of the more privileged cousins, in a luxurious chair between them. sir leicester glancing, with magnificent displeasure, at the rouge and the pearl necklace. "i occasionally meet on my staircase here," drawls volumnia, whose thoughts perhaps are already hopping up it to bed, after a long evening of very desultory talk, "one of the prettiest girls, i think, that i ever saw in my life." "a protegee of my lady's," observes sir leicester. "i thought so. i felt sure that some uncommon eye must have picked that girl out. she really is a marvel. a dolly sort of beauty perhaps," says miss volumnia, reserving her own sort, "but in its way, perfect; such bloom i never saw!" sir leicester, with his magnificent glance of displeasure at the rouge, appears to say so too. "indeed," remarks my lady languidly, "if there is any uncommon eye in the case, it is mrs. rouncewell's, and not mine. rosa is her discovery." "your maid, i suppose?" "no. my anything; pet--secretary--messenger--i don't know what." "you like to have her about you, as you would like to have a flower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle--no, not a poodle, though--or anything else that was equally pretty?" says volumnia, sympathizing. "yes, how charming now! and how well that delightful old soul mrs. rouncewell is looking. she must be an immense age, and yet she is as active and handsome! she is the dearest friend i have, positively!" sir leicester feels it to be right and fitting that the housekeeper of chesney wold should be a remarkable person. apart from that, he has a real regard for mrs. rouncewell and likes to hear her praised. so he says, "you are right, volumnia," which volumnia is extremely glad to hear. "she has no daughter of her own, has she?" "mrs. rouncewell? no, volumnia. she has a son. indeed, she had two." my lady, whose chronic malady of boredom has been sadly aggravated by volumnia this evening, glances wearily towards the candlesticks and heaves a noiseless sigh. "and it is a remarkable example of the confusion into which the present age has fallen; of the obliteration of landmarks, the opening of floodgates, and the uprooting of distinctions," says sir leicester with stately gloom, "that i have been informed by mr. tulkinghorn that mrs. rouncewell's son has been invited to go into parliament." miss volumnia utters a little sharp scream. "yes, indeed," repeats sir leicester. "into parliament." "i never heard of such a thing! good gracious, what is the man?" exclaims volumnia. "he is called, i believe--an--ironmaster." sir leicester says it slowly and with gravity and doubt, as not being sure but that he is called a lead-mistress or that the right word may be some other word expressive of some other relationship to some other metal. volumnia utters another little scream. "he has declined the proposal, if my information from mr. tulkinghorn be correct, as i have no doubt it is. mr. tulkinghorn being always correct and exact; still that does not," says sir leicester, "that does not lessen the anomaly, which is fraught with strange considerations--startling considerations, as it appears to me." miss volumnia rising with a look candlestick-wards, sir leicester politely performs the grand tour of the drawing-room, brings one, and lights it at my lady's shaded lamp. "i must beg you, my lady," he says while doing so, "to remain a few moments, for this individual of whom i speak arrived this evening shortly before dinner and requested in a very becoming note"--sir leicester, with his habitual regard to truth, dwells upon it--"i am bound to say, in a very becoming and well-expressed note, the favour of a short interview with yourself and myself on the subject of this young girl. as it appeared that he wished to depart to-night, i replied that we would see him before retiring." miss volumnia with a third little scream takes flight, wishing her hosts--o lud!--well rid of the--what is it?--ironmaster! the other cousins soon disperse, to the last cousin there. sir leicester rings the bell, "make my compliments to mr. rouncewell, in the housekeeper's apartments, and say i can receive him now." my lady, who has heard all this with slight attention outwardly, looks towards mr. rouncewell as he comes in. he is a little over fifty perhaps, of a good figure, like his mother, and has a clear voice, a broad forehead from which his dark hair has retired, and a shrewd though open face. he is a responsible-looking gentleman dressed in black, portly enough, but strong and active. has a perfectly natural and easy air and is not in the least embarrassed by the great presence into which he comes. "sir leicester and lady dedlock, as i have already apologized for intruding on you, i cannot do better than be very brief. i thank you, sir leicester." the head of the dedlocks has motioned towards a sofa between himself and my lady. mr. rouncewell quietly takes his seat there. "in these busy times, when so many great undertakings are in progress, people like myself have so many workmen in so many places that we are always on the flight." sir leicester is content enough that the ironmaster should feel that there is no hurry there; there, in that ancient house, rooted in that quiet park, where the ivy and the moss have had time to mature, and the gnarled and warted elms and the umbrageous oaks stand deep in the fern and leaves of a hundred years; and where the sun-dial on the terrace has dumbly recorded for centuries that time which was as much the property of every dedlock--while he lasted--as the house and lands. sir leicester sits down in an easy-chair, opposing his repose and that of chesney wold to the restless flights of ironmasters. "lady dedlock has been so kind," proceeds mr. rouncewell with a respectful glance and a bow that way, "as to place near her a young beauty of the name of rosa. now, my son has fallen in love with rosa and has asked my consent to his proposing marriage to her and to their becoming engaged if she will take him--which i suppose she will. i have never seen rosa until to-day, but i have some confidence in my son's good sense--even in love. i find her what he represents her, to the best of my judgment; and my mother speaks of her with great commendation." "she in all respects deserves it," says my lady. "i am happy, lady dedlock, that you say so, and i need not comment on the value to me of your kind opinion of her." "that," observes sir leicester with unspeakable grandeur, for he thinks the ironmaster a little too glib, "must be quite unnecessary." "quite unnecessary, sir leicester. now, my son is a very young man, and rosa is a very young woman. as i made my way, so my son must make his; and his being married at present is out of the question. but supposing i gave my consent to his engaging himself to this pretty girl, if this pretty girl will engage herself to him, i think it a piece of candour to say at once--i am sure, sir leicester and lady dedlock, you will understand and excuse me--i should make it a condition that she did not remain at chesney wold. therefore, before communicating further with my son, i take the liberty of saying that if her removal would be in any way inconvenient or objectionable, i will hold the matter over with him for any reasonable time and leave it precisely where it is." not remain at chesney wold! make it a condition! all sir leicester's old misgivings relative to wat tyler and the people in the iron districts who do nothing but turn out by torchlight come in a shower upon his head, the fine grey hair of which, as well as of his whiskers, actually stirs with indignation. "am i to understand, sir," says sir leicester, "and is my lady to understand"--he brings her in thus specially, first as a point of gallantry, and next as a point of prudence, having great reliance on her sense--"am i to understand, mr. rouncewell, and is my lady to understand, sir, that you consider this young woman too good for chesney wold or likely to be injured by remaining here?" "certainly not, sir leicester," "i am glad to hear it." sir leicester very lofty indeed. "pray, mr. rouncewell," says my lady, warning sir leicester off with the slightest gesture of her pretty hand, as if he were a fly, "explain to me what you mean." "willingly, lady dedlock. there is nothing i could desire more." addressing her composed face, whose intelligence, however, is too quick and active to be concealed by any studied impassiveness, however habitual, to the strong saxon face of the visitor, a picture of resolution and perseverance, my lady listens with attention, occasionally slightly bending her head. "i am the son of your housekeeper, lady dedlock, and passed my childhood about this house. my mother has lived here half a century and will die here i have no doubt. she is one of those examples--perhaps as good a one as there is--of love, and attachment, and fidelity in such a nation, which england may well be proud of, but of which no order can appropriate the whole pride or the whole merit, because such an instance bespeaks high worth on two sides--on the great side assuredly, on the small one no less assuredly." sir leicester snorts a little to hear the law laid down in this way, but in his honour and his love of truth, he freely, though silently, admits the justice of the ironmaster's proposition. "pardon me for saying what is so obvious, but i wouldn't have it hastily supposed," with the least turn of his eyes towards sir leicester, "that i am ashamed of my mother's position here, or wanting in all just respect for chesney wold and the family. i certainly may have desired--i certainly have desired, lady dedlock--that my mother should retire after so many years and end her days with me. but as i have found that to sever this strong bond would be to break her heart, i have long abandoned that idea." sir leicester very magnificent again at the notion of mrs. rouncewell being spirited off from her natural home to end her days with an ironmaster. "i have been," proceeds the visitor in a modest, clear way, "an apprentice and a workman. i have lived on workman's wages, years and years, and beyond a certain point have had to educate myself. my wife was a foreman's daughter, and plainly brought up. we have three daughters besides this son of whom i have spoken, and being fortunately able to give them greater advantages than we have had ourselves, we have educated them well, very well. it has been one of our great cares and pleasures to make them worthy of any station." a little boastfulness in his fatherly tone here, as if he added in his heart, "even of the chesney wold station." not a little more magnificence, therefore, on the part of sir leicester. "all this is so frequent, lady dedlock, where i live, and among the class to which i belong, that what would be generally called unequal marriages are not of such rare occurrence with us as elsewhere. a son will sometimes make it known to his father that he has fallen in love, say, with a young woman in the factory. the father, who once worked in a factory himself, will be a little disappointed at first very possibly. it may be that he had other views for his son. however, the chances are that having ascertained the young woman to be of unblemished character, he will say to his son, 'i must be quite sure you are in earnest here. this is a serious matter for both of you. therefore i shall have this girl educated for two years,' or it may be, 'i shall place this girl at the same school with your sisters for such a time, during which you will give me your word and honour to see her only so often. if at the expiration of that time, when she has so far profited by her advantages as that you may be upon a fair equality, you are both in the same mind, i will do my part to make you happy.' i know of several cases such as i describe, my lady, and i think they indicate to me my own course now." sir leicester's magnificence explodes. calmly, but terribly. "mr. rouncewell," says sir leicester with his right hand in the breast of his blue coat, the attitude of state in which he is painted in the gallery, "do you draw a parallel between chesney wold and a--" here he resists a disposition to choke, "a factory?" "i need not reply, sir leicester, that the two places are very different; but for the purposes of this case, i think a parallel may be justly drawn between them." sir leicester directs his majestic glance down one side of the long drawing-room and up the other before he can believe that he is awake. "are you aware, sir, that this young woman whom my lady--my lady--has placed near her person was brought up at the village school outside the gates?" "sir leicester, i am quite aware of it. a very good school it is, and handsomely supported by this family." "then, mr. rouncewell," returns sir leicester, "the application of what you have said is, to me, incomprehensible." "will it be more comprehensible, sir leicester, if i say," the ironmaster is reddening a little, "that i do not regard the village school as teaching everything desirable to be known by my son's wife?" from the village school of chesney wold, intact as it is this minute, to the whole framework of society; from the whole framework of society, to the aforesaid framework receiving tremendous cracks in consequence of people (iron-masters, lead-mistresses, and what not) not minding their catechism, and getting out of the station unto which they are called--necessarily and for ever, according to sir leicester's rapid logic, the first station in which they happen to find themselves; and from that, to their educating other people out of their stations, and so obliterating the landmarks, and opening the floodgates, and all the rest of it; this is the swift progress of the dedlock mind. "my lady, i beg your pardon. permit me, for one moment!" she has given a faint indication of intending to speak. "mr. rouncewell, our views of duty, and our views of station, and our views of education, and our views of--in short, all our views--are so diametrically opposed, that to prolong this discussion must be repellent to your feelings and repellent to my own. this young woman is honoured with my lady's notice and favour. if she wishes to withdraw herself from that notice and favour or if she chooses to place herself under the influence of any one who may in his peculiar opinions--you will allow me to say, in his peculiar opinions, though i readily admit that he is not accountable for them to me--who may, in his peculiar opinions, withdraw her from that notice and favour, she is at any time at liberty to do so. we are obliged to you for the plainness with which you have spoken. it will have no effect of itself, one way or other, on the young woman's position here. beyond this, we can make no terms; and here we beg--if you will be so good--to leave the subject." the visitor pauses a moment to give my lady an opportunity, but she says nothing. he then rises and replies, "sir leicester and lady dedlock, allow me to thank you for your attention and only to observe that i shall very seriously recommend my son to conquer his present inclinations. good night!" "mr. rouncewell," says sir leicester with all the nature of a gentleman shining in him, "it is late, and the roads are dark. i hope your time is not so precious but that you will allow my lady and myself to offer you the hospitality of chesney wold, for to-night at least." "i hope so," adds my lady. "i am much obliged to you, but i have to travel all night in order to reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointed time in the morning." therewith the ironmaster takes his departure, sir leicester ringing the bell and my lady rising as he leaves the room. when my lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully by the fire, and inattentive to the ghost's walk, looks at rosa, writing in an inner room. presently my lady calls her. "come to me, child. tell me the truth. are you in love?" "oh! my lady!" my lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling, "who is it? is it mrs. rouncewell's grandson?" "yes, if you please, my lady. but i don't know that i am in love with him--yet." "yet, you silly little thing! do you know that he loves you, yet?" "i think he likes me a little, my lady." and rosa bursts into tears. is this lady dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smoothing her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyes so full of musing interest? aye, indeed it is! "listen to me, child. you are young and true, and i believe you are attached to me." "indeed i am, my lady. indeed there is nothing in the world i wouldn't do to show how much." "and i don't think you would wish to leave me just yet, rosa, even for a lover?" "no, my lady! oh, no!" rosa looks up for the first time, quite frightened at the thought. "confide in me, my child. don't fear me. i wish you to be happy, and will make you so--if i can make anybody happy on this earth." rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand. my lady takes the hand with which she has caught it, and standing with her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between her own two hands, and gradually lets it fall. seeing her so absorbed, rosa softly withdraws; but still my lady's eyes are on the fire. in search of what? of any hand that is no more, of any hand that never was, of any touch that might have magically changed her life? or does she listen to the ghost's walk and think what step does it most resemble? a man's? a woman's? the pattering of a little child's feet, ever coming on--on--on? some melancholy influence is upon her, or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit alone upon the hearth so desolate? volumnia is away next day, and all the cousins are scattered before dinner. not a cousin of the batch but is amazed to hear from sir leicester at breakfast-time of the obliteration of landmarks, and opening of floodgates, and cracking of the framework of society, manifested through mrs. rouncewell's son. not a cousin of the batch but is really indignant, and connects it with the feebleness of william buffy when in office, and really does feel deprived of a stake in the country--or the pension list--or something--by fraud and wrong. as to volumnia, she is handed down the great staircase by sir leicester, as eloquent upon the theme as if there were a general rising in the north of england to obtain her rouge-pot and pearl necklace. and thus, with a clatter of maids and valets--for it is one appurtenance of their cousinship that however difficult they may find it to keep themselves, they must keep maids and valets--the cousins disperse to the four winds of heaven; and the one wintry wind that blows to-day shakes a shower from the trees near the deserted house, as if all the cousins had been changed into leaves. chapter xxix the young man chesney wold is shut up, carpets are rolled into great scrolls in corners of comfortless rooms, bright damask does penance in brown holland, carving and gilding puts on mortification, and the dedlock ancestors retire from the light of day again. around and around the house the leaves fall thick, but never fast, for they come circling down with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. let the gardener sweep and sweep the turf as he will, and press the leaves into full barrows, and wheel them off, still they lie ankle-deep. howls the shrill wind round chesney wold; the sharp rain beats, the windows rattle, and the chimneys growl. mists hide in the avenues, veil the points of view, and move in funeral-wise across the rising grounds. on all the house there is a cold, blank smell like the smell of a little church, though something dryer, suggesting that the dead and buried dedlocks walk there in the long nights and leave the flavour of their graves behind them. but the house in town, which is rarely in the same mind as chesney wold at the same time, seldom rejoicing when it rejoices or mourning when it mourns, excepting when a dedlock dies--the house in town shines out awakened. as warm and bright as so much state may be, as delicately redolent of pleasant scents that bear no trace of winter as hothouse flowers can make it, soft and hushed so that the ticking of the clocks and the crisp burning of the fires alone disturb the stillness in the rooms, it seems to wrap those chilled bones of sir leicester's in rainbow-coloured wool. and sir leicester is glad to repose in dignified contentment before the great fire in the library, condescendingly perusing the backs of his books or honouring the fine arts with a glance of approbation. for he has his pictures, ancient and modern. some of the fancy ball school in which art occasionally condescends to become a master, which would be best catalogued like the miscellaneous articles in a sale. as "three high-backed chairs, a table and cover, long-necked bottle (containing wine), one flask, one spanish female's costume, three-quarter face portrait of miss jogg the model, and a suit of armour containing don quixote." or "one stone terrace (cracked), one gondola in distance, one venetian senator's dress complete, richly embroidered white satin costume with profile portrait of miss jogg the model, one scimitar superbly mounted in gold with jewelled handle, elaborate moorish dress (very rare), and othello." mr. tulkinghorn comes and goes pretty often, there being estate business to do, leases to be renewed, and so on. he sees my lady pretty often, too; and he and she are as composed, and as indifferent, and take as little heed of one another, as ever. yet it may be that my lady fears this mr. tulkinghorn and that he knows it. it may be that he pursues her doggedly and steadily, with no touch of compunction, remorse, or pity. it may be that her beauty and all the state and brilliancy surrounding her only gives him the greater zest for what he is set upon and makes him the more inflexible in it. whether he be cold and cruel, whether immovable in what he has made his duty, whether absorbed in love of power, whether determined to have nothing hidden from him in ground where he has burrowed among secrets all his life, whether he in his heart despises the splendour of which he is a distant beam, whether he is always treasuring up slights and offences in the affability of his gorgeous clients--whether he be any of this, or all of this, it may be that my lady had better have five thousand pairs of fashionable eyes upon her, in distrustful vigilance, than the two eyes of this rusty lawyer with his wisp of neckcloth and his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees. sir leicester sits in my lady's room--that room in which mr. tulkinghorn read the affidavit in jarndyce and jarndyce--particularly complacent. my lady, as on that day, sits before the fire with her screen in her hand. sir leicester is particularly complacent because he has found in his newspaper some congenial remarks bearing directly on the floodgates and the framework of society. they apply so happily to the late case that sir leicester has come from the library to my lady's room expressly to read them aloud. "the man who wrote this article," he observes by way of preface, nodding at the fire as if he were nodding down at the man from a mount, "has a well-balanced mind." the man's mind is not so well balanced but that he bores my lady, who, after a languid effort to listen, or rather a languid resignation of herself to a show of listening, becomes distraught and falls into a contemplation of the fire as if it were her fire at chesney wold, and she had never left it. sir leicester, quite unconscious, reads on through his double eye-glass, occasionally stopping to remove his glass and express approval, as "very true indeed," "very properly put," "i have frequently made the same remark myself," invariably losing his place after each observation, and going up and down the column to find it again. sir leicester is reading with infinite gravity and state when the door opens, and the mercury in powder makes this strange announcement, "the young man, my lady, of the name of guppy." sir leicester pauses, stares, repeats in a killing voice, "the young man of the name of guppy?" looking round, he beholds the young man of the name of guppy, much discomfited and not presenting a very impressive letter of introduction in his manner and appearance. "pray," says sir leicester to mercury, "what do you mean by announcing with this abruptness a young man of the name of guppy?" "i beg your pardon, sir leicester, but my lady said she would see the young man whenever he called. i was not aware that you were here, sir leicester." with this apology, mercury directs a scornful and indignant look at the young man of the name of guppy which plainly says, "what do you come calling here for and getting me into a row?" "it's quite right. i gave him those directions," says my lady. "let the young man wait." "by no means, my lady. since he has your orders to come, i will not interrupt you." sir leicester in his gallantry retires, rather declining to accept a bow from the young man as he goes out and majestically supposing him to be some shoemaker of intrusive appearance. lady dedlock looks imperiously at her visitor when the servant has left the room, casting her eyes over him from head to foot. she suffers him to stand by the door and asks him what he wants. "that your ladyship would have the kindness to oblige me with a little conversation," returns mr. guppy, embarrassed. "you are, of course, the person who has written me so many letters?" "several, your ladyship. several before your ladyship condescended to favour me with an answer." "and could you not take the same means of rendering a conversation unnecessary? can you not still?" mr. guppy screws his mouth into a silent "no!" and shakes his head. "you have been strangely importunate. if it should appear, after all, that what you have to say does not concern me--and i don't know how it can, and don't expect that it will--you will allow me to cut you short with but little ceremony. say what you have to say, if you please." my lady, with a careless toss of her screen, turns herself towards the fire again, sitting almost with her back to the young man of the name of guppy. "with your ladyship's permission, then," says the young man, "i will now enter on my business. hem! i am, as i told your ladyship in my first letter, in the law. being in the law, i have learnt the habit of not committing myself in writing, and therefore i did not mention to your ladyship the name of the firm with which i am connected and in which my standing--and i may add income--is tolerably good. i may now state to your ladyship, in confidence, that the name of that firm is kenge and carboy, of lincoln's inn, which may not be altogether unknown to your ladyship in connexion with the case in chancery of jarndyce and jarndyce." my lady's figure begins to be expressive of some attention. she has ceased to toss the screen and holds it as if she were listening. "now, i may say to your ladyship at once," says mr. guppy, a little emboldened, "it is no matter arising out of jarndyce and jarndyce that made me so desirous to speak to your ladyship, which conduct i have no doubt did appear, and does appear, obtrusive--in fact, almost blackguardly." after waiting for a moment to receive some assurance to the contrary, and not receiving any, mr. guppy proceeds, "if it had been jarndyce and jarndyce, i should have gone at once to your ladyship's solicitor, mr. tulkinghorn, of the fields. i have the pleasure of being acquainted with mr. tulkinghorn--at least we move when we meet one another--and if it had been any business of that sort, i should have gone to him." my lady turns a little round and says, "you had better sit down." "thank your ladyship." mr. guppy does so. "now, your ladyship"--mr. guppy refers to a little slip of paper on which he has made small notes of his line of argument and which seems to involve him in the densest obscurity whenever he looks at it--"i--oh, yes!--i place myself entirely in your ladyship's hands. if your ladyship was to make any complaint to kenge and carboy or to mr. tulkinghorn of the present visit, i should be placed in a very disagreeable situation. that, i openly admit. consequently, i rely upon your ladyship's honour." my lady, with a disdainful gesture of the hand that holds the screen, assures him of his being worth no complaint from her. "thank your ladyship," says mr. guppy; "quite satisfactory. now--i--dash it!--the fact is that i put down a head or two here of the order of the points i thought of touching upon, and they're written short, and i can't quite make out what they mean. if your ladyship will excuse me taking it to the window half a moment, i--" mr. guppy, going to the window, tumbles into a pair of love-birds, to whom he says in his confusion, "i beg your pardon, i am sure." this does not tend to the greater legibility of his notes. he murmurs, growing warm and red and holding the slip of paper now close to his eyes, now a long way off, "c.s. what's c.s. for? oh! c.s.! oh, i know! yes, to be sure!" and comes back enlightened. "i am not aware," says mr. guppy, standing midway between my lady and his chair, "whether your ladyship ever happened to hear of, or to see, a young lady of the name of miss esther summerson." my lady's eyes look at him full. "i saw a young lady of that name not long ago. this past autumn." "now, did it strike your ladyship that she was like anybody?" asks mr. guppy, crossing his arms, holding his head on one side, and scratching the corner of his mouth with his memoranda. my lady removes her eyes from him no more. "no." "not like your ladyship's family?" "no." "i think your ladyship," says mr. guppy, "can hardly remember miss summerson's face?" "i remember the young lady very well. what has this to do with me?" "your ladyship, i do assure you that having miss summerson's image imprinted on my 'eart--which i mention in confidence--i found, when i had the honour of going over your ladyship's mansion of chesney wold while on a short out in the county of lincolnshire with a friend, such a resemblance between miss esther summerson and your ladyship's own portrait that it completely knocked me over, so much so that i didn't at the moment even know what it was that knocked me over. and now i have the honour of beholding your ladyship near (i have often, since that, taken the liberty of looking at your ladyship in your carriage in the park, when i dare say you was not aware of me, but i never saw your ladyship so near), it's really more surprising than i thought it." young man of the name of guppy! there have been times, when ladies lived in strongholds and had unscrupulous attendants within call, when that poor life of yours would not have been worth a minute's purchase, with those beautiful eyes looking at you as they look at this moment. my lady, slowly using her little hand-screen as a fan, asks him again what he supposes that his taste for likenesses has to do with her. "your ladyship," replies mr. guppy, again referring to his paper, "i am coming to that. dash these notes! oh! 'mrs. chadband.' yes." mr. guppy draws his chair a little forward and seats himself again. my lady reclines in her chair composedly, though with a trifle less of graceful ease than usual perhaps, and never falters in her steady gaze. "a--stop a minute, though!" mr. guppy refers again. "e.s. twice? oh, yes! yes, i see my way now, right on." rolling up the slip of paper as an instrument to point his speech with, mr. guppy proceeds. "your ladyship, there is a mystery about miss esther summerson's birth and bringing up. i am informed of that fact because--which i mention in confidence--i know it in the way of my profession at kenge and carboy's. now, as i have already mentioned to your ladyship, miss summerson's image is imprinted on my 'eart. if i could clear this mystery for her, or prove her to be well related, or find that having the honour to be a remote branch of your ladyship's family she had a right to be made a party in jarndyce and jarndyce, why, i might make a sort of a claim upon miss summerson to look with an eye of more dedicated favour on my proposals than she has exactly done as yet. in fact, as yet she hasn't favoured them at all." a kind of angry smile just dawns upon my lady's face. "now, it's a very singular circumstance, your ladyship," says mr. guppy, "though one of those circumstances that do fall in the way of us professional men--which i may call myself, for though not admitted, yet i have had a present of my articles made to me by kenge and carboy, on my mother's advancing from the principal of her little income the money for the stamp, which comes heavy--that i have encountered the person who lived as servant with the lady who brought miss summerson up before mr. jarndyce took charge of her. that lady was a miss barbary, your ladyship." is the dead colour on my lady's face reflected from the screen which has a green silk ground and which she holds in her raised hand as if she had forgotten it, or is it a dreadful paleness that has fallen on her? "did your ladyship," says mr. guppy, "ever happen to hear of miss barbary?" "i don't know. i think so. yes." "was miss barbary at all connected with your ladyship's family?" my lady's lips move, but they utter nothing. she shakes her head. "not connected?" says mr. guppy. "oh! not to your ladyship's knowledge, perhaps? ah! but might be? yes." after each of these interrogatories, she has inclined her head. "very good! now, this miss barbary was extremely close--seems to have been extraordinarily close for a female, females being generally (in common life at least) rather given to conversation--and my witness never had an idea whether she possessed a single relative. on one occasion, and only one, she seems to have been confidential to my witness on a single point, and she then told her that the little girl's real name was not esther summerson, but esther hawdon." "my god!" mr. guppy stares. lady dedlock sits before him looking him through, with the same dark shade upon her face, in the same attitude even to the holding of the screen, with her lips a little apart, her brow a little contracted, but for the moment dead. he sees her consciousness return, sees a tremor pass across her frame like a ripple over water, sees her lips shake, sees her compose them by a great effort, sees her force herself back to the knowledge of his presence and of what he has said. all this, so quickly, that her exclamation and her dead condition seem to have passed away like the features of those long-preserved dead bodies sometimes opened up in tombs, which, struck by the air like lightning, vanish in a breath. "your ladyship is acquainted with the name of hawdon?" "i have heard it before." "name of any collateral or remote branch of your ladyship's family?" "no." "now, your ladyship," says mr. guppy, "i come to the last point of the case, so far as i have got it up. it's going on, and i shall gather it up closer and closer as it goes on. your ladyship must know--if your ladyship don't happen, by any chance, to know already--that there was found dead at the house of a person named krook, near chancery lane, some time ago, a law-writer in great distress. upon which law-writer there was an inquest, and which law-writer was an anonymous character, his name being unknown. but, your ladyship, i have discovered very lately that that law-writer's name was hawdon." "and what is that to me?" "aye, your ladyship, that's the question! now, your ladyship, a queer thing happened after that man's death. a lady started up, a disguised lady, your ladyship, who went to look at the scene of action and went to look at his grave. she hired a crossing-sweeping boy to show it her. if your ladyship would wish to have the boy produced in corroboration of this statement, i can lay my hand upon him at any time." the wretched boy is nothing to my lady, and she does not wish to have him produced. "oh, i assure your ladyship it's a very queer start indeed," says mr. guppy. "if you was to hear him tell about the rings that sparkled on her fingers when she took her glove off, you'd think it quite romantic." there are diamonds glittering on the hand that holds the screen. my lady trifles with the screen and makes them glitter more, again with that expression which in other times might have been so dangerous to the young man of the name of guppy. "it was supposed, your ladyship, that he left no rag or scrap behind him by which he could be possibly identified. but he did. he left a bundle of old letters." the screen still goes, as before. all this time her eyes never once release him. "they were taken and secreted. and to-morrow night, your ladyship, they will come into my possession." "still i ask you, what is this to me?" "your ladyship, i conclude with that." mr. guppy rises. "if you think there's enough in this chain of circumstances put together--in the undoubted strong likeness of this young lady to your ladyship, which is a positive fact for a jury; in her having been brought up by miss barbary; in miss barbary stating miss summerson's real name to be hawdon; in your ladyship's knowing both these names very well; and in hawdon's dying as he did--to give your ladyship a family interest in going further into the case, i will bring these papers here. i don't know what they are, except that they are old letters: i have never had them in my possession yet. i will bring those papers here as soon as i get them and go over them for the first time with your ladyship. i have told your ladyship my object. i have told your ladyship that i should be placed in a very disagreeable situation if any complaint was made, and all is in strict confidence." is this the full purpose of the young man of the name of guppy, or has he any other? do his words disclose the length, breadth, depth, of his object and suspicion in coming here; or if not, what do they hide? he is a match for my lady there. she may look at him, but he can look at the table and keep that witness-box face of his from telling anything. "you may bring the letters," says my lady, "if you choose." "your ladyship is not very encouraging, upon my word and honour," says mr. guppy, a little injured. "you may bring the letters," she repeats in the same tone, "if you--please." "it shall be done. i wish your ladyship good day." on a table near her is a rich bauble of a casket, barred and clasped like an old strong-chest. she, looking at him still, takes it to her and unlocks it. "oh! i assure your ladyship i am not actuated by any motives of that sort," says mr. guppy, "and i couldn't accept anything of the kind. i wish your ladyship good day, and am much obliged to you all the same." so the young man makes his bow and goes downstairs, where the supercilious mercury does not consider himself called upon to leave his olympus by the hall-fire to let the young man out. as sir leicester basks in his library and dozes over his newspaper, is there no influence in the house to startle him, not to say to make the very trees at chesney wold fling up their knotted arms, the very portraits frown, the very armour stir? no. words, sobs, and cries are but air, and air is so shut in and shut out throughout the house in town that sounds need be uttered trumpet-tongued indeed by my lady in her chamber to carry any faint vibration to sir leicester's ears; and yet this cry is in the house, going upward from a wild figure on its knees. "o my child, my child! not dead in the first hours of her life, as my cruel sister told me, but sternly nurtured by her, after she had renounced me and my name! o my child, o my child!" chapter xxx esther's narrative richard had been gone away some time when a visitor came to pass a few days with us. it was an elderly lady. it was mrs. woodcourt, who, having come from wales to stay with mrs. bayham badger and having written to my guardian, "by her son allan's desire," to report that she had heard from him and that he was well "and sent his kind remembrances to all of us," had been invited by my guardian to make a visit to bleak house. she stayed with us nearly three weeks. she took very kindly to me and was extremely confidential, so much so that sometimes she almost made me uncomfortable. i had no right, i knew very well, to be uncomfortable because she confided in me, and i felt it was unreasonable; still, with all i could do, i could not quite help it. she was such a sharp little lady and used to sit with her hands folded in each other looking so very watchful while she talked to me that perhaps i found that rather irksome. or perhaps it was her being so upright and trim, though i don't think it was that, because i thought that quaintly pleasant. nor can it have been the general expression of her face, which was very sparkling and pretty for an old lady. i don't know what it was. or at least if i do now, i thought i did not then. or at least--but it don't matter. of a night when i was going upstairs to bed, she would invite me into her room, where she sat before the fire in a great chair; and, dear me, she would tell me about morgan ap-kerrig until i was quite low-spirited! sometimes she recited a few verses from crumlinwallinwer and the mewlinnwillinwodd (if those are the right names, which i dare say they are not), and would become quite fiery with the sentiments they expressed. though i never knew what they were (being in welsh), further than that they were highly eulogistic of the lineage of morgan ap-kerrig. "so, miss summerson," she would say to me with stately triumph, "this, you see, is the fortune inherited by my son. wherever my son goes, he can claim kindred with ap-kerrig. he may not have money, but he always has what is much better--family, my dear." i had my doubts of their caring so very much for morgan ap-kerrig in india and china, but of course i never expressed them. i used to say it was a great thing to be so highly connected. "it is, my dear, a great thing," mrs. woodcourt would reply. "it has its disadvantages; my son's choice of a wife, for instance, is limited by it, but the matrimonial choice of the royal family is limited in much the same manner." then she would pat me on the arm and smooth my dress, as much as to assure me that she had a good opinion of me, the distance between us notwithstanding. "poor mr. woodcourt, my dear," she would say, and always with some emotion, for with her lofty pedigree she had a very affectionate heart, "was descended from a great highland family, the maccoorts of maccoort. he served his king and country as an officer in the royal highlanders, and he died on the field. my son is one of the last representatives of two old families. with the blessing of heaven he will set them up again and unite them with another old family." it was in vain for me to try to change the subject, as i used to try, only for the sake of novelty or perhaps because--but i need not be so particular. mrs. woodcourt never would let me change it. "my dear," she said one night, "you have so much sense and you look at the world in a quiet manner so superior to your time of life that it is a comfort to me to talk to you about these family matters of mine. you don't know much of my son, my dear; but you know enough of him, i dare say, to recollect him?" "yes, ma'am. i recollect him." "yes, my dear. now, my dear, i think you are a judge of character, and i should like to have your opinion of him." "oh, mrs. woodcourt," said i, "that is so difficult!" "why is it so difficult, my dear?" she returned. "i don't see it myself." "to give an opinion--" "on so slight an acquaintance, my dear. that's true." i didn't mean that, because mr. woodcourt had been at our house a good deal altogether and had become quite intimate with my guardian. i said so, and added that he seemed to be very clever in his profession--we thought--and that his kindness and gentleness to miss flite were above all praise. "you do him justice!" said mrs. woodcourt, pressing my hand. "you define him exactly. allan is a dear fellow, and in his profession faultless. i say it, though i am his mother. still, i must confess he is not without faults, love." "none of us are," said i. "ah! but his really are faults that he might correct, and ought to correct," returned the sharp old lady, sharply shaking her head. "i am so much attached to you that i may confide in you, my dear, as a third party wholly disinterested, that he is fickleness itself." i said i should have thought it hardly possible that he could have been otherwise than constant to his profession and zealous in the pursuit of it, judging from the reputation he had earned. "you are right again, my dear," the old lady retorted, "but i don't refer to his profession, look you." "oh!" said i. "no," said she. "i refer, my dear, to his social conduct. he is always paying trivial attentions to young ladies, and always has been, ever since he was eighteen. now, my dear, he has never really cared for any one of them and has never meant in doing this to do any harm or to express anything but politeness and good nature. still, it's not right, you know; is it?" "no," said i, as she seemed to wait for me. "and it might lead to mistaken notions, you see, my dear." i supposed it might. "therefore, i have told him many times that he really should be more careful, both in justice to himself and in justice to others. and he has always said, 'mother, i will be; but you know me better than anybody else does, and you know i mean no harm--in short, mean nothing.' all of which is very true, my dear, but is no justification. however, as he is now gone so far away and for an indefinite time, and as he will have good opportunities and introductions, we may consider this past and gone. and you, my dear," said the old lady, who was now all nods and smiles, "regarding your dear self, my love?" "me, mrs. woodcourt?" "not to be always selfish, talking of my son, who has gone to seek his fortune and to find a wife--when do you mean to seek your fortune and to find a husband, miss summerson? hey, look you! now you blush!" i don't think i did blush--at all events, it was not important if i did--and i said my present fortune perfectly contented me and i had no wish to change it. "shall i tell you what i always think of you and the fortune yet to come for you, my love?" said mrs. woodcourt. "if you believe you are a good prophet," said i. "why, then, it is that you will marry some one very rich and very worthy, much older--five and twenty years, perhaps--than yourself. and you will be an excellent wife, and much beloved, and very happy." "that is a good fortune," said i. "but why is it to be mine?" "my dear," she returned, "there's suitability in it--you are so busy, and so neat, and so peculiarly situated altogether that there's suitability in it, and it will come to pass. and nobody, my love, will congratulate you more sincerely on such a marriage than i shall." it was curious that this should make me uncomfortable, but i think it did. i know it did. it made me for some part of that night uncomfortable. i was so ashamed of my folly that i did not like to confess it even to ada, and that made me more uncomfortable still. i would have given anything not to have been so much in the bright old lady's confidence if i could have possibly declined it. it gave me the most inconsistent opinions of her. at one time i thought she was a story-teller, and at another time that she was the pink of truth. now i suspected that she was very cunning, next moment i believed her honest welsh heart to be perfectly innocent and simple. and after all, what did it matter to me, and why did it matter to me? why could not i, going up to bed with my basket of keys, stop to sit down by her fire and accommodate myself for a little while to her, at least as well as to anybody else, and not trouble myself about the harmless things she said to me? impelled towards her, as i certainly was, for i was very anxious that she should like me and was very glad indeed that she did, why should i harp afterwards, with actual distress and pain, on every word she said and weigh it over and over again in twenty scales? why was it so worrying to me to have her in our house, and confidential to me every night, when i yet felt that it was better and safer somehow that she should be there than anywhere else? these were perplexities and contradictions that i could not account for. at least, if i could--but i shall come to all that by and by, and it is mere idleness to go on about it now. so when mrs. woodcourt went away, i was sorry to lose her but was relieved too. and then caddy jellyby came down, and caddy brought such a packet of domestic news that it gave us abundant occupation. first caddy declared (and would at first declare nothing else) that i was the best adviser that ever was known. this, my pet said, was no news at all; and this, i said, of course, was nonsense. then caddy told us that she was going to be married in a month and that if ada and i would be her bridesmaids, she was the happiest girl in the world. to be sure, this was news indeed; and i thought we never should have done talking about it, we had so much to say to caddy, and caddy had so much to say to us. it seemed that caddy's unfortunate papa had got over his bankruptcy--"gone through the gazette," was the expression caddy used, as if it were a tunnel--with the general clemency and commiseration of his creditors, and had got rid of his affairs in some blessed manner without succeeding in understanding them, and had given up everything he possessed (which was not worth much, i should think, to judge from the state of the furniture), and had satisfied every one concerned that he could do no more, poor man. so, he had been honourably dismissed to "the office" to begin the world again. what he did at the office, i never knew; caddy said he was a "custom-house and general agent," and the only thing i ever understood about that business was that when he wanted money more than usual he went to the docks to look for it, and hardly ever found it. as soon as her papa had tranquillized his mind by becoming this shorn lamb, and they had removed to a furnished lodging in hatton garden (where i found the children, when i afterwards went there, cutting the horse hair out of the seats of the chairs and choking themselves with it), caddy had brought about a meeting between him and old mr. turveydrop; and poor mr. jellyby, being very humble and meek, had deferred to mr. turveydrop's deportment so submissively that they had become excellent friends. by degrees, old mr. turveydrop, thus familiarized with the idea of his son's marriage, had worked up his parental feelings to the height of contemplating that event as being near at hand and had given his gracious consent to the young couple commencing housekeeping at the academy in newman street when they would. "and your papa, caddy. what did he say?" "oh! poor pa," said caddy, "only cried and said he hoped we might get on better than he and ma had got on. he didn't say so before prince, he only said so to me. and he said, 'my poor girl, you have not been very well taught how to make a home for your husband, but unless you mean with all your heart to strive to do it, you had better murder him than marry him--if you really love him.'" "and how did you reassure him, caddy?" "why, it was very distressing, you know, to see poor pa so low and hear him say such terrible things, and i couldn't help crying myself. but i told him that i did mean it with all my heart and that i hoped our house would be a place for him to come and find some comfort in of an evening and that i hoped and thought i could be a better daughter to him there than at home. then i mentioned peepy's coming to stay with me, and then pa began to cry again and said the children were indians." "indians, caddy?" "yes," said caddy, "wild indians. and pa said"--here she began to sob, poor girl, not at all like the happiest girl in the world--"that he was sensible the best thing that could happen to them was their being all tomahawked together." ada suggested that it was comfortable to know that mr. jellyby did not mean these destructive sentiments. "no, of course i know pa wouldn't like his family to be weltering in their blood," said caddy, "but he means that they are very unfortunate in being ma's children and that he is very unfortunate in being ma's husband; and i am sure that's true, though it seems unnatural to say so." i asked caddy if mrs. jellyby knew that her wedding-day was fixed. "oh! you know what ma is, esther," she returned. "it's impossible to say whether she knows it or not. she has been told it often enough; and when she is told it, she only gives me a placid look, as if i was i don't know what--a steeple in the distance," said caddy with a sudden idea; "and then she shakes her head and says 'oh, caddy, caddy, what a tease you are!' and goes on with the borrioboola letters." "and about your wardrobe, caddy?" said i. for she was under no restraint with us. "well, my dear esther," she returned, drying her eyes, "i must do the best i can and trust to my dear prince never to have an unkind remembrance of my coming so shabbily to him. if the question concerned an outfit for borrioboola, ma would know all about it and would be quite excited. being what it is, she neither knows nor cares." caddy was not at all deficient in natural affection for her mother, but mentioned this with tears as an undeniable fact, which i am afraid it was. we were sorry for the poor dear girl and found so much to admire in the good disposition which had survived under such discouragement that we both at once (i mean ada and i) proposed a little scheme that made her perfectly joyful. this was her staying with us for three weeks, my staying with her for one, and our all three contriving and cutting out, and repairing, and sewing, and saving, and doing the very best we could think of to make the most of her stock. my guardian being as pleased with the idea as caddy was, we took her home next day to arrange the matter and brought her out again in triumph with her boxes and all the purchases that could be squeezed out of a ten-pound note, which mr. jellyby had found in the docks i suppose, but which he at all events gave her. what my guardian would not have given her if we had encouraged him, it would be difficult to say, but we thought it right to compound for no more than her wedding-dress and bonnet. he agreed to this compromise, and if caddy had ever been happy in her life, she was happy when we sat down to work. she was clumsy enough with her needle, poor girl, and pricked her fingers as much as she had been used to ink them. she could not help reddening a little now and then, partly with the smart and partly with vexation at being able to do no better, but she soon got over that and began to improve rapidly. so day after day she, and my darling, and my little maid charley, and a milliner out of the town, and i, sat hard at work, as pleasantly as possible. over and above this, caddy was very anxious "to learn housekeeping," as she said. now, mercy upon us! the idea of her learning housekeeping of a person of my vast experience was such a joke that i laughed, and coloured up, and fell into a comical confusion when she proposed it. however, i said, "caddy, i am sure you are very welcome to learn anything that you can learn of me, my dear," and i showed her all my books and methods and all my fidgety ways. you would have supposed that i was showing her some wonderful inventions, by her study of them; and if you had seen her, whenever i jingled my housekeeping keys, get up and attend me, certainly you might have thought that there never was a greater imposter than i with a blinder follower than caddy jellyby. so what with working and housekeeping, and lessons to charley, and backgammon in the evening with my guardian, and duets with ada, the three weeks slipped fast away. then i went home with caddy to see what could be done there, and ada and charley remained behind to take care of my guardian. when i say i went home with caddy, i mean to the furnished lodging in hatton garden. we went to newman street two or three times, where preparations were in progress too--a good many, i observed, for enhancing the comforts of old mr. turveydrop, and a few for putting the newly married couple away cheaply at the top of the house--but our great point was to make the furnished lodging decent for the wedding-breakfast and to imbue mrs. jellyby beforehand with some faint sense of the occasion. the latter was the more difficult thing of the two because mrs. jellyby and an unwholesome boy occupied the front sitting-room (the back one was a mere closet), and it was littered down with waste-paper and borrioboolan documents, as an untidy stable might be littered with straw. mrs. jellyby sat there all day drinking strong coffee, dictating, and holding borrioboolan interviews by appointment. the unwholesome boy, who seemed to me to be going into a decline, took his meals out of the house. when mr. jellyby came home, he usually groaned and went down into the kitchen. there he got something to eat if the servant would give him anything, and then, feeling that he was in the way, went out and walked about hatton garden in the wet. the poor children scrambled up and tumbled down the house as they had always been accustomed to do. the production of these devoted little sacrifices in any presentable condition being quite out of the question at a week's notice, i proposed to caddy that we should make them as happy as we could on her marriage morning in the attic where they all slept, and should confine our greatest efforts to her mama and her mama's room, and a clean breakfast. in truth mrs. jellyby required a good deal of attention, the lattice-work up her back having widened considerably since i first knew her and her hair looking like the mane of a dustman's horse. thinking that the display of caddy's wardrobe would be the best means of approaching the subject, i invited mrs. jellyby to come and look at it spread out on caddy's bed in the evening after the unwholesome boy was gone. "my dear miss summerson," said she, rising from her desk with her usual sweetness of temper, "these are really ridiculous preparations, though your assisting them is a proof of your kindness. there is something so inexpressibly absurd to me in the idea of caddy being married! oh, caddy, you silly, silly, silly puss!" she came upstairs with us notwithstanding and looked at the clothes in her customary far-off manner. they suggested one distinct idea to her, for she said with her placid smile, and shaking her head, "my good miss summerson, at half the cost, this weak child might have been equipped for africa!" on our going downstairs again, mrs. jellyby asked me whether this troublesome business was really to take place next wednesday. and on my replying yes, she said, "will my room be required, my dear miss summerson? for it's quite impossible that i can put my papers away." i took the liberty of saying that the room would certainly be wanted and that i thought we must put the papers away somewhere. "well, my dear miss summerson," said mrs. jellyby, "you know best, i dare say. but by obliging me to employ a boy, caddy has embarrassed me to that extent, overwhelmed as i am with public business, that i don't know which way to turn. we have a ramification meeting, too, on wednesday afternoon, and the inconvenience is very serious." "it is not likely to occur again," said i, smiling. "caddy will be married but once, probably." "that's true," mrs. jellyby replied; "that's true, my dear. i suppose we must make the best of it!" the next question was how mrs. jellyby should be dressed on the occasion. i thought it very curious to see her looking on serenely from her writing-table while caddy and i discussed it, occasionally shaking her head at us with a half-reproachful smile like a superior spirit who could just bear with our trifling. the state in which her dresses were, and the extraordinary confusion in which she kept them, added not a little to our difficulty; but at length we devised something not very unlike what a common-place mother might wear on such an occasion. the abstracted manner in which mrs. jellyby would deliver herself up to having this attire tried on by the dressmaker, and the sweetness with which she would then observe to me how sorry she was that i had not turned my thoughts to africa, were consistent with the rest of her behaviour. the lodging was rather confined as to space, but i fancied that if mrs. jellyby's household had been the only lodgers in saint paul's or saint peter's, the sole advantage they would have found in the size of the building would have been its affording a great deal of room to be dirty in. i believe that nothing belonging to the family which it had been possible to break was unbroken at the time of those preparations for caddy's marriage, that nothing which it had been possible to spoil in any way was unspoilt, and that no domestic object which was capable of collecting dirt, from a dear child's knee to the door-plate, was without as much dirt as could well accumulate upon it. poor mr. jellyby, who very seldom spoke and almost always sat when he was at home with his head against the wall, became interested when he saw that caddy and i were attempting to establish some order among all this waste and ruin and took off his coat to help. but such wonderful things came tumbling out of the closets when they were opened--bits of mouldy pie, sour bottles, mrs. jellyby's caps, letters, tea, forks, odd boots and shoes of children, firewood, wafers, saucepan-lids, damp sugar in odds and ends of paper bags, footstools, blacklead brushes, bread, mrs. jellyby's bonnets, books with butter sticking to the binding, guttered candle ends put out by being turned upside down in broken candlesticks, nutshells, heads and tails of shrimps, dinner-mats, gloves, coffee-grounds, umbrellas--that he looked frightened, and left off again. but he came regularly every evening and sat without his coat, with his head against the wall, as though he would have helped us if he had known how. "poor pa!" said caddy to me on the night before the great day, when we really had got things a little to rights. "it seems unkind to leave him, esther. but what could i do if i stayed! since i first knew you, i have tidied and tidied over and over again, but it's useless. ma and africa, together, upset the whole house directly. we never have a servant who don't drink. ma's ruinous to everything." mr. jellyby could not hear what she said, but he seemed very low indeed and shed tears, i thought. "my heart aches for him; that it does!" sobbed caddy. "i can't help thinking to-night, esther, how dearly i hope to be happy with prince, and how dearly pa hoped, i dare say, to be happy with ma. what a disappointed life!" "my dear caddy!" said mr. jellyby, looking slowly round from the wail. it was the first time, i think, i ever heard him say three words together. "yes, pa!" cried caddy, going to him and embracing him affectionately. "my dear caddy," said mr. jellyby. "never have--" "not prince, pa?" faltered caddy. "not have prince?" "yes, my dear," said mr. jellyby. "have him, certainly. but, never have--" i mentioned in my account of our first visit in thavies inn that richard described mr. jellyby as frequently opening his mouth after dinner without saying anything. it was a habit of his. he opened his mouth now a great many times and shook his head in a melancholy manner. "what do you wish me not to have? don't have what, dear pa?" asked caddy, coaxing him, with her arms round his neck. "never have a mission, my dear child." mr. jellyby groaned and laid his head against the wall again, and this was the only time i ever heard him make any approach to expressing his sentiments on the borrioboolan question. i suppose he had been more talkative and lively once, but he seemed to have been completely exhausted long before i knew him. i thought mrs. jellyby never would have left off serenely looking over her papers and drinking coffee that night. it was twelve o'clock before we could obtain possession of the room, and the clearance it required then was so discouraging that caddy, who was almost tired out, sat down in the middle of the dust and cried. but she soon cheered up, and we did wonders with it before we went to bed. in the morning it looked, by the aid of a few flowers and a quantity of soap and water and a little arrangement, quite gay. the plain breakfast made a cheerful show, and caddy was perfectly charming. but when my darling came, i thought--and i think now--that i never had seen such a dear face as my beautiful pet's. we made a little feast for the children upstairs, and we put peepy at the head of the table, and we showed them caddy in her bridal dress, and they clapped their hands and hurrahed, and caddy cried to think that she was going away from them and hugged them over and over again until we brought prince up to fetch her away--when, i am sorry to say, peepy bit him. then there was old mr. turveydrop downstairs, in a state of deportment not to be expressed, benignly blessing caddy and giving my guardian to understand that his son's happiness was his own parental work and that he sacrificed personal considerations to ensure it. "my dear sir," said mr. turveydrop, "these young people will live with me; my house is large enough for their accommodation, and they shall not want the shelter of my roof. i could have wished--you will understand the allusion, mr. jarndyce, for you remember my illustrious patron the prince regent--i could have wished that my son had married into a family where there was more deportment, but the will of heaven be done!" mr. and mrs. pardiggle were of the party--mr. pardiggle, an obstinate-looking man with a large waistcoat and stubbly hair, who was always talking in a loud bass voice about his mite, or mrs. pardiggle's mite, or their five boys' mites. mr. quale, with his hair brushed back as usual and his knobs of temples shining very much, was also there, not in the character of a disappointed lover, but as the accepted of a young--at least, an unmarried--lady, a miss wisk, who was also there. miss wisk's mission, my guardian said, was to show the world that woman's mission was man's mission and that the only genuine mission of both man and woman was to be always moving declaratory resolutions about things in general at public meetings. the guests were few, but were, as one might expect at mrs. jellyby's, all devoted to public objects only. besides those i have mentioned, there was an extremely dirty lady with her bonnet all awry and the ticketed price of her dress still sticking on it, whose neglected home, caddy told me, was like a filthy wilderness, but whose church was like a fancy fair. a very contentious gentleman, who said it was his mission to be everybody's brother but who appeared to be on terms of coolness with the whole of his large family, completed the party. a party, having less in common with such an occasion, could hardly have been got together by any ingenuity. such a mean mission as the domestic mission was the very last thing to be endured among them; indeed, miss wisk informed us, with great indignation, before we sat down to breakfast, that the idea of woman's mission lying chiefly in the narrow sphere of home was an outrageous slander on the part of her tyrant, man. one other singularity was that nobody with a mission--except mr. quale, whose mission, as i think i have formerly said, was to be in ecstasies with everybody's mission--cared at all for anybody's mission. mrs. pardiggle being as clear that the only one infallible course was her course of pouncing upon the poor and applying benevolence to them like a strait-waistcoat; as miss wisk was that the only practical thing for the world was the emancipation of woman from the thraldom of her tyrant, man. mrs. jellyby, all the while, sat smiling at the limited vision that could see anything but borrioboola-gha. but i am anticipating now the purport of our conversation on the ride home instead of first marrying caddy. we all went to church, and mr. jellyby gave her away. of the air with which old mr. turveydrop, with his hat under his left arm (the inside presented at the clergyman like a cannon) and his eyes creasing themselves up into his wig, stood stiff and high-shouldered behind us bridesmaids during the ceremony, and afterwards saluted us, i could never say enough to do it justice. miss wisk, whom i cannot report as prepossessing in appearance, and whose manner was grim, listened to the proceedings, as part of woman's wrongs, with a disdainful face. mrs. jellyby, with her calm smile and her bright eyes, looked the least concerned of all the company. we duly came back to breakfast, and mrs. jellyby sat at the head of the table and mr. jellyby at the foot. caddy had previously stolen upstairs to hug the children again and tell them that her name was turveydrop. but this piece of information, instead of being an agreeable surprise to peepy, threw him on his back in such transports of kicking grief that i could do nothing on being sent for but accede to the proposal that he should be admitted to the breakfast table. so he came down and sat in my lap; and mrs. jellyby, after saying, in reference to the state of his pinafore, "oh, you naughty peepy, what a shocking little pig you are!" was not at all discomposed. he was very good except that he brought down noah with him (out of an ark i had given him before we went to church) and would dip him head first into the wine-glasses and then put him in his mouth. my guardian, with his sweet temper and his quick perception and his amiable face, made something agreeable even out of the ungenial company. none of them seemed able to talk about anything but his, or her, own one subject, and none of them seemed able to talk about even that as part of a world in which there was anything else; but my guardian turned it all to the merry encouragement of caddy and the honour of the occasion, and brought us through the breakfast nobly. what we should have done without him, i am afraid to think, for all the company despising the bride and bridegroom and old mr. turveydrop--and old mr. thurveydrop, in virtue of his deportment, considering himself vastly superior to all the company--it was a very unpromising case. at last the time came when poor caddy was to go and when all her property was packed on the hired coach and pair that was to take her and her husband to gravesend. it affected us to see caddy clinging, then, to her deplorable home and hanging on her mother's neck with the greatest tenderness. "i am very sorry i couldn't go on writing from dictation, ma," sobbed caddy. "i hope you forgive me now." "oh, caddy, caddy!" said mrs. jellyby. "i have told you over and over again that i have engaged a boy, and there's an end of it." "you are sure you are not the least angry with me, ma? say you are sure before i go away, ma?" "you foolish caddy," returned mrs. jellyby, "do i look angry, or have i inclination to be angry, or time to be angry? how can you?" "take a little care of pa while i am gone, mama!" mrs. jellyby positively laughed at the fancy. "you romantic child," said she, lightly patting caddy's back. "go along. i am excellent friends with you. now, good-bye, caddy, and be very happy!" then caddy hung upon her father and nursed his cheek against hers as if he were some poor dull child in pain. all this took place in the hall. her father released her, took out his pocket handkerchief, and sat down on the stairs with his head against the wall. i hope he found some consolation in walls. i almost think he did. and then prince took her arm in his and turned with great emotion and respect to his father, whose deportment at that moment was overwhelming. "thank you over and over again, father!" said prince, kissing his hand. "i am very grateful for all your kindness and consideration regarding our marriage, and so, i can assure you, is caddy." "very," sobbed caddy. "ve-ry!" "my dear son," said mr. turveydrop, "and dear daughter, i have done my duty. if the spirit of a sainted wooman hovers above us and looks down on the occasion, that, and your constant affection, will be my recompense. you will not fail in your duty, my son and daughter, i believe?" "dear father, never!" cried prince. "never, never, dear mr. turveydrop!" said caddy. "this," returned mr. turveydrop, "is as it should be. my children, my home is yours, my heart is yours, my all is yours. i will never leave you; nothing but death shall part us. my dear son, you contemplate an absence of a week, i think?" "a week, dear father. we shall return home this day week." "my dear child," said mr. turveydrop, "let me, even under the present exceptional circumstances, recommend strict punctuality. it is highly important to keep the connexion together; and schools, if at all neglected, are apt to take offence." "this day week, father, we shall be sure to be home to dinner." "good!" said mr. turveydrop. "you will find fires, my dear caroline, in your own room, and dinner prepared in my apartment. yes, yes, prince!" anticipating some self-denying objection on his son's part with a great air. "you and our caroline will be strange in the upper part of the premises and will, therefore, dine that day in my apartment. now, bless ye!" they drove away, and whether i wondered most at mrs. jellyby or at mr. turveydrop, i did not know. ada and my guardian were in the same condition when we came to talk it over. but before we drove away too, i received a most unexpected and eloquent compliment from mr. jellyby. he came up to me in the hall, took both my hands, pressed them earnestly, and opened his mouth twice. i was so sure of his meaning that i said, quite flurried, "you are very welcome, sir. pray don't mention it!" "i hope this marriage is for the best, guardian," said i when we three were on our road home. "i hope it is, little woman. patience. we shall see." "is the wind in the east to-day?" i ventured to ask him. he laughed heartily and answered, "no." "but it must have been this morning, i think," said i. he answered "no" again, and this time my dear girl confidently answered "no" too and shook the lovely head which, with its blooming flowers against the golden hair, was like the very spring. "much you know of east winds, my ugly darling," said i, kissing her in my admiration--i couldn't help it. well! it was only their love for me, i know very well, and it is a long time ago. i must write it even if i rub it out again, because it gives me so much pleasure. they said there could be no east wind where somebody was; they said that wherever dame durden went, there was sunshine and summer air. chapter xxxi nurse and patient i had not been at home again many days when one evening i went upstairs into my own room to take a peep over charley's shoulder and see how she was getting on with her copy-book. writing was a trying business to charley, who seemed to have no natural power over a pen, but in whose hand every pen appeared to become perversely animated, and to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, and splash, and sidle into corners like a saddle-donkey. it was very odd to see what old letters charley's young hand had made, they so wrinkled, and shrivelled, and tottering, it so plump and round. yet charley was uncommonly expert at other things and had as nimble little fingers as i ever watched. "well, charley," said i, looking over a copy of the letter o in which it was represented as square, triangular, pear-shaped, and collapsed in all kinds of ways, "we are improving. if we only get to make it round, we shall be perfect, charley." then i made one, and charley made one, and the pen wouldn't join charley's neatly, but twisted it up into a knot. "never mind, charley. we shall do it in time." charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished, opened and shut her cramped little hand, looked gravely at the page, half in pride and half in doubt, and got up, and dropped me a curtsy. "thank you, miss. if you please, miss, did you know a poor person of the name of jenny?" "a brickmaker's wife, charley? yes." "she came and spoke to me when i was out a little while ago, and said you knew her, miss. she asked me if i wasn't the young lady's little maid--meaning you for the young lady, miss--and i said yes, miss." "i thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, charley." "so she had, miss, but she's come back again to where she used to live--she and liz. did you know another poor person of the name of liz, miss?" "i think i do, charley, though not by name." "that's what she said!" returned charley. "they have both come back, miss, and have been tramping high and low." "tramping high and low, have they, charley?" "yes, miss." if charley could only have made the letters in her copy as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, they would have been excellent. "and this poor person came about the house three or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, miss--all she wanted, she said--but you were away. that was when she saw me. she saw me a-going about, miss," said charley with a short laugh of the greatest delight and pride, "and she thought i looked like your maid!" "did she though, really, charley?" "yes, miss!" said charley. "really and truly." and charley, with another short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes very round again and looked as serious as became my maid. i was never tired of seeing charley in the full enjoyment of that great dignity, standing before me with her youthful face and figure, and her steady manner, and her childish exultation breaking through it now and then in the pleasantest way. "and where did you see her, charley?" said i. my little maid's countenance fell as she replied, "by the doctor's shop, miss." for charley wore her black frock yet. i asked if the brickmaker's wife were ill, but charley said no. it was some one else. some one in her cottage who had tramped down to saint albans and was tramping he didn't know where. a poor boy, charley said. no father, no mother, no any one. "like as tom might have been, miss, if emma and me had died after father," said charley, her round eyes filling with tears. "and she was getting medicine for him, charley?" "she said, miss," returned charley, "how that he had once done as much for her." my little maid's face was so eager and her quiet hands were folded so closely in one another as she stood looking at me that i had no great difficulty in reading her thoughts. "well, charley," said i, "it appears to me that you and i can do no better than go round to jenny's and see what's the matter." the alacrity with which charley brought my bonnet and veil, and having dressed me, quaintly pinned herself into her warm shawl and made herself look like a little old woman, sufficiently expressed her readiness. so charley and i, without saying anything to any one, went out. it was a cold, wild night, and the trees shuddered in the wind. the rain had been thick and heavy all day, and with little intermission for many days. none was falling just then, however. the sky had partly cleared, but was very gloomy--even above us, where a few stars were shining. in the north and north-west, where the sun had set three hours before, there was a pale dead light both beautiful and awful; and into it long sullen lines of cloud waved up like a sea stricken immovable as it was heaving. towards london a lurid glare overhung the whole dark waste, and the contrast between these two lights, and the fancy which the redder light engendered of an unearthly fire, gleaming on all the unseen buildings of the city and on all the faces of its many thousands of wondering inhabitants, was as solemn as might be. i had no thought that night--none, i am quite sure--of what was soon to happen to me. but i have always remembered since that when we had stopped at the garden-gate to look up at the sky, and when we went upon our way, i had for a moment an undefinable impression of myself as being something different from what i then was. i know it was then and there that i had it. i have ever since connected the feeling with that spot and time and with everything associated with that spot and time, to the distant voices in the town, the barking of a dog, and the sound of wheels coming down the miry hill. it was saturday night, and most of the people belonging to the place where we were going were drinking elsewhere. we found it quieter than i had previously seen it, though quite as miserable. the kilns were burning, and a stifling vapour set towards us with a pale-blue glare. we came to the cottage, where there was a feeble candle in the patched window. we tapped at the door and went in. the mother of the little child who had died was sitting in a chair on one side of the poor fire by the bed; and opposite to her, a wretched boy, supported by the chimney-piece, was cowering on the floor. he held under his arm, like a little bundle, a fragment of a fur cap; and as he tried to warm himself, he shook until the crazy door and window shook. the place was closer than before and had an unhealthy and a very peculiar smell. i had not lifted my veil when i first spoke to the woman, which was at the moment of our going in. the boy staggered up instantly and stared at me with a remarkable expression of surprise and terror. his action was so quick and my being the cause of it was so evident that i stood still instead of advancing nearer. "i won't go no more to the berryin ground," muttered the boy; "i ain't a-going there, so i tell you!" i lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. she said to me in a low voice, "don't mind him, ma'am. he'll soon come back to his head," and said to him, "jo, jo, what's the matter?" "i know wot she's come for!" cried the boy. "who?" "the lady there. she's come to get me to go along with her to the berryin ground. i won't go to the berryin ground. i don't like the name on it. she might go a-berryin me." his shivering came on again, and as he leaned against the wall, he shook the hovel. "he has been talking off and on about such like all day, ma'am," said jenny softly. "why, how you stare! this is my lady, jo." "is it?" returned the boy doubtfully, and surveying me with his arm held out above his burning eyes. "she looks to me the t'other one. it ain't the bonnet, nor yet it ain't the gownd, but she looks to me the t'other one." my little charley, with her premature experience of illness and trouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl and now went quietly up to him with a chair and sat him down in it like an old sick nurse. except that no such attendant could have shown him charley's youthful face, which seemed to engage his confidence. "i say!" said the boy. "you tell me. ain't the lady the t'other lady?" charley shook her head as she methodically drew his rags about him and made him as warm as she could. "oh!" the boy muttered. "then i s'pose she ain't." "i came to see if i could do you any good," said i. "what is the matter with you?" "i'm a-being froze," returned the boy hoarsely, with his haggard gaze wandering about me, "and then burnt up, and then froze, and then burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. and my head's all sleepy, and all a-going mad-like--and i'm so dry--and my bones isn't half so much bones as pain. "when did he come here?" i asked the woman. "this morning, ma'am, i found him at the corner of the town. i had known him up in london yonder. hadn't i, jo?" "tom-all-alone's," the boy replied. whenever he fixed his attention or his eyes, it was only for a very little while. he soon began to droop his head again, and roll it heavily, and speak as if he were half awake. "when did he come from london?" i asked. "i come from london yes'day," said the boy himself, now flushed and hot. "i'm a-going somewheres." "where is he going?" i asked. "somewheres," repeated the boy in a louder tone. "i have been moved on, and moved on, more nor ever i was afore, since the t'other one give me the sov'ring. mrs. snagsby, she's always a-watching, and a-driving of me--what have i done to her?--and they're all a-watching and a-driving of me. every one of 'em's doing of it, from the time when i don't get up, to the time when i don't go to bed. and i'm a-going somewheres. that's where i'm a-going. she told me, down in tom-all-alone's, as she came from stolbuns, and so i took the stolbuns road. it's as good as another." he always concluded by addressing charley. "what is to be done with him?" said i, taking the woman aside. "he could not travel in this state even if he had a purpose and knew where he was going!" "i know no more, ma'am, than the dead," she replied, glancing compassionately at him. "perhaps the dead know better, if they could only tell us. i've kept him here all day for pity's sake, and i've given him broth and physic, and liz has gone to try if any one will take him in (here's my pretty in the bed--her child, but i call it mine); but i can't keep him long, for if my husband was to come home and find him here, he'd be rough in putting him out and might do him a hurt. hark! here comes liz back!" the other woman came hurriedly in as she spoke, and the boy got up with a half-obscured sense that he was expected to be going. when the little child awoke, and when and how charley got at it, took it out of bed, and began to walk about hushing it, i don't know. there she was, doing all this in a quiet motherly manner as if she were living in mrs. blinder's attic with tom and emma again. the friend had been here and there, and had been played about from hand to hand, and had come back as she went. at first it was too early for the boy to be received into the proper refuge, and at last it was too late. one official sent her to another, and the other sent her back again to the first, and so backward and forward, until it appeared to me as if both must have been appointed for their skill in evading their duties instead of performing them. and now, after all, she said, breathing quickly, for she had been running and was frightened too, "jenny, your master's on the road home, and mine's not far behind, and the lord help the boy, for we can do no more for him!" they put a few halfpence together and hurried them into his hand, and so, in an oblivious, half-thankful, half-insensible way, he shuffled out of the house. "give me the child, my dear," said its mother to charley, "and thank you kindly too! jenny, woman dear, good night! young lady, if my master don't fall out with me, i'll look down by the kiln by and by, where the boy will be most like, and again in the morning!" she hurried off, and presently we passed her hushing and singing to her child at her own door and looking anxiously along the road for her drunken husband. i was afraid of staying then to speak to either woman, lest i should bring her into trouble. but i said to charley that we must not leave the boy to die. charley, who knew what to do much better than i did, and whose quickness equalled her presence of mind, glided on before me, and presently we came up with jo, just short of the brick-kiln. i think he must have begun his journey with some small bundle under his arm and must have had it stolen or lost it. for he still carried his wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundle, though he went bare-headed through the rain, which now fell fast. he stopped when we called to him and again showed a dread of me when i came up, standing with his lustrous eyes fixed upon me, and even arrested in his shivering fit. i asked him to come with us, and we would take care that he had some shelter for the night. "i don't want no shelter," he said; "i can lay amongst the warm bricks." "but don't you know that people die there?" replied charley. "they dies everywheres," said the boy. "they dies in their lodgings--she knows where; i showed her--and they dies down in tom-all-alone's in heaps. they dies more than they lives, according to what i see." then he hoarsely whispered charley, "if she ain't the t'other one, she ain't the forrenner. is there three of 'em then?" charley looked at me a little frightened. i felt half frightened at myself when the boy glared on me so. but he turned and followed when i beckoned to him, and finding that he acknowledged that influence in me, i led the way straight home. it was not far, only at the summit of the hill. we passed but one man. i doubted if we should have got home without assistance, the boy's steps were so uncertain and tremulous. he made no complaint, however, and was strangely unconcerned about himself, if i may say so strange a thing. leaving him in the hall for a moment, shrunk into the corner of the window-seat and staring with an indifference that scarcely could be called wonder at the comfort and brightness about him, i went into the drawing-room to speak to my guardian. there i found mr. skimpole, who had come down by the coach, as he frequently did without notice, and never bringing any clothes with him, but always borrowing everything he wanted. they came out with me directly to look at the boy. the servants had gathered in the hall too, and he shivered in the window-seat with charley standing by him, like some wounded animal that had been found in a ditch. "this is a sorrowful case," said my guardian after asking him a question or two and touching him and examining his eyes. "what do you say, harold?" "you had better turn him out," said mr. skimpole. "what do you mean?" inquired my guardian, almost sternly. "my dear jarndyce," said mr. skimpole, "you know what i am: i am a child. be cross to me if i deserve it. but i have a constitutional objection to this sort of thing. i always had, when i was a medical man. he's not safe, you know. there's a very bad sort of fever about him." mr. skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing-room again and said this in his airy way, seated on the music-stool as we stood by. "you'll say it's childish," observed mr. skimpole, looking gaily at us. "well, i dare say it may be; but i am a child, and i never pretend to be anything else. if you put him out in the road, you only put him where he was before. he will be no worse off than he was, you know. even make him better off, if you like. give him sixpence, or five shillings, or five pound ten--you are arithmeticians, and i am not--and get rid of him!" "and what is he to do then?" asked my guardian. "upon my life," said mr. skimpole, shrugging his shoulders with his engaging smile, "i have not the least idea what he is to do then. but i have no doubt he'll do it." "now, is it not a horrible reflection," said my guardian, to whom i had hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two women, "is it not a horrible reflection," walking up and down and rumpling his hair, "that if this wretched creature were a convicted prisoner, his hospital would be wide open to him, and he would be as well taken care of as any sick boy in the kingdom?" "my dear jarndyce," returned mr. skimpole, "you'll pardon the simplicity of the question, coming as it does from a creature who is perfectly simple in worldly matters, but why isn't he a prisoner then?" my guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical mixture of amusement and indignation in his face. "our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, i should imagine," said mr. skimpole, unabashed and candid. "it seems to me that it would be wiser, as well as in a certain kind of way more respectable, if he showed some misdirected energy that got him into prison. there would be more of an adventurous spirit in it, and consequently more of a certain sort of poetry." "i believe," returned my guardian, resuming his uneasy walk, "that there is not such another child on earth as yourself." "do you really?" said mr. skimpole. "i dare say! but i confess i don't see why our young friend, in his degree, should not seek to invest himself with such poetry as is open to him. he is no doubt born with an appetite--probably, when he is in a safer state of health, he has an excellent appetite. very well. at our young friend's natural dinner hour, most likely about noon, our young friend says in effect to society, 'i am hungry; will you have the goodness to produce your spoon and feed me?' society, which has taken upon itself the general arrangement of the whole system of spoons and professes to have a spoon for our young friend, does not produce that spoon; and our young friend, therefore, says 'you really must excuse me if i seize it.' now, this appears to me a case of misdirected energy, which has a certain amount of reason in it and a certain amount of romance; and i don't know but what i should be more interested in our young friend, as an illustration of such a case, than merely as a poor vagabond--which any one can be." "in the meantime," i ventured to observe, "he is getting worse." "in the meantime," said mr. skimpole cheerfully, "as miss summerson, with her practical good sense, observes, he is getting worse. therefore i recommend your turning him out before he gets still worse." the amiable face with which he said it, i think i shall never forget. "of course, little woman," observed my guardian, turning to me, "i can ensure his admission into the proper place by merely going there to enforce it, though it's a bad state of things when, in his condition, that is necessary. but it's growing late, and is a very bad night, and the boy is worn out already. there is a bed in the wholesome loft-room by the stable; we had better keep him there till morning, when he can be wrapped up and removed. we'll do that." "oh!" said mr. skimpole, with his hands upon the keys of the piano as we moved away. "are you going back to our young friend?" "yes," said my guardian. "how i envy you your constitution, jarndyce!" returned mr. skimpole with playful admiration. "you don't mind these things; neither does miss summerson. you are ready at all times to go anywhere, and do anything. such is will! i have no will at all--and no won't--simply can't." "you can't recommend anything for the boy, i suppose?" said my guardian, looking back over his shoulder half angrily; only half angrily, for he never seemed to consider mr. skimpole an accountable being. "my dear jarndyce, i observed a bottle of cooling medicine in his pocket, and it's impossible for him to do better than take it. you can tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where he sleeps and to keep it moderately cool and him moderately warm. but it is mere impertinence in me to offer any recommendation. miss summerson has such a knowledge of detail and such a capacity for the administration of detail that she knows all about it." we went back into the hall and explained to jo what we proposed to do, which charley explained to him again and which he received with the languid unconcern i had already noticed, wearily looking on at what was done as if it were for somebody else. the servants compassionating his miserable state and being very anxious to help, we soon got the loft-room ready; and some of the men about the house carried him across the wet yard, well wrapped up. it was pleasant to observe how kind they were to him and how there appeared to be a general impression among them that frequently calling him "old chap" was likely to revive his spirits. charley directed the operations and went to and fro between the loft-room and the house with such little stimulants and comforts as we thought it safe to give him. my guardian himself saw him before he was left for the night and reported to me when he returned to the growlery to write a letter on the boy's behalf, which a messenger was charged to deliver at day-light in the morning, that he seemed easier and inclined to sleep. they had fastened his door on the outside, he said, in case of his being delirious, but had so arranged that he could not make any noise without being heard. ada being in our room with a cold, mr. skimpole was left alone all this time and entertained himself by playing snatches of pathetic airs and sometimes singing to them (as we heard at a distance) with great expression and feeling. when we rejoined him in the drawing-room he said he would give us a little ballad which had come into his head "apropos of our young friend," and he sang one about a peasant boy, "thrown on the wide world, doomed to wander and roam, bereft of his parents, bereft of a home." quite exquisitely. it was a song that always made him cry, he told us. he was extremely gay all the rest of the evening, for he absolutely chirped--those were his delighted words--when he thought by what a happy talent for business he was surrounded. he gave us, in his glass of negus, "better health to our young friend!" and supposed and gaily pursued the case of his being reserved like whittington to become lord mayor of london. in that event, no doubt, he would establish the jarndyce institution and the summerson almshouses, and a little annual corporation pilgrimage to st. albans. he had no doubt, he said, that our young friend was an excellent boy in his way, but his way was not the harold skimpole way; what harold skimpole was, harold skimpole had found himself, to his considerable surprise, when he first made his own acquaintance; he had accepted himself with all his failings and had thought it sound philosophy to make the best of the bargain; and he hoped we would do the same. charley's last report was that the boy was quiet. i could see, from my window, the lantern they had left him burning quietly; and i went to bed very happy to think that he was sheltered. there was more movement and more talking than usual a little before daybreak, and it awoke me. as i was dressing, i looked out of my window and asked one of our men who had been among the active sympathizers last night whether there was anything wrong about the house. the lantern was still burning in the loft-window. "it's the boy, miss," said he. "is he worse?" i inquired. "gone, miss. "dead!" "dead, miss? no. gone clean off." at what time of the night he had gone, or how, or why, it seemed hopeless ever to divine. the door remaining as it had been left, and the lantern standing in the window, it could only be supposed that he had got out by a trap in the floor which communicated with an empty cart-house below. but he had shut it down again, if that were so; and it looked as if it had not been raised. nothing of any kind was missing. on this fact being clearly ascertained, we all yielded to the painful belief that delirium had come upon him in the night and that, allured by some imaginary object or pursued by some imaginary horror, he had strayed away in that worse than helpless state; all of us, that is to say, but mr. skimpole, who repeatedly suggested, in his usual easy light style, that it had occurred to our young friend that he was not a safe inmate, having a bad kind of fever upon him, and that he had with great natural politeness taken himself off. every possible inquiry was made, and every place was searched. the brick-kilns were examined, the cottages were visited, the two women were particularly questioned, but they knew nothing of him, and nobody could doubt that their wonder was genuine. the weather had for some time been too wet and the night itself had been too wet to admit of any tracing by footsteps. hedge and ditch, and wall, and rick and stack, were examined by our men for a long distance round, lest the boy should be lying in such a place insensible or dead; but nothing was seen to indicate that he had ever been near. from the time when he was left in the loft-room, he vanished. the search continued for five days. i do not mean that it ceased even then, but that my attention was then diverted into a current very memorable to me. as charley was at her writing again in my room in the evening, and as i sat opposite to her at work, i felt the table tremble. looking up, i saw my little maid shivering from head to foot. "charley," said i, "are you so cold?" "i think i am, miss," she replied. "i don't know what it is. i can't hold myself still. i felt so yesterday at about this same time, miss. don't be uneasy, i think i'm ill." i heard ada's voice outside, and i hurried to the door of communication between my room and our pretty sitting-room, and locked it. just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand was yet upon the key. ada called to me to let her in, but i said, "not now, my dearest. go away. there's nothing the matter; i will come to you presently." ah! it was a long, long time before my darling girl and i were companions again. charley fell ill. in twelve hours she was very ill. i moved her to my room, and laid her in my bed, and sat down quietly to nurse her. i told my guardian all about it, and why i felt it was necessary that i should seclude myself, and my reason for not seeing my darling above all. at first she came very often to the door, and called to me, and even reproached me with sobs and tears; but i wrote her a long letter saying that she made me anxious and unhappy and imploring her, as she loved me and wished my mind to be at peace, to come no nearer than the garden. after that she came beneath the window even oftener than she had come to the door, and if i had learnt to love her dear sweet voice before when we were hardly ever apart, how did i learn to love it then, when i stood behind the window-curtain listening and replying, but not so much as looking out! how did i learn to love it afterwards, when the harder time came! they put a bed for me in our sitting-room; and by keeping the door wide open, i turned the two rooms into one, now that ada had vacated that part of the house, and kept them always fresh and airy. there was not a servant in or about the house but was so good that they would all most gladly have come to me at any hour of the day or night without the least fear or unwillingness, but i thought it best to choose one worthy woman who was never to see ada and whom i could trust to come and go with all precaution. through her means i got out to take the air with my guardian when there was no fear of meeting ada, and wanted for nothing in the way of attendance, any more than in any other respect. and thus poor charley sickened and grew worse, and fell into heavy danger of death, and lay severely ill for many a long round of day and night. so patient she was, so uncomplaining, and inspired by such a gentle fortitude that very often as i sat by charley holding her head in my arms--repose would come to her, so, when it would come to her in no other attitude--i silently prayed to our father in heaven that i might not forget the lesson which this little sister taught me. i was very sorrowful to think that charley's pretty looks would change and be disfigured, even if she recovered--she was such a child with her dimpled face--but that thought was, for the greater part, lost in her greater peril. when she was at the worst, and her mind rambled again to the cares of her father's sick bed and the little children, she still knew me so far as that she would be quiet in my arms when she could lie quiet nowhere else, and murmur out the wanderings of her mind less restlessly. at those times i used to think, how should i ever tell the two remaining babies that the baby who had learned of her faithful heart to be a mother to them in their need was dead! there were other times when charley knew me well and talked to me, telling me that she sent her love to tom and emma and that she was sure tom would grow up to be a good man. at those times charley would speak to me of what she had read to her father as well as she could to comfort him, of that young man carried out to be buried who was the only son of his mother and she was a widow, of the ruler's daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her bed of death. and charley told me that when her father died she had kneeled down and prayed in her first sorrow that he likewise might be raised up and given back to his poor children, and that if she should never get better and should die too, she thought it likely that it might come into tom's mind to offer the same prayer for her. then would i show tom how these people of old days had been brought back to life on earth, only that we might know our hope to be restored to heaven! but of all the various times there were in charley's illness, there was not one when she lost the gentle qualities i have spoken of. and there were many, many when i thought in the night of the last high belief in the watching angel, and the last higher trust in god, on the part of her poor despised father. and charley did not die. she flutteringly and slowly turned the dangerous point, after long lingering there, and then began to mend. the hope that never had been given, from the first, of charley being in outward appearance charley any more soon began to be encouraged; and even that prospered, and i saw her growing into her old childish likeness again. it was a great morning when i could tell ada all this as she stood out in the garden; and it was a great evening when charley and i at last took tea together in the next room. but on that same evening, i felt that i was stricken cold. happily for both of us, it was not until charley was safe in bed again and placidly asleep that i began to think the contagion of her illness was upon me. i had been able easily to hide what i felt at tea-time, but i was past that already now, and i knew that i was rapidly following in charley's steps. i was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and to return my darling's cheerful blessing from the garden, and to talk with her as long as usual. but i was not free from an impression that i had been walking about the two rooms in the night, a little beside myself, though knowing where i was; and i felt confused at times--with a curious sense of fullness, as if i were becoming too large altogether. in the evening i was so much worse that i resolved to prepare charley, with which view i said, "you're getting quite strong, charley, are you not?' "oh, quite!" said charley. "strong enough to be told a secret, i think, charley?" "quite strong enough for that, miss!" cried charley. but charley's face fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the secret in my face; and she came out of the great chair, and fell upon my bosom, and said "oh, miss, it's my doing! it's my doing!" and a great deal more out of the fullness of her grateful heart. "now, charley," said i after letting her go on for a little while, "if i am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in you. and unless you are as quiet and composed for me as you always were for yourself, you can never fulfil it, charley." "if you'll let me cry a little longer, miss," said charley. "oh, my dear, my dear! if you'll only let me cry a little longer. oh, my dear!"--how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out as she clung to my neck, i never can remember without tears--"i'll be good." so i let charley cry a little longer, and it did us both good. "trust in me now, if you please, miss," said charley quietly. "i am listening to everything you say." "it's very little at present, charley. i shall tell your doctor to-night that i don't think i am well and that you are going to nurse me." for that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. "and in the morning, when you hear miss ada in the garden, if i should not be quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go, charley, and say i am asleep--that i have rather tired myself, and am asleep. at all times keep the room as i have kept it, charley, and let no one come." charley promised, and i lay down, for i was very heavy. i saw the doctor that night and asked the favour of him that i wished to ask relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet. i have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting into day, and of day melting into night again; but i was just able on the first morning to get to the window and speak to my darling. on the second morning i heard her dear voice--oh, how dear now!--outside; and i asked charley, with some difficulty (speech being painful to me), to go and say i was asleep. i heard her answer softly, "don't disturb her, charley, for the world!" "how does my own pride look, charley?" i inquired. "disappointed, miss," said charley, peeping through the curtain. "but i know she is very beautiful this morning." "she is indeed, miss," answered charley, peeping. "still looking up at the window." with her blue clear eyes, god bless them, always loveliest when raised like that! i called charley to me and gave her her last charge. "now, charley, when she knows i am ill, she will try to make her way into the room. keep her out, charley, if you love me truly, to the last! charley, if you let her in but once, only to look upon me for one moment as i lie here, i shall die." "i never will! i never will!" she promised me. "i believe it, my dear charley. and now come and sit beside me for a little while, and touch me with your hand. for i cannot see you, charley; i am blind." chapter xxxii the appointed time it is night in lincoln's inn--perplexed and troublous valley of the shadow of the law, where suitors generally find but little day--and fat candles are snuffed out in offices, and clerks have rattled down the crazy wooden stairs and dispersed. the bell that rings at nine o'clock has ceased its doleful clangour about nothing; the gates are shut; and the night-porter, a solemn warder with a mighty power of sleep, keeps guard in his lodge. from tiers of staircase windows clogged lamps like the eyes of equity, bleared argus with a fathomless pocket for every eye and an eye upon it, dimly blink at the stars. in dirty upper casements, here and there, hazy little patches of candlelight reveal where some wise draughtsman and conveyancer yet toils for the entanglement of real estate in meshes of sheep-skin, in the average ratio of about a dozen of sheep to an acre of land. over which bee-like industry these benefactors of their species linger yet, though office-hours be past, that they may give, for every day, some good account at last. in the neighbouring court, where the lord chancellor of the rag and bottle shop dwells, there is a general tendency towards beer and supper. mrs. piper and mrs. perkins, whose respective sons, engaged with a circle of acquaintance in the game of hide and seek, have been lying in ambush about the by-ways of chancery lane for some hours and scouring the plain of the same thoroughfare to the confusion of passengers--mrs. piper and mrs. perkins have but now exchanged congratulations on the children being abed, and they still linger on a door-step over a few parting words. mr. krook and his lodger, and the fact of mr. krook's being "continually in liquor," and the testamentary prospects of the young man are, as usual, the staple of their conversation. but they have something to say, likewise, of the harmonic meeting at the sol's arms, where the sound of the piano through the partly opened windows jingles out into the court, and where little swills, after keeping the lovers of harmony in a roar like a very yorick, may now be heard taking the gruff line in a concerted piece and sentimentally adjuring his friends and patrons to "listen, listen, listen, tew the wa-ter fall!" mrs. perkins and mrs. piper compare opinions on the subject of the young lady of professional celebrity who assists at the harmonic meetings and who has a space to herself in the manuscript announcement in the window, mrs. perkins possessing information that she has been married a year and a half, though announced as miss m. melvilleson, the noted siren, and that her baby is clandestinely conveyed to the sol's arms every night to receive its natural nourishment during the entertainments. "sooner than which, myself," says mrs. perkins, "i would get my living by selling lucifers." mrs. piper, as in duty bound, is of the same opinion, holding that a private station is better than public applause, and thanking heaven for her own (and, by implication, mrs. perkins') respectability. by this time the pot-boy of the sol's arms appearing with her supper-pint well frothed, mrs. piper accepts that tankard and retires indoors, first giving a fair good night to mrs. perkins, who has had her own pint in her hand ever since it was fetched from the same hostelry by young perkins before he was sent to bed. now there is a sound of putting up shop-shutters in the court and a smell as of the smoking of pipes; and shooting stars are seen in upper windows, further indicating retirement to rest. now, too, the policeman begins to push at doors; to try fastenings; to be suspicious of bundles; and to administer his beat, on the hypothesis that every one is either robbing or being robbed. it is a close night, though the damp cold is searching too, and there is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. it is a fine steaming night to turn the slaughter-houses, the unwholesome trades, the sewerage, bad water, and burial-grounds to account, and give the registrar of deaths some extra business. it may be something in the air--there is plenty in it--or it may be something in himself that is in fault; but mr. weevle, otherwise jobling, is very ill at ease. he comes and goes between his own room and the open street door twenty times an hour. he has been doing so ever since it fell dark. since the chancellor shut up his shop, which he did very early to-night, mr. weevle has been down and up, and down and up (with a cheap tight velvet skull-cap on his head, making his whiskers look out of all proportion), oftener than before. it is no phenomenon that mr. snagsby should be ill at ease too, for he always is so, more or less, under the oppressive influence of the secret that is upon him. impelled by the mystery of which he is a partaker and yet in which he is not a sharer, mr. snagsby haunts what seems to be its fountain-head--the rag and bottle shop in the court. it has an irresistible attraction for him. even now, coming round by the sol's arms with the intention of passing down the court, and out at the chancery lane end, and so terminating his unpremeditated after-supper stroll of ten minutes' long from his own door and back again, mr. snagsby approaches. "what, mr. weevle?" says the stationer, stopping to speak. "are you there?" "aye!" says weevle, "here i am, mr. snagsby." "airing yourself, as i am doing, before you go to bed?" the stationer inquires. "why, there's not much air to be got here; and what there is, is not very freshening," weevle answers, glancing up and down the court. "very true, sir. don't you observe," says mr. snagsby, pausing to sniff and taste the air a little, "don't you observe, mr. weevle, that you're--not to put too fine a point upon it--that you're rather greasy here, sir?" "why, i have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavour in the place to-night," mr. weevle rejoins. "i suppose it's chops at the sol's arms." "chops, do you think? oh! chops, eh?" mr. snagsby sniffs and tastes again. "well, sir, i suppose it is. but i should say their cook at the sol wanted a little looking after. she has been burning 'em, sir! and i don't think"--mr. snagsby sniffs and tastes again and then spits and wipes his mouth--"i don't think--not to put too fine a point upon it--that they were quite fresh when they were shown the gridiron." "that's very likely. it's a tainting sort of weather." "it is a tainting sort of weather," says mr. snagsby, "and i find it sinking to the spirits." "by george! i find it gives me the horrors," returns mr. weevle. "then, you see, you live in a lonesome way, and in a lonesome room, with a black circumstance hanging over it," says mr. snagsby, looking in past the other's shoulder along the dark passage and then falling back a step to look up at the house. "i couldn't live in that room alone, as you do, sir. i should get so fidgety and worried of an evening, sometimes, that i should be driven to come to the door and stand here sooner than sit there. but then it's very true that you didn't see, in your room, what i saw there. that makes a difference." "i know quite enough about it," returns tony. "it's not agreeable, is it?" pursues mr. snagsby, coughing his cough of mild persuasion behind his hand. "mr. krook ought to consider it in the rent. i hope he does, i am sure." "i hope he does," says tony. "but i doubt it." "you find the rent too high, do you, sir?" returns the stationer. "rents are high about here. i don't know how it is exactly, but the law seems to put things up in price. not," adds mr. snagsby with his apologetic cough, "that i mean to say a word against the profession i get my living by." mr. weevle again glances up and down the court and then looks at the stationer. mr. snagsby, blankly catching his eye, looks upward for a star or so and coughs a cough expressive of not exactly seeing his way out of this conversation. "it's a curious fact, sir," he observes, slowly rubbing his hands, "that he should have been--" "who's he?" interrupts mr. weevle. "the deceased, you know," says mr. snagsby, twitching his head and right eyebrow towards the staircase and tapping his acquaintance on the button. "ah, to be sure!" returns the other as if he were not over-fond of the subject. "i thought we had done with him." "i was only going to say it's a curious fact, sir, that he should have come and lived here, and been one of my writers, and then that you should come and live here, and be one of my writers too. which there is nothing derogatory, but far from it in the appellation," says mr. snagsby, breaking off with a mistrust that he may have unpolitely asserted a kind of proprietorship in mr. weevle, "because i have known writers that have gone into brewers' houses and done really very respectable indeed. eminently respectable, sir," adds mr. snagsby with a misgiving that he has not improved the matter. "it's a curious coincidence, as you say," answers weevle, once more glancing up and down the court. "seems a fate in it, don't there?" suggests the stationer. "there does." "just so," observes the stationer with his confirmatory cough. "quite a fate in it. quite a fate. well, mr. weevle, i am afraid i must bid you good night"--mr. snagsby speaks as if it made him desolate to go, though he has been casting about for any means of escape ever since he stopped to speak--"my little woman will be looking for me else. good night, sir!" if mr. snagsby hastens home to save his little woman the trouble of looking for him, he might set his mind at rest on that score. his little woman has had her eye upon him round the sol's arms all this time and now glides after him with a pocket handkerchief wrapped over her head, honouring mr. weevle and his doorway with a searching glance as she goes past. "you'll know me again, ma'am, at all events," says mr. weevle to himself; "and i can't compliment you on your appearance, whoever you are, with your head tied up in a bundle. is this fellow never coming!" this fellow approaches as he speaks. mr. weevle softly holds up his finger, and draws him into the passage, and closes the street door. then they go upstairs, mr. weevle heavily, and mr. guppy (for it is he) very lightly indeed. when they are shut into the back room, they speak low. "i thought you had gone to jericho at least instead of coming here," says tony. "why, i said about ten." "you said about ten," tony repeats. "yes, so you did say about ten. but according to my count, it's ten times ten--it's a hundred o'clock. i never had such a night in my life!" "what has been the matter?" "that's it!" says tony. "nothing has been the matter. but here have i been stewing and fuming in this jolly old crib till i have had the horrors falling on me as thick as hail. there's a blessed-looking candle!" says tony, pointing to the heavily burning taper on his table with a great cabbage head and a long winding-sheet. "that's easily improved," mr. guppy observes as he takes the snuffers in hand. "is it?" returns his friend. "not so easily as you think. it has been smouldering like that ever since it was lighted." "why, what's the matter with you, tony?" inquires mr. guppy, looking at him, snuffers in hand, as he sits down with his elbow on the table. "william guppy," replies the other, "i am in the downs. it's this unbearably dull, suicidal room--and old boguey downstairs, i suppose." mr. weevle moodily pushes the snuffers-tray from him with his elbow, leans his head on his hand, puts his feet on the fender, and looks at the fire. mr. guppy, observing him, slightly tosses his head and sits down on the other side of the table in an easy attitude. "wasn't that snagsby talking to you, tony?" "yes, and he--yes, it was snagsby," said mr. weevle, altering the construction of his sentence. "on business?" "no. no business. he was only sauntering by and stopped to prose." "i thought it was snagsby," says mr. guppy, "and thought it as well that he shouldn't see me, so i waited till he was gone." "there we go again, william g.!" cried tony, looking up for an instant. "so mysterious and secret! by george, if we were going to commit a murder, we couldn't have more mystery about it!" mr. guppy affects to smile, and with the view of changing the conversation, looks with an admiration, real or pretended, round the room at the galaxy gallery of british beauty, terminating his survey with the portrait of lady dedlock over the mantelshelf, in which she is represented on a terrace, with a pedestal upon the terrace, and a vase upon the pedestal, and her shawl upon the vase, and a prodigious piece of fur upon the shawl, and her arm on the prodigious piece of fur, and a bracelet on her arm. "that's very like lady dedlock," says mr. guppy. "it's a speaking likeness." "i wish it was," growls tony, without changing his position. "i should have some fashionable conversation, here, then." finding by this time that his friend is not to be wheedled into a more sociable humour, mr. guppy puts about upon the ill-used tack and remonstrates with him. "tony," says he, "i can make allowances for lowness of spirits, for no man knows what it is when it does come upon a man better than i do, and no man perhaps has a better right to know it than a man who has an unrequited image imprinted on his 'eart. but there are bounds to these things when an unoffending party is in question, and i will acknowledge to you, tony, that i don't think your manner on the present occasion is hospitable or quite gentlemanly." "this is strong language, william guppy," returns mr. weevle. "sir, it may be," retorts mr. william guppy, "but i feel strongly when i use it." mr. weevle admits that he has been wrong and begs mr. william guppy to think no more about it. mr. william guppy, however, having got the advantage, cannot quite release it without a little more injured remonstrance. "no! dash it, tony," says that gentleman, "you really ought to be careful how you wound the feelings of a man who has an unrequited image imprinted on his 'eart and who is not altogether happy in those chords which vibrate to the tenderest emotions. you, tony, possess in yourself all that is calculated to charm the eye and allure the taste. it is not--happily for you, perhaps, and i may wish that i could say the same--it is not your character to hover around one flower. the ole garden is open to you, and your airy pinions carry you through it. still, tony, far be it from me, i am sure, to wound even your feelings without a cause!" tony again entreats that the subject may be no longer pursued, saying emphatically, "william guppy, drop it!" mr. guppy acquiesces, with the reply, "i never should have taken it up, tony, of my own accord." "and now," says tony, stirring the fire, "touching this same bundle of letters. isn't it an extraordinary thing of krook to have appointed twelve o'clock to-night to hand 'em over to me?" "very. what did he do it for?" "what does he do anything for? he don't know. said to-day was his birthday and he'd hand 'em over to-night at twelve o'clock. he'll have drunk himself blind by that time. he has been at it all day." "he hasn't forgotten the appointment, i hope?" "forgotten? trust him for that. he never forgets anything. i saw him to-night, about eight--helped him to shut up his shop--and he had got the letters then in his hairy cap. he pulled it off and showed 'em me. when the shop was closed, he took them out of his cap, hung his cap on the chair-back, and stood turning them over before the fire. i heard him a little while afterwards, through the floor here, humming like the wind, the only song he knows--about bibo, and old charon, and bibo being drunk when he died, or something or other. he has been as quiet since as an old rat asleep in his hole." "and you are to go down at twelve?" "at twelve. and as i tell you, when you came it seemed to me a hundred." "tony," says mr. guppy after considering a little with his legs crossed, "he can't read yet, can he?" "read! he'll never read. he can make all the letters separately, and he knows most of them separately when he sees them; he has got on that much, under me; but he can't put them together. he's too old to acquire the knack of it now--and too drunk." "tony," says mr. guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs, "how do you suppose he spelt out that name of hawdon?" "he never spelt it out. you know what a curious power of eye he has and how he has been used to employ himself in copying things by eye alone. he imitated it, evidently from the direction of a letter, and asked me what it meant." "tony," says mr. guppy, uncrossing and recrossing his legs again, "should you say that the original was a man's writing or a woman's?" "a woman's. fifty to one a lady's--slopes a good deal, and the end of the letter 'n,' long and hasty." mr. guppy has been biting his thumb-nail during this dialogue, generally changing the thumb when he has changed the cross leg. as he is going to do so again, he happens to look at his coat-sleeve. it takes his attention. he stares at it, aghast. "why, tony, what on earth is going on in this house to-night? is there a chimney on fire?" "chimney on fire!" "ah!" returns mr. guppy. "see how the soot's falling. see here, on my arm! see again, on the table here! confound the stuff, it won't blow off--smears like black fat!" they look at one another, and tony goes listening to the door, and a little way upstairs, and a little way downstairs. comes back and says it's all right and all quiet, and quotes the remark he lately made to mr. snagsby about their cooking chops at the sol's arms. "and it was then," resumes mr. guppy, still glancing with remarkable aversion at the coat-sleeve, as they pursue their conversation before the fire, leaning on opposite sides of the table, with their heads very near together, "that he told you of his having taken the bundle of letters from his lodger's portmanteau?" "that was the time, sir," answers tony, faintly adjusting his whiskers. "whereupon i wrote a line to my dear boy, the honourable william guppy, informing him of the appointment for to-night and advising him not to call before, boguey being a slyboots." the light vivacious tone of fashionable life which is usually assumed by mr. weevle sits so ill upon him to-night that he abandons that and his whiskers together, and after looking over his shoulder, appears to yield himself up a prey to the horrors again. "you are to bring the letters to your room to read and compare, and to get yourself into a position to tell him all about them. that's the arrangement, isn't it, tony?" asks mr. guppy, anxiously biting his thumb-nail. "you can't speak too low. yes. that's what he and i agreed." "i tell you what, tony--" "you can't speak too low," says tony once more. mr. guppy nods his sagacious head, advances it yet closer, and drops into a whisper. "i tell you what. the first thing to be done is to make another packet like the real one so that if he should ask to see the real one while it's in my possession, you can show him the dummy." "and suppose he detects the dummy as soon as he sees it, which with his biting screw of an eye is about five hundred times more likely than not," suggests tony. "then we'll face it out. they don't belong to him, and they never did. you found that, and you placed them in my hands--a legal friend of yours--for security. if he forces us to it, they'll be producible, won't they?" "ye-es," is mr. weevle's reluctant admission. "why, tony," remonstrates his friend, "how you look! you don't doubt william guppy? you don't suspect any harm?" "i don't suspect anything more than i know, william," returns the other gravely. "and what do you know?" urges mr. guppy, raising his voice a little; but on his friend's once more warning him, "i tell you, you can't speak too low," he repeats his question without any sound at all, forming with his lips only the words, "what do you know?" "i know three things. first, i know that here we are whispering in secrecy, a pair of conspirators." "well!" says mr. guppy. "and we had better be that than a pair of noodles, which we should be if we were doing anything else, for it's the only way of doing what we want to do. secondly?" "secondly, it's not made out to me how it's likely to be profitable, after all." mr. guppy casts up his eyes at the portrait of lady dedlock over the mantelshelf and replies, "tony, you are asked to leave that to the honour of your friend. besides its being calculated to serve that friend in those chords of the human mind which--which need not be called into agonizing vibration on the present occasion--your friend is no fool. what's that?" "it's eleven o'clock striking by the bell of saint paul's. listen and you'll hear all the bells in the city jangling." both sit silent, listening to the metal voices, near and distant, resounding from towers of various heights, in tones more various than their situations. when these at length cease, all seems more mysterious and quiet than before. one disagreeable result of whispering is that it seems to evoke an atmosphere of silence, haunted by the ghosts of sound--strange cracks and tickings, the rustling of garments that have no substance in them, and the tread of dreadful feet that would leave no mark on the sea-sand or the winter snow. so sensitive the two friends happen to be that the air is full of these phantoms, and the two look over their shoulders by one consent to see that the door is shut. "yes, tony?" says mr. guppy, drawing nearer to the fire and biting his unsteady thumb-nail. "you were going to say, thirdly?" "it's far from a pleasant thing to be plotting about a dead man in the room where he died, especially when you happen to live in it." "but we are plotting nothing against him, tony." "may be not, still i don't like it. live here by yourself and see how you like it." "as to dead men, tony," proceeds mr. guppy, evading this proposal, "there have been dead men in most rooms." "i know there have, but in most rooms you let them alone, and--and they let you alone," tony answers. the two look at each other again. mr. guppy makes a hurried remark to the effect that they may be doing the deceased a service, that he hopes so. there is an oppressive blank until mr. weevle, by stirring the fire suddenly, makes mr. guppy start as if his heart had been stirred instead. "fah! here's more of this hateful soot hanging about," says he. "let us open the window a bit and get a mouthful of air. it's too close." he raises the sash, and they both rest on the window-sill, half in and half out of the room. the neighbouring houses are too near to admit of their seeing any sky without craning their necks and looking up, but lights in frowsy windows here and there, and the rolling of distant carriages, and the new expression that there is of the stir of men, they find to be comfortable. mr. guppy, noiselessly tapping on the window-sill, resumes his whispering in quite a light-comedy tone. "by the by, tony, don't forget old smallweed," meaning the younger of that name. "i have not let him into this, you know. that grandfather of his is too keen by half. it runs in the family." "i remember," says tony. "i am up to all that." "and as to krook," resumes mr. guppy. "now, do you suppose he really has got hold of any other papers of importance, as he has boasted to you, since you have been such allies?" tony shakes his head. "i don't know. can't imagine. if we get through this business without rousing his suspicions, i shall be better informed, no doubt. how can i know without seeing them, when he don't know himself? he is always spelling out words from them, and chalking them over the table and the shop-wall, and asking what this is and what that is; but his whole stock from beginning to end may easily be the waste-paper he bought it as, for anything i can say. it's a monomania with him to think he is possessed of documents. he has been going to learn to read them this last quarter of a century, i should judge, from what he tells me." "how did he first come by that idea, though? that's the question," mr. guppy suggests with one eye shut, after a little forensic meditation. "he may have found papers in something he bought, where papers were not supposed to be, and may have got it into his shrewd head from the manner and place of their concealment that they are worth something." "or he may have been taken in, in some pretended bargain. or he may have been muddled altogether by long staring at whatever he has got, and by drink, and by hanging about the lord chancellor's court and hearing of documents for ever," returns mr. weevle. mr. guppy sitting on the window-sill, nodding his head and balancing all these possibilities in his mind, continues thoughtfully to tap it, and clasp it, and measure it with his hand, until he hastily draws his hand away. "what, in the devil's name," he says, "is this! look at my fingers!" a thick, yellow liquor defiles them, which is offensive to the touch and sight and more offensive to the smell. a stagnant, sickening oil with some natural repulsion in it that makes them both shudder. "what have you been doing here? what have you been pouring out of window?" "i pouring out of window! nothing, i swear! never, since i have been here!" cries the lodger. and yet look here--and look here! when he brings the candle here, from the corner of the window-sill, it slowly drips and creeps away down the bricks, here lies in a little thick nauseous pool. "this is a horrible house," says mr. guppy, shutting down the window. "give me some water or i shall cut my hand off." he so washes, and rubs, and scrubs, and smells, and washes, that he has not long restored himself with a glass of brandy and stood silently before the fire when saint paul's bell strikes twelve and all those other bells strike twelve from their towers of various heights in the dark air, and in their many tones. when all is quiet again, the lodger says, "it's the appointed time at last. shall i go?" mr. guppy nods and gives him a "lucky touch" on the back, but not with the washed hand, though it is his right hand. he goes downstairs, and mr. guppy tries to compose himself before the fire for waiting a long time. but in no more than a minute or two the stairs creak and tony comes swiftly back. "have you got them?" "got them! no. the old man's not there." he has been so horribly frightened in the short interval that his terror seizes the other, who makes a rush at him and asks loudly, "what's the matter?" "i couldn't make him hear, and i softly opened the door and looked in. and the burning smell is there--and the soot is there, and the oil is there--and he is not there!" tony ends this with a groan. mr. guppy takes the light. they go down, more dead than alive, and holding one another, push open the door of the back shop. the cat has retreated close to it and stands snarling, not at them, at something on the ground before the fire. there is a very little fire left in the grate, but there is a smouldering, suffocating vapour in the room and a dark, greasy coating on the walls and ceiling. the chairs and table, and the bottle so rarely absent from the table, all stand as usual. on one chair-back hang the old man's hairy cap and coat. "look!" whispers the lodger, pointing his friend's attention to these objects with a trembling finger. "i told you so. when i saw him last, he took his cap off, took out the little bundle of old letters, hung his cap on the back of the chair--his coat was there already, for he had pulled that off before he went to put the shutters up--and i left him turning the letters over in his hand, standing just where that crumbled black thing is upon the floor." is he hanging somewhere? they look up. no. "see!" whispers tony. "at the foot of the same chair there lies a dirty bit of thin red cord that they tie up pens with. that went round the letters. he undid it slowly, leering and laughing at me, before he began to turn them over, and threw it there. i saw it fall." "what's the matter with the cat?" says mr. guppy. "look at her!" "mad, i think. and no wonder in this evil place." they advance slowly, looking at all these things. the cat remains where they found her, still snarling at the something on the ground before the fire and between the two chairs. what is it? hold up the light. here is a small burnt patch of flooring; here is the tinder from a little bundle of burnt paper, but not so light as usual, seeming to be steeped in something; and here is--is it the cinder of a small charred and broken log of wood sprinkled with white ashes, or is it coal? oh, horror, he is here! and this from which we run away, striking out the light and overturning one another into the street, is all that represents him. help, help, help! come into this house for heaven's sake! plenty will come in, but none can help. the lord chancellor of that court, true to his title in his last act, has died the death of all lord chancellors in all courts and of all authorities in all places under all names soever, where false pretences are made, and where injustice is done. call the death by any name your highness will, attribute it to whom you will, or say it might have been prevented how you will, it is the same death eternally--inborn, inbred, engendered in the corrupted humours of the vicious body itself, and that only--spontaneous combustion, and none other of all the deaths that can be died. chapter xxxiii interlopers now do those two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and buttons who attended the last coroner's inquest at the sol's arms reappear in the precincts with surprising swiftness (being, in fact, breathlessly fetched by the active and intelligent beadle), and institute perquisitions through the court, and dive into the sol's parlour, and write with ravenous little pens on tissue-paper. now do they note down, in the watches of the night, how the neighbourhood of chancery lane was yesterday, at about midnight, thrown into a state of the most intense agitation and excitement by the following alarming and horrible discovery. now do they set forth how it will doubtless be remembered that some time back a painful sensation was created in the public mind by a case of mysterious death from opium occurring in the first floor of the house occupied as a rag, bottle, and general marine store shop, by an eccentric individual of intemperate habits, far advanced in life, named krook; and how, by a remarkable coincidence, krook was examined at the inquest, which it may be recollected was held on that occasion at the sol's arms, a well-conducted tavern immediately adjoining the premises in question on the west side and licensed to a highly respectable landlord, mr. james george bogsby. now do they show (in as many words as possible) how during some hours of yesterday evening a very peculiar smell was observed by the inhabitants of the court, in which the tragical occurrence which forms the subject of that present account transpired; and which odour was at one time so powerful that mr. swills, a comic vocalist professionally engaged by mr. j. g. bogsby, has himself stated to our reporter that he mentioned to miss m. melvilleson, a lady of some pretensions to musical ability, likewise engaged by mr. j. g. bogsby to sing at a series of concerts called harmonic assemblies, or meetings, which it would appear are held at the sol's arms under mr. bogsby's direction pursuant to the act of george the second, that he (mr. swills) found his voice seriously affected by the impure state of the atmosphere, his jocose expression at the time being that he was like an empty post-office, for he hadn't a single note in him. how this account of mr. swills is entirely corroborated by two intelligent married females residing in the same court and known respectively by the names of mrs. piper and mrs. perkins, both of whom observed the foetid effluvia and regarded them as being emitted from the premises in the occupation of krook, the unfortunate deceased. all this and a great deal more the two gentlemen who have formed an amicable partnership in the melancholy catastrophe write down on the spot; and the boy population of the court (out of bed in a moment) swarm up the shutters of the sol's arms parlour, to behold the tops of their heads while they are about it. the whole court, adult as well as boy, is sleepless for that night, and can do nothing but wrap up its many heads, and talk of the ill-fated house, and look at it. miss flite has been bravely rescued from her chamber, as if it were in flames, and accommodated with a bed at the sol's arms. the sol neither turns off its gas nor shuts its door all night, for any kind of public excitement makes good for the sol and causes the court to stand in need of comfort. the house has not done so much in the stomachic article of cloves or in brandy-and-water warm since the inquest. the moment the pot-boy heard what had happened, he rolled up his shirt-sleeves tight to his shoulders and said, "there'll be a run upon us!" in the first outcry, young piper dashed off for the fire-engines and returned in triumph at a jolting gallop perched up aloft on the phoenix and holding on to that fabulous creature with all his might in the midst of helmets and torches. one helmet remains behind after careful investigation of all chinks and crannies and slowly paces up and down before the house in company with one of the two policemen who have likewise been left in charge thereof. to this trio everybody in the court possessed of sixpence has an insatiate desire to exhibit hospitality in a liquid form. mr. weevle and his friend mr. guppy are within the bar at the sol and are worth anything to the sol that the bar contains if they will only stay there. "this is not a time," says mr. bogsby, "to haggle about money," though he looks something sharply after it, over the counter; "give your orders, you two gentlemen, and you're welcome to whatever you put a name to." thus entreated, the two gentlemen (mr. weevle especially) put names to so many things that in course of time they find it difficult to put a name to anything quite distinctly, though they still relate to all new-comers some version of the night they have had of it, and of what they said, and what they thought, and what they saw. meanwhile, one or other of the policemen often flits about the door, and pushing it open a little way at the full length of his arm, looks in from outer gloom. not that he has any suspicions, but that he may as well know what they are up to in there. thus night pursues its leaden course, finding the court still out of bed through the unwonted hours, still treating and being treated, still conducting itself similarly to a court that has had a little money left it unexpectedly. thus night at length with slow-retreating steps departs, and the lamp-lighter going his rounds, like an executioner to a despotic king, strikes off the little heads of fire that have aspired to lessen the darkness. thus the day cometh, whether or no. and the day may discern, even with its dim london eye, that the court has been up all night. over and above the faces that have fallen drowsily on tables and the heels that lie prone on hard floors instead of beds, the brick and mortar physiognomy of the very court itself looks worn and jaded. and now the neighbourhood, waking up and beginning to hear of what has happened, comes streaming in, half dressed, to ask questions; and the two policemen and the helmet (who are far less impressible externally than the court) have enough to do to keep the door. "good gracious, gentlemen!" says mr. snagsby, coming up. "what's this i hear!" "why, it's true," returns one of the policemen. "that's what it is. now move on here, come!" "why, good gracious, gentlemen," says mr. snagsby, somewhat promptly backed away, "i was at this door last night betwixt ten and eleven o'clock in conversation with the young man who lodges here." "indeed?" returns the policeman. "you will find the young man next door then. now move on here, some of you." "not hurt, i hope?" says mr. snagsby. "hurt? no. what's to hurt him!" mr. snagsby, wholly unable to answer this or any question in his troubled mind, repairs to the sol's arms and finds mr. weevle languishing over tea and toast with a considerable expression on him of exhausted excitement and exhausted tobacco-smoke. "and mr. guppy likewise!" quoth mr. snagsby. "dear, dear, dear! what a fate there seems in all this! and my lit--" mr. snagsby's power of speech deserts him in the formation of the words "my little woman." for to see that injured female walk into the sol's arms at that hour of the morning and stand before the beer-engine, with her eyes fixed upon him like an accusing spirit, strikes him dumb. "my dear," says mr. snagsby when his tongue is loosened, "will you take anything? a little--not to put too fine a point upon it--drop of shrub?" "no," says mrs. snagsby. "my love, you know these two gentlemen?" "yes!" says mrs. snagsby, and in a rigid manner acknowledges their presence, still fixing mr. snagsby with her eye. the devoted mr. snagsby cannot bear this treatment. he takes mrs. snagsby by the hand and leads her aside to an adjacent cask. "my little woman, why do you look at me in that way? pray don't do it." "i can't help my looks," says mrs. snagsby, "and if i could i wouldn't." mr. snagsby, with his cough of meekness, rejoins, "wouldn't you really, my dear?" and meditates. then coughs his cough of trouble and says, "this is a dreadful mystery, my love!" still fearfully disconcerted by mrs. snagsby's eye. "it is," returns mrs. snagsby, shaking her head, "a dreadful mystery." "my little woman," urges mr. snagsby in a piteous manner, "don't for goodness' sake speak to me with that bitter expression and look at me in that searching way! i beg and entreat of you not to do it. good lord, you don't suppose that i would go spontaneously combusting any person, my dear?" "i can't say," returns mrs. snagsby. on a hasty review of his unfortunate position, mr. snagsby "can't say" either. he is not prepared positively to deny that he may have had something to do with it. he has had something--he don't know what--to do with so much in this connexion that is mysterious that it is possible he may even be implicated, without knowing it, in the present transaction. he faintly wipes his forehead with his handkerchief and gasps. "my life," says the unhappy stationer, "would you have any objections to mention why, being in general so delicately circumspect in your conduct, you come into a wine-vaults before breakfast?" "why do you come here?" inquires mrs. snagsby. "my dear, merely to know the rights of the fatal accident which has happened to the venerable party who has been--combusted." mr. snagsby has made a pause to suppress a groan. "i should then have related them to you, my love, over your french roll." "i dare say you would! you relate everything to me, mr. snagsby." "every--my lit--" "i should be glad," says mrs. snagsby after contemplating his increased confusion with a severe and sinister smile, "if you would come home with me; i think you may be safer there, mr. snagsby, than anywhere else." "my love, i don't know but what i may be, i am sure. i am ready to go." mr. snagsby casts his eye forlornly round the bar, gives messrs. weevle and guppy good morning, assures them of the satisfaction with which he sees them uninjured, and accompanies mrs. snagsby from the sol's arms. before night his doubt whether he may not be responsible for some inconceivable part in the catastrophe which is the talk of the whole neighbourhood is almost resolved into certainty by mrs. snagsby's pertinacity in that fixed gaze. his mental sufferings are so great that he entertains wandering ideas of delivering himself up to justice and requiring to be cleared if innocent and punished with the utmost rigour of the law if guilty. mr. weevle and mr. guppy, having taken their breakfast, step into lincoln's inn to take a little walk about the square and clear as many of the dark cobwebs out of their brains as a little walk may. "there can be no more favourable time than the present, tony," says mr. guppy after they have broodingly made out the four sides of the square, "for a word or two between us upon a point on which we must, with very little delay, come to an understanding." "now, i tell you what, william g.!" returns the other, eyeing his companion with a bloodshot eye. "if it's a point of conspiracy, you needn't take the trouble to mention it. i have had enough of that, and i ain't going to have any more. we shall have you taking fire next or blowing up with a bang." this supposititious phenomenon is so very disagreeable to mr. guppy that his voice quakes as he says in a moral way, "tony, i should have thought that what we went through last night would have been a lesson to you never to be personal any more as long as you lived." to which mr. weevle returns, "william, i should have thought it would have been a lesson to you never to conspire any more as long as you lived." to which mr. guppy says, "who's conspiring?" to which mr. jobling replies, "why, you are!" to which mr. guppy retorts, "no, i am not." to which mr. jobling retorts again, "yes, you are!" to which mr. guppy retorts, "who says so?" to which mr. jobling retorts, "i say so!" to which mr. guppy retorts, "oh, indeed?" to which mr. jobling retorts, "yes, indeed!" and both being now in a heated state, they walk on silently for a while to cool down again. "tony," says mr. guppy then, "if you heard your friend out instead of flying at him, you wouldn't fall into mistakes. but your temper is hasty and you are not considerate. possessing in yourself, tony, all that is calculated to charm the eye--" "oh! blow the eye!" cries mr. weevle, cutting him short. "say what you have got to say!" finding his friend in this morose and material condition, mr. guppy only expresses the finer feelings of his soul through the tone of injury in which he recommences, "tony, when i say there is a point on which we must come to an understanding pretty soon, i say so quite apart from any kind of conspiring, however innocent. you know it is professionally arranged beforehand in all cases that are tried what facts the witnesses are to prove. is it or is it not desirable that we should know what facts we are to prove on the inquiry into the death of this unfortunate old mo--gentleman?" (mr. guppy was going to say "mogul," but thinks "gentleman" better suited to the circumstances.) "what facts? the facts." "the facts bearing on that inquiry. those are"--mr. guppy tells them off on his fingers--"what we knew of his habits, when you saw him last, what his condition was then, the discovery that we made, and how we made it." "yes," says mr. weevle. "those are about the facts." "we made the discovery in consequence of his having, in his eccentric way, an appointment with you at twelve o'clock at night, when you were to explain some writing to him as you had often done before on account of his not being able to read. i, spending the evening with you, was called down--and so forth. the inquiry being only into the circumstances touching the death of the deceased, it's not necessary to go beyond these facts, i suppose you'll agree?" "no!" returns mr. weevle. "i suppose not." "and this is not a conspiracy, perhaps?" says the injured guppy. "no," returns his friend; "if it's nothing worse than this, i withdraw the observation." "now, tony," says mr. guppy, taking his arm again and walking him slowly on, "i should like to know, in a friendly way, whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of your continuing to live at that place?" "what do you mean?" says tony, stopping. "whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of your continuing to live at that place?" repeats mr. guppy, walking him on again. "at what place? that place?" pointing in the direction of the rag and bottle shop. mr. guppy nods. "why, i wouldn't pass another night there for any consideration that you could offer me," says mr. weevle, haggardly staring. "do you mean it though, tony?" "mean it! do i look as if i mean it? i feel as if i do; i know that," says mr. weevle with a very genuine shudder. "then the possibility or probability--for such it must be considered--of your never being disturbed in possession of those effects lately belonging to a lone old man who seemed to have no relation in the world, and the certainty of your being able to find out what he really had got stored up there, don't weigh with you at all against last night, tony, if i understand you?" says mr. guppy, biting his thumb with the appetite of vexation. "certainly not. talk in that cool way of a fellow's living there?" cries mr. weevle indignantly. "go and live there yourself." "oh! i, tony!" says mr. guppy, soothing him. "i have never lived there and couldn't get a lodging there now, whereas you have got one." "you are welcome to it," rejoins his friend, "and--ugh!--you may make yourself at home in it." "then you really and truly at this point," says mr. guppy, "give up the whole thing, if i understand you, tony?" "you never," returns tony with a most convincing steadfastness, "said a truer word in all your life. i do!" while they are so conversing, a hackney-coach drives into the square, on the box of which vehicle a very tall hat makes itself manifest to the public. inside the coach, and consequently not so manifest to the multitude, though sufficiently so to the two friends, for the coach stops almost at their feet, are the venerable mr. smallweed and mrs. smallweed, accompanied by their granddaughter judy. an air of haste and excitement pervades the party, and as the tall hat (surmounting mr. smallweed the younger) alights, mr. smallweed the elder pokes his head out of window and bawls to mr. guppy, "how de do, sir! how de do!" "what do chick and his family want here at this time of the morning, i wonder!" says mr. guppy, nodding to his familiar. "my dear sir," cries grandfather smallweed, "would you do me a favour? would you and your friend be so very obleeging as to carry me into the public-house in the court, while bart and his sister bring their grandmother along? would you do an old man that good turn, sir?" mr. guppy looks at his friend, repeating inquiringly, "the public-house in the court?" and they prepare to bear the venerable burden to the sol's arms. "there's your fare!" says the patriarch to the coachman with a fierce grin and shaking his incapable fist at him. "ask me for a penny more, and i'll have my lawful revenge upon you. my dear young men, be easy with me, if you please. allow me to catch you round the neck. i won't squeeze you tighter than i can help. oh, lord! oh, dear me! oh, my bones!" it is well that the sol is not far off, for mr. weevle presents an apoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished. with no worse aggravation of his symptoms, however, than the utterance of divers croaking sounds expressive of obstructed respiration, he fulfils his share of the porterage and the benevolent old gentleman is deposited by his own desire in the parlour of the sol's arms. "oh, lord!" gasps mr. smallweed, looking about him, breathless, from an arm-chair. "oh, dear me! oh, my bones and back! oh, my aches and pains! sit down, you dancing, prancing, shambling, scrambling poll-parrot! sit down!" this little apostrophe to mrs. smallweed is occasioned by a propensity on the part of that unlucky old lady whenever she finds herself on her feet to amble about and "set" to inanimate objects, accompanying herself with a chattering noise, as in a witch dance. a nervous affection has probably as much to do with these demonstrations as any imbecile intention in the poor old woman, but on the present occasion they are so particularly lively in connexion with the windsor arm-chair, fellow to that in which mr. smallweed is seated, that she only quite desists when her grandchildren have held her down in it, her lord in the meanwhile bestowing upon her, with great volubility, the endearing epithet of "a pig-headed jackdaw," repeated a surprising number of times. "my dear sir," grandfather smallweed then proceeds, addressing mr. guppy, "there has been a calamity here. have you heard of it, either of you?" "heard of it, sir! why, we discovered it." "you discovered it. you two discovered it! bart, they discovered it!" the two discoverers stare at the smallweeds, who return the compliment. "my dear friends," whines grandfather smallweed, putting out both his hands, "i owe you a thousand thanks for discharging the melancholy office of discovering the ashes of mrs. smallweed's brother." "eh?" says mr. guppy. "mrs. smallweed's brother, my dear friend--her only relation. we were not on terms, which is to be deplored now, but he never would be on terms. he was not fond of us. he was eccentric--he was very eccentric. unless he has left a will (which is not at all likely) i shall take out letters of administration. i have come down to look after the property; it must be sealed up, it must be protected. i have come down," repeats grandfather smallweed, hooking the air towards him with all his ten fingers at once, "to look after the property." "i think, small," says the disconsolate mr. guppy, "you might have mentioned that the old man was your uncle." "you two were so close about him that i thought you would like me to be the same," returns that old bird with a secretly glistening eye. "besides, i wasn't proud of him." "besides which, it was nothing to you, you know, whether he was or not," says judy. also with a secretly glistening eye. "he never saw me in his life to know me," observed small; "i don't know why i should introduce him, i am sure!" "no, he never communicated with us, which is to be deplored," the old gentleman strikes in, "but i have come to look after the property--to look over the papers, and to look after the property. we shall make good our title. it is in the hands of my solicitor. mr. tulkinghorn, of lincoln's inn fields, over the way there, is so good as to act as my solicitor; and grass don't grow under his feet, i can tell ye. krook was mrs. smallweed's only brother; she had no relation but krook, and krook had no relation but mrs. smallweed. i am speaking of your brother, you brimstone black-beetle, that was seventy-six years of age." mrs. smallweed instantly begins to shake her head and pipe up, "seventy-six pound seven and sevenpence! seventy-six thousand bags of money! seventy-six hundred thousand million of parcels of bank-notes!" "will somebody give me a quart pot?" exclaims her exasperated husband, looking helplessly about him and finding no missile within his reach. "will somebody obleege me with a spittoon? will somebody hand me anything hard and bruising to pelt at her? you hag, you cat, you dog, you brimstone barker!" here mr. smallweed, wrought up to the highest pitch by his own eloquence, actually throws judy at her grandmother in default of anything else, by butting that young virgin at the old lady with such force as he can muster and then dropping into his chair in a heap. "shake me up, somebody, if you'll be so good," says the voice from within the faintly struggling bundle into which he has collapsed. "i have come to look after the property. shake me up, and call in the police on duty at the next house to be explained to about the property. my solicitor will be here presently to protect the property. transportation or the gallows for anybody who shall touch the property!" as his dutiful grandchildren set him up, panting, and putting him through the usual restorative process of shaking and punching, he still repeats like an echo, "the--the property! the property! property!" mr. weevle and mr. guppy look at each other, the former as having relinquished the whole affair, the latter with a discomfited countenance as having entertained some lingering expectations yet. but there is nothing to be done in opposition to the smallweed interest. mr. tulkinghorn's clerk comes down from his official pew in the chambers to mention to the police that mr. tulkinghorn is answerable for its being all correct about the next of kin and that the papers and effects will be formally taken possession of in due time and course. mr. smallweed is at once permitted so far to assert his supremacy as to be carried on a visit of sentiment into the next house and upstairs into miss flite's deserted room, where he looks like a hideous bird of prey newly added to her aviary. the arrival of this unexpected heir soon taking wind in the court still makes good for the sol and keeps the court upon its mettle. mrs. piper and mrs. perkins think it hard upon the young man if there really is no will, and consider that a handsome present ought to be made him out of the estate. young piper and young perkins, as members of that restless juvenile circle which is the terror of the foot-passengers in chancery lane, crumble into ashes behind the pump and under the archway all day long, where wild yells and hootings take place over their remains. little swills and miss m. melvilleson enter into affable conversation with their patrons, feeling that these unusual occurrences level the barriers between professionals and non-professionals. mr. bogsby puts up "the popular song of king death, with chorus by the whole strength of the company," as the great harmonic feature of the week and announces in the bill that "j. g. b. is induced to do so at a considerable extra expense in consequence of a wish which has been very generally expressed at the bar by a large body of respectable individuals and in homage to a late melancholy event which has aroused so much sensation." there is one point connected with the deceased upon which the court is particularly anxious, namely, that the fiction of a full-sized coffin should be preserved, though there is so little to put in it. upon the undertaker's stating in the sol's bar in the course of the day that he has received orders to construct "a six-footer," the general solicitude is much relieved, and it is considered that mr. smallweed's conduct does him great honour. out of the court, and a long way out of it, there is considerable excitement too, for men of science and philosophy come to look, and carriages set down doctors at the corner who arrive with the same intent, and there is more learned talk about inflammable gases and phosphuretted hydrogen than the court has ever imagined. some of these authorities (of course the wisest) hold with indignation that the deceased had no business to die in the alleged manner; and being reminded by other authorities of a certain inquiry into the evidence for such deaths reprinted in the sixth volume of the philosophical transactions; and also of a book not quite unknown on english medical jurisprudence; and likewise of the italian case of the countess cornelia baudi as set forth in detail by one bianchini, prebendary of verona, who wrote a scholarly work or so and was occasionally heard of in his time as having gleams of reason in him; and also of the testimony of messrs. fodere and mere, two pestilent frenchmen who would investigate the subject; and further, of the corroborative testimony of monsieur le cat, a rather celebrated french surgeon once upon a time, who had the unpoliteness to live in a house where such a case occurred and even to write an account of it--still they regard the late mr. krook's obstinacy in going out of the world by any such by-way as wholly unjustifiable and personally offensive. the less the court understands of all this, the more the court likes it, and the greater enjoyment it has in the stock in trade of the sol's arms. then there comes the artist of a picture newspaper, with a foreground and figures ready drawn for anything from a wreck on the cornish coast to a review in hyde park or a meeting in manchester, and in mrs. perkins' own room, memorable evermore, he then and there throws in upon the block mr. krook's house, as large as life; in fact, considerably larger, making a very temple of it. similarly, being permitted to look in at the door of the fatal chamber, he depicts that apartment as three-quarters of a mile long by fifty yards high, at which the court is particularly charmed. all this time the two gentlemen before mentioned pop in and out of every house and assist at the philosophical disputations--go everywhere and listen to everybody--and yet are always diving into the sol's parlour and writing with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper. at last come the coroner and his inquiry, like as before, except that the coroner cherishes this case as being out of the common way and tells the gentlemen of the jury, in his private capacity, that "that would seem to be an unlucky house next door, gentlemen, a destined house; but so we sometimes find it, and these are mysteries we can't account for!" after which the six-footer comes into action and is much admired. in all these proceedings mr. guppy has so slight a part, except when he gives his evidence, that he is moved on like a private individual and can only haunt the secret house on the outside, where he has the mortification of seeing mr. smallweed padlocking the door, and of bitterly knowing himself to be shut out. but before these proceedings draw to a close, that is to say, on the night next after the catastrophe, mr. guppy has a thing to say that must be said to lady dedlock. for which reason, with a sinking heart and with that hang-dog sense of guilt upon him which dread and watching enfolded in the sol's arms have produced, the young man of the name of guppy presents himself at the town mansion at about seven o'clock in the evening and requests to see her ladyship. mercury replies that she is going out to dinner; don't he see the carriage at the door? yes, he does see the carriage at the door; but he wants to see my lady too. mercury is disposed, as he will presently declare to a fellow-gentleman in waiting, "to pitch into the young man"; but his instructions are positive. therefore he sulkily supposes that the young man must come up into the library. there he leaves the young man in a large room, not over-light, while he makes report of him. mr. guppy looks into the shade in all directions, discovering everywhere a certain charred and whitened little heap of coal or wood. presently he hears a rustling. is it--? no, it's no ghost, but fair flesh and blood, most brilliantly dressed. "i have to beg your ladyship's pardon," mr. guppy stammers, very downcast. "this is an inconvenient time--" "i told you, you could come at any time." she takes a chair, looking straight at him as on the last occasion. "thank your ladyship. your ladyship is very affable." "you can sit down." there is not much affability in her tone. "i don't know, your ladyship, that it's worth while my sitting down and detaining you, for i--i have not got the letters that i mentioned when i had the honour of waiting on your ladyship." "have you come merely to say so?" "merely to say so, your ladyship." mr. guppy besides being depressed, disappointed, and uneasy, is put at a further disadvantage by the splendour and beauty of her appearance. she knows its influence perfectly, has studied it too well to miss a grain of its effect on any one. as she looks at him so steadily and coldly, he not only feels conscious that he has no guide in the least perception of what is really the complexion of her thoughts, but also that he is being every moment, as it were, removed further and further from her. she will not speak, it is plain. so he must. "in short, your ladyship," says mr. guppy like a meanly penitent thief, "the person i was to have had the letters of, has come to a sudden end, and--" he stops. lady dedlock calmly finishes the sentence. "and the letters are destroyed with the person?" mr. guppy would say no if he could--as he is unable to hide. "i believe so, your ladyship." if he could see the least sparkle of relief in her face now? no, he could see no such thing, even if that brave outside did not utterly put him away, and he were not looking beyond it and about it. he falters an awkward excuse or two for his failure. "is this all you have to say?" inquires lady dedlock, having heard him out--or as nearly out as he can stumble. mr. guppy thinks that's all. "you had better be sure that you wish to say nothing more to me, this being the last time you will have the opportunity." mr. guppy is quite sure. and indeed he has no such wish at present, by any means. "that is enough. i will dispense with excuses. good evening to you!" and she rings for mercury to show the young man of the name of guppy out. but in that house, in that same moment, there happens to be an old man of the name of tulkinghorn. and that old man, coming with his quiet footstep to the library, has his hand at that moment on the handle of the door--comes in--and comes face to face with the young man as he is leaving the room. one glance between the old man and the lady, and for an instant the blind that is always down flies up. suspicion, eager and sharp, looks out. another instant, close again. "i beg your pardon, lady dedlock. i beg your pardon a thousand times. it is so very unusual to find you here at this hour. i supposed the room was empty. i beg your pardon!" "stay!" she negligently calls him back. "remain here, i beg. i am going out to dinner. i have nothing more to say to this young man!" the disconcerted young man bows, as he goes out, and cringingly hopes that mr. tulkinghorn of the fields is well. "aye, aye?" says the lawyer, looking at him from under his bent brows, though he has no need to look again--not he. "from kenge and carboy's, surely?" "kenge and carboy's, mr. tulkinghorn. name of guppy, sir." "to be sure. why, thank you, mr. guppy, i am very well!" "happy to hear it, sir. you can't be too well, sir, for the credit of the profession." "thank you, mr. guppy!" mr. guppy sneaks away. mr. tulkinghorn, such a foil in his old-fashioned rusty black to lady dedlock's brightness, hands her down the staircase to her carriage. he returns rubbing his chin, and rubs it a good deal in the course of the evening. chapter xxxiv a turn of the screw "now, what," says mr. george, "may this be? is it blank cartridge or ball? a flash in the pan or a shot?" an open letter is the subject of the trooper's speculations, and it seems to perplex him mightily. he looks at it at arm's length, brings it close to him, holds it in his right hand, holds it in his left hand, reads it with his head on this side, with his head on that side, contracts his eyebrows, elevates them, still cannot satisfy himself. he smooths it out upon the table with his heavy palm, and thoughtfully walking up and down the gallery, makes a halt before it every now and then to come upon it with a fresh eye. even that won't do. "is it," mr. george still muses, "blank cartridge or ball?" phil squod, with the aid of a brush and paint-pot, is employed in the distance whitening the targets, softly whistling in quick-march time and in drum-and-fife manner that he must and will go back again to the girl he left behind him. "phil!" the trooper beckons as he calls him. phil approaches in his usual way, sidling off at first as if he were going anywhere else and then bearing down upon his commander like a bayonet-charge. certain splashes of white show in high relief upon his dirty face, and he scrapes his one eyebrow with the handle of the brush. "attention, phil! listen to this." "steady, commander, steady." "'sir. allow me to remind you (though there is no legal necessity for my doing so, as you are aware) that the bill at two months' date drawn on yourself by mr. matthew bagnet, and by you accepted, for the sum of ninety-seven pounds four shillings and ninepence, will become due to-morrow, when you will please be prepared to take up the same on presentation. yours, joshua smallweed.' what do you make of that, phil?" "mischief, guv'ner." "why?" "i think," replies phil after pensively tracing out a cross-wrinkle in his forehead with the brush-handle, "that mischeevious consequences is always meant when money's asked for." "lookye, phil," says the trooper, sitting on the table. "first and last, i have paid, i may say, half as much again as this principal in interest and one thing and another." phil intimates by sidling back a pace or two, with a very unaccountable wrench of his wry face, that he does not regard the transaction as being made more promising by this incident. "and lookye further, phil," says the trooper, staying his premature conclusions with a wave of his hand. "there has always been an understanding that this bill was to be what they call renewed. and it has been renewed no end of times. what do you say now?" "i say that i think the times is come to a end at last." "you do? humph! i am much of the same mind myself." "joshua smallweed is him that was brought here in a chair?" "the same." "guv'ner," says phil with exceeding gravity, "he's a leech in his dispositions, he's a screw and a wice in his actions, a snake in his twistings, and a lobster in his claws." having thus expressively uttered his sentiments, mr. squod, after waiting a little to ascertain if any further remark be expected of him, gets back by his usual series of movements to the target he has in hand and vigorously signifies through his former musical medium that he must and he will return to that ideal young lady. george, having folded the letter, walks in that direction. "there is a way, commander," says phil, looking cunningly at him, "of settling this." "paying the money, i suppose? i wish i could." phil shakes his head. "no, guv'ner, no; not so bad as that. there is a way," says phil with a highly artistic turn of his brush; "what i'm a-doing at present." "whitewashing." phil nods. "a pretty way that would be! do you know what would become of the bagnets in that case? do you know they would be ruined to pay off my old scores? you're a moral character," says the trooper, eyeing him in his large way with no small indignation; "upon my life you are, phil!" phil, on one knee at the target, is in course of protesting earnestly, though not without many allegorical scoops of his brush and smoothings of the white surface round the rim with his thumb, that he had forgotten the bagnet responsibility and would not so much as injure a hair of the head of any member of that worthy family when steps are audible in the long passage without, and a cheerful voice is heard to wonder whether george is at home. phil, with a look at his master, hobbles up, saying, "here's the guv'ner, mrs. bagnet! here he is!" and the old girl herself, accompanied by mr. bagnet, appears. the old girl never appears in walking trim, in any season of the year, without a grey cloth cloak, coarse and much worn but very clean, which is, undoubtedly, the identical garment rendered so interesting to mr. bagnet by having made its way home to europe from another quarter of the globe in company with mrs. bagnet and an umbrella. the latter faithful appendage is also invariably a part of the old girl's presence out of doors. it is of no colour known in this life and has a corrugated wooden crook for a handle, with a metallic object let into its prow, or beak, resembling a little model of a fanlight over a street door or one of the oval glasses out of a pair of spectacles, which ornamental object has not that tenacious capacity of sticking to its post that might be desired in an article long associated with the british army. the old girl's umbrella is of a flabby habit of waist and seems to be in need of stays--an appearance that is possibly referable to its having served through a series of years at home as a cupboard and on journeys as a carpet bag. she never puts it up, having the greatest reliance on her well-proved cloak with its capacious hood, but generally uses the instrument as a wand with which to point out joints of meat or bunches of greens in marketing or to arrest the attention of tradesmen by a friendly poke. without her market-basket, which is a sort of wicker well with two flapping lids, she never stirs abroad. attended by these her trusty companions, therefore, her honest sunburnt face looking cheerily out of a rough straw bonnet, mrs. bagnet now arrives, fresh-coloured and bright, in george's shooting gallery. "well, george, old fellow," says she, "and how do you do, this sunshiny morning?" giving him a friendly shake of the hand, mrs. bagnet draws a long breath after her walk and sits down to enjoy a rest. having a faculty, matured on the tops of baggage-waggons and in other such positions, of resting easily anywhere, she perches on a rough bench, unties her bonnet-strings, pushes back her bonnet, crosses her arms, and looks perfectly comfortable. mr. bagnet in the meantime has shaken hands with his old comrade and with phil, on whom mrs. bagnet likewise bestows a good-humoured nod and smile. "now, george," said mrs. bagnet briskly, "here we are, lignum and myself"--she often speaks of her husband by this appellation, on account, as it is supposed, of lignum vitae having been his old regimental nickname when they first became acquainted, in compliment to the extreme hardness and toughness of his physiognomy--"just looked in, we have, to make it all correct as usual about that security. give him the new bill to sign, george, and he'll sign it like a man." "i was coming to you this morning," observes the trooper reluctantly. "yes, we thought you'd come to us this morning, but we turned out early and left woolwich, the best of boys, to mind his sisters and came to you instead--as you see! for lignum, he's tied so close now, and gets so little exercise, that a walk does him good. but what's the matter, george?" asks mrs. bagnet, stopping in her cheerful talk. "you don't look yourself." "i am not quite myself," returns the trooper; "i have been a little put out, mrs. bagnet." her bright quick eye catches the truth directly. "george!" holding up her forefinger. "don't tell me there's anything wrong about that security of lignum's! don't do it, george, on account of the children!" the trooper looks at her with a troubled visage. "george," says mrs. bagnet, using both her arms for emphasis and occasionally bringing down her open hands upon her knees. "if you have allowed anything wrong to come to that security of lignum's, and if you have let him in for it, and if you have put us in danger of being sold up--and i see sold up in your face, george, as plain as print--you have done a shameful action and have deceived us cruelly. i tell you, cruelly, george. there!" mr. bagnet, otherwise as immovable as a pump or a lamp-post, puts his large right hand on the top of his bald head as if to defend it from a shower-bath and looks with great uneasiness at mrs. bagnet. "george," says that old girl, "i wonder at you! george, i am ashamed of you! george, i couldn't have believed you would have done it! i always knew you to be a rolling stone that gathered no moss, but i never thought you would have taken away what little moss there was for bagnet and the children to lie upon. you know what a hard-working, steady-going chap he is. you know what quebec and malta and woolwich are, and i never did think you would, or could, have had the heart to serve us so. oh, george!" mrs. bagnet gathers up her cloak to wipe her eyes on in a very genuine manner, "how could you do it?" mrs. bagnet ceasing, mr. bagnet removes his hand from his head as if the shower-bath were over and looks disconsolately at mr. george, who has turned quite white and looks distressfully at the grey cloak and straw bonnet. "mat," says the trooper in a subdued voice, addressing him but still looking at his wife, "i am sorry you take it so much to heart, because i do hope it's not so bad as that comes to. i certainly have, this morning, received this letter"--which he reads aloud--"but i hope it may be set right yet. as to a rolling stone, why, what you say is true. i am a rolling stone, and i never rolled in anybody's way, i fully believe, that i rolled the least good to. but it's impossible for an old vagabond comrade to like your wife and family better than i like 'em, mat, and i trust you'll look upon me as forgivingly as you can. don't think i've kept anything from you. i haven't had the letter more than a quarter of an hour." "old girl," murmurs mr. bagnet after a short silence, "will you tell him my opinion?" "oh! why didn't he marry," mrs. bagnet answers, half laughing and half crying, "joe pouch's widder in north america? then he wouldn't have got himself into these troubles." "the old girl," says mr. bagnet, "puts it correct--why didn't you?" "well, she has a better husband by this time, i hope," returns the trooper. "anyhow, here i stand, this present day, not married to joe pouch's widder. what shall i do? you see all i have got about me. it's not mine; it's yours. give the word, and i'll sell off every morsel. if i could have hoped it would have brought in nearly the sum wanted, i'd have sold all long ago. don't believe that i'll leave you or yours in the lurch, mat. i'd sell myself first. i only wish," says the trooper, giving himself a disparaging blow in the chest, "that i knew of any one who'd buy such a second-hand piece of old stores." "old girl," murmurs mr. bagnet, "give him another bit of my mind." "george," says the old girl, "you are not so much to be blamed, on full consideration, except for ever taking this business without the means." "and that was like me!" observes the penitent trooper, shaking his head. "like me, i know." "silence! the old girl," says mr. bagnet, "is correct--in her way of giving my opinions--hear me out!" "that was when you never ought to have asked for the security, george, and when you never ought to have got it, all things considered. but what's done can't be undone. you are always an honourable and straightforward fellow, as far as lays in your power, though a little flighty. on the other hand, you can't admit but what it's natural in us to be anxious with such a thing hanging over our heads. so forget and forgive all round, george. come! forget and forgive all round!" mrs. bagnet, giving him one of her honest hands and giving her husband the other, mr. george gives each of them one of his and holds them while he speaks. "i do assure you both, there's nothing i wouldn't do to discharge this obligation. but whatever i have been able to scrape together has gone every two months in keeping it up. we have lived plainly enough here, phil and i. but the gallery don't quite do what was expected of it, and it's not--in short, it's not the mint. it was wrong in me to take it? well, so it was. but i was in a manner drawn into that step, and i thought it might steady me, and set me up, and you'll try to overlook my having such expectations, and upon my soul, i am very much obliged to you, and very much ashamed of myself." with these concluding words, mr. george gives a shake to each of the hands he holds, and relinquishing them, backs a pace or two in a broad-chested, upright attitude, as if he had made a final confession and were immediately going to be shot with all military honours. "george, hear me out!" says mr. bagnet, glancing at his wife. "old girl, go on!" mr. bagnet, being in this singular manner heard out, has merely to observe that the letter must be attended to without any delay, that it is advisable that george and he should immediately wait on mr. smallweed in person, and that the primary object is to save and hold harmless mr. bagnet, who had none of the money. mr. george, entirely assenting, puts on his hat and prepares to march with mr. bagnet to the enemy's camp. "don't you mind a woman's hasty word, george," says mrs. bagnet, patting him on the shoulder. "i trust my old lignum to you, and i am sure you'll bring him through it." the trooper returns that this is kindly said and that he will bring lignum through it somehow. upon which mrs. bagnet, with her cloak, basket, and umbrella, goes home, bright-eyed again, to the rest of her family, and the comrades sally forth on the hopeful errand of mollifying mr. smallweed. whether there are two people in england less likely to come satisfactorily out of any negotiation with mr. smallweed than mr. george and mr. matthew bagnet may be very reasonably questioned. also, notwithstanding their martial appearance, broad square shoulders, and heavy tread, whether there are within the same limits two more simple and unaccustomed children in all the smallweedy affairs of life. as they proceed with great gravity through the streets towards the region of mount pleasant, mr. bagnet, observing his companion to be thoughtful, considers it a friendly part to refer to mrs. bagnet's late sally. "george, you know the old girl--she's as sweet and as mild as milk. but touch her on the children--or myself--and she's off like gunpowder." "it does her credit, mat!" "george," says mr. bagnet, looking straight before him, "the old girl--can't do anything--that don't do her credit. more or less. i never say so. discipline must be maintained." "she's worth her weight in gold," says the trooper. "in gold?" says mr. bagnet. "i'll tell you what. the old girl's weight--is twelve stone six. would i take that weight--in any metal--for the old girl? no. why not? because the old girl's metal is far more precious--than the preciousest metal. and she's all metal!" "you are right, mat!" "when she took me--and accepted of the ring--she 'listed under me and the children--heart and head, for life. she's that earnest," says mr. bagnet, "and true to her colours--that, touch us with a finger--and she turns out--and stands to her arms. if the old girl fires wide--once in a way--at the call of duty--look over it, george. for she's loyal!" "why, bless her, mat," returns the trooper, "i think the higher of her for it!" "you are right!" says mr. bagnet with the warmest enthusiasm, though without relaxing the rigidity of a single muscle. "think as high of the old girl--as the rock of gibraltar--and still you'll be thinking low--of such merits. but i never own to it before her. discipline must be maintained." these encomiums bring them to mount pleasant and to grandfather smallweed's house. the door is opened by the perennial judy, who, having surveyed them from top to toe with no particular favour, but indeed with a malignant sneer, leaves them standing there while she consults the oracle as to their admission. the oracle may be inferred to give consent from the circumstance of her returning with the words on her honey lips that they can come in if they want to it. thus privileged, they come in and find mr. smallweed with his feet in the drawer of his chair as if it were a paper foot-bath and mrs. smallweed obscured with the cushion like a bird that is not to sing. "my dear friend," says grandfather smallweed with those two lean affectionate arms of his stretched forth. "how de do? how de do? who is our friend, my dear friend?" "why this," returns george, not able to be very conciliatory at first, "is matthew bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter of ours, you know." "oh! mr. bagnet? surely!" the old man looks at him under his hand. "hope you're well, mr. bagnet? fine man, mr. george! military air, sir!" no chairs being offered, mr. george brings one forward for bagnet and one for himself. they sit down, mr. bagnet as if he had no power of bending himself, except at the hips, for that purpose. "judy," says mr. smallweed, "bring the pipe." "why, i don't know," mr. george interposes, "that the young woman need give herself that trouble, for to tell you the truth, i am not inclined to smoke it to-day." "ain't you?" returns the old man. "judy, bring the pipe." "the fact is, mr. smallweed," proceeds george, "that i find myself in rather an unpleasant state of mind. it appears to me, sir, that your friend in the city has been playing tricks." "oh, dear no!" says grandfather smallweed. "he never does that!" "don't he? well, i am glad to hear it, because i thought it might be his doing. this, you know, i am speaking of. this letter." grandfather smallweed smiles in a very ugly way in recognition of the letter. "what does it mean?" asks mr. george. "judy," says the old man. "have you got the pipe? give it to me. did you say what does it mean, my good friend?" "aye! now, come, come, you know, mr. smallweed," urges the trooper, constraining himself to speak as smoothly and confidentially as he can, holding the open letter in one hand and resting the broad knuckles of the other on his thigh, "a good lot of money has passed between us, and we are face to face at the present moment, and are both well aware of the understanding there has always been. i am prepared to do the usual thing which i have done regularly and to keep this matter going. i never got a letter like this from you before, and i have been a little put about by it this morning, because here's my friend matthew bagnet, who, you know, had none of the money--" "i don't know it, you know," says the old man quietly. "why, con-found you--it, i mean--i tell you so, don't i?" "oh, yes, you tell me so," returns grandfather smallweed. "but i don't know it." "well!" says the trooper, swallowing his fire. "i know it." mr. smallweed replies with excellent temper, "ah! that's quite another thing!" and adds, "but it don't matter. mr. bagnet's situation is all one, whether or no." the unfortunate george makes a great effort to arrange the affair comfortably and to propitiate mr. smallweed by taking him upon his own terms. "that's just what i mean. as you say, mr. smallweed, here's matthew bagnet liable to be fixed whether or no. now, you see, that makes his good lady very uneasy in her mind, and me too, for whereas i'm a harum-scarum sort of a good-for-nought that more kicks than halfpence come natural to, why he's a steady family man, don't you see? now, mr. smallweed," says the trooper, gaining confidence as he proceeds in his soldierly mode of doing business, "although you and i are good friends enough in a certain sort of a way, i am well aware that i can't ask you to let my friend bagnet off entirely." "oh, dear, you are too modest. you can ask me anything, mr. george." (there is an ogreish kind of jocularity in grandfather smallweed to-day.) "and you can refuse, you mean, eh? or not you so much, perhaps, as your friend in the city? ha ha ha!" "ha ha ha!" echoes grandfather smallweed. in such a very hard manner and with eyes so particularly green that mr. bagnet's natural gravity is much deepened by the contemplation of that venerable man. "come!" says the sanguine george. "i am glad to find we can be pleasant, because i want to arrange this pleasantly. here's my friend bagnet, and here am i. we'll settle the matter on the spot, if you please, mr. smallweed, in the usual way. and you'll ease my friend bagnet's mind, and his family's mind, a good deal if you'll just mention to him what our understanding is." here some shrill spectre cries out in a mocking manner, "oh, good gracious! oh!" unless, indeed, it be the sportive judy, who is found to be silent when the startled visitors look round, but whose chin has received a recent toss, expressive of derision and contempt. mr. bagnet's gravity becomes yet more profound. "but i think you asked me, mr. george"--old smallweed, who all this time has had the pipe in his hand, is the speaker now--"i think you asked me, what did the letter mean?" "why, yes, i did," returns the trooper in his off-hand way, "but i don't care to know particularly, if it's all correct and pleasant." mr. smallweed, purposely balking himself in an aim at the trooper's head, throws the pipe on the ground and breaks it to pieces. "that's what it means, my dear friend. i'll smash you. i'll crumble you. i'll powder you. go to the devil!" the two friends rise and look at one another. mr. bagnet's gravity has now attained its profoundest point. "go to the devil!" repeats the old man. "i'll have no more of your pipe-smokings and swaggerings. what? you're an independent dragoon, too! go to my lawyer (you remember where; you have been there before) and show your independence now, will you? come, my dear friend, there's a chance for you. open the street door, judy; put these blusterers out! call in help if they don't go. put 'em out!" he vociferates this so loudly that mr. bagnet, laying his hands on the shoulders of his comrade before the latter can recover from his amazement, gets him on the outside of the street door, which is instantly slammed by the triumphant judy. utterly confounded, mr. george awhile stands looking at the knocker. mr. bagnet, in a perfect abyss of gravity, walks up and down before the little parlour window like a sentry and looks in every time he passes, apparently revolving something in his mind. "come, mat," says mr. george when he has recovered himself, "we must try the lawyer. now, what do you think of this rascal?" mr. bagnet, stopping to take a farewell look into the parlour, replies with one shake of his head directed at the interior, "if my old girl had been here--i'd have told him!" having so discharged himself of the subject of his cogitations, he falls into step and marches off with the trooper, shoulder to shoulder. when they present themselves in lincoln's inn fields, mr. tulkinghorn is engaged and not to be seen. he is not at all willing to see them, for when they have waited a full hour, and the clerk, on his bell being rung, takes the opportunity of mentioning as much, he brings forth no more encouraging message than that mr. tulkinghorn has nothing to say to them and they had better not wait. they do wait, however, with the perseverance of military tactics, and at last the bell rings again and the client in possession comes out of mr. tulkinghorn's room. the client is a handsome old lady, no other than mrs. rouncewell, housekeeper at chesney wold. she comes out of the sanctuary with a fair old-fashioned curtsy and softly shuts the door. she is treated with some distinction there, for the clerk steps out of his pew to show her through the outer office and to let her out. the old lady is thanking him for his attention when she observes the comrades in waiting. "i beg your pardon, sir, but i think those gentlemen are military?" the clerk referring the question to them with his eye, and mr. george not turning round from the almanac over the fire-place. mr. bagnet takes upon himself to reply, "yes, ma'am. formerly." "i thought so. i was sure of it. my heart warms, gentlemen, at the sight of you. it always does at the sight of such. god bless you, gentlemen! you'll excuse an old woman, but i had a son once who went for a soldier. a fine handsome youth he was, and good in his bold way, though some people did disparage him to his poor mother. i ask your pardon for troubling you, sir. god bless you, gentlemen!" "same to you, ma'am!" returns mr. bagnet with right good will. there is something very touching in the earnestness of the old lady's voice and in the tremble that goes through her quaint old figure. but mr. george is so occupied with the almanac over the fire-place (calculating the coming months by it perhaps) that he does not look round until she has gone away and the door is closed upon her. "george," mr. bagnet gruffly whispers when he does turn from the almanac at last. "don't be cast down! 'why, soldiers, why--should we be melancholy, boys?' cheer up, my hearty!" the clerk having now again gone in to say that they are still there and mr. tulkinghorn being heard to return with some irascibility, "let 'em come in then!" they pass into the great room with the painted ceiling and find him standing before the fire. "now, you men, what do you want? sergeant, i told you the last time i saw you that i don't desire your company here." sergeant replies--dashed within the last few minutes as to his usual manner of speech, and even as to his usual carriage--that he has received this letter, has been to mr. smallweed about it, and has been referred there. "i have nothing to say to you," rejoins mr. tulkinghorn. "if you get into debt, you must pay your debts or take the consequences. you have no occasion to come here to learn that, i suppose?" sergeant is sorry to say that he is not prepared with the money. "very well! then the other man--this man, if this is he--must pay it for you." sergeant is sorry to add that the other man is not prepared with the money either. "very well! then you must pay it between you or you must both be sued for it and both suffer. you have had the money and must refund it. you are not to pocket other people's pounds, shillings, and pence and escape scot-free." the lawyer sits down in his easy-chair and stirs the fire. mr. george hopes he will have the goodness to--"i tell you, sergeant, i have nothing to say to you. i don't like your associates and don't want you here. this matter is not at all in my course of practice and is not in my office. mr. smallweed is good enough to offer these affairs to me, but they are not in my way. you must go to melchisedech's in clifford's inn." "i must make an apology to you, sir," says mr. george, "for pressing myself upon you with so little encouragement--which is almost as unpleasant to me as it can be to you--but would you let me say a private word to you?" mr. tulkinghorn rises with his hands in his pockets and walks into one of the window recesses. "now! i have no time to waste." in the midst of his perfect assumption of indifference, he directs a sharp look at the trooper, taking care to stand with his own back to the light and to have the other with his face towards it. "well, sir," says mr. george, "this man with me is the other party implicated in this unfortunate affair--nominally, only nominally--and my sole object is to prevent his getting into trouble on my account. he is a most respectable man with a wife and family, formerly in the royal artillery--" "my friend, i don't care a pinch of snuff for the whole royal artillery establishment--officers, men, tumbrils, waggons, horses, guns, and ammunition." "'tis likely, sir. but i care a good deal for bagnet and his wife and family being injured on my account. and if i could bring them through this matter, i should have no help for it but to give up without any other consideration what you wanted of me the other day." "have you got it here?" "i have got it here, sir." "sergeant," the lawyer proceeds in his dry passionless manner, far more hopeless in the dealing with than any amount of vehemence, "make up your mind while i speak to you, for this is final. after i have finished speaking i have closed the subject, and i won't re-open it. understand that. you can leave here, for a few days, what you say you have brought here if you choose; you can take it away at once if you choose. in case you choose to leave it here, i can do this for you--i can replace this matter on its old footing, and i can go so far besides as to give you a written undertaking that this man bagnet shall never be troubled in any way until you have been proceeded against to the utmost, that your means shall be exhausted before the creditor looks to his. this is in fact all but freeing him. have you decided?" the trooper puts his hand into his breast and answers with a long breath, "i must do it, sir." so mr. tulkinghorn, putting on his spectacles, sits down and writes the undertaking, which he slowly reads and explains to bagnet, who has all this time been staring at the ceiling and who puts his hand on his bald head again, under this new verbal shower-bath, and seems exceedingly in need of the old girl through whom to express his sentiments. the trooper then takes from his breast-pocket a folded paper, which he lays with an unwilling hand at the lawyer's elbow. "'tis only a letter of instructions, sir. the last i ever had from him." look at a millstone, mr. george, for some change in its expression, and you will find it quite as soon as in the face of mr. tulkinghorn when he opens and reads the letter! he refolds it and lays it in his desk with a countenance as unperturbable as death. nor has he anything more to say or do but to nod once in the same frigid and discourteous manner and to say briefly, "you can go. show these men out, there!" being shown out, they repair to mr. bagnet's residence to dine. boiled beef and greens constitute the day's variety on the former repast of boiled pork and greens, and mrs. bagnet serves out the meal in the same way and seasons it with the best of temper, being that rare sort of old girl that she receives good to her arms without a hint that it might be better and catches light from any little spot of darkness near her. the spot on this occasion is the darkened brow of mr. george; he is unusually thoughtful and depressed. at first mrs. bagnet trusts to the combined endearments of quebec and malta to restore him, but finding those young ladies sensible that their existing bluffy is not the bluffy of their usual frolicsome acquaintance, she winks off the light infantry and leaves him to deploy at leisure on the open ground of the domestic hearth. but he does not. he remains in close order, clouded and depressed. during the lengthy cleaning up and pattening process, when he and mr. bagnet are supplied with their pipes, he is no better than he was at dinner. he forgets to smoke, looks at the fire and ponders, lets his pipe out, fills the breast of mr. bagnet with perturbation and dismay by showing that he has no enjoyment of tobacco. therefore when mrs. bagnet at last appears, rosy from the invigorating pail, and sits down to her work, mr. bagnet growls, "old girl!" and winks monitions to her to find out what's the matter. "why, george!" says mrs. bagnet, quietly threading her needle. "how low you are!" "am i? not good company? well, i am afraid i am not." "he ain't at all like bluffy, mother!" cries little malta. "because he ain't well, i think, mother," adds quebec. "sure that's a bad sign not to be like bluffy, too!" returns the trooper, kissing the young damsels. "but it's true," with a sigh, "true, i am afraid. these little ones are always right!" "george," says mrs. bagnet, working busily, "if i thought you cross enough to think of anything that a shrill old soldier's wife--who could have bitten her tongue off afterwards and ought to have done it almost--said this morning, i don't know what i shouldn't say to you now." "my kind soul of a darling," returns the trooper. "not a morsel of it." "because really and truly, george, what i said and meant to say was that i trusted lignum to you and was sure you'd bring him through it. and you have brought him through it, noble!" "thankee, my dear!" says george. "i am glad of your good opinion." in giving mrs. bagnet's hand, with her work in it, a friendly shake--for she took her seat beside him--the trooper's attention is attracted to her face. after looking at it for a little while as she plies her needle, he looks to young woolwich, sitting on his stool in the corner, and beckons that fifer to him. "see there, my boy," says george, very gently smoothing the mother's hair with his hand, "there's a good loving forehead for you! all bright with love of you, my boy. a little touched by the sun and the weather through following your father about and taking care of you, but as fresh and wholesome as a ripe apple on a tree." mr. bagnet's face expresses, so far as in its wooden material lies, the highest approbation and acquiescence. "the time will come, my boy," pursues the trooper, "when this hair of your mother's will be grey, and this forehead all crossed and re-crossed with wrinkles, and a fine old lady she'll be then. take care, while you are young, that you can think in those days, 'i never whitened a hair of her dear head--i never marked a sorrowful line in her face!' for of all the many things that you can think of when you are a man, you had better have that by you, woolwich!" mr. george concludes by rising from his chair, seating the boy beside his mother in it, and saying, with something of a hurry about him, that he'll smoke his pipe in the street a bit. chapter xxxv esther's narrative i lay ill through several weeks, and the usual tenor of my life became like an old remembrance. but this was not the effect of time so much as of the change in all my habits made by the helplessness and inaction of a sick-room. before i had been confined to it many days, everything else seemed to have retired into a remote distance where there was little or no separation between the various stages of my life which had been really divided by years. in falling ill, i seemed to have crossed a dark lake and to have left all my experiences, mingled together by the great distance, on the healthy shore. my housekeeping duties, though at first it caused me great anxiety to think that they were unperformed, were soon as far off as the oldest of the old duties at greenleaf or the summer afternoons when i went home from school with my portfolio under my arm, and my childish shadow at my side, to my godmother's house. i had never known before how short life really was and into how small a space the mind could put it. while i was very ill, the way in which these divisions of time became confused with one another distressed my mind exceedingly. at once a child, an elder girl, and the little woman i had been so happy as, i was not only oppressed by cares and difficulties adapted to each station, but by the great perplexity of endlessly trying to reconcile them. i suppose that few who have not been in such a condition can quite understand what i mean or what painful unrest arose from this source. for the same reason i am almost afraid to hint at that time in my disorder--it seemed one long night, but i believe there were both nights and days in it--when i laboured up colossal staircases, ever striving to reach the top, and ever turned, as i have seen a worm in a garden path, by some obstruction, and labouring again. i knew perfectly at intervals, and i think vaguely at most times, that i was in my bed; and i talked with charley, and felt her touch, and knew her very well; yet i would find myself complaining, "oh, more of these never-ending stairs, charley--more and more--piled up to the sky', i think!" and labouring on again. dare i hint at that worse time when, strung together somewhere in great black space, there was a flaming necklace, or ring, or starry circle of some kind, of which i was one of the beads! and when my only prayer was to be taken off from the rest and when it was such inexplicable agony and misery to be a part of the dreadful thing? perhaps the less i say of these sick experiences, the less tedious and the more intelligible i shall be. i do not recall them to make others unhappy or because i am now the least unhappy in remembering them. it may be that if we knew more of such strange afflictions we might be the better able to alleviate their intensity. the repose that succeeded, the long delicious sleep, the blissful rest, when in my weakness i was too calm to have any care for myself and could have heard (or so i think now) that i was dying, with no other emotion than with a pitying love for those i left behind--this state can be perhaps more widely understood. i was in this state when i first shrunk from the light as it twinkled on me once more, and knew with a boundless joy for which no words are rapturous enough that i should see again. i had heard my ada crying at the door, day and night; i had heard her calling to me that i was cruel and did not love her; i had heard her praying and imploring to be let in to nurse and comfort me and to leave my bedside no more; but i had only said, when i could speak, "never, my sweet girl, never!" and i had over and over again reminded charley that she was to keep my darling from the room whether i lived or died. charley had been true to me in that time of need, and with her little hand and her great heart had kept the door fast. but now, my sight strengthening and the glorious light coming every day more fully and brightly on me, i could read the letters that my dear wrote to me every morning and evening and could put them to my lips and lay my cheek upon them with no fear of hurting her. i could see my little maid, so tender and so careful, going about the two rooms setting everything in order and speaking cheerfully to ada from the open window again. i could understand the stillness in the house and the thoughtfulness it expressed on the part of all those who had always been so good to me. i could weep in the exquisite felicity of my heart and be as happy in my weakness as ever i had been in my strength. by and by my strength began to be restored. instead of lying, with so strange a calmness, watching what was done for me, as if it were done for some one else whom i was quietly sorry for, i helped it a little, and so on to a little more and much more, until i became useful to myself, and interested, and attached to life again. how well i remember the pleasant afternoon when i was raised in bed with pillows for the first time to enjoy a great tea-drinking with charley! the little creature--sent into the world, surely, to minister to the weak and sick--was so happy, and so busy, and stopped so often in her preparations to lay her head upon my bosom, and fondle me, and cry with joyful tears she was so glad, she was so glad, that i was obliged to say, "charley, if you go on in this way, i must lie down again, my darling, for i am weaker than i thought i was!" so charley became as quiet as a mouse and took her bright face here and there across and across the two rooms, out of the shade into the divine sunshine, and out of the sunshine into the shade, while i watched her peacefully. when all her preparations were concluded and the pretty tea-table with its little delicacies to tempt me, and its white cloth, and its flowers, and everything so lovingly and beautifully arranged for me by ada downstairs, was ready at the bedside, i felt sure i was steady enough to say something to charley that was not new to my thoughts. first i complimented charley on the room, and indeed it was so fresh and airy, so spotless and neat, that i could scarce believe i had been lying there so long. this delighted charley, and her face was brighter than before. "yet, charley," said i, looking round, "i miss something, surely, that i am accustomed to?" poor little charley looked round too and pretended to shake her head as if there were nothing absent. "are the pictures all as they used to be?" i asked her. "every one of them, miss," said charley. "and the furniture, charley?" "except where i have moved it about to make more room, miss." "and yet," said i, "i miss some familiar object. ah, i know what it is, charley! it's the looking-glass." charley got up from the table, making as if she had forgotten something, and went into the next room; and i heard her sob there. i had thought of this very often. i was now certain of it. i could thank god that it was not a shock to me now. i called charley back, and when she came--at first pretending to smile, but as she drew nearer to me, looking grieved--i took her in my arms and said, "it matters very little, charley. i hope i can do without my old face very well." i was presently so far advanced as to be able to sit up in a great chair and even giddily to walk into the adjoining room, leaning on charley. the mirror was gone from its usual place in that room too, but what i had to bear was none the harder to bear for that. my guardian had throughout been earnest to visit me, and there was now no good reason why i should deny myself that happiness. he came one morning, and when he first came in, could only hold me in his embrace and say, "my dear, dear girl!" i had long known--who could know better?--what a deep fountain of affection and generosity his heart was; and was it not worth my trivial suffering and change to fill such a place in it? "oh, yes!" i thought. "he has seen me, and he loves me better than he did; he has seen me and is even fonder of me than he was before; and what have i to mourn for!" he sat down by me on the sofa, supporting me with his arm. for a little while he sat with his hand over his face, but when he removed it, fell into his usual manner. there never can have been, there never can be, a pleasanter manner. "my little woman," said he, "what a sad time this has been. such an inflexible little woman, too, through all!" "only for the best, guardian," said i. "for the best?" he repeated tenderly. "of course, for the best. but here have ada and i been perfectly forlorn and miserable; here has your friend caddy been coming and going late and early; here has every one about the house been utterly lost and dejected; here has even poor rick been writing--to me too--in his anxiety for you!" i had read of caddy in ada's letters, but not of richard. i told him so. "why, no, my dear," he replied. "i have thought it better not to mention it to her." "and you speak of his writing to you," said i, repeating his emphasis. "as if it were not natural for him to do so, guardian; as if he could write to a better friend!" "he thinks he could, my love," returned my guardian, "and to many a better. the truth is, he wrote to me under a sort of protest while unable to write to you with any hope of an answer--wrote coldly, haughtily, distantly, resentfully. well, dearest little woman, we must look forbearingly on it. he is not to blame. jarndyce and jarndyce has warped him out of himself and perverted me in his eyes. i have known it do as bad deeds, and worse, many a time. if two angels could be concerned in it, i believe it would change their nature." "it has not changed yours, guardian." "oh, yes, it has, my dear," he said laughingly. "it has made the south wind easterly, i don't know how often. rick mistrusts and suspects me--goes to lawyers, and is taught to mistrust and suspect me. hears i have conflicting interests, claims clashing against his and what not. whereas, heaven knows that if i could get out of the mountains of wiglomeration on which my unfortunate name has been so long bestowed (which i can't) or could level them by the extinction of my own original right (which i can't either, and no human power ever can, anyhow, i believe, to such a pass have we got), i would do it this hour. i would rather restore to poor rick his proper nature than be endowed with all the money that dead suitors, broken, heart and soul, upon the wheel of chancery, have left unclaimed with the accountant-general--and that's money enough, my dear, to be cast into a pyramid, in memory of chancery's transcendent wickedness." "is it possible, guardian," i asked, amazed, "that richard can be suspicious of you?" "ah, my love, my love," he said, "it is in the subtle poison of such abuses to breed such diseases. his blood is infected, and objects lose their natural aspects in his sight. it is not his fault." "but it is a terrible misfortune, guardian." "it is a terrible misfortune, little woman, to be ever drawn within the influences of jarndyce and jarndyce. i know none greater. by little and little he has been induced to trust in that rotten reed, and it communicates some portion of its rottenness to everything around him. but again i say with all my soul, we must be patient with poor rick and not blame him. what a troop of fine fresh hearts like his have i seen in my time turned by the same means!" i could not help expressing something of my wonder and regret that his benevolent, disinterested intentions had prospered so little. "we must not say so, dame durden," he cheerfully replied; "ada is the happier, i hope, and that is much. i did think that i and both these young creatures might be friends instead of distrustful foes and that we might so far counter-act the suit and prove too strong for it. but it was too much to expect. jarndyce and jarndyce was the curtain of rick's cradle." "but, guardian, may we not hope that a little experience will teach him what a false and wretched thing it is?" "we will hope so, my esther," said mr. jarndyce, "and that it may not teach him so too late. in any case we must not be hard on him. there are not many grown and matured men living while we speak, good men too, who if they were thrown into this same court as suitors would not be vitally changed and depreciated within three years--within two--within one. how can we stand amazed at poor rick? a young man so unfortunate," here he fell into a lower tone, as if he were thinking aloud, "cannot at first believe (who could?) that chancery is what it is. he looks to it, flushed and fitfully, to do something with his interests and bring them to some settlement. it procrastinates, disappoints, tries, tortures him; wears out his sanguine hopes and patience, thread by thread; but he still looks to it, and hankers after it, and finds his whole world treacherous and hollow. well, well, well! enough of this, my dear!" he had supported me, as at first, all this time, and his tenderness was so precious to me that i leaned my head upon his shoulder and loved him as if he had been my father. i resolved in my own mind in this little pause, by some means, to see richard when i grew strong and try to set him right. "there are better subjects than these," said my guardian, "for such a joyful time as the time of our dear girl's recovery. and i had a commission to broach one of them as soon as i should begin to talk. when shall ada come to see you, my love?" i had been thinking of that too. a little in connexion with the absent mirrors, but not much, for i knew my loving girl would be changed by no change in my looks. "dear guardian," said i, "as i have shut her out so long--though indeed, indeed, she is like the light to me--" "i know it well, dame durden, well." he was so good, his touch expressed such endearing compassion and affection, and the tone of his voice carried such comfort into my heart that i stopped for a little while, quite unable to go on. "yes, yes, you are tired," said he. "rest a little." "as i have kept ada out so long," i began afresh after a short while, "i think i should like to have my own way a little longer, guardian. it would be best to be away from here before i see her. if charley and i were to go to some country lodging as soon as i can move, and if i had a week there in which to grow stronger and to be revived by the sweet air and to look forward to the happiness of having ada with me again, i think it would be better for us." i hope it was not a poor thing in me to wish to be a little more used to my altered self before i met the eyes of the dear girl i longed so ardently to see, but it is the truth. i did. he understood me, i was sure; but i was not afraid of that. if it were a poor thing, i knew he would pass it over. "our spoilt little woman," said my guardian, "shall have her own way even in her inflexibility, though at the price, i know, of tears downstairs. and see here! here is boythorn, heart of chivalry, breathing such ferocious vows as never were breathed on paper before, that if you don't go and occupy his whole house, he having already turned out of it expressly for that purpose, by heaven and by earth he'll pull it down and not leave one brick standing on another!" and my guardian put a letter in my hand, without any ordinary beginning such as "my dear jarndyce," but rushing at once into the words, "i swear if miss summerson do not come down and take possession of my house, which i vacate for her this day at one o'clock, p.m.," and then with the utmost seriousness, and in the most emphatic terms, going on to make the extraordinary declaration he had quoted. we did not appreciate the writer the less for laughing heartily over it, and we settled that i should send him a letter of thanks on the morrow and accept his offer. it was a most agreeable one to me, for all the places i could have thought of, i should have liked to go to none so well as chesney wold. "now, little housewife," said my guardian, looking at his watch, "i was strictly timed before i came upstairs, for you must not be tired too soon; and my time has waned away to the last minute. i have one other petition. little miss flite, hearing a rumour that you were ill, made nothing of walking down here--twenty miles, poor soul, in a pair of dancing shoes--to inquire. it was heaven's mercy we were at home, or she would have walked back again." the old conspiracy to make me happy! everybody seemed to be in it! "now, pet," said my guardian, "if it would not be irksome to you to admit the harmless little creature one afternoon before you save boythorn's otherwise devoted house from demolition, i believe you would make her prouder and better pleased with herself than i--though my eminent name is jarndyce--could do in a lifetime." i have no doubt he knew there would be something in the simple image of the poor afflicted creature that would fall like a gentle lesson on my mind at that time. i felt it as he spoke to me. i could not tell him heartily enough how ready i was to receive her. i had always pitied her, never so much as now. i had always been glad of my little power to soothe her under her calamity, but never, never, half so glad before. we arranged a time for miss flite to come out by the coach and share my early dinner. when my guardian left me, i turned my face away upon my couch and prayed to be forgiven if i, surrounded by such blessings, had magnified to myself the little trial that i had to undergo. the childish prayer of that old birthday when i had aspired to be industrious, contented, and true-hearted and to do good to some one and win some love to myself if i could came back into my mind with a reproachful sense of all the happiness i had since enjoyed and all the affectionate hearts that had been turned towards me. if i were weak now, what had i profited by those mercies? i repeated the old childish prayer in its old childish words and found that its old peace had not departed from it. my guardian now came every day. in a week or so more i could walk about our rooms and hold long talks with ada from behind the window-curtain. yet i never saw her, for i had not as yet the courage to look at the dear face, though i could have done so easily without her seeing me. on the appointed day miss flite arrived. the poor little creature ran into my room quite forgetful of her usual dignity, and crying from her very heart of hearts, "my dear fitz jarndyce!" fell upon my neck and kissed me twenty times. "dear me!" said she, putting her hand into her reticule, "i have nothing here but documents, my dear fitz jarndyce; i must borrow a pocket handkerchief." charley gave her one, and the good creature certainly made use of it, for she held it to her eyes with both hands and sat so, shedding tears for the next ten minutes. "with pleasure, my dear fitz jarndyce," she was careful to explain. "not the least pain. pleasure to see you well again. pleasure at having the honour of being admitted to see you. i am so much fonder of you, my love, than of the chancellor. though i do attend court regularly. by the by, my dear, mentioning pocket handkerchiefs--" miss flite here looked at charley, who had been to meet her at the place where the coach stopped. charley glanced at me and looked unwilling to pursue the suggestion. "ve-ry right!" said miss flite, "ve-ry correct. truly! highly indiscreet of me to mention it; but my dear miss fitz jarndyce, i am afraid i am at times (between ourselves, you wouldn't think it) a little--rambling you know," said miss flite, touching her forehead. "nothing more." "what were you going to tell me?" said i, smiling, for i saw she wanted to go on. "you have roused my curiosity, and now you must gratify it." miss flite looked at charley for advice in this important crisis, who said, "if you please, ma'am, you had better tell then," and therein gratified miss flite beyond measure. "so sagacious, our young friend," said she to me in her mysterious way. "diminutive. but ve-ry sagacious! well, my dear, it's a pretty anecdote. nothing more. still i think it charming. who should follow us down the road from the coach, my dear, but a poor person in a very ungenteel bonnet--" "jenny, if you please, miss," said charley. "just so!" miss flite acquiesced with the greatest suavity. "jenny. ye-es! and what does she tell our young friend but that there has been a lady with a veil inquiring at her cottage after my dear fitz jarndyce's health and taking a handkerchief away with her as a little keepsake merely because it was my amiable fitz jarndyce's! now, you know, so very prepossessing in the lady with the veil!" "if you please, miss," said charley, to whom i looked in some astonishment, "jenny says that when her baby died, you left a handkerchief there, and that she put it away and kept it with the baby's little things. i think, if you please, partly because it was yours, miss, and partly because it had covered the baby." "diminutive," whispered miss flite, making a variety of motions about her own forehead to express intellect in charley. "but exceedingly sagacious! and so dear! my love, she's clearer than any counsel i ever heard!" "yes, charley," i returned. "i remember it. well?" "well, miss," said charley, "and that's the handkerchief the lady took. and jenny wants you to know that she wouldn't have made away with it herself for a heap of money but that the lady took it and left some money instead. jenny don't know her at all, if you please, miss!" "why, who can she be?" said i. "my love," miss flite suggested, advancing her lips to my ear with her most mysterious look, "in my opinion--don't mention this to our diminutive friend--she's the lord chancellor's wife. he's married, you know. and i understand she leads him a terrible life. throws his lordship's papers into the fire, my dear, if he won't pay the jeweller!" i did not think very much about this lady then, for i had an impression that it might be caddy. besides, my attention was diverted by my visitor, who was cold after her ride and looked hungry and who, our dinner being brought in, required some little assistance in arraying herself with great satisfaction in a pitiable old scarf and a much-worn and often-mended pair of gloves, which she had brought down in a paper parcel. i had to preside, too, over the entertainment, consisting of a dish of fish, a roast fowl, a sweetbread, vegetables, pudding, and madeira; and it was so pleasant to see how she enjoyed it, and with what state and ceremony she did honour to it, that i was soon thinking of nothing else. when we had finished and had our little dessert before us, embellished by the hands of my dear, who would yield the superintendence of everything prepared for me to no one, miss flite was so very chatty and happy that i thought i would lead her to her own history, as she was always pleased to talk about herself. i began by saying "you have attended on the lord chancellor many years, miss flite?" "oh, many, many, many years, my dear. but i expect a judgment. shortly." there was an anxiety even in her hopefulness that made me doubtful if i had done right in approaching the subject. i thought i would say no more about it. "my father expected a judgment," said miss flite. "my brother. my sister. they all expected a judgment. the same that i expect." "they are all--" "ye-es. dead of course, my dear," said she. as i saw she would go on, i thought it best to try to be serviceable to her by meeting the theme rather than avoiding it. "would it not be wiser," said i, "to expect this judgment no more?" "why, my dear," she answered promptly, "of course it would!" "and to attend the court no more?" "equally of course," said she. "very wearing to be always in expectation of what never comes, my dear fitz jarndyce! wearing, i assure you, to the bone!" she slightly showed me her arm, and it was fearfully thin indeed. "but, my dear," she went on in her mysterious way, "there's a dreadful attraction in the place. hush! don't mention it to our diminutive friend when she comes in. or it may frighten her. with good reason. there's a cruel attraction in the place. you can't leave it. and you must expect." i tried to assure her that this was not so. she heard me patiently and smilingly, but was ready with her own answer. "aye, aye, aye! you think so because i am a little rambling. ve-ry absurd, to be a little rambling, is it not? ve-ry confusing, too. to the head. i find it so. but, my dear, i have been there many years, and i have noticed. it's the mace and seal upon the table." what could they do, did she think? i mildly asked her. "draw," returned miss flite. "draw people on, my dear. draw peace out of them. sense out of them. good looks out of them. good qualities out of them. i have felt them even drawing my rest away in the night. cold and glittering devils!" she tapped me several times upon the arm and nodded good-humouredly as if she were anxious i should understand that i had no cause to fear her, though she spoke so gloomily, and confided these awful secrets to me. "let me see," said she. "i'll tell you my own case. before they ever drew me--before i had ever seen them--what was it i used to do? tambourine playing? no. tambour work. i and my sister worked at tambour work. our father and our brother had a builder's business. we all lived together. ve-ry respectably, my dear! first, our father was drawn--slowly. home was drawn with him. in a few years he was a fierce, sour, angry bankrupt without a kind word or a kind look for any one. he had been so different, fitz jarndyce. he was drawn to a debtors' prison. there he died. then our brother was drawn--swiftly--to drunkenness. and rags. and death. then my sister was drawn. hush! never ask to what! then i was ill and in misery, and heard, as i had often heard before, that this was all the work of chancery. when i got better, i went to look at the monster. and then i found out how it was, and i was drawn to stay there." having got over her own short narrative, in the delivery of which she had spoken in a low, strained voice, as if the shock were fresh upon her, she gradually resumed her usual air of amiable importance. "you don't quite credit me, my dear! well, well! you will, some day. i am a little rambling. but i have noticed. i have seen many new faces come, unsuspicious, within the influence of the mace and seal in these many years. as my father's came there. as my brother's. as my sister's. as my own. i hear conversation kenge and the rest of them say to the new faces, 'here's little miss flite. oh, you are new here; and you must come and be presented to little miss flite!' ve-ry good. proud i am sure to have the honour! and we all laugh. but, fitz jarndyce, i know what will happen. i know, far better than they do, when the attraction has begun. i know the signs, my dear. i saw them begin in gridley. and i saw them end. fitz jarndyce, my love," speaking low again, "i saw them beginning in our friend the ward in jarndyce. let some one hold him back. or he'll be drawn to ruin." she looked at me in silence for some moments, with her face gradually softening into a smile. seeming to fear that she had been too gloomy, and seeming also to lose the connexion in her mind, she said politely as she sipped her glass of wine, "yes, my dear, as i was saying, i expect a judgment shortly. then i shall release my birds, you know, and confer estates." i was much impressed by her allusion to richard and by the sad meaning, so sadly illustrated in her poor pinched form, that made its way through all her incoherence. but happily for her, she was quite complacent again now and beamed with nods and smiles. "but, my dear," she said, gaily, reaching another hand to put it upon mine. "you have not congratulated me on my physician. positively not once, yet!" i was obliged to confess that i did not quite know what she meant. "my physician, mr. woodcourt, my dear, who was so exceedingly attentive to me. though his services were rendered quite gratuitously. until the day of judgment. i mean the judgment that will dissolve the spell upon me of the mace and seal." "mr. woodcourt is so far away, now," said i, "that i thought the time for such congratulation was past, miss flite." "but, my child," she returned, "is it possible that you don't know what has happened?" "no," said i. "not what everybody has been talking of, my beloved fitz jarndyce!" "no," said i. "you forget how long i have been here." "true! my dear, for the moment--true. i blame myself. but my memory has been drawn out of me, with everything else, by what i mentioned. ve-ry strong influence, is it not? well, my dear, there has been a terrible shipwreck over in those east indian seas." "mr. woodcourt shipwrecked!" "don't be agitated, my dear. he is safe. an awful scene. death in all shapes. hundreds of dead and dying. fire, storm, and darkness. numbers of the drowning thrown upon a rock. there, and through it all, my dear physician was a hero. calm and brave through everything. saved many lives, never complained in hunger and thirst, wrapped naked people in his spare clothes, took the lead, showed them what to do, governed them, tended the sick, buried the dead, and brought the poor survivors safely off at last! my dear, the poor emaciated creatures all but worshipped him. they fell down at his feet when they got to the land and blessed him. the whole country rings with it. stay! where's my bag of documents? i have got it there, and you shall read it, you shall read it!" and i did read all the noble history, though very slowly and imperfectly then, for my eyes were so dimmed that i could not see the words, and i cried so much that i was many times obliged to lay down the long account she had cut out of the newspaper. i felt so triumphant ever to have known the man who had done such generous and gallant deeds, i felt such glowing exultation in his renown, i so admired and loved what he had done, that i envied the storm-worn people who had fallen at his feet and blessed him as their preserver. i could myself have kneeled down then, so far away, and blessed him in my rapture that he should be so truly good and brave. i felt that no one--mother, sister, wife--could honour him more than i. i did, indeed! my poor little visitor made me a present of the account, and when as the evening began to close in she rose to take her leave, lest she should miss the coach by which she was to return, she was still full of the shipwreck, which i had not yet sufficiently composed myself to understand in all its details. "my dear," said she as she carefully folded up her scarf and gloves, "my brave physician ought to have a title bestowed upon him. and no doubt he will. you are of that opinion?" that he well deserved one, yes. that he would ever have one, no. "why not, fitz jarndyce?" she asked rather sharply. i said it was not the custom in england to confer titles on men distinguished by peaceful services, however good and great, unless occasionally when they consisted of the accumulation of some very large amount of money. "why, good gracious," said miss flite, "how can you say that? surely you know, my dear, that all the greatest ornaments of england in knowledge, imagination, active humanity, and improvement of every sort are added to its nobility! look round you, my dear, and consider. you must be rambling a little now, i think, if you don't know that this is the great reason why titles will always last in the land!" i am afraid she believed what she said, for there were moments when she was very mad indeed. and now i must part with the little secret i have thus far tried to keep. i had thought, sometimes, that mr. woodcourt loved me and that if he had been richer he would perhaps have told me that he loved me before he went away. i had thought, sometimes, that if he had done so, i should have been glad of it. but how much better it was now that this had never happened! what should i have suffered if i had had to write to him and tell him that the poor face he had known as mine was quite gone from me and that i freely released him from his bondage to one whom he had never seen! oh, it was so much better as it was! with a great pang mercifully spared me, i could take back to my heart my childish prayer to be all he had so brightly shown himself; and there was nothing to be undone: no chain for me to break or for him to drag; and i could go, please god, my lowly way along the path of duty, and he could go his nobler way upon its broader road; and though we were apart upon the journey, i might aspire to meet him, unselfishly, innocently, better far than he had thought me when i found some favour in his eyes, at the journey's end. chapter xxxvi chesney wold charley and i did not set off alone upon our expedition into lincolnshire. my guardian had made up his mind not to lose sight of me until i was safe in mr. boythorn's house, so he accompanied us, and we were two days upon the road. i found every breath of air, and every scent, and every flower and leaf and blade of grass, and every passing cloud, and everything in nature, more beautiful and wonderful to me than i had ever found it yet. this was my first gain from my illness. how little i had lost, when the wide world was so full of delight for me. my guardian intending to go back immediately, we appointed, on our way down, a day when my dear girl should come. i wrote her a letter, of which he took charge, and he left us within half an hour of our arrival at our destination, on a delightful evening in the early summer-time. if a good fairy had built the house for me with a wave of her wand, and i had been a princess and her favoured god-child, i could not have been more considered in it. so many preparations were made for me and such an endearing remembrance was shown of all my little tastes and likings that i could have sat down, overcome, a dozen times before i had revisited half the rooms. i did better than that, however, by showing them all to charley instead. charley's delight calmed mine; and after we had had a walk in the garden, and charley had exhausted her whole vocabulary of admiring expressions, i was as tranquilly happy as i ought to have been. it was a great comfort to be able to say to myself after tea, "esther, my dear, i think you are quite sensible enough to sit down now and write a note of thanks to your host." he had left a note of welcome for me, as sunny as his own face, and had confided his bird to my care, which i knew to be his highest mark of confidence. accordingly i wrote a little note to him in london, telling him how all his favourite plants and trees were looking, and how the most astonishing of birds had chirped the honours of the house to me in the most hospitable manner, and how, after singing on my shoulder, to the inconceivable rapture of my little maid, he was then at roost in the usual corner of his cage, but whether dreaming or no i could not report. my note finished and sent off to the post, i made myself very busy in unpacking and arranging; and i sent charley to bed in good time and told her i should want her no more that night. for i had not yet looked in the glass and had never asked to have my own restored to me. i knew this to be a weakness which must be overcome, but i had always said to myself that i would begin afresh when i got to where i now was. therefore i had wanted to be alone, and therefore i said, now alone, in my own room, "esther, if you are to be happy, if you are to have any right to pray to be true-hearted, you must keep your word, my dear." i was quite resolved to keep it, but i sat down for a little while first to reflect upon all my blessings. and then i said my prayers and thought a little more. my hair had not been cut off, though it had been in danger more than once. it was long and thick. i let it down, and shook it out, and went up to the glass upon the dressing-table. there was a little muslin curtain drawn across it. i drew it back and stood for a moment looking through such a veil of my own hair that i could see nothing else. then i put my hair aside and looked at the reflection in the mirror, encouraged by seeing how placidly it looked at me. i was very much changed--oh, very, very much. at first my face was so strange to me that i think i should have put my hands before it and started back but for the encouragement i have mentioned. very soon it became more familiar, and then i knew the extent of the alteration in it better than i had done at first. it was not like what i had expected, but i had expected nothing definite, and i dare say anything definite would have surprised me. i had never been a beauty and had never thought myself one, but i had been very different from this. it was all gone now. heaven was so good to me that i could let it go with a few not bitter tears and could stand there arranging my hair for the night quite thankfully. one thing troubled me, and i considered it for a long time before i went to sleep. i had kept mr. woodcourt's flowers. when they were withered i had dried them and put them in a book that i was fond of. nobody knew this, not even ada. i was doubtful whether i had a right to preserve what he had sent to one so different--whether it was generous towards him to do it. i wished to be generous to him, even in the secret depths of my heart, which he would never know, because i could have loved him--could have been devoted to him. at last i came to the conclusion that i might keep them if i treasured them only as a remembrance of what was irrevocably past and gone, never to be looked back on any more, in any other light. i hope this may not seem trivial. i was very much in earnest. i took care to be up early in the morning and to be before the glass when charley came in on tiptoe. "dear, dear, miss!" cried charley, starting. "is that you?" "yes, charley," said i, quietly putting up my hair. "and i am very well indeed, and very happy." i saw it was a weight off charley's mind, but it was a greater weight off mine. i knew the worst now and was composed to it. i shall not conceal, as i go on, the weaknesses i could not quite conquer, but they always passed from me soon and the happier frame of mind stayed by me faithfully. wishing to be fully re-established in my strength and my good spirits before ada came, i now laid down a little series of plans with charley for being in the fresh air all day long. we were to be out before breakfast, and were to dine early, and were to be out again before and after dinner, and were to talk in the garden after tea, and were to go to rest betimes, and were to climb every hill and explore every road, lane, and field in the neighbourhood. as to restoratives and strengthening delicacies, mr. boythorn's good housekeeper was for ever trotting about with something to eat or drink in her hand; i could not even be heard of as resting in the park but she would come trotting after me with a basket, her cheerful face shining with a lecture on the importance of frequent nourishment. then there was a pony expressly for my riding, a chubby pony with a short neck and a mane all over his eyes who could canter--when he would--so easily and quietly that he was a treasure. in a very few days he would come to me in the paddock when i called him, and eat out of my hand, and follow me about. we arrived at such a capital understanding that when he was jogging with me lazily, and rather obstinately, down some shady lane, if i patted his neck and said, "stubbs, i am surprised you don't canter when you know how much i like it; and i think you might oblige me, for you are only getting stupid and going to sleep," he would give his head a comical shake or two and set off directly, while charley would stand still and laugh with such enjoyment that her laughter was like music. i don't know who had given stubbs his name, but it seemed to belong to him as naturally as his rough coat. once we put him in a little chaise and drove him triumphantly through the green lanes for five miles; but all at once, as we were extolling him to the skies, he seemed to take it ill that he should have been accompanied so far by the circle of tantalizing little gnats that had been hovering round and round his ears the whole way without appearing to advance an inch, and stopped to think about it. i suppose he came to the decision that it was not to be borne, for he steadily refused to move until i gave the reins to charley and got out and walked, when he followed me with a sturdy sort of good humour, putting his head under my arm and rubbing his ear against my sleeve. it was in vain for me to say, "now, stubbs, i feel quite sure from what i know of you that you will go on if i ride a little while," for the moment i left him, he stood stock still again. consequently i was obliged to lead the way, as before; and in this order we returned home, to the great delight of the village. charley and i had reason to call it the most friendly of villages, i am sure, for in a week's time the people were so glad to see us go by, though ever so frequently in the course of a day, that there were faces of greeting in every cottage. i had known many of the grown people before and almost all the children, but now the very steeple began to wear a familiar and affectionate look. among my new friends was an old old woman who lived in such a little thatched and whitewashed dwelling that when the outside shutter was turned up on its hinges, it shut up the whole house-front. this old lady had a grandson who was a sailor, and i wrote a letter to him for her and drew at the top of it the chimney-corner in which she had brought him up and where his old stool yet occupied its old place. this was considered by the whole village the most wonderful achievement in the world, but when an answer came back all the way from plymouth, in which he mentioned that he was going to take the picture all the way to america, and from america would write again, i got all the credit that ought to have been given to the post-office and was invested with the merit of the whole system. thus, what with being so much in the air, playing with so many children, gossiping with so many people, sitting on invitation in so many cottages, going on with charley's education, and writing long letters to ada every day, i had scarcely any time to think about that little loss of mine and was almost always cheerful. if i did think of it at odd moments now and then, i had only to be busy and forget it. i felt it more than i had hoped i should once when a child said, "mother, why is the lady not a pretty lady now like she used to be?" but when i found the child was not less fond of me, and drew its soft hand over my face with a kind of pitying protection in its touch, that soon set me up again. there were many little occurrences which suggested to me, with great consolation, how natural it is to gentle hearts to be considerate and delicate towards any inferiority. one of these particularly touched me. i happened to stroll into the little church when a marriage was just concluded, and the young couple had to sign the register. the bridegroom, to whom the pen was handed first, made a rude cross for his mark; the bride, who came next, did the same. now, i had known the bride when i was last there, not only as the prettiest girl in the place, but as having quite distinguished herself in the school, and i could not help looking at her with some surprise. she came aside and whispered to me, while tears of honest love and admiration stood in her bright eyes, "he's a dear good fellow, miss; but he can't write yet--he's going to learn of me--and i wouldn't shame him for the world!" why, what had i to fear, i thought, when there was this nobility in the soul of a labouring man's daughter! the air blew as freshly and revivingly upon me as it had ever blown, and the healthy colour came into my new face as it had come into my old one. charley was wonderful to see, she was so radiant and so rosy; and we both enjoyed the whole day and slept soundly the whole night. there was a favourite spot of mine in the park-woods of chesney wold where a seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. the wood had been cleared and opened to improve this point of sight, and the bright sunny landscape beyond was so beautiful that i rested there at least once every day. a picturesque part of the hall, called the ghost's walk, was seen to advantage from this higher ground; and the startling name, and the old legend in the dedlock family which i had heard from mr. boythorn accounting for it, mingled with the view and gave it something of a mysterious interest in addition to its real charms. there was a bank here, too, which was a famous one for violets; and as it was a daily delight of charley's to gather wild flowers, she took as much to the spot as i did. it would be idle to inquire now why i never went close to the house or never went inside it. the family were not there, i had heard on my arrival, and were not expected. i was far from being incurious or uninterested about the building; on the contrary, i often sat in this place wondering how the rooms ranged and whether any echo like a footstep really did resound at times, as the story said, upon the lonely ghost's walk. the indefinable feeling with which lady dedlock had impressed me may have had some influence in keeping me from the house even when she was absent. i am not sure. her face and figure were associated with it, naturally; but i cannot say that they repelled me from it, though something did. for whatever reason or no reason, i had never once gone near it, down to the day at which my story now arrives. i was resting at my favourite point after a long ramble, and charley was gathering violets at a little distance from me. i had been looking at the ghost's walk lying in a deep shade of masonry afar off and picturing to myself the female shape that was said to haunt it when i became aware of a figure approaching through the wood. the perspective was so long and so darkened by leaves, and the shadows of the branches on the ground made it so much more intricate to the eye, that at first i could not discern what figure it was. by little and little it revealed itself to be a woman's--a lady's--lady dedlock's. she was alone and coming to where i sat with a much quicker step, i observed to my surprise, than was usual with her. i was fluttered by her being unexpectedly so near (she was almost within speaking distance before i knew her) and would have risen to continue my walk. but i could not. i was rendered motionless. not so much by her hurried gesture of entreaty, not so much by her quick advance and outstretched hands, not so much by the great change in her manner and the absence of her haughty self-restraint, as by a something in her face that i had pined for and dreamed of when i was a little child, something i had never seen in any face, something i had never seen in hers before. a dread and faintness fell upon me, and i called to charley. lady dedlock stopped upon the instant and changed back almost to what i had known her. "miss summerson, i am afraid i have startled you," she said, now advancing slowly. "you can scarcely be strong yet. you have been very ill, i know. i have been much concerned to hear it." i could no more have removed my eyes from her pale face than i could have stirred from the bench on which i sat. she gave me her hand, and its deadly coldness, so at variance with the enforced composure of her features, deepened the fascination that overpowered me. i cannot say what was in my whirling thoughts. "you are recovering again?" she asked kindly. "i was quite well but a moment ago, lady dedlock." "is this your young attendant?" "yes." "will you send her on before and walk towards your house with me?" "charley," said i, "take your flowers home, and i will follow you directly." charley, with her best curtsy, blushingly tied on her bonnet and went her way. when she was gone, lady dedlock sat down on the seat beside me. i cannot tell in any words what the state of my mind was when i saw in her hand my handkerchief with which i had covered the dead baby. i looked at her, but i could not see her, i could not hear her, i could not draw my breath. the beating of my heart was so violent and wild that i felt as if my life were breaking from me. but when she caught me to her breast, kissed me, wept over me, compassionated me, and called me back to myself; when she fell down on her knees and cried to me, "oh, my child, my child, i am your wicked and unhappy mother! oh, try to forgive me!"--when i saw her at my feet on the bare earth in her great agony of mind, i felt, through all my tumult of emotion, a burst of gratitude to the providence of god that i was so changed as that i never could disgrace her by any trace of likeness, as that nobody could ever now look at me and look at her and remotely think of any near tie between us. i raised my mother up, praying and beseeching her not to stoop before me in such affliction and humiliation. i did so in broken, incoherent words, for besides the trouble i was in, it frightened me to see her at my feet. i told her--or i tried to tell her--that if it were for me, her child, under any circumstances to take upon me to forgive her, i did it, and had done it, many, many years. i told her that my heart overflowed with love for her, that it was natural love which nothing in the past had changed or could change. that it was not for me, then resting for the first time on my mother's bosom, to take her to account for having given me life, but that my duty was to bless her and receive her, though the whole world turned from her, and that i only asked her leave to do it. i held my mother in my embrace, and she held me in hers, and among the still woods in the silence of the summer day there seemed to be nothing but our two troubled minds that was not at peace. "to bless and receive me," groaned my mother, "it is far too late. i must travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where it will. from day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, i do not see the way before my guilty feet. this is the earthly punishment i have brought upon myself. i bear it, and i hide it." even in the thinking of her endurance, she drew her habitual air of proud indifference about her like a veil, though she soon cast it off again. "i must keep this secret, if by any means it can be kept, not wholly for myself. i have a husband, wretched and dishonouring creature that i am!" these words she uttered with a suppressed cry of despair, more terrible in its sound than any shriek. covering her face with her hands, she shrank down in my embrace as if she were unwilling that i should touch her; nor could i, by my utmost persuasions or by any endearments i could use, prevail upon her to rise. she said, no, no, no, she could only speak to me so; she must be proud and disdainful everywhere else; she would be humbled and ashamed there, in the only natural moments of her life. my unhappy mother told me that in my illness she had been nearly frantic. she had but then known that her child was living. she could not have suspected me to be that child before. she had followed me down here to speak to me but once in all her life. we never could associate, never could communicate, never probably from that time forth could interchange another word on earth. she put into my hands a letter she had written for my reading only and said when i had read it and destroyed it--but not so much for her sake, since she asked nothing, as for her husband's and my own--i must evermore consider her as dead. if i could believe that she loved me, in this agony in which i saw her, with a mother's love, she asked me to do that, for then i might think of her with a greater pity, imagining what she suffered. she had put herself beyond all hope and beyond all help. whether she preserved her secret until death or it came to be discovered and she brought dishonour and disgrace upon the name she had taken, it was her solitary struggle always; and no affection could come near her, and no human creature could render her any aid. "but is the secret safe so far?" i asked. "is it safe now, dearest mother?" "no," replied my mother. "it has been very near discovery. it was saved by an accident. it may be lost by another accident--to-morrow, any day." "do you dread a particular person?" "hush! do not tremble and cry so much for me. i am not worthy of these tears," said my mother, kissing my hands. "i dread one person very much." "an enemy?" "not a friend. one who is too passionless to be either. he is sir leicester dedlock's lawyer, mechanically faithful without attachment, and very jealous of the profit, privilege, and reputation of being master of the mysteries of great houses." "has he any suspicions?" "many." "not of you?" i said alarmed. "yes! he is always vigilant and always near me. i may keep him at a standstill, but i can never shake him off." "has he so little pity or compunction?" "he has none, and no anger. he is indifferent to everything but his calling. his calling is the acquisition of secrets and the holding possession of such power as they give him, with no sharer or opponent in it." "could you trust in him?" "i shall never try. the dark road i have trodden for so many years will end where it will. i follow it alone to the end, whatever the end be. it may be near, it may be distant; while the road lasts, nothing turns me." "dear mother, are you so resolved?" "i am resolved. i have long outbidden folly with folly, pride with pride, scorn with scorn, insolence with insolence, and have outlived many vanities with many more. i will outlive this danger, and outdie it, if i can. it has closed around me almost as awfully as if these woods of chesney wold had closed around the house, but my course through it is the same. i have but one; i can have but one." "mr. jarndyce--" i was beginning when my mother hurriedly inquired, "does he suspect?" "no," said i. "no, indeed! be assured that he does not!" and i told her what he had related to me as his knowledge of my story. "but he is so good and sensible," said i, "that perhaps if he knew--" my mother, who until this time had made no change in her position, raised her hand up to my lips and stopped me. "confide fully in him," she said after a little while. "you have my free consent--a small gift from such a mother to her injured child!--but do not tell me of it. some pride is left in me even yet." i explained, as nearly as i could then, or can recall now--for my agitation and distress throughout were so great that i scarcely understood myself, though every word that was uttered in the mother's voice, so unfamiliar and so melancholy to me, which in my childhood i had never learned to love and recognize, had never been sung to sleep with, had never heard a blessing from, had never had a hope inspired by, made an enduring impression on my memory--i say i explained, or tried to do it, how i had only hoped that mr. jarndyce, who had been the best of fathers to me, might be able to afford some counsel and support to her. but my mother answered no, it was impossible; no one could help her. through the desert that lay before her, she must go alone. "my child, my child!" she said. "for the last time! these kisses for the last time! these arms upon my neck for the last time! we shall meet no more. to hope to do what i seek to do, i must be what i have been so long. such is my reward and doom. if you hear of lady dedlock, brilliant, prosperous, and flattered, think of your wretched mother, conscience-stricken, underneath that mask! think that the reality is in her suffering, in her useless remorse, in her murdering within her breast the only love and truth of which it is capable! and then forgive her if you can, and cry to heaven to forgive her, which it never can!" we held one another for a little space yet, but she was so firm that she took my hands away, and put them back against my breast, and with a last kiss as she held them there, released them, and went from me into the wood. i was alone, and calm and quiet below me in the sun and shade lay the old house, with its terraces and turrets, on which there had seemed to me to be such complete repose when i first saw it, but which now looked like the obdurate and unpitying watcher of my mother's misery. stunned as i was, as weak and helpless at first as i had ever been in my sick chamber, the necessity of guarding against the danger of discovery, or even of the remotest suspicion, did me service. i took such precautions as i could to hide from charley that i had been crying, and i constrained myself to think of every sacred obligation that there was upon me to be careful and collected. it was not a little while before i could succeed or could even restrain bursts of grief, but after an hour or so i was better and felt that i might return. i went home very slowly and told charley, whom i found at the gate looking for me, that i had been tempted to extend my walk after lady dedlock had left me and that i was over-tired and would lie down. safe in my own room, i read the letter. i clearly derived from it--and that was much then--that i had not been abandoned by my mother. her elder and only sister, the godmother of my childhood, discovering signs of life in me when i had been laid aside as dead, had in her stern sense of duty, with no desire or willingness that i should live, reared me in rigid secrecy and had never again beheld my mother's face from within a few hours of my birth. so strangely did i hold my place in this world that until within a short time back i had never, to my own mother's knowledge, breathed--had been buried--had never been endowed with life--had never borne a name. when she had first seen me in the church she had been startled and had thought of what would have been like me if it had ever lived, and had lived on, but that was all then. what more the letter told me needs not to be repeated here. it has its own times and places in my story. my first care was to burn what my mother had written and to consume even its ashes. i hope it may not appear very unnatural or bad in me that i then became heavily sorrowful to think i had ever been reared. that i felt as if i knew it would have been better and happier for many people if indeed i had never breathed. that i had a terror of myself as the danger and the possible disgrace of my own mother and of a proud family name. that i was so confused and shaken as to be possessed by a belief that it was right and had been intended that i should die in my birth, and that it was wrong and not intended that i should be then alive. these are the real feelings that i had. i fell asleep worn out, and when i awoke i cried afresh to think that i was back in the world with my load of trouble for others. i was more than ever frightened of myself, thinking anew of her against whom i was a witness, of the owner of chesney wold, of the new and terrible meaning of the old words now moaning in my ear like a surge upon the shore, "your mother, esther, was your disgrace, and you are hers. the time will come--and soon enough--when you will understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can." with them, those other words returned, "pray daily that the sins of others be not visited upon your head." i could not disentangle all that was about me, and i felt as if the blame and the shame were all in me, and the visitation had come down. the day waned into a gloomy evening, overcast and sad, and i still contended with the same distress. i went out alone, and after walking a little in the park, watching the dark shades falling on the trees and the fitful flight of the bats, which sometimes almost touched me, was attracted to the house for the first time. perhaps i might not have gone near it if i had been in a stronger frame of mind. as it was, i took the path that led close by it. i did not dare to linger or to look up, but i passed before the terrace garden with its fragrant odours, and its broad walks, and its well-kept beds and smooth turf; and i saw how beautiful and grave it was, and how the old stone balustrades and parapets, and wide flights of shallow steps, were seamed by time and weather; and how the trained moss and ivy grew about them, and around the old stone pedestal of the sun-dial; and i heard the fountain falling. then the way went by long lines of dark windows diversified by turreted towers and porches of eccentric shapes, where old stone lions and grotesque monsters bristled outside dens of shadow and snarled at the evening gloom over the escutcheons they held in their grip. thence the path wound underneath a gateway, and through a court-yard where the principal entrance was (i hurried quickly on), and by the stables where none but deep voices seemed to be, whether in the murmuring of the wind through the strong mass of ivy holding to a high red wall, or in the low complaining of the weathercock, or in the barking of the dogs, or in the slow striking of a clock. so, encountering presently a sweet smell of limes, whose rustling i could hear, i turned with the turning of the path to the south front, and there above me were the balustrades of the ghost's walk and one lighted window that might be my mother's. the way was paved here, like the terrace overhead, and my footsteps from being noiseless made an echoing sound upon the flags. stopping to look at nothing, but seeing all i did see as i went, i was passing quickly on, and in a few moments should have passed the lighted window, when my echoing footsteps brought it suddenly into my mind that there was a dreadful truth in the legend of the ghost's walk, that it was i who was to bring calamity upon the stately house and that my warning feet were haunting it even then. seized with an augmented terror of myself which turned me cold, i ran from myself and everything, retraced the way by which i had come, and never paused until i had gained the lodge-gate, and the park lay sullen and black behind me. not before i was alone in my own room for the night and had again been dejected and unhappy there did i begin to know how wrong and thankless this state was. but from my darling who was coming on the morrow, i found a joyful letter, full of such loving anticipation that i must have been of marble if it had not moved me; from my guardian, too, i found another letter, asking me to tell dame durden, if i should see that little woman anywhere, that they had moped most pitiably without her, that the housekeeping was going to rack and ruin, that nobody else could manage the keys, and that everybody in and about the house declared it was not the same house and was becoming rebellious for her return. two such letters together made me think how far beyond my deserts i was beloved and how happy i ought to be. that made me think of all my past life; and that brought me, as it ought to have done before, into a better condition. for i saw very well that i could not have been intended to die, or i should never have lived; not to say should never have been reserved for such a happy life. i saw very well how many things had worked together for my welfare, and that if the sins of the fathers were sometimes visited upon the children, the phrase did not mean what i had in the morning feared it meant. i knew i was as innocent of my birth as a queen of hers and that before my heavenly father i should not be punished for birth nor a queen rewarded for it. i had had experience, in the shock of that very day, that i could, even thus soon, find comforting reconcilements to the change that had fallen on me. i renewed my resolutions and prayed to be strengthened in them, pouring out my heart for myself and for my unhappy mother and feeling that the darkness of the morning was passing away. it was not upon my sleep; and when the next day's light awoke me, it was gone. my dear girl was to arrive at five o'clock in the afternoon. how to help myself through the intermediate time better than by taking a long walk along the road by which she was to come, i did not know; so charley and i and stubbs--stubbs saddled, for we never drove him after the one great occasion--made a long expedition along that road and back. on our return, we held a great review of the house and garden and saw that everything was in its prettiest condition, and had the bird out ready as an important part of the establishment. there were more than two full hours yet to elapse before she could come, and in that interval, which seemed a long one, i must confess i was nervously anxious about my altered looks. i loved my darling so well that i was more concerned for their effect on her than on any one. i was not in this slight distress because i at all repined--i am quite certain i did not, that day--but, i thought, would she be wholly prepared? when she first saw me, might she not be a little shocked and disappointed? might it not prove a little worse than she expected? might she not look for her old esther and not find her? might she not have to grow used to me and to begin all over again? i knew the various expressions of my sweet girl's face so well, and it was such an honest face in its loveliness, that i was sure beforehand she could not hide that first look from me. and i considered whether, if it should signify any one of these meanings, which was so very likely, could i quite answer for myself? well, i thought i could. after last night, i thought i could. but to wait and wait, and expect and expect, and think and think, was such bad preparation that i resolved to go along the road again and meet her. so i said to charley, "charley, i will go by myself and walk along the road until she comes." charley highly approving of anything that pleased me, i went and left her at home. but before i got to the second milestone, i had been in so many palpitations from seeing dust in the distance (though i knew it was not, and could not, be the coach yet) that i resolved to turn back and go home again. and when i had turned, i was in such fear of the coach coming up behind me (though i still knew that it neither would, nor could, do any such thing) that i ran the greater part of the way to avoid being overtaken. then, i considered, when i had got safe back again, this was a nice thing to have done! now i was hot and had made the worst of it instead of the best. at last, when i believed there was at least a quarter of an hour more yet, charley all at once cried out to me as i was trembling in the garden, "here she comes, miss! here she is!" i did not mean to do it, but i ran upstairs into my room and hid myself behind the door. there i stood trembling, even when i heard my darling calling as she came upstairs, "esther, my dear, my love, where are you? little woman, dear dame durden!" she ran in, and was running out again when she saw me. ah, my angel girl! the old dear look, all love, all fondness, all affection. nothing else in it--no, nothing, nothing! oh, how happy i was, down upon the floor, with my sweet beautiful girl down upon the floor too, holding my scarred face to her lovely cheek, bathing it with tears and kisses, rocking me to and fro like a child, calling me by every tender name that she could think of, and pressing me to her faithful heart. chapter xxxvii jarndyce and jarndyce if the secret i had to keep had been mine, i must have confided it to ada before we had been long together. but it was not mine, and i did not feel that i had a right to tell it, even to my guardian, unless some great emergency arose. it was a weight to bear alone; still my present duty appeared to be plain, and blest in the attachment of my dear, i did not want an impulse and encouragement to do it. though often when she was asleep and all was quiet, the remembrance of my mother kept me waking and made the night sorrowful, i did not yield to it at another time; and ada found me what i used to be--except, of course, in that particular of which i have said enough and which i have no intention of mentioning any more just now, if i can help it. the difficulty that i felt in being quite composed that first evening when ada asked me, over our work, if the family were at the house, and when i was obliged to answer yes, i believed so, for lady dedlock had spoken to me in the woods the day before yesterday, was great. greater still when ada asked me what she had said, and when i replied that she had been kind and interested, and when ada, while admitting her beauty and elegance, remarked upon her proud manner and her imperious chilling air. but charley helped me through, unconsciously, by telling us that lady dedlock had only stayed at the house two nights on her way from london to visit at some other great house in the next county and that she had left early on the morning after we had seen her at our view, as we called it. charley verified the adage about little pitchers, i am sure, for she heard of more sayings and doings in a day than would have come to my ears in a month. we were to stay a month at mr. boythorn's. my pet had scarcely been there a bright week, as i recollect the time, when one evening after we had finished helping the gardener in watering his flowers, and just as the candles were lighted, charley, appearing with a very important air behind ada's chair, beckoned me mysteriously out of the room. "oh! if you please, miss," said charley in a whisper, with her eyes at their roundest and largest. "you're wanted at the dedlock arms." "why, charley," said i, "who can possibly want me at the public-house?" "i don't know, miss," returned charley, putting her head forward and folding her hands tight upon the band of her little apron, which she always did in the enjoyment of anything mysterious or confidential, "but it's a gentleman, miss, and his compliments, and will you please to come without saying anything about it." "whose compliments, charley?" "his'n, miss," returned charley, whose grammatical education was advancing, but not very rapidly. "and how do you come to be the messenger, charley?" "i am not the messenger, if you please, miss," returned my little maid. "it was w. grubble, miss." "and who is w. grubble, charley?" "mister grubble, miss," returned charley. "don't you know, miss? the dedlock arms, by w. grubble," which charley delivered as if she were slowly spelling out the sign. "aye? the landlord, charley?" "yes, miss. if you please, miss, his wife is a beautiful woman, but she broke her ankle, and it never joined. and her brother's the sawyer that was put in the cage, miss, and they expect he'll drink himself to death entirely on beer," said charley. not knowing what might be the matter, and being easily apprehensive now, i thought it best to go to this place by myself. i bade charley be quick with my bonnet and veil and my shawl, and having put them on, went away down the little hilly street, where i was as much at home as in mr. boythorn's garden. mr. grubble was standing in his shirt-sleeves at the door of his very clean little tavern waiting for me. he lifted off his hat with both hands when he saw me coming, and carrying it so, as if it were an iron vessel (it looked as heavy), preceded me along the sanded passage to his best parlour, a neat carpeted room with more plants in it than were quite convenient, a coloured print of queen caroline, several shells, a good many tea-trays, two stuffed and dried fish in glass cases, and either a curious egg or a curious pumpkin (but i don't know which, and i doubt if many people did) hanging from his ceiling. i knew mr. grubble very well by sight, from his often standing at his door. a pleasant-looking, stoutish, middle-aged man who never seemed to consider himself cozily dressed for his own fire-side without his hat and top-boots, but who never wore a coat except at church. he snuffed the candle, and backing away a little to see how it looked, backed out of the room--unexpectedly to me, for i was going to ask him by whom he had been sent. the door of the opposite parlour being then opened, i heard some voices, familiar in my ears i thought, which stopped. a quick light step approached the room in which i was, and who should stand before me but richard! "my dear esther!" he said. "my best friend!" and he really was so warm-hearted and earnest that in the first surprise and pleasure of his brotherly greeting i could scarcely find breath to tell him that ada was well. "answering my very thoughts--always the same dear girl!" said richard, leading me to a chair and seating himself beside me. i put my veil up, but not quite. "always the same dear girl!" said richard just as heartily as before. i put up my veil altogether, and laying my hand on richard's sleeve and looking in his face, told him how much i thanked him for his kind welcome and how greatly i rejoiced to see him, the more so because of the determination i had made in my illness, which i now conveyed to him. "my love," said richard, "there is no one with whom i have a greater wish to talk than you, for i want you to understand me." "and i want you, richard," said i, shaking my head, "to understand some one else." "since you refer so immediately to john jarndyce," said richard, "--i suppose you mean him?" "of course i do." "then i may say at once that i am glad of it, because it is on that subject that i am anxious to be understood. by you, mind--you, my dear! i am not accountable to mr. jarndyce or mr. anybody." i was pained to find him taking this tone, and he observed it. "well, well, my dear," said richard, "we won't go into that now. i want to appear quietly in your country-house here, with you under my arm, and give my charming cousin a surprise. i suppose your loyalty to john jarndyce will allow that?" "my dear richard," i returned, "you know you would be heartily welcome at his house--your home, if you will but consider it so; and you are as heartily welcome here!" "spoken like the best of little women!" cried richard gaily. i asked him how he liked his profession. "oh, i like it well enough!" said richard. "it's all right. it does as well as anything else, for a time. i don't know that i shall care about it when i come to be settled, but i can sell out then and--however, never mind all that botheration at present." so young and handsome, and in all respects so perfectly the opposite of miss flite! and yet, in the clouded, eager, seeking look that passed over him, so dreadfully like her! "i am in town on leave just now," said richard. "indeed?" "yes. i have run over to look after my--my chancery interests before the long vacation," said richard, forcing a careless laugh. "we are beginning to spin along with that old suit at last, i promise you." no wonder that i shook my head! "as you say, it's not a pleasant subject." richard spoke with the same shade crossing his face as before. "let it go to the four winds for to-night. puff! gone! who do you suppose is with me?" "was it mr. skimpole's voice i heard?" "that's the man! he does me more good than anybody. what a fascinating child it is!" i asked richard if any one knew of their coming down together. he answered, no, nobody. he had been to call upon the dear old infant--so he called mr. skimpole--and the dear old infant had told him where we were, and he had told the dear old infant he was bent on coming to see us, and the dear old infant had directly wanted to come too; and so he had brought him. "and he is worth--not to say his sordid expenses--but thrice his weight in gold," said richard. "he is such a cheery fellow. no worldliness about him. fresh and green-hearted!" i certainly did not see the proof of mr. skimpole's worldliness in his having his expenses paid by richard, but i made no remark about that. indeed, he came in and turned our conversation. he was charmed to see me, said he had been shedding delicious tears of joy and sympathy at intervals for six weeks on my account, had never been so happy as in hearing of my progress, began to understand the mixture of good and evil in the world now, felt that he appreciated health the more when somebody else was ill, didn't know but what it might be in the scheme of things that a should squint to make b happier in looking straight or that c should carry a wooden leg to make d better satisfied with his flesh and blood in a silk stocking. "my dear miss summerson, here is our friend richard," said mr. skimpole, "full of the brightest visions of the future, which he evokes out of the darkness of chancery. now that's delightful, that's inspiriting, that's full of poetry! in old times the woods and solitudes were made joyous to the shepherd by the imaginary piping and dancing of pan and the nymphs. this present shepherd, our pastoral richard, brightens the dull inns of court by making fortune and her train sport through them to the melodious notes of a judgment from the bench. that's very pleasant, you know! some ill-conditioned growling fellow may say to me, 'what's the use of these legal and equitable abuses? how do you defend them?' i reply, 'my growling friend, i don't defend them, but they are very agreeable to me. there is a shepherd--youth, a friend of mine, who transmutes them into something highly fascinating to my simplicity. i don't say it is for this that they exist--for i am a child among you worldly grumblers, and not called upon to account to you or myself for anything--but it may be so.'" i began seriously to think that richard could scarcely have found a worse friend than this. it made me uneasy that at such a time when he most required some right principle and purpose he should have this captivating looseness and putting-off of everything, this airy dispensing with all principle and purpose, at his elbow. i thought i could understand how such a nature as my guardian's, experienced in the world and forced to contemplate the miserable evasions and contentions of the family misfortune, found an immense relief in mr. skimpole's avowal of his weaknesses and display of guileless candour; but i could not satisfy myself that it was as artless as it seemed or that it did not serve mr. skimpole's idle turn quite as well as any other part, and with less trouble. they both walked back with me, and mr. skimpole leaving us at the gate, i walked softly in with richard and said, "ada, my love, i have brought a gentleman to visit you." it was not difficult to read the blushing, startled face. she loved him dearly, and he knew it, and i knew it. it was a very transparent business, that meeting as cousins only. i almost mistrusted myself as growing quite wicked in my suspicions, but i was not so sure that richard loved her dearly. he admired her very much--any one must have done that--and i dare say would have renewed their youthful engagement with great pride and ardour but that he knew how she would respect her promise to my guardian. still i had a tormenting idea that the influence upon him extended even here, that he was postponing his best truth and earnestness in this as in all things until jarndyce and jarndyce should be off his mind. ah me! what richard would have been without that blight, i never shall know now! he told ada, in his most ingenuous way, that he had not come to make any secret inroad on the terms she had accepted (rather too implicitly and confidingly, he thought) from mr. jarndyce, that he had come openly to see her and to see me and to justify himself for the present terms on which he stood with mr. jarndyce. as the dear old infant would be with us directly, he begged that i would make an appointment for the morning, when he might set himself right through the means of an unreserved conversation with me. i proposed to walk with him in the park at seven o'clock, and this was arranged. mr. skimpole soon afterwards appeared and made us merry for an hour. he particularly requested to see little coavinses (meaning charley) and told her, with a patriarchal air, that he had given her late father all the business in his power and that if one of her little brothers would make haste to get set up in the same profession, he hoped he should still be able to put a good deal of employment in his way. "for i am constantly being taken in these nets," said mr. skimpole, looking beamingly at us over a glass of wine-and-water, "and am constantly being bailed out--like a boat. or paid off--like a ship's company. somebody always does it for me. i can't do it, you know, for i never have any money. but somebody does it. i get out by somebody's means; i am not like the starling; i get out. if you were to ask me who somebody is, upon my word i couldn't tell you. let us drink to somebody. god bless him!" richard was a little late in the morning, but i had not to wait for him long, and we turned into the park. the air was bright and dewy and the sky without a cloud. the birds sang delightfully; the sparkles in the fern, the grass, and trees, were exquisite to see; the richness of the woods seemed to have increased twenty-fold since yesterday, as if, in the still night when they had looked so massively hushed in sleep, nature, through all the minute details of every wonderful leaf, had been more wakeful than usual for the glory of that day. "this is a lovely place," said richard, looking round. "none of the jar and discord of law-suits here!" but there was other trouble. "i tell you what, my dear girl," said richard, "when i get affairs in general settled, i shall come down here, i think, and rest." "would it not be better to rest now?" i asked. "oh, as to resting now," said richard, "or as to doing anything very definite now, that's not easy. in short, it can't be done; i can't do it at least." "why not?" said i. "you know why not, esther. if you were living in an unfinished house, liable to have the roof put on or taken off--to be from top to bottom pulled down or built up--to-morrow, next day, next week, next month, next year--you would find it hard to rest or settle. so do i. now? there's no now for us suitors." i could almost have believed in the attraction on which my poor little wandering friend had expatiated when i saw again the darkened look of last night. terrible to think it had in it also a shade of that unfortunate man who had died. "my dear richard," said i, "this is a bad beginning of our conversation." "i knew you would tell me so, dame durden." "and not i alone, dear richard. it was not i who cautioned you once never to found a hope or expectation on the family curse." "there you come back to john jarndyce!" said richard impatiently. "well! we must approach him sooner or later, for he is the staple of what i have to say, and it's as well at once. my dear esther, how can you be so blind? don't you see that he is an interested party and that it may be very well for him to wish me to know nothing of the suit, and care nothing about it, but that it may not be quite so well for me?" "oh, richard," i remonstrated, "is it possible that you can ever have seen him and heard him, that you can ever have lived under his roof and known him, and can yet breathe, even to me in this solitary place where there is no one to hear us, such unworthy suspicions?" he reddened deeply, as if his natural generosity felt a pang of reproach. he was silent for a little while before he replied in a subdued voice, "esther, i am sure you know that i am not a mean fellow and that i have some sense of suspicion and distrust being poor qualities in one of my years." "i know it very well," said i. "i am not more sure of anything." "that's a dear girl," retorted richard, "and like you, because it gives me comfort. i had need to get some scrap of comfort out of all this business, for it's a bad one at the best, as i have no occasion to tell you." "i know perfectly," said i. "i know as well, richard--what shall i say? as well as you do--that such misconstructions are foreign to your nature. and i know, as well as you know, what so changes it." "come, sister, come," said richard a little more gaily, "you will be fair with me at all events. if i have the misfortune to be under that influence, so has he. if it has a little twisted me, it may have a little twisted him too. i don't say that he is not an honourable man, out of all this complication and uncertainty; i am sure he is. but it taints everybody. you know it taints everybody. you have heard him say so fifty times. then why should he escape?" "because," said i, "his is an uncommon character, and he has resolutely kept himself outside the circle, richard." "oh, because and because!" replied richard in his vivacious way. "i am not sure, my dear girl, but that it may be wise and specious to preserve that outward indifference. it may cause other parties interested to become lax about their interests; and people may die off, and points may drag themselves out of memory, and many things may smoothly happen that are convenient enough." i was so touched with pity for richard that i could not reproach him any more, even by a look. i remembered my guardian's gentleness towards his errors and with what perfect freedom from resentment he had spoken of them. "esther," richard resumed, "you are not to suppose that i have come here to make underhanded charges against john jarndyce. i have only come to justify myself. what i say is, it was all very well and we got on very well while i was a boy, utterly regardless of this same suit; but as soon as i began to take an interest in it and to look into it, then it was quite another thing. then john jarndyce discovers that ada and i must break off and that if i don't amend that very objectionable course, i am not fit for her. now, esther, i don't mean to amend that very objectionable course: i will not hold john jarndyce's favour on those unfair terms of compromise, which he has no right to dictate. whether it pleases him or displeases him, i must maintain my rights and ada's. i have been thinking about it a good deal, and this is the conclusion i have come to." poor dear richard! he had indeed been thinking about it a good deal. his face, his voice, his manner, all showed that too plainly. "so i tell him honourably (you are to know i have written to him about all this) that we are at issue and that we had better be at issue openly than covertly. i thank him for his goodwill and his protection, and he goes his road, and i go mine. the fact is, our roads are not the same. under one of the wills in dispute, i should take much more than he. i don't mean to say that it is the one to be established, but there it is, and it has its chance." "i have not to learn from you, my dear richard," said i, "of your letter. i had heard of it already without an offended or angry word." "indeed?" replied richard, softening. "i am glad i said he was an honourable man, out of all this wretched affair. but i always say that and have never doubted it. now, my dear esther, i know these views of mine appear extremely harsh to you, and will to ada when you tell her what has passed between us. but if you had gone into the case as i have, if you had only applied yourself to the papers as i did when i was at kenge's, if you only knew what an accumulation of charges and counter-charges, and suspicions and cross-suspicions, they involve, you would think me moderate in comparison." "perhaps so," said i. "but do you think that, among those many papers, there is much truth and justice, richard?" "there is truth and justice somewhere in the case, esther--" "or was once, long ago," said i. "is--is--must be somewhere," pursued richard impetuously, "and must be brought out. to allow ada to be made a bribe and hush-money of is not the way to bring it out. you say the suit is changing me; john jarndyce says it changes, has changed, and will change everybody who has any share in it. then the greater right i have on my side when i resolve to do all i can to bring it to an end." "all you can, richard! do you think that in these many years no others have done all they could? has the difficulty grown easier because of so many failures?" "it can't last for ever," returned richard with a fierceness kindling in him which again presented to me that last sad reminder. "i am young and earnest, and energy and determination have done wonders many a time. others have only half thrown themselves into it. i devote myself to it. i make it the object of my life." "oh, richard, my dear, so much the worse, so much the worse!" "no, no, no, don't you be afraid for me," he returned affectionately. "you're a dear, good, wise, quiet, blessed girl; but you have your prepossessions. so i come round to john jarndyce. i tell you, my good esther, when he and i were on those terms which he found so convenient, we were not on natural terms." "are division and animosity your natural terms, richard?" "no, i don't say that. i mean that all this business puts us on unnatural terms, with which natural relations are incompatible. see another reason for urging it on! i may find out when it's over that i have been mistaken in john jarndyce. my head may be clearer when i am free of it, and i may then agree with what you say to-day. very well. then i shall acknowledge it and make him reparation." everything postponed to that imaginary time! everything held in confusion and indecision until then! "now, my best of confidantes," said richard, "i want my cousin ada to understand that i am not captious, fickle, and wilful about john jarndyce, but that i have this purpose and reason at my back. i wish to represent myself to her through you, because she has a great esteem and respect for her cousin john; and i know you will soften the course i take, even though you disapprove of it; and--and in short," said richard, who had been hesitating through these words, "i--i don't like to represent myself in this litigious, contentious, doubting character to a confiding girl like ada." i told him that he was more like himself in those latter words than in anything he had said yet. "why," acknowledged richard, "that may be true enough, my love. i rather feel it to be so. but i shall be able to give myself fair-play by and by. i shall come all right again, then, don't you be afraid." i asked him if this were all he wished me to tell ada. "not quite," said richard. "i am bound not to withhold from her that john jarndyce answered my letter in his usual manner, addressing me as 'my dear rick,' trying to argue me out of my opinions, and telling me that they should make no difference in him. (all very well of course, but not altering the case.) i also want ada to know that if i see her seldom just now, i am looking after her interests as well as my own--we two being in the same boat exactly--and that i hope she will not suppose from any flying rumours she may hear that i am at all light-headed or imprudent; on the contrary, i am always looking forward to the termination of the suit, and always planning in that direction. being of age now and having taken the step i have taken, i consider myself free from any accountability to john jarndyce; but ada being still a ward of the court, i don't yet ask her to renew our engagement. when she is free to act for herself, i shall be myself once more and we shall both be in very different worldly circumstances, i believe. if you tell her all this with the advantage of your considerate way, you will do me a very great and a very kind service, my dear esther; and i shall knock jarndyce and jarndyce on the head with greater vigour. of course i ask for no secrecy at bleak house." "richard," said i, "you place great confidence in me, but i fear you will not take advice from me?" "it's impossible that i can on this subject, my dear girl. on any other, readily." as if there were any other in his life! as if his whole career and character were not being dyed one colour! "but i may ask you a question, richard?" "i think so," said he, laughing. "i don't know who may not, if you may not." "you say, yourself, you are not leading a very settled life." "how can i, my dear esther, with nothing settled!" "are you in debt again?" "why, of course i am," said richard, astonished at my simplicity. "is it of course?" "my dear child, certainly. i can't throw myself into an object so completely without expense. you forget, or perhaps you don't know, that under either of the wills ada and i take something. it's only a question between the larger sum and the smaller. i shall be within the mark any way. bless your heart, my excellent girl," said richard, quite amused with me, "i shall be all right! i shall pull through, my dear!" i felt so deeply sensible of the danger in which he stood that i tried, in ada's name, in my guardian's, in my own, by every fervent means that i could think of, to warn him of it and to show him some of his mistakes. he received everything i said with patience and gentleness, but it all rebounded from him without taking the least effect. i could not wonder at this after the reception his preoccupied mind had given to my guardian's letter, but i determined to try ada's influence yet. so when our walk brought us round to the village again, and i went home to breakfast, i prepared ada for the account i was going to give her and told her exactly what reason we had to dread that richard was losing himself and scattering his whole life to the winds. it made her very unhappy, of course, though she had a far, far greater reliance on his correcting his errors than i could have--which was so natural and loving in my dear!--and she presently wrote him this little letter: my dearest cousin, esther has told me all you said to her this morning. i write this to repeat most earnestly for myself all that she said to you and to let you know how sure i am that you will sooner or later find our cousin john a pattern of truth, sincerity, and goodness, when you will deeply, deeply grieve to have done him (without intending it) so much wrong. i do not quite know how to write what i wish to say next, but i trust you will understand it as i mean it. i have some fears, my dearest cousin, that it may be partly for my sake you are now laying up so much unhappiness for yourself--and if for yourself, for me. in case this should be so, or in case you should entertain much thought of me in what you are doing, i most earnestly entreat and beg you to desist. you can do nothing for my sake that will make me half so happy as for ever turning your back upon the shadow in which we both were born. do not be angry with me for saying this. pray, pray, dear richard, for my sake, and for your own, and in a natural repugnance for that source of trouble which had its share in making us both orphans when we were very young, pray, pray, let it go for ever. we have reason to know by this time that there is no good in it and no hope, that there is nothing to be got from it but sorrow. my dearest cousin, it is needless for me to say that you are quite free and that it is very likely you may find some one whom you will love much better than your first fancy. i am quite sure, if you will let me say so, that the object of your choice would greatly prefer to follow your fortunes far and wide, however moderate or poor, and see you happy, doing your duty and pursuing your chosen way, than to have the hope of being, or even to be, very rich with you (if such a thing were possible) at the cost of dragging years of procrastination and anxiety and of your indifference to other aims. you may wonder at my saying this so confidently with so little knowledge or experience, but i know it for a certainty from my own heart. ever, my dearest cousin, your most affectionate ada this note brought richard to us very soon, but it made little change in him if any. we would fairly try, he said, who was right and who was wrong--he would show us--we should see! he was animated and glowing, as if ada's tenderness had gratified him; but i could only hope, with a sigh, that the letter might have some stronger effect upon his mind on re-perusal than it assuredly had then. as they were to remain with us that day and had taken their places to return by the coach next morning, i sought an opportunity of speaking to mr. skimpole. our out-of-door life easily threw one in my way, and i delicately said that there was a responsibility in encouraging richard. "responsibility, my dear miss summerson?" he repeated, catching at the word with the pleasantest smile. "i am the last man in the world for such a thing. i never was responsible in my life--i can't be." "i am afraid everybody is obliged to be," said i timidly enough, he being so much older and more clever than i. "no, really?" said mr. skimpole, receiving this new light with a most agreeable jocularity of surprise. "but every man's not obliged to be solvent? i am not. i never was. see, my dear miss summerson," he took a handful of loose silver and halfpence from his pocket, "there's so much money. i have not an idea how much. i have not the power of counting. call it four and ninepence--call it four pound nine. they tell me i owe more than that. i dare say i do. i dare say i owe as much as good-natured people will let me owe. if they don't stop, why should i? there you have harold skimpole in little. if that's responsibility, i am responsible." the perfect ease of manner with which he put the money up again and looked at me with a smile on his refined face, as if he had been mentioning a curious little fact about somebody else, almost made me feel as if he really had nothing to do with it. "now, when you mention responsibility," he resumed, "i am disposed to say that i never had the happiness of knowing any one whom i should consider so refreshingly responsible as yourself. you appear to me to be the very touchstone of responsibility. when i see you, my dear miss summerson, intent upon the perfect working of the whole little orderly system of which you are the centre, i feel inclined to say to myself--in fact i do say to myself very often--that's responsibility!" it was difficult, after this, to explain what i meant; but i persisted so far as to say that we all hoped he would check and not confirm richard in the sanguine views he entertained just then. "most willingly," he retorted, "if i could. but, my dear miss summerson, i have no art, no disguise. if he takes me by the hand and leads me through westminster hall in an airy procession after fortune, i must go. if he says, 'skimpole, join the dance!' i must join it. common sense wouldn't, i know, but i have no common sense." it was very unfortunate for richard, i said. "do you think so!" returned mr. skimpole. "don't say that, don't say that. let us suppose him keeping company with common sense--an excellent man--a good deal wrinkled--dreadfully practical--change for a ten-pound note in every pocket--ruled account-book in his hand--say, upon the whole, resembling a tax-gatherer. our dear richard, sanguine, ardent, overleaping obstacles, bursting with poetry like a young bud, says to this highly respectable companion, 'i see a golden prospect before me; it's very bright, it's very beautiful, it's very joyous; here i go, bounding over the landscape to come at it!' the respectable companion instantly knocks him down with the ruled account-book; tells him in a literal, prosaic way that he sees no such thing; shows him it's nothing but fees, fraud, horsehair wigs, and black gowns. now you know that's a painful change--sensible in the last degree, i have no doubt, but disagreeable. i can't do it. i haven't got the ruled account-book, i have none of the tax-gathering elements in my composition, i am not at all respectable, and i don't want to be. odd perhaps, but so it is!" it was idle to say more, so i proposed that we should join ada and richard, who were a little in advance, and i gave up mr. skimpole in despair. he had been over the hall in the course of the morning and whimsically described the family pictures as we walked. there were such portentous shepherdesses among the ladies dedlock dead and gone, he told us, that peaceful crooks became weapons of assault in their hands. they tended their flocks severely in buckram and powder and put their sticking-plaster patches on to terrify commoners as the chiefs of some other tribes put on their war-paint. there was a sir somebody dedlock, with a battle, a sprung-mine, volumes of smoke, flashes of lightning, a town on fire, and a stormed fort, all in full action between his horse's two hind legs, showing, he supposed, how little a dedlock made of such trifles. the whole race he represented as having evidently been, in life, what he called "stuffed people"--a large collection, glassy eyed, set up in the most approved manner on their various twigs and perches, very correct, perfectly free from animation, and always in glass cases. i was not so easy now during any reference to the name but that i felt it a relief when richard, with an exclamation of surprise, hurried away to meet a stranger whom he first descried coming slowly towards us. "dear me!" said mr. skimpole. "vholes!" we asked if that were a friend of richard's. "friend and legal adviser," said mr. skimpole. "now, my dear miss summerson, if you want common sense, responsibility, and respectability, all united--if you want an exemplary man--vholes is the man." we had not known, we said, that richard was assisted by any gentleman of that name. "when he emerged from legal infancy," returned mr. skimpole, "he parted from our conversational friend kenge and took up, i believe, with vholes. indeed, i know he did, because i introduced him to vholes." "had you known him long?" asked ada. "vholes? my dear miss clare, i had had that kind of acquaintance with him which i have had with several gentlemen of his profession. he had done something or other in a very agreeable, civil manner--taken proceedings, i think, is the expression--which ended in the proceeding of his taking me. somebody was so good as to step in and pay the money--something and fourpence was the amount; i forget the pounds and shillings, but i know it ended with fourpence, because it struck me at the time as being so odd that i could owe anybody fourpence--and after that i brought them together. vholes asked me for the introduction, and i gave it. now i come to think of it," he looked inquiringly at us with his frankest smile as he made the discovery, "vholes bribed me, perhaps? he gave me something and called it commission. was it a five-pound note? do you know, i think it must have been a five-pound note!" his further consideration of the point was prevented by richard's coming back to us in an excited state and hastily representing mr. vholes--a sallow man with pinched lips that looked as if they were cold, a red eruption here and there upon his face, tall and thin, about fifty years of age, high-shouldered, and stooping. dressed in black, black-gloved, and buttoned to the chin, there was nothing so remarkable in him as a lifeless manner and a slow, fixed way he had of looking at richard. "i hope i don't disturb you, ladies," said mr. vholes, and now i observed that he was further remarkable for an inward manner of speaking. "i arranged with mr. carstone that he should always know when his cause was in the chancellor's paper, and being informed by one of my clerks last night after post time that it stood, rather unexpectedly, in the paper for to-morrow, i put myself into the coach early this morning and came down to confer with him." "yes," said richard, flushed, and looking triumphantly at ada and me, "we don't do these things in the old slow way now. we spin along now! mr. vholes, we must hire something to get over to the post town in, and catch the mail to-night, and go up by it!" "anything you please, sir," returned mr. vholes. "i am quite at your service." "let me see," said richard, looking at his watch. "if i run down to the dedlock, and get my portmanteau fastened up, and order a gig, or a chaise, or whatever's to be got, we shall have an hour then before starting. i'll come back to tea. cousin ada, will you and esther take care of mr. vholes when i am gone?" he was away directly, in his heat and hurry, and was soon lost in the dusk of evening. we who were left walked on towards the house. "is mr. carstone's presence necessary to-morrow, sir?" said i. "can it do any good?" "no, miss," mr. vholes replied. "i am not aware that it can." both ada and i expressed our regret that he should go, then, only to be disappointed. "mr. carstone has laid down the principle of watching his own interests," said mr. vholes, "and when a client lays down his own principle, and it is not immoral, it devolves upon me to carry it out. i wish in business to be exact and open. i am a widower with three daughters--emma, jane, and caroline--and my desire is so to discharge the duties of life as to leave them a good name. this appears to be a pleasant spot, miss." the remark being made to me in consequence of my being next him as we walked, i assented and enumerated its chief attractions. "indeed?" said mr. vholes. "i have the privilege of supporting an aged father in the vale of taunton--his native place--and i admire that country very much. i had no idea there was anything so attractive here." to keep up the conversation, i asked mr. vholes if he would like to live altogether in the country. "there, miss," said he, "you touch me on a tender string. my health is not good (my digestion being much impaired), and if i had only myself to consider, i should take refuge in rural habits, especially as the cares of business have prevented me from ever coming much into contact with general society, and particularly with ladies' society, which i have most wished to mix in. but with my three daughters, emma, jane, and caroline--and my aged father--i cannot afford to be selfish. it is true i have no longer to maintain a dear grandmother who died in her hundred and second year, but enough remains to render it indispensable that the mill should be always going." it required some attention to hear him on account of his inward speaking and his lifeless manner. "you will excuse my having mentioned my daughters," he said. "they are my weak point. i wish to leave the poor girls some little independence, as well as a good name." we now arrived at mr. boythorn's house, where the tea-table, all prepared, was awaiting us. richard came in restless and hurried shortly afterwards, and leaning over mr. vholes's chair, whispered something in his ear. mr. vholes replied aloud--or as nearly aloud i suppose as he had ever replied to anything--"you will drive me, will you, sir? it is all the same to me, sir. anything you please. i am quite at your service." we understood from what followed that mr. skimpole was to be left until the morning to occupy the two places which had been already paid for. as ada and i were both in low spirits concerning richard and very sorry so to part with him, we made it as plain as we politely could that we should leave mr. skimpole to the dedlock arms and retire when the night-travellers were gone. richard's high spirits carrying everything before them, we all went out together to the top of the hill above the village, where he had ordered a gig to wait and where we found a man with a lantern standing at the head of the gaunt pale horse that had been harnessed to it. i never shall forget those two seated side by side in the lantern's light, richard all flush and fire and laughter, with the reins in his hand; mr. vholes quite still, black-gloved, and buttoned up, looking at him as if he were looking at his prey and charming it. i have before me the whole picture of the warm dark night, the summer lightning, the dusty track of road closed in by hedgerows and high trees, the gaunt pale horse with his ears pricked up, and the driving away at speed to jarndyce and jarndyce. my dear girl told me that night how richard's being thereafter prosperous or ruined, befriended or deserted, could only make this difference to her, that the more he needed love from one unchanging heart, the more love that unchanging heart would have to give him; how he thought of her through his present errors, and she would think of him at all times--never of herself if she could devote herself to him, never of her own delights if she could minister to his. and she kept her word? i look along the road before me, where the distance already shortens and the journey's end is growing visible; and true and good above the dead sea of the chancery suit and all the ashy fruit it cast ashore, i think i see my darling. chapter xxxviii a struggle when our time came for returning to bleak house again, we were punctual to the day and were received with an overpowering welcome. i was perfectly restored to health and strength, and finding my housekeeping keys laid ready for me in my room, rang myself in as if i had been a new year, with a merry little peal. "once more, duty, duty, esther," said i; "and if you are not overjoyed to do it, more than cheerfully and contentedly, through anything and everything, you ought to be. that's all i have to say to you, my dear!" the first few mornings were mornings of so much bustle and business, devoted to such settlements of accounts, such repeated journeys to and fro between the growlery and all other parts of the house, so many rearrangements of drawers and presses, and such a general new beginning altogether, that i had not a moment's leisure. but when these arrangements were completed and everything was in order, i paid a visit of a few hours to london, which something in the letter i had destroyed at chesney wold had induced me to decide upon in my own mind. i made caddy jellyby--her maiden name was so natural to me that i always called her by it--the pretext for this visit and wrote her a note previously asking the favour of her company on a little business expedition. leaving home very early in the morning, i got to london by stage-coach in such good time that i got to newman street with the day before me. caddy, who had not seen me since her wedding-day, was so glad and so affectionate that i was half inclined to fear i should make her husband jealous. but he was, in his way, just as bad--i mean as good; and in short it was the old story, and nobody would leave me any possibility of doing anything meritorious. the elder mr. turveydrop was in bed, i found, and caddy was milling his chocolate, which a melancholy little boy who was an apprentice--it seemed such a curious thing to be apprenticed to the trade of dancing--was waiting to carry upstairs. her father-in-law was extremely kind and considerate, caddy told me, and they lived most happily together. (when she spoke of their living together, she meant that the old gentleman had all the good things and all the good lodging, while she and her husband had what they could get, and were poked into two corner rooms over the mews.) "and how is your mama, caddy?" said i. "why, i hear of her, esther," replied caddy, "through pa, but i see very little of her. we are good friends, i am glad to say, but ma thinks there is something absurd in my having married a dancing-master, and she is rather afraid of its extending to her." it struck me that if mrs. jellyby had discharged her own natural duties and obligations before she swept the horizon with a telescope in search of others, she would have taken the best precautions against becoming absurd, but i need scarcely observe that i kept this to myself. "and your papa, caddy?" "he comes here every evening," returned caddy, "and is so fond of sitting in the corner there that it's a treat to see him." looking at the corner, i plainly perceived the mark of mr. jellyby's head against the wall. it was consolatory to know that he had found such a resting-place for it. "and you, caddy," said i, "you are always busy, i'll be bound?" "well, my dear," returned caddy, "i am indeed, for to tell you a grand secret, i am qualifying myself to give lessons. prince's health is not strong, and i want to be able to assist him. what with schools, and classes here, and private pupils, and the apprentices, he really has too much to do, poor fellow!" the notion of the apprentices was still so odd to me that i asked caddy if there were many of them. "four," said caddy. "one in-door, and three out. they are very good children; only when they get together they will play--children-like--instead of attending to their work. so the little boy you saw just now waltzes by himself in the empty kitchen, and we distribute the others over the house as well as we can." "that is only for their steps, of course?" said i. "only for their steps," said caddy. "in that way they practise, so many hours at a time, whatever steps they happen to be upon. they dance in the academy, and at this time of year we do figures at five every morning." "why, what a laborious life!" i exclaimed. "i assure you, my dear," returned caddy, smiling, "when the out-door apprentices ring us up in the morning (the bell rings into our room, not to disturb old mr. turveydrop), and when i put up the window and see them standing on the door-step with their little pumps under their arms, i am actually reminded of the sweeps." all this presented the art to me in a singular light, to be sure. caddy enjoyed the effect of her communication and cheerfully recounted the particulars of her own studies. "you see, my dear, to save expense i ought to know something of the piano, and i ought to know something of the kit too, and consequently i have to practise those two instruments as well as the details of our profession. if ma had been like anybody else, i might have had some little musical knowledge to begin upon. however, i hadn't any; and that part of the work is, at first, a little discouraging, i must allow. but i have a very good ear, and i am used to drudgery--i have to thank ma for that, at all events--and where there's a will there's a way, you know, esther, the world over." saying these words, caddy laughingly sat down at a little jingling square piano and really rattled off a quadrille with great spirit. then she good-humouredly and blushingly got up again, and while she still laughed herself, said, "don't laugh at me, please; that's a dear girl!" i would sooner have cried, but i did neither. i encouraged her and praised her with all my heart. for i conscientiously believed, dancing-master's wife though she was, and dancing-mistress though in her limited ambition she aspired to be, she had struck out a natural, wholesome, loving course of industry and perseverance that was quite as good as a mission. "my dear," said caddy, delighted, "you can't think how you cheer me. i shall owe you, you don't know how much. what changes, esther, even in my small world! you recollect that first night, when i was so unpolite and inky? who would have thought, then, of my ever teaching people to dance, of all other possibilities and impossibilities!" her husband, who had left us while we had this chat, now coming back, preparatory to exercising the apprentices in the ball-room, caddy informed me she was quite at my disposal. but it was not my time yet, i was glad to tell her, for i should have been vexed to take her away then. therefore we three adjourned to the apprentices together, and i made one in the dance. the apprentices were the queerest little people. besides the melancholy boy, who, i hoped, had not been made so by waltzing alone in the empty kitchen, there were two other boys and one dirty little limp girl in a gauzy dress. such a precocious little girl, with such a dowdy bonnet on (that, too, of a gauzy texture), who brought her sandalled shoes in an old threadbare velvet reticule. such mean little boys, when they were not dancing, with string, and marbles, and cramp-bones in their pockets, and the most untidy legs and feet--and heels particularly. i asked caddy what had made their parents choose this profession for them. caddy said she didn't know; perhaps they were designed for teachers, perhaps for the stage. they were all people in humble circumstances, and the melancholy boy's mother kept a ginger-beer shop. we danced for an hour with great gravity, the melancholy child doing wonders with his lower extremities, in which there appeared to be some sense of enjoyment though it never rose above his waist. caddy, while she was observant of her husband and was evidently founded upon him, had acquired a grace and self-possession of her own, which, united to her pretty face and figure, was uncommonly agreeable. she already relieved him of much of the instruction of these young people, and he seldom interfered except to walk his part in the figure if he had anything to do in it. he always played the tune. the affectation of the gauzy child, and her condescension to the boys, was a sight. and thus we danced an hour by the clock. when the practice was concluded, caddy's husband made himself ready to go out of town to a school, and caddy ran away to get ready to go out with me. i sat in the ball-room in the interval, contemplating the apprentices. the two out-door boys went upon the staircase to put on their half-boots and pull the in-door boy's hair, as i judged from the nature of his objections. returning with their jackets buttoned and their pumps stuck in them, they then produced packets of cold bread and meat and bivouacked under a painted lyre on the wall. the little gauzy child, having whisked her sandals into the reticule and put on a trodden-down pair of shoes, shook her head into the dowdy bonnet at one shake, and answering my inquiry whether she liked dancing by replying, "not with boys," tied it across her chin, and went home contemptuous. "old mr. turveydrop is so sorry," said caddy, "that he has not finished dressing yet and cannot have the pleasure of seeing you before you go. you are such a favourite of his, esther." i expressed myself much obliged to him, but did not think it necessary to add that i readily dispensed with this attention. "it takes him a long time to dress," said caddy, "because he is very much looked up to in such things, you know, and has a reputation to support. you can't think how kind he is to pa. he talks to pa of an evening about the prince regent, and i never saw pa so interested." there was something in the picture of mr. turveydrop bestowing his deportment on mr. jellyby that quite took my fancy. i asked caddy if he brought her papa out much. "no," said caddy, "i don't know that he does that, but he talks to pa, and pa greatly admires him, and listens, and likes it. of course i am aware that pa has hardly any claims to deportment, but they get on together delightfully. you can't think what good companions they make. i never saw pa take snuff before in my life, but he takes one pinch out of mr. turveydrop's box regularly and keeps putting it to his nose and taking it away again all the evening." that old mr. turveydrop should ever, in the chances and changes of life, have come to the rescue of mr. jellyby from borrioboola-gha appeared to me to be one of the pleasantest of oddities. "as to peepy," said caddy with a little hesitation, "whom i was most afraid of--next to having any family of my own, esther--as an inconvenience to mr. turveydrop, the kindness of the old gentleman to that child is beyond everything. he asks to see him, my dear! he lets him take the newspaper up to him in bed; he gives him the crusts of his toast to eat; he sends him on little errands about the house; he tells him to come to me for sixpences. in short," said caddy cheerily, "and not to prose, i am a very fortunate girl and ought to be very grateful. where are we going, esther?" "to the old street road," said i, "where i have a few words to say to the solicitor's clerk who was sent to meet me at the coach-office on the very day when i came to london and first saw you, my dear. now i think of it, the gentleman who brought us to your house." "then, indeed, i seem to be naturally the person to go with you," returned caddy. to the old street road we went and there inquired at mrs. guppy's residence for mrs. guppy. mrs. guppy, occupying the parlours and having indeed been visibly in danger of cracking herself like a nut in the front-parlour door by peeping out before she was asked for, immediately presented herself and requested us to walk in. she was an old lady in a large cap, with rather a red nose and rather an unsteady eye, but smiling all over. her close little sitting-room was prepared for a visit, and there was a portrait of her son in it which, i had almost written here, was more like than life: it insisted upon him with such obstinacy, and was so determined not to let him off. not only was the portrait there, but we found the original there too. he was dressed in a great many colours and was discovered at a table reading law-papers with his forefinger to his forehead. "miss summerson," said mr. guppy, rising, "this is indeed an oasis. mother, will you be so good as to put a chair for the other lady and get out of the gangway." mrs. guppy, whose incessant smiling gave her quite a waggish appearance, did as her son requested and then sat down in a corner, holding her pocket handkerchief to her chest, like a fomentation, with both hands. i presented caddy, and mr. guppy said that any friend of mine was more than welcome. i then proceeded to the object of my visit. "i took the liberty of sending you a note, sir," said i. mr. guppy acknowledged the receipt by taking it out of his breast-pocket, putting it to his lips, and returning it to his pocket with a bow. mr. guppy's mother was so diverted that she rolled her head as she smiled and made a silent appeal to caddy with her elbow. "could i speak to you alone for a moment?" said i. anything like the jocoseness of mr. guppy's mother just now, i think i never saw. she made no sound of laughter, but she rolled her head, and shook it, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and appealed to caddy with her elbow, and her hand, and her shoulder, and was so unspeakably entertained altogether that it was with some difficulty she could marshal caddy through the little folding-door into her bedroom adjoining. "miss summerson," said mr. guppy, "you will excuse the waywardness of a parent ever mindful of a son's appiness. my mother, though highly exasperating to the feelings, is actuated by maternal dictates." i could hardly have believed that anybody could in a moment have turned so red or changed so much as mr. guppy did when i now put up my veil. "i asked the favour of seeing you for a few moments here," said i, "in preference to calling at mr. kenge's because, remembering what you said on an occasion when you spoke to me in confidence, i feared i might otherwise cause you some embarrassment, mr. guppy." i caused him embarrassment enough as it was, i am sure. i never saw such faltering, such confusion, such amazement and apprehension. "miss summerson," stammered mr. guppy, "i--i--beg your pardon, but in our profession--we--we--find it necessary to be explicit. you have referred to an occasion, miss, when i--when i did myself the honour of making a declaration which--" something seemed to rise in his throat that he could not possibly swallow. he put his hand there, coughed, made faces, tried again to swallow it, coughed again, made faces again, looked all round the room, and fluttered his papers. "a kind of giddy sensation has come upon me, miss," he explained, "which rather knocks me over. i--er--a little subject to this sort of thing--er--by george!" i gave him a little time to recover. he consumed it in putting his hand to his forehead and taking it away again, and in backing his chair into the corner behind him. "my intention was to remark, miss," said mr. guppy, "dear me--something bronchial, i think--hem!--to remark that you was so good on that occasion as to repel and repudiate that declaration. you--you wouldn't perhaps object to admit that? though no witnesses are present, it might be a satisfaction to--to your mind--if you was to put in that admission." "there can be no doubt," said i, "that i declined your proposal without any reservation or qualification whatever, mr. guppy." "thank you, miss," he returned, measuring the table with his troubled hands. "so far that's satisfactory, and it does you credit. er--this is certainly bronchial!--must be in the tubes--er--you wouldn't perhaps be offended if i was to mention--not that it's necessary, for your own good sense or any person's sense must show 'em that--if i was to mention that such declaration on my part was final, and there terminated?" "i quite understand that," said i. "perhaps--er--it may not be worth the form, but it might be a satisfaction to your mind--perhaps you wouldn't object to admit that, miss?" said mr. guppy. "i admit it most fully and freely," said i. "thank you," returned mr. guppy. "very honourable, i am sure. i regret that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which i have no control, will put it out of my power ever to fall back upon that offer or to renew it in any shape or form whatever, but it will ever be a retrospect entwined--er--with friendship's bowers." mr. guppy's bronchitis came to his relief and stopped his measurement of the table. "i may now perhaps mention what i wished to say to you?" i began. "i shall be honoured, i am sure," said mr. guppy. "i am so persuaded that your own good sense and right feeling, miss, will--will keep you as square as possible--that i can have nothing but pleasure, i am sure, in hearing any observations you may wish to offer." "you were so good as to imply, on that occasion--" "excuse me, miss," said mr. guppy, "but we had better not travel out of the record into implication. i cannot admit that i implied anything." "you said on that occasion," i recommenced, "that you might possibly have the means of advancing my interests and promoting my fortunes by making discoveries of which i should be the subject. i presume that you founded that belief upon your general knowledge of my being an orphan girl, indebted for everything to the benevolence of mr. jarndyce. now, the beginning and the end of what i have come to beg of you is, mr. guppy, that you will have the kindness to relinquish all idea of so serving me. i have thought of this sometimes, and i have thought of it most lately--since i have been ill. at length i have decided, in case you should at any time recall that purpose and act upon it in any way, to come to you and assure you that you are altogether mistaken. you could make no discovery in reference to me that would do me the least service or give me the least pleasure. i am acquainted with my personal history, and i have it in my power to assure you that you never can advance my welfare by such means. you may, perhaps, have abandoned this project a long time. if so, excuse my giving you unnecessary trouble. if not, i entreat you, on the assurance i have given you, henceforth to lay it aside. i beg you to do this, for my peace." "i am bound to confess," said mr. guppy, "that you express yourself, miss, with that good sense and right feeling for which i gave you credit. nothing can be more satisfactory than such right feeling, and if i mistook any intentions on your part just now, i am prepared to tender a full apology. i should wish to be understood, miss, as hereby offering that apology--limiting it, as your own good sense and right feeling will point out the necessity of, to the present proceedings." i must say for mr. guppy that the snuffling manner he had had upon him improved very much. he seemed truly glad to be able to do something i asked, and he looked ashamed. "if you will allow me to finish what i have to say at once so that i may have no occasion to resume," i went on, seeing him about to speak, "you will do me a kindness, sir. i come to you as privately as possible because you announced this impression of yours to me in a confidence which i have really wished to respect--and which i always have respected, as you remember. i have mentioned my illness. there really is no reason why i should hesitate to say that i know very well that any little delicacy i might have had in making a request to you is quite removed. therefore i make the entreaty i have now preferred, and i hope you will have sufficient consideration for me to accede to it." i must do mr. guppy the further justice of saying that he had looked more and more ashamed and that he looked most ashamed and very earnest when he now replied with a burning face, "upon my word and honour, upon my life, upon my soul, miss summerson, as i am a living man, i'll act according to your wish! i'll never go another step in opposition to it. i'll take my oath to it if it will be any satisfaction to you. in what i promise at this present time touching the matters now in question," continued mr. guppy rapidly, as if he were repeating a familiar form of words, "i speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so--" "i am quite satisfied," said i, rising at this point, "and i thank you very much. caddy, my dear, i am ready!" mr. guppy's mother returned with caddy (now making me the recipient of her silent laughter and her nudges), and we took our leave. mr. guppy saw us to the door with the air of one who was either imperfectly awake or walking in his sleep; and we left him there, staring. but in a minute he came after us down the street without any hat, and with his long hair all blown about, and stopped us, saying fervently, "miss summerson, upon my honour and soul, you may depend upon me!" "i do," said i, "quite confidently." "i beg your pardon, miss," said mr. guppy, going with one leg and staying with the other, "but this lady being present--your own witness--it might be a satisfaction to your mind (which i should wish to set at rest) if you was to repeat those admissions." "well, caddy," said i, turning to her, "perhaps you will not be surprised when i tell you, my dear, that there never has been any engagement--" "no proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," suggested mr. guppy. "no proposal or promise of marriage whatsoever," said i, "between this gentleman--" "william guppy, of penton place, pentonville, in the county of middlesex," he murmured. "between this gentleman, mr. william guppy, of penton place, pentonville, in the county of middlesex, and myself." "thank you, miss," said mr. guppy. "very full--er--excuse me--lady's name, christian and surname both?" i gave them. "married woman, i believe?" said mr. guppy. "married woman. thank you. formerly caroline jellyby, spinster, then of thavies inn, within the city of london, but extra-parochial; now of newman street, oxford street. much obliged." he ran home and came running back again. "touching that matter, you know, i really and truly am very sorry that my arrangements in life, combined with circumstances over which i have no control, should prevent a renewal of what was wholly terminated some time back," said mr. guppy to me forlornly and despondently, "but it couldn't be. now could it, you know! i only put it to you." i replied it certainly could not. the subject did not admit of a doubt. he thanked me and ran to his mother's again--and back again. "it's very honourable of you, miss, i am sure," said mr. guppy. "if an altar could be erected in the bowers of friendship--but, upon my soul, you may rely upon me in every respect save and except the tender passion only!" the struggle in mr. guppy's breast and the numerous oscillations it occasioned him between his mother's door and us were sufficiently conspicuous in the windy street (particularly as his hair wanted cutting) to make us hurry away. i did so with a lightened heart; but when we last looked back, mr. guppy was still oscillating in the same troubled state of mind. chapter xxxix attorney and client the name of mr. vholes, preceded by the legend ground-floor, is inscribed upon a door-post in symond's inn, chancery lane--a little, pale, wall-eyed, woebegone inn like a large dust-binn of two compartments and a sifter. it looks as if symond were a sparing man in his way and constructed his inn of old building materials which took kindly to the dry rot and to dirt and all things decaying and dismal, and perpetuated symond's memory with congenial shabbiness. quartered in this dingy hatchment commemorative of symond are the legal bearings of mr. vholes. mr. vholes's office, in disposition retiring and in situation retired, is squeezed up in a corner and blinks at a dead wall. three feet of knotty-floored dark passage bring the client to mr. vholes's jet-black door, in an angle profoundly dark on the brightest midsummer morning and encumbered by a black bulk-head of cellarage staircase against which belated civilians generally strike their brows. mr. vholes's chambers are on so small a scale that one clerk can open the door without getting off his stool, while the other who elbows him at the same desk has equal facilities for poking the fire. a smell as of unwholesome sheep blending with the smell of must and dust is referable to the nightly (and often daily) consumption of mutton fat in candles and to the fretting of parchment forms and skins in greasy drawers. the atmosphere is otherwise stale and close. the place was last painted or whitewashed beyond the memory of man, and the two chimneys smoke, and there is a loose outer surface of soot everywhere, and the dull cracked windows in their heavy frames have but one piece of character in them, which is a determination to be always dirty and always shut unless coerced. this accounts for the phenomenon of the weaker of the two usually having a bundle of firewood thrust between its jaws in hot weather. mr. vholes is a very respectable man. he has not a large business, but he is a very respectable man. he is allowed by the greater attorneys who have made good fortunes or are making them to be a most respectable man. he never misses a chance in his practice, which is a mark of respectability. he never takes any pleasure, which is another mark of respectability. he is reserved and serious, which is another mark of respectability. his digestion is impaired, which is highly respectable. and he is making hay of the grass which is flesh, for his three daughters. and his father is dependent on him in the vale of taunton. the one great principle of the english law is to make business for itself. there is no other principle distinctly, certainly, and consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. viewed by this light it becomes a coherent scheme and not the monstrous maze the laity are apt to think it. let them but once clearly perceive that its grand principle is to make business for itself at their expense, and surely they will cease to grumble. but not perceiving this quite plainly--only seeing it by halves in a confused way--the laity sometimes suffer in peace and pocket, with a bad grace, and do grumble very much. then this respectability of mr. vholes is brought into powerful play against them. "repeal this statute, my good sir?" says mr. kenge to a smarting client. "repeal it, my dear sir? never, with my consent. alter this law, sir, and what will be the effect of your rash proceeding on a class of practitioners very worthily represented, allow me to say to you, by the opposite attorney in the case, mr. vholes? sir, that class of practitioners would be swept from the face of the earth. now you cannot afford--i will say, the social system cannot afford--to lose an order of men like mr. vholes. diligent, persevering, steady, acute in business. my dear sir, i understand your present feelings against the existing state of things, which i grant to be a little hard in your case; but i can never raise my voice for the demolition of a class of men like mr. vholes." the respectability of mr. vholes has even been cited with crushing effect before parliamentary committees, as in the following blue minutes of a distinguished attorney's evidence. "question (number five hundred and seventeen thousand eight hundred and sixty-nine): if i understand you, these forms of practice indisputably occasion delay? answer: yes, some delay. question: and great expense? answer: most assuredly they cannot be gone through for nothing. question: and unspeakable vexation? answer: i am not prepared to say that. they have never given me any vexation; quite the contrary. question: but you think that their abolition would damage a class of practitioners? answer: i have no doubt of it. question: can you instance any type of that class? answer: yes. i would unhesitatingly mention mr. vholes. he would be ruined. question: mr. vholes is considered, in the profession, a respectable man? answer:"--which proved fatal to the inquiry for ten years--"mr. vholes is considered, in the profession, a most respectable man." so in familiar conversation, private authorities no less disinterested will remark that they don't know what this age is coming to, that we are plunging down precipices, that now here is something else gone, that these changes are death to people like vholes--a man of undoubted respectability, with a father in the vale of taunton, and three daughters at home. take a few steps more in this direction, say they, and what is to become of vholes's father? is he to perish? and of vholes's daughters? are they to be shirt-makers, or governesses? as though, mr. vholes and his relations being minor cannibal chiefs and it being proposed to abolish cannibalism, indignant champions were to put the case thus: make man-eating unlawful, and you starve the vholeses! in a word, mr. vholes, with his three daughters and his father in the vale of taunton, is continually doing duty, like a piece of timber, to shore up some decayed foundation that has become a pitfall and a nuisance. and with a great many people in a great many instances, the question is never one of a change from wrong to right (which is quite an extraneous consideration), but is always one of injury or advantage to that eminently respectable legion, vholes. the chancellor is, within these ten minutes, "up" for the long vacation. mr. vholes, and his young client, and several blue bags hastily stuffed out of all regularity of form, as the larger sort of serpents are in their first gorged state, have returned to the official den. mr. vholes, quiet and unmoved, as a man of so much respectability ought to be, takes off his close black gloves as if he were skinning his hands, lifts off his tight hat as if he were scalping himself, and sits down at his desk. the client throws his hat and gloves upon the ground--tosses them anywhere, without looking after them or caring where they go; flings himself into a chair, half sighing and half groaning; rests his aching head upon his hand and looks the portrait of young despair. "again nothing done!" says richard. "nothing, nothing done!" "don't say nothing done, sir," returns the placid vholes. "that is scarcely fair, sir, scarcely fair!" "why, what is done?" says richard, turning gloomily upon him. "that may not be the whole question," returns vholes, "the question may branch off into what is doing, what is doing?" "and what is doing?" asks the moody client. vholes, sitting with his arms on the desk, quietly bringing the tips of his five right fingers to meet the tips of his five left fingers, and quietly separating them again, and fixedly and slowly looking at his client, replies, "a good deal is doing, sir. we have put our shoulders to the wheel, mr. carstone, and the wheel is going round." "yes, with ixion on it. how am i to get through the next four or five accursed months?" exclaims the young man, rising from his chair and walking about the room. "mr. c.," returns vholes, following him close with his eyes wherever he goes, "your spirits are hasty, and i am sorry for it on your account. excuse me if i recommend you not to chafe so much, not to be so impetuous, not to wear yourself out so. you should have more patience. you should sustain yourself better." "i ought to imitate you, in fact, mr. vholes?" says richard, sitting down again with an impatient laugh and beating the devil's tattoo with his boot on the patternless carpet. "sir," returns vholes, always looking at the client as if he were making a lingering meal of him with his eyes as well as with his professional appetite. "sir," returns vholes with his inward manner of speech and his bloodless quietude, "i should not have had the presumption to propose myself as a model for your imitation or any man's. let me but leave the good name to my three daughters, and that is enough for me; i am not a self-seeker. but since you mention me so pointedly, i will acknowledge that i should like to impart to you a little of my--come, sir, you are disposed to call it insensibility, and i am sure i have no objection--say insensibility--a little of my insensibility." "mr. vholes," explains the client, somewhat abashed, "i had no intention to accuse you of insensibility." "i think you had, sir, without knowing it," returns the equable vholes. "very naturally. it is my duty to attend to your interests with a cool head, and i can quite understand that to your excited feelings i may appear, at such times as the present, insensible. my daughters may know me better; my aged father may know me better. but they have known me much longer than you have, and the confiding eye of affection is not the distrustful eye of business. not that i complain, sir, of the eye of business being distrustful; quite the contrary. in attending to your interests, i wish to have all possible checks upon me; it is right that i should have them; i court inquiry. but your interests demand that i should be cool and methodical, mr. carstone; and i cannot be otherwise--no, sir, not even to please you." mr. vholes, after glancing at the official cat who is patiently watching a mouse's hole, fixes his charmed gaze again on his young client and proceeds in his buttoned-up, half-audible voice as if there were an unclean spirit in him that will neither come out nor speak out, "what are you to do, sir, you inquire, during the vacation. i should hope you gentlemen of the army may find many means of amusing yourselves if you give your minds to it. if you had asked me what i was to do during the vacation, i could have answered you more readily. i am to attend to your interests. i am to be found here, day by day, attending to your interests. that is my duty, mr. c., and term-time or vacation makes no difference to me. if you wish to consult me as to your interests, you will find me here at all times alike. other professional men go out of town. i don't. not that i blame them for going; i merely say i don't go. this desk is your rock, sir!" mr. vholes gives it a rap, and it sounds as hollow as a coffin. not to richard, though. there is encouragement in the sound to him. perhaps mr. vholes knows there is. "i am perfectly aware, mr. vholes," says richard, more familiarly and good-humouredly, "that you are the most reliable fellow in the world and that to have to do with you is to have to do with a man of business who is not to be hoodwinked. but put yourself in my case, dragging on this dislocated life, sinking deeper and deeper into difficulty every day, continually hoping and continually disappointed, conscious of change upon change for the worse in myself, and of no change for the better in anything else, and you will find it a dark-looking case sometimes, as i do." "you know," says mr. vholes, "that i never give hopes, sir. i told you from the first, mr. c., that i never give hopes. particularly in a case like this, where the greater part of the costs comes out of the estate, i should not be considerate of my good name if i gave hopes. it might seem as if costs were my object. still, when you say there is no change for the better, i must, as a bare matter of fact, deny that." "aye?" returns richard, brightening. "but how do you make it out?" "mr. carstone, you are represented by--" "you said just now--a rock." "yes, sir," says mr. vholes, gently shaking his head and rapping the hollow desk, with a sound as if ashes were falling on ashes, and dust on dust, "a rock. that's something. you are separately represented, and no longer hidden and lost in the interests of others. that's something. the suit does not sleep; we wake it up, we air it, we walk it about. that's something. it's not all jarndyce, in fact as well as in name. that's something. nobody has it all his own way now, sir. and that's something, surely." richard, his face flushing suddenly, strikes the desk with his clenched hand. "mr. vholes! if any man had told me when i first went to john jarndyce's house that he was anything but the disinterested friend he seemed--that he was what he has gradually turned out to be--i could have found no words strong enough to repel the slander; i could not have defended him too ardently. so little did i know of the world! whereas now i do declare to you that he becomes to me the embodiment of the suit; that in place of its being an abstraction, it is john jarndyce; that the more i suffer, the more indignant i am with him; that every new delay and every new disappointment is only a new injury from john jarndyce's hand." "no, no," says vholes. "don't say so. we ought to have patience, all of us. besides, i never disparage, sir. i never disparage." "mr. vholes," returns the angry client. "you know as well as i that he would have strangled the suit if he could." "he was not active in it," mr. vholes admits with an appearance of reluctance. "he certainly was not active in it. but however, but however, he might have had amiable intentions. who can read the heart, mr. c.!" "you can," returns richard. "i, mr. c.?" "well enough to know what his intentions were. are or are not our interests conflicting? tell--me--that!" says richard, accompanying his last three words with three raps on his rock of trust. "mr. c.," returns vholes, immovable in attitude and never winking his hungry eyes, "i should be wanting in my duty as your professional adviser, i should be departing from my fidelity to your interests, if i represented those interests as identical with the interests of mr. jarndyce. they are no such thing, sir. i never impute motives; i both have and am a father, and i never impute motives. but i must not shrink from a professional duty, even if it sows dissensions in families. i understand you to be now consulting me professionally as to your interests? you are so? i reply, then, they are not identical with those of mr. jarndyce." "of course they are not!" cries richard. "you found that out long ago." "mr. c.," returns vholes, "i wish to say no more of any third party than is necessary. i wish to leave my good name unsullied, together with any little property of which i may become possessed through industry and perseverance, to my daughters emma, jane, and caroline. i also desire to live in amity with my professional brethren. when mr. skimpole did me the honour, sir--i will not say the very high honour, for i never stoop to flattery--of bringing us together in this room, i mentioned to you that i could offer no opinion or advice as to your interests while those interests were entrusted to another member of the profession. and i spoke in such terms as i was bound to speak of kenge and carboy's office, which stands high. you, sir, thought fit to withdraw your interests from that keeping nevertheless and to offer them to me. you brought them with clean hands, sir, and i accepted them with clean hands. those interests are now paramount in this office. my digestive functions, as you may have heard me mention, are not in a good state, and rest might improve them; but i shall not rest, sir, while i am your representative. whenever you want me, you will find me here. summon me anywhere, and i will come. during the long vacation, sir, i shall devote my leisure to studying your interests more and more closely and to making arrangements for moving heaven and earth (including, of course, the chancellor) after michaelmas term; and when i ultimately congratulate you, sir," says mr. vholes with the severity of a determined man, "when i ultimately congratulate you, sir, with all my heart, on your accession to fortune--which, but that i never give hopes, i might say something further about--you will owe me nothing beyond whatever little balance may be then outstanding of the costs as between solicitor and client not included in the taxed costs allowed out of the estate. i pretend to no claim upon you, mr. c., but for the zealous and active discharge--not the languid and routine discharge, sir: that much credit i stipulate for--of my professional duty. my duty prosperously ended, all between us is ended." vholes finally adds, by way of rider to this declaration of his principles, that as mr. carstone is about to rejoin his regiment, perhaps mr. c. will favour him with an order on his agent for twenty pounds on account. "for there have been many little consultations and attendances of late, sir," observes vholes, turning over the leaves of his diary, "and these things mount up, and i don't profess to be a man of capital. when we first entered on our present relations i stated to you openly--it is a principle of mine that there never can be too much openness between solicitor and client--that i was not a man of capital and that if capital was your object you had better leave your papers in kenge's office. no, mr. c., you will find none of the advantages or disadvantages of capital here, sir. this," vholes gives the desk one hollow blow again, "is your rock; it pretends to be nothing more." the client, with his dejection insensibly relieved and his vague hopes rekindled, takes pen and ink and writes the draft, not without perplexed consideration and calculation of the date it may bear, implying scant effects in the agent's hands. all the while, vholes, buttoned up in body and mind, looks at him attentively. all the while, vholes's official cat watches the mouse's hole. lastly, the client, shaking hands, beseeches mr. vholes, for heaven's sake and earth's sake, to do his utmost to "pull him through" the court of chancery. mr. vholes, who never gives hopes, lays his palm upon the client's shoulder and answers with a smile, "always here, sir. personally, or by letter, you will always find me here, sir, with my shoulder to the wheel." thus they part, and vholes, left alone, employs himself in carrying sundry little matters out of his diary into his draft bill book for the ultimate behoof of his three daughters. so might an industrious fox or bear make up his account of chickens or stray travellers with an eye to his cubs, not to disparage by that word the three raw-visaged, lank, and buttoned-up maidens who dwell with the parent vholes in an earthy cottage situated in a damp garden at kennington. richard, emerging from the heavy shade of symond's inn into the sunshine of chancery lane--for there happens to be sunshine there to-day--walks thoughtfully on, and turns into lincoln's inn, and passes under the shadow of the lincoln's inn trees. on many such loungers have the speckled shadows of those trees often fallen; on the like bent head, the bitten nail, the lowering eye, the lingering step, the purposeless and dreamy air, the good consuming and consumed, the life turned sour. this lounger is not shabby yet, but that may come. chancery, which knows no wisdom but in precedent, is very rich in such precedents; and why should one be different from ten thousand? yet the time is so short since his depreciation began that as he saunters away, reluctant to leave the spot for some long months together, though he hates it, richard himself may feel his own case as if it were a startling one. while his heart is heavy with corroding care, suspense, distrust, and doubt, it may have room for some sorrowful wonder when he recalls how different his first visit there, how different he, how different all the colours of his mind. but injustice breeds injustice; the fighting with shadows and being defeated by them necessitates the setting up of substances to combat; from the impalpable suit which no man alive can understand, the time for that being long gone by, it has become a gloomy relief to turn to the palpable figure of the friend who would have saved him from this ruin and make him his enemy. richard has told vholes the truth. is he in a hardened or a softened mood, he still lays his injuries equally at that door; he was thwarted, in that quarter, of a set purpose, and that purpose could only originate in the one subject that is resolving his existence into itself; besides, it is a justification to him in his own eyes to have an embodied antagonist and oppressor. is richard a monster in all this, or would chancery be found rich in such precedents too if they could be got for citation from the recording angel? two pairs of eyes not unused to such people look after him, as, biting his nails and brooding, he crosses the square and is swallowed up by the shadow of the southern gateway. mr. guppy and mr. weevle are the possessors of those eyes, and they have been leaning in conversation against the low stone parapet under the trees. he passes close by them, seeing nothing but the ground. "william," says mr. weevle, adjusting his whiskers, "there's combustion going on there! it's not a case of spontaneous, but it's smouldering combustion it is." "ah!" says mr. guppy. "he wouldn't keep out of jarndyce, and i suppose he's over head and ears in debt. i never knew much of him. he was as high as the monument when he was on trial at our place. a good riddance to me, whether as clerk or client! well, tony, that as i was mentioning is what they're up to." mr. guppy, refolding his arms, resettles himself against the parapet, as resuming a conversation of interest. "they are still up to it, sir," says mr. guppy, "still taking stock, still examining papers, still going over the heaps and heaps of rubbish. at this rate they'll be at it these seven years." "and small is helping?" "small left us at a week's notice. told kenge his grandfather's business was too much for the old gentleman and he could better himself by undertaking it. there had been a coolness between myself and small on account of his being so close. but he said you and i began it, and as he had me there--for we did--i put our acquaintance on the old footing. that's how i come to know what they're up to." "you haven't looked in at all?" "tony," says mr. guppy, a little disconcerted, "to be unreserved with you, i don't greatly relish the house, except in your company, and therefore i have not; and therefore i proposed this little appointment for our fetching away your things. there goes the hour by the clock! tony"--mr. guppy becomes mysteriously and tenderly eloquent--"it is necessary that i should impress upon your mind once more that circumstances over which i have no control have made a melancholy alteration in my most cherished plans and in that unrequited image which i formerly mentioned to you as a friend. that image is shattered, and that idol is laid low. my only wish now in connexion with the objects which i had an idea of carrying out in the court with your aid as a friend is to let 'em alone and bury 'em in oblivion. do you think it possible, do you think it at all likely (i put it to you, tony, as a friend), from your knowledge of that capricious and deep old character who fell a prey to the--spontaneous element, do you, tony, think it at all likely that on second thoughts he put those letters away anywhere, after you saw him alive, and that they were not destroyed that night?" mr. weevle reflects for some time. shakes his head. decidedly thinks not. "tony," says mr. guppy as they walk towards the court, "once again understand me, as a friend. without entering into further explanations, i may repeat that the idol is down. i have no purpose to serve now but burial in oblivion. to that i have pledged myself. i owe it to myself, and i owe it to the shattered image, as also to the circumstances over which i have no control. if you was to express to me by a gesture, by a wink, that you saw lying anywhere in your late lodgings any papers that so much as looked like the papers in question, i would pitch them into the fire, sir, on my own responsibility." mr. weevle nods. mr. guppy, much elevated in his own opinion by having delivered these observations, with an air in part forensic and in part romantic--this gentleman having a passion for conducting anything in the form of an examination, or delivering anything in the form of a summing up or a speech--accompanies his friend with dignity to the court. never since it has been a court has it had such a fortunatus' purse of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop. regularly, every morning at eight, is the elder mr. smallweed brought down to the corner and carried in, accompanied by mrs. smallweed, judy, and bart; and regularly, all day, do they all remain there until nine at night, solaced by gipsy dinners, not abundant in quantity, from the cook's shop, rummaging and searching, digging, delving, and diving among the treasures of the late lamented. what those treasures are they keep so secret that the court is maddened. in its delirium it imagines guineas pouring out of tea-pots, crown-pieces overflowing punch-bowls, old chairs and mattresses stuffed with bank of england notes. it possesses itself of the sixpenny history (with highly coloured folding frontispiece) of mr. daniel dancer and his sister, and also of mr. elwes, of suffolk, and transfers all the facts from those authentic narratives to mr. krook. twice when the dustman is called in to carry off a cartload of old paper, ashes, and broken bottles, the whole court assembles and pries into the baskets as they come forth. many times the two gentlemen who write with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper are seen prowling in the neighbourhood--shy of each other, their late partnership being dissolved. the sol skilfully carries a vein of the prevailing interest through the harmonic nights. little swills, in what are professionally known as "patter" allusions to the subject, is received with loud applause; and the same vocalist "gags" in the regular business like a man inspired. even miss m. melvilleson, in the revived caledonian melody of "we're a-nodding," points the sentiment that "the dogs love broo" (whatever the nature of that refreshment may be) with such archness and such a turn of the head towards next door that she is immediately understood to mean mr. smallweed loves to find money, and is nightly honoured with a double encore. for all this, the court discovers nothing; and as mrs. piper and mrs. perkins now communicate to the late lodger whose appearance is the signal for a general rally, it is in one continual ferment to discover everything, and more. mr. weevle and mr. guppy, with every eye in the court's head upon them, knock at the closed door of the late lamented's house, in a high state of popularity. but being contrary to the court's expectation admitted, they immediately become unpopular and are considered to mean no good. the shutters are more or less closed all over the house, and the ground-floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. introduced into the back shop by mr. smallweed the younger, they, fresh from the sunlight, can at first see nothing save darkness and shadows; but they gradually discern the elder mr. smallweed seated in his chair upon the brink of a well or grave of waste-paper, the virtuous judy groping therein like a female sexton, and mrs. smallweed on the level ground in the vicinity snowed up in a heap of paper fragments, print, and manuscript which would appear to be the accumulated compliments that have been sent flying at her in the course of the day. the whole party, small included, are blackened with dust and dirt and present a fiendish appearance not relieved by the general aspect of the room. there is more litter and lumber in it than of old, and it is dirtier if possible; likewise, it is ghostly with traces of its dead inhabitant and even with his chalked writing on the wall. on the entrance of visitors, mr. smallweed and judy simultaneously fold their arms and stop in their researches. "aha!" croaks the old gentleman. "how de do, gentlemen, how de do! come to fetch your property, mr. weevle? that's well, that's well. ha! ha! we should have been forced to sell you up, sir, to pay your warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. you feel quite at home here again, i dare say? glad to see you, glad to see you!" mr. weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. mr. guppy's eye follows mr. weevle's eye. mr. weevle's eye comes back without any new intelligence in it. mr. guppy's eye comes back and meets mr. smallweed's eye. that engaging old gentleman is still murmuring, like some wound-up instrument running down, "how de do, sir--how de--how--" and then having run down, he lapses into grinning silence, as mr. guppy starts at seeing mr. tulkinghorn standing in the darkness opposite with his hands behind him. "gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor," says grandfather smallweed. "i am not the sort of client for a gentleman of such note, but he is so good!" mr. guppy, slightly nudging his friend to take another look, makes a shuffling bow to mr. tulkinghorn, who returns it with an easy nod. mr. tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing else to do and were rather amused by the novelty. "a good deal of property here, sir, i should say," mr. guppy observes to mr. smallweed. "principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! rags and rubbish! me and bart and my granddaughter judy are endeavouring to make out an inventory of what's worth anything to sell. but we haven't come to much as yet; we--haven't--come--to--hah!" mr. smallweed has run down again, while mr. weevle's eye, attended by mr. guppy's eye, has again gone round the room and come back. "well, sir," says mr. weevle. "we won't intrude any longer if you'll allow us to go upstairs." "anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! you're at home. make yourself so, pray!" as they go upstairs, mr. guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and looks at tony. tony shakes his head. they find the old room very dull and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was burning on that memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. they have a great disinclination to touch any object, and carefully blow the dust from it first. nor are they desirous to prolong their visit, packing the few movables with all possible speed and never speaking above a whisper. "look here," says tony, recoiling. "here's that horrible cat coming in!" mr. guppy retreats behind a chair. "small told me of her. she went leaping and bounding and tearing about that night like a dragon, and got out on the house-top, and roamed about up there for a fortnight, and then came tumbling down the chimney very thin. did you ever see such a brute? looks as if she knew all about it, don't she? almost looks as if she was krook. shoohoo! get out, you goblin!" lady jane, in the doorway, with her tiger snarl from ear to ear and her club of a tail, shows no intention of obeying; but mr. tulkinghorn stumbling over her, she spits at his rusty legs, and swearing wrathfully, takes her arched back upstairs. possibly to roam the house-tops again and return by the chimney. "mr. guppy," says mr. tulkinghorn, "could i have a word with you?" mr. guppy is engaged in collecting the galaxy gallery of british beauty from the wall and depositing those works of art in their old ignoble band-box. "sir," he returns, reddening, "i wish to act with courtesy towards every member of the profession, and especially, i am sure, towards a member of it so well known as yourself--i will truly add, sir, so distinguished as yourself. still, mr. tulkinghorn, sir, i must stipulate that if you have any word with me, that word is spoken in the presence of my friend." "oh, indeed?" says mr. tulkinghorn. "yes, sir. my reasons are not of a personal nature at all, but they are amply sufficient for myself." "no doubt, no doubt." mr. tulkinghorn is as imperturbable as the hearthstone to which he has quietly walked. "the matter is not of that consequence that i need put you to the trouble of making any conditions, mr. guppy." he pauses here to smile, and his smile is as dull and rusty as his pantaloons. "you are to be congratulated, mr. guppy; you are a fortunate young man, sir." "pretty well so, mr. tulkinghorn; i don't complain." "complain? high friends, free admission to great houses, and access to elegant ladies! why, mr. guppy, there are people in london who would give their ears to be you." mr. guppy, looking as if he would give his own reddening and still reddening ears to be one of those people at present instead of himself, replies, "sir, if i attend to my profession and do what is right by kenge and carboy, my friends and acquaintances are of no consequence to them nor to any member of the profession, not excepting mr. tulkinghorn of the fields. i am not under any obligation to explain myself further; and with all respect for you, sir, and without offence--i repeat, without offence--" "oh, certainly!" "--i don't intend to do it." "quite so," says mr. tulkinghorn with a calm nod. "very good; i see by these portraits that you take a strong interest in the fashionable great, sir?" he addresses this to the astounded tony, who admits the soft impeachment. "a virtue in which few englishmen are deficient," observes mr. tulkinghorn. he has been standing on the hearthstone with his back to the smoked chimney-piece, and now turns round with his glasses to his eyes. "who is this? 'lady dedlock.' ha! a very good likeness in its way, but it wants force of character. good day to you, gentlemen; good day!" when he has walked out, mr. guppy, in a great perspiration, nerves himself to the hasty completion of the taking down of the galaxy gallery, concluding with lady dedlock. "tony," he says hurriedly to his astonished companion, "let us be quick in putting the things together and in getting out of this place. it were in vain longer to conceal from you, tony, that between myself and one of the members of a swan-like aristocracy whom i now hold in my hand, there has been undivulged communication and association. the time might have been when i might have revealed it to you. it never will be more. it is due alike to the oath i have taken, alike to the shattered idol, and alike to circumstances over which i have no control, that the whole should be buried in oblivion. i charge you as a friend, by the interest you have ever testified in the fashionable intelligence, and by any little advances with which i may have been able to accommodate you, so to bury it without a word of inquiry!" this charge mr. guppy delivers in a state little short of forensic lunacy, while his friend shows a dazed mind in his whole head of hair and even in his cultivated whiskers. chapter xl national and domestic england has been in a dreadful state for some weeks. lord coodle would go out, sir thomas doodle wouldn't come in, and there being nobody in great britain (to speak of) except coodle and doodle, there has been no government. it is a mercy that the hostile meeting between those two great men, which at one time seemed inevitable, did not come off, because if both pistols had taken effect, and coodle and doodle had killed each other, it is to be presumed that england must have waited to be governed until young coodle and young doodle, now in frocks and long stockings, were grown up. this stupendous national calamity, however, was averted by lord coodle's making the timely discovery that if in the heat of debate he had said that he scorned and despised the whole ignoble career of sir thomas doodle, he had merely meant to say that party differences should never induce him to withhold from it the tribute of his warmest admiration; while it as opportunely turned out, on the other hand, that sir thomas doodle had in his own bosom expressly booked lord coodle to go down to posterity as the mirror of virtue and honour. still england has been some weeks in the dismal strait of having no pilot (as was well observed by sir leicester dedlock) to weather the storm; and the marvellous part of the matter is that england has not appeared to care very much about it, but has gone on eating and drinking and marrying and giving in marriage as the old world did in the days before the flood. but coodle knew the danger, and doodle knew the danger, and all their followers and hangers-on had the clearest possible perception of the danger. at last sir thomas doodle has not only condescended to come in, but has done it handsomely, bringing in with him all his nephews, all his male cousins, and all his brothers-in-law. so there is hope for the old ship yet. doodle has found that he must throw himself upon the country, chiefly in the form of sovereigns and beer. in this metamorphosed state he is available in a good many places simultaneously and can throw himself upon a considerable portion of the country at one time. britannia being much occupied in pocketing doodle in the form of sovereigns, and swallowing doodle in the form of beer, and in swearing herself black in the face that she does neither--plainly to the advancement of her glory and morality--the london season comes to a sudden end, through all the doodleites and coodleites dispersing to assist britannia in those religious exercises. hence mrs. rouncewell, housekeeper at chesney wold, foresees, though no instructions have yet come down, that the family may shortly be expected, together with a pretty large accession of cousins and others who can in any way assist the great constitutional work. and hence the stately old dame, taking time by the forelock, leads him up and down the staircases, and along the galleries and passages, and through the rooms, to witness before he grows any older that everything is ready, that floors are rubbed bright, carpets spread, curtains shaken out, beds puffed and patted, still-room and kitchen cleared for action--all things prepared as beseems the dedlock dignity. this present summer evening, as the sun goes down, the preparations are complete. dreary and solemn the old house looks, with so many appliances of habitation and with no inhabitants except the pictured forms upon the walls. so did these come and go, a dedlock in possession might have ruminated passing along; so did they see this gallery hushed and quiet, as i see it now; so think, as i think, of the gap that they would make in this domain when they were gone; so find it, as i find it, difficult to believe that it could be without them; so pass from my world, as i pass from theirs, now closing the reverberating door; so leave no blank to miss them, and so die. through some of the fiery windows beautiful from without, and set, at this sunset hour, not in dull-grey stone but in a glorious house of gold, the light excluded at other windows pours in rich, lavish, overflowing like the summer plenty in the land. then do the frozen dedlocks thaw. strange movements come upon their features as the shadows of leaves play there. a dense justice in a corner is beguiled into a wink. a staring baronet, with a truncheon, gets a dimple in his chin. down into the bosom of a stony shepherdess there steals a fleck of light and warmth that would have done it good a hundred years ago. one ancestress of volumnia, in high-heeled shoes, very like her--casting the shadow of that virgin event before her full two centuries--shoots out into a halo and becomes a saint. a maid of honour of the court of charles the second, with large round eyes (and other charms to correspond), seems to bathe in glowing water, and it ripples as it glows. but the fire of the sun is dying. even now the floor is dusky, and shadow slowly mounts the walls, bringing the dedlocks down like age and death. and now, upon my lady's picture over the great chimney-piece, a weird shade falls from some old tree, that turns it pale, and flutters it, and looks as if a great arm held a veil or hood, watching an opportunity to draw it over her. higher and darker rises shadow on the wall--now a red gloom on the ceiling--now the fire is out. all that prospect, which from the terrace looked so near, has moved solemnly away and changed--not the first nor the last of beautiful things that look so near and will so change--into a distant phantom. light mists arise, and the dew falls, and all the sweet scents in the garden are heavy in the air. now the woods settle into great masses as if they were each one profound tree. and now the moon rises to separate them, and to glimmer here and there in horizontal lines behind their stems, and to make the avenue a pavement of light among high cathedral arches fantastically broken. now the moon is high; and the great house, needing habitation more than ever, is like a body without life. now it is even awful, stealing through it, to think of the live people who have slept in the solitary bedrooms, to say nothing of the dead. now is the time for shadow, when every corner is a cavern and every downward step a pit, when the stained glass is reflected in pale and faded hues upon the floors, when anything and everything can be made of the heavy staircase beams excepting their own proper shapes, when the armour has dull lights upon it not easily to be distinguished from stealthy movement, and when barred helmets are frightfully suggestive of heads inside. but of all the shadows in chesney wold, the shadow in the long drawing-room upon my lady's picture is the first to come, the last to be disturbed. at this hour and by this light it changes into threatening hands raised up and menacing the handsome face with every breath that stirs. "she is not well, ma'am," says a groom in mrs. rouncewell's audience-chamber. "my lady not well! what's the matter?" "why, my lady has been but poorly, ma'am, since she was last here--i don't mean with the family, ma'am, but when she was here as a bird of passage like. my lady has not been out much, for her, and has kept her room a good deal." "chesney wold, thomas," rejoins the housekeeper with proud complacency, "will set my lady up! there is no finer air and no healthier soil in the world!" thomas may have his own personal opinions on this subject, probably hints them in his manner of smoothing his sleek head from the nape of his neck to his temples, but he forbears to express them further and retires to the servants' hall to regale on cold meat-pie and ale. this groom is the pilot-fish before the nobler shark. next evening, down come sir leicester and my lady with their largest retinue, and down come the cousins and others from all the points of the compass. thenceforth for some weeks backward and forward rush mysterious men with no names, who fly about all those particular parts of the country on which doodle is at present throwing himself in an auriferous and malty shower, but who are merely persons of a restless disposition and never do anything anywhere. on these national occasions sir leicester finds the cousins useful. a better man than the honourable bob stables to meet the hunt at dinner, there could not possibly be. better got up gentlemen than the other cousins to ride over to polling-booths and hustings here and there, and show themselves on the side of england, it would be hard to find. volumnia is a little dim, but she is of the true descent; and there are many who appreciate her sprightly conversation, her french conundrums so old as to have become in the cycles of time almost new again, the honour of taking the fair dedlock in to dinner, or even the privilege of her hand in the dance. on these national occasions dancing may be a patriotic service, and volumnia is constantly seen hopping about for the good of an ungrateful and unpensioning country. my lady takes no great pains to entertain the numerous guests, and being still unwell, rarely appears until late in the day. but at all the dismal dinners, leaden lunches, basilisk balls, and other melancholy pageants, her mere appearance is a relief. as to sir leicester, he conceives it utterly impossible that anything can be wanting, in any direction, by any one who has the good fortune to be received under that roof; and in a state of sublime satisfaction, he moves among the company, a magnificent refrigerator. daily the cousins trot through dust and canter over roadside turf, away to hustings and polling-booths (with leather gloves and hunting-whips for the counties and kid gloves and riding-canes for the boroughs), and daily bring back reports on which sir leicester holds forth after dinner. daily the restless men who have no occupation in life present the appearance of being rather busy. daily volumnia has a little cousinly talk with sir leicester on the state of the nation, from which sir leicester is disposed to conclude that volumnia is a more reflecting woman than he had thought her. "how are we getting on?" says miss volumnia, clasping her hands. "are we safe?" the mighty business is nearly over by this time, and doodle will throw himself off the country in a few days more. sir leicester has just appeared in the long drawing-room after dinner, a bright particular star surrounded by clouds of cousins. "volumnia," replies sir leicester, who has a list in his hand, "we are doing tolerably." "only tolerably!" although it is summer weather, sir leicester always has his own particular fire in the evening. he takes his usual screened seat near it and repeats with much firmness and a little displeasure, as who should say, i am not a common man, and when i say tolerably, it must not be understood as a common expression, "volumnia, we are doing tolerably." "at least there is no opposition to you," volumnia asserts with confidence. "no, volumnia. this distracted country has lost its senses in many respects, i grieve to say, but--" "it is not so mad as that. i am glad to hear it!" volumnia's finishing the sentence restores her to favour. sir leicester, with a gracious inclination of his head, seems to say to himself, "a sensible woman this, on the whole, though occasionally precipitate." in fact, as to this question of opposition, the fair dedlock's observation was superfluous, sir leicester on these occasions always delivering in his own candidateship, as a kind of handsome wholesale order to be promptly executed. two other little seats that belong to him he treats as retail orders of less importance, merely sending down the men and signifying to the tradespeople, "you will have the goodness to make these materials into two members of parliament and to send them home when done." "i regret to say, volumnia, that in many places the people have shown a bad spirit, and that this opposition to the government has been of a most determined and most implacable description." "w-r-retches!" says volumnia. "even," proceeds sir leicester, glancing at the circumjacent cousins on sofas and ottomans, "even in many--in fact, in most--of those places in which the government has carried it against a faction--" (note, by the way, that the coodleites are always a faction with the doodleites, and that the doodleites occupy exactly the same position towards the coodleites.) "--even in them i am shocked, for the credit of englishmen, to be constrained to inform you that the party has not triumphed without being put to an enormous expense. hundreds," says sir leicester, eyeing the cousins with increasing dignity and swelling indignation, "hundreds of thousands of pounds!" if volumnia have a fault, it is the fault of being a trifle too innocent, seeing that the innocence which would go extremely well with a sash and tucker is a little out of keeping with the rouge and pearl necklace. howbeit, impelled by innocence, she asks, "what for?" "volumnia," remonstrates sir leicester with his utmost severity. "volumnia!" "no, no, i don't mean what for," cries volumnia with her favourite little scream. "how stupid i am! i mean what a pity!" "i am glad," returns sir leicester, "that you do mean what a pity." volumnia hastens to express her opinion that the shocking people ought to be tried as traitors and made to support the party. "i am glad, volumnia," repeats sir leicester, unmindful of these mollifying sentiments, "that you do mean what a pity. it is disgraceful to the electors. but as you, though inadvertently and without intending so unreasonable a question, asked me 'what for?' let me reply to you. for necessary expenses. and i trust to your good sense, volumnia, not to pursue the subject, here or elsewhere." sir leicester feels it incumbent on him to observe a crushing aspect towards volumnia because it is whispered abroad that these necessary expenses will, in some two hundred election petitions, be unpleasantly connected with the word bribery, and because some graceless jokers have consequently suggested the omission from the church service of the ordinary supplication in behalf of the high court of parliament and have recommended instead that the prayers of the congregation be requested for six hundred and fifty-eight gentlemen in a very unhealthy state. "i suppose," observes volumnia, having taken a little time to recover her spirits after her late castigation, "i suppose mr. tulkinghorn has been worked to death." "i don't know," says sir leicester, opening his eyes, "why mr. tulkinghorn should be worked to death. i don't know what mr. tulkinghorn's engagements may be. he is not a candidate." volumnia had thought he might have been employed. sir leicester could desire to know by whom, and what for. volumnia, abashed again, suggests, by somebody--to advise and make arrangements. sir leicester is not aware that any client of mr. tulkinghorn has been in need of his assistance. lady dedlock, seated at an open window with her arm upon its cushioned ledge and looking out at the evening shadows falling on the park, has seemed to attend since the lawyer's name was mentioned. a languid cousin with a moustache in a state of extreme debility now observes from his couch that man told him ya'as'dy that tulkinghorn had gone down t' that iron place t' give legal 'pinion 'bout something, and that contest being over t' day, 'twould be highly jawlly thing if tulkinghorn should 'pear with news that coodle man was floored. mercury in attendance with coffee informs sir leicester, hereupon, that mr. tulkinghorn has arrived and is taking dinner. my lady turns her head inward for the moment, then looks out again as before. volumnia is charmed to hear that her delight is come. he is so original, such a stolid creature, such an immense being for knowing all sorts of things and never telling them! volumnia is persuaded that he must be a freemason. is sure he is at the head of a lodge, and wears short aprons, and is made a perfect idol of with candlesticks and trowels. these lively remarks the fair dedlock delivers in her youthful manner, while making a purse. "he has not been here once," she adds, "since i came. i really had some thoughts of breaking my heart for the inconstant creature. i had almost made up my mind that he was dead." it may be the gathering gloom of evening, or it may be the darker gloom within herself, but a shade is on my lady's face, as if she thought, "i would he were!" "mr. tulkinghorn," says sir leicester, "is always welcome here and always discreet wheresoever he is. a very valuable person, and deservedly respected." the debilitated cousin supposes he is "'normously rich fler." "he has a stake in the country," says sir leicester, "i have no doubt. he is, of course, handsomely paid, and he associates almost on a footing of equality with the highest society." everybody starts. for a gun is fired close by. "good gracious, what's that?" cries volumnia with her little withered scream. "a rat," says my lady. "and they have shot him." enter mr. tulkinghorn, followed by mercuries with lamps and candles. "no, no," says sir leicester, "i think not. my lady, do you object to the twilight?" on the contrary, my lady prefers it. "volumnia?" oh! nothing is so delicious to volumnia as to sit and talk in the dark. "then take them away," says sir leicester. "tulkinghorn, i beg your pardon. how do you do?" mr. tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, renders his passing homage to my lady, shakes sir leicester's hand, and subsides into the chair proper to him when he has anything to communicate, on the opposite side of the baronet's little newspaper-table. sir leicester is apprehensive that my lady, not being very well, will take cold at that open window. my lady is obliged to him, but would rather sit there for the air. sir leicester rises, adjusts her scarf about her, and returns to his seat. mr. tulkinghorn in the meanwhile takes a pinch of snuff. "now," says sir leicester. "how has that contest gone?" "oh, hollow from the beginning. not a chance. they have brought in both their people. you are beaten out of all reason. three to one." it is a part of mr. tulkinghorn's policy and mastery to have no political opinions; indeed, no opinions. therefore he says "you" are beaten, and not "we." sir leicester is majestically wroth. volumnia never heard of such a thing. 'the debilitated cousin holds that it's sort of thing that's sure tapn slongs votes--giv'n--mob. "it's the place, you know," mr. tulkinghorn goes on to say in the fast-increasing darkness when there is silence again, "where they wanted to put up mrs. rouncewell's son." "a proposal which, as you correctly informed me at the time, he had the becoming taste and perception," observes sir leicester, "to decline. i cannot say that i by any means approve of the sentiments expressed by mr. rouncewell when he was here for some half-hour in this room, but there was a sense of propriety in his decision which i am glad to acknowledge." "ha!" says mr. tulkinghorn. "it did not prevent him from being very active in this election, though." sir leicester is distinctly heard to gasp before speaking. "did i understand you? did you say that mr. rouncewell had been very active in this election?" "uncommonly active." "against--" "oh, dear yes, against you. he is a very good speaker. plain and emphatic. he made a damaging effect, and has great influence. in the business part of the proceedings he carried all before him." it is evident to the whole company, though nobody can see him, that sir leicester is staring majestically. "and he was much assisted," says mr. tulkinghorn as a wind-up, "by his son." "by his son, sir?" repeats sir leicester with awful politeness. "by his son." "the son who wished to marry the young woman in my lady's service?" "that son. he has but one." "then upon my honour," says sir leicester after a terrific pause during which he has been heard to snort and felt to stare, "then upon my honour, upon my life, upon my reputation and principles, the floodgates of society are burst open, and the waters have--a--obliterated the landmarks of the framework of the cohesion by which things are held together!" general burst of cousinly indignation. volumnia thinks it is really high time, you know, for somebody in power to step in and do something strong. debilitated cousin thinks--country's going--dayvle--steeple-chase pace. "i beg," says sir leicester in a breathless condition, "that we may not comment further on this circumstance. comment is superfluous. my lady, let me suggest in reference to that young woman--" "i have no intention," observes my lady from her window in a low but decided tone, "of parting with her." "that was not my meaning," returns sir leicester. "i am glad to hear you say so. i would suggest that as you think her worthy of your patronage, you should exert your influence to keep her from these dangerous hands. you might show her what violence would be done in such association to her duties and principles, and you might preserve her for a better fate. you might point out to her that she probably would, in good time, find a husband at chesney wold by whom she would not be--" sir leicester adds, after a moment's consideration, "dragged from the altars of her forefathers." these remarks he offers with his unvarying politeness and deference when he addresses himself to his wife. she merely moves her head in reply. the moon is rising, and where she sits there is a little stream of cold pale light, in which her head is seen. "it is worthy of remark," says mr. tulkinghorn, "however, that these people are, in their way, very proud." "proud?" sir leicester doubts his hearing. "i should not be surprised if they all voluntarily abandoned the girl--yes, lover and all--instead of her abandoning them, supposing she remained at chesney wold under such circumstances." "well!" says sir leicester tremulously. "well! you should know, mr. tulkinghorn. you have been among them." "really, sir leicester," returns the lawyer, "i state the fact. why, i could tell you a story--with lady dedlock's permission." her head concedes it, and volumnia is enchanted. a story! oh, he is going to tell something at last! a ghost in it, volumnia hopes? "no. real flesh and blood." mr. tulkinghorn stops for an instant and repeats with some little emphasis grafted upon his usual monotony, "real flesh and blood, miss dedlock. sir leicester, these particulars have only lately become known to me. they are very brief. they exemplify what i have said. i suppress names for the present. lady dedlock will not think me ill-bred, i hope?" by the light of the fire, which is low, he can be seen looking towards the moonlight. by the light of the moon lady dedlock can be seen, perfectly still. "a townsman of this mrs. rouncewell, a man in exactly parallel circumstances as i am told, had the good fortune to have a daughter who attracted the notice of a great lady. i speak of really a great lady, not merely great to him, but married to a gentleman of your condition, sir leicester." sir leicester condescendingly says, "yes, mr. tulkinghorn," implying that then she must have appeared of very considerable moral dimensions indeed in the eyes of an iron-master. "the lady was wealthy and beautiful, and had a liking for the girl, and treated her with great kindness, and kept her always near her. now this lady preserved a secret under all her greatness, which she had preserved for many years. in fact, she had in early life been engaged to marry a young rake--he was a captain in the army--nothing connected with whom came to any good. she never did marry him, but she gave birth to a child of which he was the father." by the light of the fire he can be seen looking towards the moonlight. by the moonlight, lady dedlock can be seen in profile, perfectly still. "the captain in the army being dead, she believed herself safe; but a train of circumstances with which i need not trouble you led to discovery. as i received the story, they began in an imprudence on her own part one day when she was taken by surprise, which shows how difficult it is for the firmest of us (she was very firm) to be always guarded. there was great domestic trouble and amazement, you may suppose; i leave you to imagine, sir leicester, the husband's grief. but that is not the present point. when mr. rouncewell's townsman heard of the disclosure, he no more allowed the girl to be patronized and honoured than he would have suffered her to be trodden underfoot before his eyes. such was his pride, that he indignantly took her away, as if from reproach and disgrace. he had no sense of the honour done him and his daughter by the lady's condescension; not the least. he resented the girl's position, as if the lady had been the commonest of commoners. that is the story. i hope lady dedlock will excuse its painful nature." there are various opinions on the merits, more or less conflicting with volumnia's. that fair young creature cannot believe there ever was any such lady and rejects the whole history on the threshold. the majority incline to the debilitated cousin's sentiment, which is in few words--"no business--rouncewell's fernal townsman." sir leicester generally refers back in his mind to wat tyler and arranges a sequence of events on a plan of his own. there is not much conversation in all, for late hours have been kept at chesney wold since the necessary expenses elsewhere began, and this is the first night in many on which the family have been alone. it is past ten when sir leicester begs mr. tulkinghorn to ring for candles. then the stream of moonlight has swelled into a lake, and then lady dedlock for the first time moves, and rises, and comes forward to a table for a glass of water. winking cousins, bat-like in the candle glare, crowd round to give it; volumnia (always ready for something better if procurable) takes another, a very mild sip of which contents her; lady dedlock, graceful, self-possessed, looked after by admiring eyes, passes away slowly down the long perspective by the side of that nymph, not at all improving her as a question of contrast. chapter xli in mr. tulkinghorn's room mr. tulkinghorn arrives in his turret-room a little breathed by the journey up, though leisurely performed. there is an expression on his face as if he had discharged his mind of some grave matter and were, in his close way, satisfied. to say of a man so severely and strictly self-repressed that he is triumphant would be to do him as great an injustice as to suppose him troubled with love or sentiment or any romantic weakness. he is sedately satisfied. perhaps there is a rather increased sense of power upon him as he loosely grasps one of his veinous wrists with his other hand and holding it behind his back walks noiselessly up and down. there is a capacious writing-table in the room on which is a pretty large accumulation of papers. the green lamp is lighted, his reading-glasses lie upon the desk, the easy-chair is wheeled up to it, and it would seem as though he had intended to bestow an hour or so upon these claims on his attention before going to bed. but he happens not to be in a business mind. after a glance at the documents awaiting his notice--with his head bent low over the table, the old man's sight for print or writing being defective at night--he opens the french window and steps out upon the leads. there he again walks slowly up and down in the same attitude, subsiding, if a man so cool may have any need to subside, from the story he has related downstairs. the time was once when men as knowing as mr. tulkinghorn would walk on turret-tops in the starlight and look up into the sky to read their fortunes there. hosts of stars are visible to-night, though their brilliancy is eclipsed by the splendour of the moon. if he be seeking his own star as he methodically turns and turns upon the leads, it should be but a pale one to be so rustily represented below. if he be tracing out his destiny, that may be written in other characters nearer to his hand. as he paces the leads with his eyes most probably as high above his thoughts as they are high above the earth, he is suddenly stopped in passing the window by two eyes that meet his own. the ceiling of his room is rather low; and the upper part of the door, which is opposite the window, is of glass. there is an inner baize door, too, but the night being warm he did not close it when he came upstairs. these eyes that meet his own are looking in through the glass from the corridor outside. he knows them well. the blood has not flushed into his face so suddenly and redly for many a long year as when he recognizes lady dedlock. he steps into the room, and she comes in too, closing both the doors behind her. there is a wild disturbance--is it fear or anger?--in her eyes. in her carriage and all else she looks as she looked downstairs two hours ago. is it fear or is it anger now? he cannot be sure. both might be as pale, both as intent. "lady dedlock?" she does not speak at first, nor even when she has slowly dropped into the easy-chair by the table. they look at each other, like two pictures. "why have you told my story to so many persons?" "lady dedlock, it was necessary for me to inform you that i knew it." "how long have you known it?" "i have suspected it a long while--fully known it a little while." "months?" "days." he stands before her with one hand on a chair-back and the other in his old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, exactly as he has stood before her at any time since her marriage. the same formal politeness, the same composed deference that might as well be defiance; the whole man the same dark, cold object, at the same distance, which nothing has ever diminished. "is this true concerning the poor girl?" he slightly inclines and advances his head as not quite understanding the question. "you know what you related. is it true? do her friends know my story also? is it the town-talk yet? is it chalked upon the walls and cried in the streets?" so! anger, and fear, and shame. all three contending. what power this woman has to keep these raging passions down! mr. tulkinghorn's thoughts take such form as he looks at her, with his ragged grey eyebrows a hair's breadth more contracted than usual under her gaze. "no, lady dedlock. that was a hypothetical case, arising out of sir leicester's unconsciously carrying the matter with so high a hand. but it would be a real case if they knew--what we know." "then they do not know it yet?" "no." "can i save the poor girl from injury before they know it?" "really, lady dedlock," mr. tulkinghorn replies, "i cannot give a satisfactory opinion on that point." and he thinks, with the interest of attentive curiosity, as he watches the struggle in her breast, "the power and force of this woman are astonishing!" "sir," she says, for the moment obliged to set her lips with all the energy she has, that she may speak distinctly, "i will make it plainer. i do not dispute your hypothetical case. i anticipated it, and felt its truth as strongly as you can do, when i saw mr. rouncewell here. i knew very well that if he could have had the power of seeing me as i was, he would consider the poor girl tarnished by having for a moment been, although most innocently, the subject of my great and distinguished patronage. but i have an interest in her, or i should rather say--no longer belonging to this place--i had, and if you can find so much consideration for the woman under your foot as to remember that, she will be very sensible of your mercy." mr. tulkinghorn, profoundly attentive, throws this off with a shrug of self-depreciation and contracts his eyebrows a little more. "you have prepared me for my exposure, and i thank you for that too. is there anything that you require of me? is there any claim that i can release or any charge or trouble that i can spare my husband in obtaining his release by certifying to the exactness of your discovery? i will write anything, here and now, that you will dictate. i am ready to do it." and she would do it, thinks the lawyer, watchful of the firm hand with which she takes the pen! "i will not trouble you, lady dedlock. pray spare yourself." "i have long expected this, as you know. i neither wish to spare myself nor to be spared. you can do nothing worse to me than you have done. do what remains now." "lady dedlock, there is nothing to be done. i will take leave to say a few words when you have finished." their need for watching one another should be over now, but they do it all this time, and the stars watch them both through the opened window. away in the moonlight lie the woodland fields at rest, and the wide house is as quiet as the narrow one. the narrow one! where are the digger and the spade, this peaceful night, destined to add the last great secret to the many secrets of the tulkinghorn existence? is the man born yet, is the spade wrought yet? curious questions to consider, more curious perhaps not to consider, under the watching stars upon a summer night. "of repentance or remorse or any feeling of mine," lady dedlock presently proceeds, "i say not a word. if i were not dumb, you would be deaf. let that go by. it is not for your ears." he makes a feint of offering a protest, but she sweeps it away with her disdainful hand. "of other and very different things i come to speak to you. my jewels are all in their proper places of keeping. they will be found there. so, my dresses. so, all the valuables i have. some ready money i had with me, please to say, but no large amount. i did not wear my own dress, in order that i might avoid observation. i went to be henceforward lost. make this known. i leave no other charge with you." "excuse me, lady dedlock," says mr. tulkinghorn, quite unmoved. "i am not sure that i understand you. you want--" "to be lost to all here. i leave chesney wold to-night. i go this hour." mr. tulkinghorn shakes his head. she rises, but he, without moving hand from chair-back or from old-fashioned waistcoat and shirt-frill, shakes his head. "what? not go as i have said?" "no, lady dedlock," he very calmly replies. "do you know the relief that my disappearance will be? have you forgotten the stain and blot upon this place, and where it is, and who it is?" "no, lady dedlock, not by any means." without deigning to rejoin, she moves to the inner door and has it in her hand when he says to her, without himself stirring hand or foot or raising his voice, "lady dedlock, have the goodness to stop and hear me, or before you reach the staircase i shall ring the alarm-bell and rouse the house. and then i must speak out before every guest and servant, every man and woman, in it." he has conquered her. she falters, trembles, and puts her hand confusedly to her head. slight tokens these in any one else, but when so practised an eye as mr. tulkinghorn's sees indecision for a moment in such a subject, he thoroughly knows its value. he promptly says again, "have the goodness to hear me, lady dedlock," and motions to the chair from which she has risen. she hesitates, but he motions again, and she sits down. "the relations between us are of an unfortunate description, lady dedlock; but as they are not of my making, i will not apologize for them. the position i hold in reference to sir leicester is so well known to you that i can hardly imagine but that i must long have appeared in your eyes the natural person to make this discovery." "sir," she returns without looking up from the ground on which her eyes are now fixed, "i had better have gone. it would have been far better not to have detained me. i have no more to say." "excuse me, lady dedlock, if i add a little more to hear." "i wish to hear it at the window, then. i can't breathe where i am." his jealous glance as she walks that way betrays an instant's misgiving that she may have it in her thoughts to leap over, and dashing against ledge and cornice, strike her life out upon the terrace below. but a moment's observation of her figure as she stands in the window without any support, looking out at the stars--not up--gloomily out at those stars which are low in the heavens, reassures him. by facing round as she has moved, he stands a little behind her. "lady dedlock, i have not yet been able to come to a decision satisfactory to myself on the course before me. i am not clear what to do or how to act next. i must request you, in the meantime, to keep your secret as you have kept it so long and not to wonder that i keep it too." he pauses, but she makes no reply. "pardon me, lady dedlock. this is an important subject. you are honouring me with your attention?" "i am." "thank you. i might have known it from what i have seen of your strength of character. i ought not to have asked the question, but i have the habit of making sure of my ground, step by step, as i go on. the sole consideration in this unhappy case is sir leicester." "then why," she asks in a low voice and without removing her gloomy look from those distant stars, "do you detain me in his house?" "because he is the consideration. lady dedlock, i have no occasion to tell you that sir leicester is a very proud man, that his reliance upon you is implicit, that the fall of that moon out of the sky would not amaze him more than your fall from your high position as his wife." she breathes quickly and heavily, but she stands as unflinchingly as ever he has seen her in the midst of her grandest company. "i declare to you, lady dedlock, that with anything short of this case that i have, i would as soon have hoped to root up by means of my own strength and my own hands the oldest tree on this estate as to shake your hold upon sir leicester and sir leicester's trust and confidence in you. and even now, with this case, i hesitate. not that he could doubt (that, even with him, is impossible), but that nothing can prepare him for the blow." "not my flight?" she returned. "think of it again." "your flight, lady dedlock, would spread the whole truth, and a hundred times the whole truth, far and wide. it would be impossible to save the family credit for a day. it is not to be thought of." there is a quiet decision in his reply which admits of no remonstrance. "when i speak of sir leicester being the sole consideration, he and the family credit are one. sir leicester and the baronetcy, sir leicester and chesney wold, sir leicester and his ancestors and his patrimony"--mr. tulkinghorn very dry here--"are, i need not say to you, lady dedlock, inseparable." "go on!" "therefore," says mr. tulkinghorn, pursuing his case in his jog-trot style, "i have much to consider. this is to be hushed up if it can be. how can it be, if sir leicester is driven out of his wits or laid upon a death-bed? if i inflicted this shock upon him to-morrow morning, how could the immediate change in him be accounted for? what could have caused it? what could have divided you? lady dedlock, the wall-chalking and the street-crying would come on directly, and you are to remember that it would not affect you merely (whom i cannot at all consider in this business) but your husband, lady dedlock, your husband." he gets plainer as he gets on, but not an atom more emphatic or animated. "there is another point of view," he continues, "in which the case presents itself. sir leicester is devoted to you almost to infatuation. he might not be able to overcome that infatuation, even knowing what we know. i am putting an extreme case, but it might be so. if so, it were better that he knew nothing. better for common sense, better for him, better for me. i must take all this into account, and it combines to render a decision very difficult." she stands looking out at the same stars without a word. they are beginning to pale, and she looks as if their coldness froze her. "my experience teaches me," says mr. tulkinghorn, who has by this time got his hands in his pockets and is going on in his business consideration of the matter like a machine. "my experience teaches me, lady dedlock, that most of the people i know would do far better to leave marriage alone. it is at the bottom of three fourths of their troubles. so i thought when sir leicester married, and so i always have thought since. no more about that. i must now be guided by circumstances. in the meanwhile i must beg you to keep your own counsel, and i will keep mine." "i am to drag my present life on, holding its pains at your pleasure, day by day?" she asks, still looking at the distant sky. "yes, i am afraid so, lady dedlock." "it is necessary, you think, that i should be so tied to the stake?" "i am sure that what i recommend is necessary." "i am to remain on this gaudy platform on which my miserable deception has been so long acted, and it is to fall beneath me when you give the signal?" she said slowly. "not without notice, lady dedlock. i shall take no step without forewarning you." she asks all her questions as if she were repeating them from memory or calling them over in her sleep. "we are to meet as usual?" "precisely as usual, if you please." "and i am to hide my guilt, as i have done so many years?" "as you have done so many years. i should not have made that reference myself, lady dedlock, but i may now remind you that your secret can be no heavier to you than it was, and is no worse and no better than it was. i know it certainly, but i believe we have never wholly trusted each other." she stands absorbed in the same frozen way for some little time before asking, "is there anything more to be said to-night?" "why," mr. tulkinghorn returns methodically as he softly rubs his hands, "i should like to be assured of your acquiescence in my arrangements, lady dedlock." "you may be assured of it." "good. and i would wish in conclusion to remind you, as a business precaution, in case it should be necessary to recall the fact in any communication with sir leicester, that throughout our interview i have expressly stated my sole consideration to be sir leicester's feelings and honour and the family reputation. i should have been happy to have made lady dedlock a prominent consideration, too, if the case had admitted of it; but unfortunately it does not." "i can attest your fidelity, sir." both before and after saying it she remains absorbed, but at length moves, and turns, unshaken in her natural and acquired presence, towards the door. mr. tulkinghorn opens both the doors exactly as he would have done yesterday, or as he would have done ten years ago, and makes his old-fashioned bow as she passes out. it is not an ordinary look that he receives from the handsome face as it goes into the darkness, and it is not an ordinary movement, though a very slight one, that acknowledges his courtesy. but as he reflects when he is left alone, the woman has been putting no common constraint upon herself. he would know it all the better if he saw the woman pacing her own rooms with her hair wildly thrown from her flung-back face, her hands clasped behind her head, her figure twisted as if by pain. he would think so all the more if he saw the woman thus hurrying up and down for hours, without fatigue, without intermission, followed by the faithful step upon the ghost's walk. but he shuts out the now chilled air, draws the window-curtain, goes to bed, and falls asleep. and truly when the stars go out and the wan day peeps into the turret-chamber, finding him at his oldest, he looks as if the digger and the spade were both commissioned and would soon be digging. the same wan day peeps in at sir leicester pardoning the repentant country in a majestically condescending dream; and at the cousins entering on various public employments, principally receipt of salary; and at the chaste volumnia, bestowing a dower of fifty thousand pounds upon a hideous old general with a mouth of false teeth like a pianoforte too full of keys, long the admiration of bath and the terror of every other community. also into rooms high in the roof, and into offices in court-yards, and over stables, where humbler ambition dreams of bliss, in keepers' lodges, and in holy matrimony with will or sally. up comes the bright sun, drawing everything up with it--the wills and sallys, the latent vapour in the earth, the drooping leaves and flowers, the birds and beasts and creeping things, the gardeners to sweep the dewy turf and unfold emerald velvet where the roller passes, the smoke of the great kitchen fire wreathing itself straight and high into the lightsome air. lastly, up comes the flag over mr. tulkinghorn's unconscious head cheerfully proclaiming that sir leicester and lady dedlock are in their happy home and that there is hospitality at the place in lincolnshire. chapter xlii in mr. tulkinghorn's chambers from the verdant undulations and the spreading oaks of the dedlock property, mr. tulkinghorn transfers himself to the stale heat and dust of london. his manner of coming and going between the two places is one of his impenetrabilities. he walks into chesney wold as if it were next door to his chambers and returns to his chambers as if he had never been out of lincoln's inn fields. he neither changes his dress before the journey nor talks of it afterwards. he melted out of his turret-room this morning, just as now, in the late twilight, he melts into his own square. like a dingy london bird among the birds at roost in these pleasant fields, where the sheep are all made into parchment, the goats into wigs, and the pasture into chaff, the lawyer, smoke-dried and faded, dwelling among mankind but not consorting with them, aged without experience of genial youth, and so long used to make his cramped nest in holes and corners of human nature that he has forgotten its broader and better range, comes sauntering home. in the oven made by the hot pavements and hot buildings, he has baked himself dryer than usual; and he has in his thirsty mind his mellowed port-wine half a century old. the lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on mr. tulkinghorn's side of the fields when that high-priest of noble mysteries arrives at his own dull court-yard. he ascends the door-steps and is gliding into the dusky hall when he encounters, on the top step, a bowing and propitiatory little man. "is that snagsby?" "yes, sir. i hope you are well, sir. i was just giving you up, sir, and going home." "aye? what is it? what do you want with me?" "well, sir," says mr. snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his head in his deference towards his best customer, "i was wishful to say a word to you, sir." "can you say it here?" "perfectly, sir." "say it then." the lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron railing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter lighting the court-yard. "it is relating," says mr. snagsby in a mysterious low voice, "it is relating--not to put too fine a point upon it--to the foreigner, sir!" mr. tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. "what foreigner?" "the foreign female, sir. french, if i don't mistake? i am not acquainted with that language myself, but i should judge from her manners and appearance that she was french; anyways, certainly foreign. her that was upstairs, sir, when mr. bucket and me had the honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night." "oh! yes, yes. mademoiselle hortense." "indeed, sir?" mr. snagsby coughs his cough of submission behind his hat. "i am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners in general, but i have no doubt it would be that." mr. snagsby appears to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of repeating the name, but on reflection coughs again to excuse himself. "and what can you have to say, snagsby," demands mr. tulkinghorn, "about her?" "well, sir," returns the stationer, shading his communication with his hat, "it falls a little hard upon me. my domestic happiness is very great--at least, it's as great as can be expected, i'm sure--but my little woman is rather given to jealousy. not to put too fine a point upon it, she is very much given to jealousy. and you see, a foreign female of that genteel appearance coming into the shop, and hovering--i should be the last to make use of a strong expression if i could avoid it, but hovering, sir--in the court--you know it is--now ain't it? i only put it to yourself, sir." mr. snagsby, having said this in a very plaintive manner, throws in a cough of general application to fill up all the blanks. "why, what do you mean?" asks mr. tulkinghorn. "just so, sir," returns mr. snagsby; "i was sure you would feel it yourself and would excuse the reasonableness of my feelings when coupled with the known excitableness of my little woman. you see, the foreign female--which you mentioned her name just now, with quite a native sound i am sure--caught up the word snagsby that night, being uncommon quick, and made inquiry, and got the direction and come at dinner-time. now guster, our young woman, is timid and has fits, and she, taking fright at the foreigner's looks--which are fierce--and at a grinding manner that she has of speaking--which is calculated to alarm a weak mind--gave way to it, instead of bearing up against it, and tumbled down the kitchen stairs out of one into another, such fits as i do sometimes think are never gone into, or come out of, in any house but ours. consequently there was by good fortune ample occupation for my little woman, and only me to answer the shop. when she did say that mr. tulkinghorn, being always denied to her by his employer (which i had no doubt at the time was a foreign mode of viewing a clerk), she would do herself the pleasure of continually calling at my place until she was let in here. since then she has been, as i began by saying, hovering, hovering, sir"--mr. snagsby repeats the word with pathetic emphasis--"in the court. the effects of which movement it is impossible to calculate. i shouldn't wonder if it might have already given rise to the painfullest mistakes even in the neighbours' minds, not mentioning (if such a thing was possible) my little woman. whereas, goodness knows," says mr. snagsby, shaking his head, "i never had an idea of a foreign female, except as being formerly connected with a bunch of brooms and a baby, or at the present time with a tambourine and earrings. i never had, i do assure you, sir!" mr. tulkinghorn had listened gravely to this complaint and inquires when the stationer has finished, "and that's all, is it, snagsby?" "why yes, sir, that's all," says mr. snagsby, ending with a cough that plainly adds, "and it's enough too--for me." "i don't know what mademoiselle hortense may want or mean, unless she is mad," says the lawyer. "even if she was, you know, sir," mr. snagsby pleads, "it wouldn't be a consolation to have some weapon or another in the form of a foreign dagger planted in the family." "no," says the other. "well, well! this shall be stopped. i am sorry you have been inconvenienced. if she comes again, send her here." mr. snagsby, with much bowing and short apologetic coughing, takes his leave, lightened in heart. mr. tulkinghorn goes upstairs, saying to himself, "these women were created to give trouble the whole earth over. the mistress not being enough to deal with, here's the maid now! but i will be short with this jade at least!" so saying, he unlocks his door, gropes his way into his murky rooms, lights his candles, and looks about him. it is too dark to see much of the allegory overhead there, but that importunate roman, who is for ever toppling out of the clouds and pointing, is at his old work pretty distinctly. not honouring him with much attention, mr. tulkinghorn takes a small key from his pocket, unlocks a drawer in which there is another key, which unlocks a chest in which there is another, and so comes to the cellar-key, with which he prepares to descend to the regions of old wine. he is going towards the door with a candle in his hand when a knock comes. "who's this? aye, aye, mistress, it's you, is it? you appear at a good time. i have just been hearing of you. now! what do you want?" he stands the candle on the chimney-piece in the clerk's hall and taps his dry cheek with the key as he addresses these words of welcome to mademoiselle hortense. that feline personage, with her lips tightly shut and her eyes looking out at him sideways, softly closes the door before replying. "i have had great deal of trouble to find you, sir." "have you!" "i have been here very often, sir. it has always been said to me, he is not at home, he is engage, he is this and that, he is not for you." "quite right, and quite true." "not true. lies!" at times there is a suddenness in the manner of mademoiselle hortense so like a bodily spring upon the subject of it that such subject involuntarily starts and fails back. it is mr. tulkinghorn's case at present, though mademoiselle hortense, with her eyes almost shut up (but still looking out sideways), is only smiling contemptuously and shaking her head. "now, mistress," says the lawyer, tapping the key hastily upon the chimney-piece. "if you have anything to say, say it, say it." "sir, you have not use me well. you have been mean and shabby." "mean and shabby, eh?" returns the lawyer, rubbing his nose with the key. "yes. what is it that i tell you? you know you have. you have attrapped me--catched me--to give you information; you have asked me to show you the dress of mine my lady must have wore that night, you have prayed me to come in it here to meet that boy. say! is it not?" mademoiselle hortense makes another spring. "you are a vixen, a vixen!" mr. tulkinghorn seems to meditate as he looks distrustfully at her, then he replies, "well, wench, well. i paid you." "you paid me!" she repeats with fierce disdain. "two sovereign! i have not change them, i re-fuse them, i des-pise them, i throw them from me!" which she literally does, taking them out of her bosom as she speaks and flinging them with such violence on the floor that they jerk up again into the light before they roll away into corners and slowly settle down there after spinning vehemently. "now!" says mademoiselle hortense, darkening her large eyes again. "you have paid me? eh, my god, oh yes!" mr. tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key while she entertains herself with a sarcastic laugh. "you must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes, "to throw money about in that way!" "i am rich," she returns. "i am very rich in hate. i hate my lady, of all my heart. you know that." "know it? how should i know it?" "because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to give you that information. because you have known perfectly that i was en-r-r-r-raged!" it appears impossible for mademoiselle to roll the letter "r" sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that she assists her energetic delivery by clenching both her hands and setting all her teeth. "oh! i knew that, did i?" says mr. tulkinghorn, examining the wards of the key. "yes, without doubt. i am not blind. you have made sure of me because you knew that. you had reason! i det-est her." mademoiselle hortense folds her arms and throws this last remark at him over one of her shoulders. "having said this, have you anything else to say, mademoiselle?" "i am not yet placed. place me well. find me a good condition! if you cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pursue her, to chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. i will help you well, and with a good will. it is what you do. do i not know that?" "you appear to know a good deal," mr. tulkinghorn retorts. "do i not? is it that i am so weak as to believe, like a child, that i come here in that dress to rec-eive that boy only to decide a little bet, a wager? eh, my god, oh yes!" in this reply, down to the word "wager" inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironically polite and tender, then as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most defiant scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment very nearly shut and staringly wide open. "now, let us see," says mr. tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the key and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter stands." "ah! let us see," mademoiselle assents, with many angry and tight nods of her head. "you come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which you have just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come again." "and again," says mademoiselle with more tight and angry nods. "and yet again. and yet again. and many times again. in effect, for ever!" "and not only here, but you will go to mr. snagsby's too, perhaps? that visit not succeeding either, you will go again perhaps?" "and again," repeats mademoiselle, cataleptic with determination. "and yet again. and yet again. and many times again. in effect, for ever!" "very well. now, mademoiselle hortense, let me recommend you to take the candle and pick up that money of yours. i think you will find it behind the clerk's partition in the corner yonder." she merely throws a laugh over her shoulder and stands her ground with folded arms. "you will not, eh?" "no, i will not!" "so much the poorer you; so much the richer i! look, mistress, this is the key of my wine-cellar. it is a large key, but the keys of prisons are larger. in this city there are houses of correction (where the treadmills are, for women), the gates of which are very strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. i am afraid a lady of your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have one of those keys turned upon her for any length of time. what do you think?" "i think," mademoiselle replies without any action and in a clear, obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wretch." "probably," returns mr. tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose. "but i don't ask what you think of myself; i ask what you think of the prison." "nothing. what does it matter to me?" "why, it matters this much, mistress," says the lawyer, deliberately putting away his handkerchief and adjusting his frill; "the law is so despotic here that it interferes to prevent any of our good english citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's visits against his desire. and on his complaining that he is so troubled, it takes hold of the troublesome lady and shuts her up in prison under hard discipline. turns the key upon her, mistress." illustrating with the cellar-key. "truly?" returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. "that is droll! but--my faith!--still what does it matter to me?" "my fair friend," says mr. tulkinghorn, "make another visit here, or at mr. snagsby's, and you shall learn." "in that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?" "perhaps." it would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle's state of agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would make her do it. "in a word, mistress," says mr. tulkinghorn, "i am sorry to be unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here--or there--again, i will give you over to the police. their gallantry is great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets in an ignominious manner, strapped down on a board, my good wench." "i will prove you," whispers mademoiselle, stretching out her hand, "i will try if you dare to do it!" "and if," pursues the lawyer without minding her, "i place you in that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some time before you find yourself at liberty again." "i will prove you," repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper. "and now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, "you had better go. think twice before you come here again." "think you," she answers, "twice two hundred times!" "you were dismissed by your lady, you know," mr. tulkinghorn observes, following her out upon the staircase, "as the most implacable and unmanageable of women. now turn over a new leaf and take warning by what i say to you. for what i say, i mean; and what i threaten, i will do, mistress." she goes down without answering or looking behind her. when she is gone, he goes down too, and returning with his cobweb-covered bottle, devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents, now and then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catching sight of the pertinacious roman pointing from the ceiling. chapter xliii esther's narrative it matters little now how much i thought of my living mother who had told me evermore to consider her dead. i could not venture to approach her or to communicate with her in writing, for my sense of the peril in which her life was passed was only to be equalled by my fears of increasing it. knowing that my mere existence as a living creature was an unforeseen danger in her way, i could not always conquer that terror of myself which had seized me when i first knew the secret. at no time did i dare to utter her name. i felt as if i did not even dare to hear it. if the conversation anywhere, when i was present, took that direction, as it sometimes naturally did, i tried not to hear: i mentally counted, repeated something that i knew, or went out of the room. i am conscious now that i often did these things when there can have been no danger of her being spoken of, but i did them in the dread i had of hearing anything that might lead to her betrayal, and to her betrayal through me. it matters little now how often i recalled the tones of my mother's voice, wondered whether i should ever hear it again as i so longed to do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it should be so new to me. it matters little that i watched for every public mention of my mother's name; that i passed and repassed the door of her house in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; that i once sat in the theatre when my mother was there and saw me, and when we were so wide asunder before the great company of all degrees that any link or confidence between us seemed a dream. it is all, all over. my lot has been so blest that i can relate little of myself which is not a story of goodness and generosity in others. i may well pass that little and go on. when we were settled at home again, ada and i had many conversations with my guardian of which richard was the theme. my dear girl was deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin so much wrong, but she was so faithful to richard that she could not bear to blame him even for that. my guardian was assured of it, and never coupled his name with a word of reproof. "rick is mistaken, my dear," he would say to her. "well, well! we have all been mistaken over and over again. we must trust to you and time to set him right." we knew afterwards what we suspected then, that he did not trust to time until he had often tried to open richard's eyes. that he had written to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried every gentle and persuasive art his kindness could devise. our poor devoted richard was deaf and blind to all. if he were wrong, he would make amends when the chancery suit was over. if he were groping in the dark, he could not do better than do his utmost to clear away those clouds in which so much was confused and obscured. suspicion and misunderstanding were the fault of the suit? then let him work the suit out and come through it to his right mind. this was his unvarying reply. jarndyce and jarndyce had obtained such possession of his whole nature that it was impossible to place any consideration before him which he did not, with a distorted kind of reason, make a new argument in favour of his doing what he did. "so that it is even more mischievous," said my guardian once to me, "to remonstrate with the poor dear fellow than to leave him alone." i took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of mr. skimpole as a good adviser for richard. "adviser!" returned my guardian, laughing, "my dear, who would advise with skimpole?" "encourager would perhaps have been a better word," said i. "encourager!" returned my guardian again. "who could be encouraged by skimpole?" "not richard?" i asked. "no," he replied. "such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamer creature is a relief to him and an amusement. but as to advising or encouraging or occupying a serious station towards anybody or anything, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child as skimpole." "pray, cousin john," said ada, who had just joined us and now looked over my shoulder, "what made him such a child?" "what made him such a child?" inquired my guardian, rubbing his head, a little at a loss. "yes, cousin john." "why," he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more, "he is all sentiment, and--and susceptibility, and--and sensibility, and--and imagination. and these qualities are not regulated in him, somehow. i suppose the people who admired him for them in his youth attached too much importance to them and too little to any training that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so he became what he is. hey?" said my guardian, stopping short and looking at us hopefully. "what do you think, you two?" ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should be an expense to richard. "so it is, so it is," returned my guardian hurriedly. "that must not be. we must arrange that. i must prevent it. that will never do." and i said i thought it was to be regretted that he had ever introduced richard to mr. vholes for a present of five pounds. "did he?" said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on his face. "but there you have the man. there you have the man! there is nothing mercenary in that with him. he has no idea of the value of money. he introduces rick, and then he is good friends with mr. vholes and borrows five pounds of him. he means nothing by it and thinks nothing of it. he told you himself, i'll be bound, my dear?" "oh, yes!" said i. "exactly!" cried my guardian, quite triumphant. "there you have the man! if he had meant any harm by it or was conscious of any harm in it, he wouldn't tell it. he tells it as he does it in mere simplicity. but you shall see him in his own home, and then you'll understand him better. we must pay a visit to harold skimpole and caution him on these points. lord bless you, my dears, an infant, an infant!" in pursuance of this plan, we went into london on an early day and presented ourselves at mr. skimpole's door. he lived in a place called the polygon, in somers town, where there were at that time a number of poor spanish refugees walking about in cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. whether he was a better tenant than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friend somebody always paying his rent at last, or whether his inaptitude for business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him out, i don't know; but he had occupied the same house some years. it was in a state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. two or three of the area railings were gone, the water-butt was broken, the knocker was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off a long time to judge from the rusty state of the wire, and dirty footprints on the steps were the only signs of its being inhabited. a slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at the rents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripe berry answered our knock by opening the door a very little way and stopping up the gap with her figure. as she knew mr. jarndyce (indeed ada and i both thought that she evidently associated him with the receipt of her wages), she immediately relented and allowed us to pass in. the lock of the door being in a disabled condition, she then applied herself to securing it with the chain, which was not in good action either, and said would we go upstairs? we went upstairs to the first floor, still seeing no other furniture than the dirty footprints. mr. jarndyce without further ceremony entered a room there, and we followed. it was dingy enough and not at all clean, but furnished with an odd kind of shabby luxury, with a large footstool, a sofa, and plenty of cushions, an easy-chair, and plenty of pillows, a piano, books, drawing materials, music, newspapers, and a few sketches and pictures. a broken pane of glass in one of the dirty windows was papered and wafered over, but there was a little plate of hothouse nectarines on the table, and there was another of grapes, and another of sponge-cakes, and there was a bottle of light wine. mr. skimpole himself reclined upon the sofa in a dressing-gown, drinking some fragrant coffee from an old china cup--it was then about mid-day--and looking at a collection of wallflowers in the balcony. he was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but rose and received us in his usual airy manner. "here i am, you see!" he said when we were seated, not without some little difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken. "here i am! this is my frugal breakfast. some men want legs of beef and mutton for breakfast; i don't. give me my peach, my cup of coffee, and my claret; i am content. i don't want them for themselves, but they remind me of the sun. there's nothing solar about legs of beef and mutton. mere animal satisfaction!" "this is our friend's consulting-room (or would be, if he ever prescribed), his sanctum, his studio," said my guardian to us. "yes," said mr. skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this is the bird's cage. this is where the bird lives and sings. they pluck his feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings, he sings!" he handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, "he sings! not an ambitious note, but still he sings." "these are very fine," said my guardian. "a present?" "no," he answered. "no! some amiable gardener sells them. his man wanted to know, when he brought them last evening, whether he should wait for the money. 'really, my friend,' i said, 'i think not--if your time is of any value to you.' i suppose it was, for he went away." my guardian looked at us with a smile, as though he asked us, "is it possible to be worldly with this baby?" "this is a day," said mr. skimpole, gaily taking a little claret in a tumbler, "that will ever be remembered here. we shall call it saint clare and saint summerson day. you must see my daughters. i have a blue-eyed daughter who is my beauty daughter, i have a sentiment daughter, and i have a comedy daughter. you must see them all. they'll be enchanted." he was going to summon them when my guardian interposed and asked him to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to him first. "my dear jarndyce," he cheerfully replied, going back to his sofa, "as many moments as you please. time is no object here. we never know what o'clock it is, and we never care. not the way to get on in life, you'll tell me? certainly. but we don't get on in life. we don't pretend to do it." my guardian looked at us again, plainly saying, "you hear him?" "now, harold," he began, "the word i have to say relates to rick." "the dearest friend i have!" returned mr. skimpole cordially. "i suppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on terms with you. but he is, i can't help it; he is full of youthful poetry, and i love him. if you don't like it, i can't help it. i love him." the engaging frankness with which he made this declaration really had a disinterested appearance and captivated my guardian, if not, for the moment, ada too. "you are welcome to love him as much as you like," returned mr. jarndyce, "but we must save his pocket, harold." "oh!" said mr. skimpole. "his pocket? now you are coming to what i don't understand." taking a little more claret and dipping one of the cakes in it, he shook his head and smiled at ada and me with an ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand. "if you go with him here or there," said my guardian plainly, "you must not let him pay for both." "my dear jarndyce," returned mr. skimpole, his genial face irradiated by the comicality of this idea, "what am i to do? if he takes me anywhere, i must go. and how can i pay? i never have any money. if i had any money, i don't know anything about it. suppose i say to a man, how much? suppose the man says to me seven and sixpence? i know nothing about seven and sixpence. it is impossible for me to pursue the subject with any consideration for the man. i don't go about asking busy people what seven and sixpence is in moorish--which i don't understand. why should i go about asking them what seven and sixpence is in money--which i don't understand?" "well," said my guardian, by no means displeased with this artless reply, "if you come to any kind of journeying with rick, you must borrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to that circumstance), and leave the calculation to him." "my dear jarndyce," returned mr. skimpole, "i will do anything to give you pleasure, but it seems an idle form--a superstition. besides, i give you my word, miss clare and my dear miss summerson, i thought mr. carstone was immensely rich. i thought he had only to make over something, or to sign a bond, or a draft, or a cheque, or a bill, or to put something on a file somewhere, to bring down a shower of money." "indeed it is not so, sir," said ada. "he is poor." "no, really?" returned mr. skimpole with his bright smile. "you surprise me. "and not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed," said my guardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of mr. skimpole's dressing-gown, "be you very careful not to encourage him in that reliance, harold." "my dear good friend," returned mr. skimpole, "and my dear miss simmerson, and my dear miss clare, how can i do that? it's business, and i don't know business. it is he who encourages me. he emerges from great feats of business, presents the brightest prospects before me as their result, and calls upon me to admire them. i do admire them--as bright prospects. but i know no more about them, and i tell him so." the helpless kind of candour with which he presented this before us, the light-hearted manner in which he was amused by his innocence, the fantastic way in which he took himself under his own protection and argued about that curious person, combined with the delightful ease of everything he said exactly to make out my guardian's case. the more i saw of him, the more unlikely it seemed to me, when he was present, that he could design, conceal, or influence anything; and yet the less likely that appeared when he was not present, and the less agreeable it was to think of his having anything to do with any one for whom i cared. hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over, mr. skimpole left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters (his sons had run away at various times), leaving my guardian quite delighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his childish character. he soon came back, bringing with him the three young ladies and mrs. skimpole, who had once been a beauty but was now a delicate high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication of disorders. "this," said mr. skimpole, "is my beauty daughter, arethusa--plays and sings odds and ends like her father. this is my sentiment daughter, laura--plays a little but don't sing. this is my comedy daughter, kitty--sings a little but don't play. we all draw a little and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of time or money." mrs. skimpole sighed, i thought, as if she would have been glad to strike out this item in the family attainments. i also thought that she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian and that she took every opportunity of throwing in another. "it is pleasant," said mr. skimpole, turning his sprightly eyes from one to the other of us, "and it is whimsically interesting to trace peculiarities in families. in this family we are all children, and i am the youngest." the daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were amused by this droll fact, particularly the comedy daughter. "my dears, it is true," said mr. skimpole, "is it not? so it is, and so it must be, because like the dogs in the hymn, 'it is our nature to.' now, here is miss summerson with a fine administrative capacity and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. it will sound very strange in miss summerson's ears, i dare say, that we know nothing about chops in this house. but we don't, not the least. we can't cook anything whatever. a needle and thread we don't know how to use. we admire the people who possess the practical wisdom we want, but we don't quarrel with them. then why should they quarrel with us? live and let live, we say to them. live upon your practical wisdom, and let us live upon you!" he laughed, but as usual seemed quite candid and really to mean what he said. "we have sympathy, my roses," said mr. skimpole, "sympathy for everything. have we not?" "oh, yes, papa!" cried the three daughters. "in fact, that is our family department," said mr. skimpole, "in this hurly-burly of life. we are capable of looking on and of being interested, and we do look on, and we are interested. what more can we do? here is my beauty daughter, married these three years. now i dare say her marrying another child, and having two more, was all wrong in point of political economy, but it was very agreeable. we had our little festivities on those occasions and exchanged social ideas. she brought her young husband home one day, and they and their young fledglings have their nest upstairs. i dare say at some time or other sentiment and comedy will bring their husbands home and have their nests upstairs too. so we get on, we don't know how, but somehow." she looked very young indeed to be the mother of two children, and i could not help pitying both her and them. it was evident that the three daughters had grown up as they could and had had just as little haphazard instruction as qualified them to be their father's playthings in his idlest hours. his pictorial tastes were consulted, i observed, in their respective styles of wearing their hair, the beauty daughter being in the classic manner, the sentiment daughter luxuriant and flowing, and the comedy daughter in the arch style, with a good deal of sprightly forehead, and vivacious little curls dotted about the corners of her eyes. they were dressed to correspond, though in a most untidy and negligent way. ada and i conversed with these young ladies and found them wonderfully like their father. in the meanwhile mr. jarndyce (who had been rubbing his head to a great extent, and hinted at a change in the wind) talked with mrs. skimpole in a corner, where we could not help hearing the chink of money. mr. skimpole had previously volunteered to go home with us and had withdrawn to dress himself for the purpose. "my roses," he said when he came back, "take care of mama. she is poorly to-day. by going home with mr. jarndyce for a day or two, i shall hear the larks sing and preserve my amiability. it has been tried, you know, and would be tried again if i remained at home." "that bad man!" said the comedy daughter. "at the very time when he knew papa was lying ill by his wallflowers, looking at the blue sky," laura complained. "and when the smell of hay was in the air!" said arethusa. "it showed a want of poetry in the man," mr. skimpole assented, but with perfect good humour. "it was coarse. there was an absence of the finer touches of humanity in it! my daughters have taken great offence," he explained to us, "at an honest man--" "not honest, papa. impossible!" they all three protested. "at a rough kind of fellow--a sort of human hedgehog rolled up," said mr. skimpole, "who is a baker in this neighbourhood and from whom we borrowed a couple of arm-chairs. we wanted a couple of arm-chairs, and we hadn't got them, and therefore of course we looked to a man who had got them, to lend them. well! this morose person lent them, and we wore them out. when they were worn out, he wanted them back. he had them back. he was contented, you will say. not at all. he objected to their being worn. i reasoned with him, and pointed out his mistake. i said, 'can you, at your time of life, be so headstrong, my friend, as to persist that an arm-chair is a thing to put upon a shelf and look at? that it is an object to contemplate, to survey from a distance, to consider from a point of sight? don't you know that these arm-chairs were borrowed to be sat upon?' he was unreasonable and unpersuadable and used intemperate language. being as patient as i am at this minute, i addressed another appeal to him. i said, 'now, my good man, however our business capacities may vary, we are all children of one great mother, nature. on this blooming summer morning here you see me' (i was on the sofa) 'with flowers before me, fruit upon the table, the cloudless sky above me, the air full of fragrance, contemplating nature. i entreat you, by our common brotherhood, not to interpose between me and a subject so sublime, the absurd figure of an angry baker!' but he did," said mr. skimpole, raising his laughing eyes in playful astonishment; "he did interpose that ridiculous figure, and he does, and he will again. and therefore i am very glad to get out of his way and to go home with my friend jarndyce." it seemed to escape his consideration that mrs. skimpole and the daughters remained behind to encounter the baker, but this was so old a story to all of them that it had become a matter of course. he took leave of his family with a tenderness as airy and graceful as any other aspect in which he showed himself and rode away with us in perfect harmony of mind. we had an opportunity of seeing through some open doors, as we went downstairs, that his own apartment was a palace to the rest of the house. i could have no anticipation, and i had none, that something very startling to me at the moment, and ever memorable to me in what ensued from it, was to happen before this day was out. our guest was in such spirits on the way home that i could do nothing but listen to him and wonder at him; nor was i alone in this, for ada yielded to the same fascination. as to my guardian, the wind, which had threatened to become fixed in the east when we left somers town, veered completely round before we were a couple of miles from it. whether of questionable childishness or not in any other matters, mr. skimpole had a child's enjoyment of change and bright weather. in no way wearied by his sallies on the road, he was in the drawing-room before any of us; and i heard him at the piano while i was yet looking after my housekeeping, singing refrains of barcaroles and drinking songs, italian and german, by the score. we were all assembled shortly before dinner, and he was still at the piano idly picking out in his luxurious way little strains of music, and talking between whiles of finishing some sketches of the ruined old verulam wall to-morrow, which he had begun a year or two ago and had got tired of, when a card was brought in and my guardian read aloud in a surprised voice, "sir leicester dedlock!" the visitor was in the room while it was yet turning round with me and before i had the power to stir. if i had had it, i should have hurried away. i had not even the presence of mind, in my giddiness, to retire to ada in the window, or to see the window, or to know where it was. i heard my name and found that my guardian was presenting me before i could move to a chair. "pray be seated, sir leicester." "mr. jarndyce," said sir leicester in reply as he bowed and seated himself, "i do myself the honour of calling here--" "you do me the honour, sir leicester." "thank you--of calling here on my road from lincolnshire to express my regret that any cause of complaint, however strong, that i may have against a gentleman who--who is known to you and has been your host, and to whom therefore i will make no farther reference, should have prevented you, still more ladies under your escort and charge, from seeing whatever little there may be to gratify a polite and refined taste at my house, chesney wold." "you are exceedingly obliging, sir leicester, and on behalf of those ladies (who are present) and for myself, i thank you very much." "it is possible, mr. jarndyce, that the gentleman to whom, for the reasons i have mentioned, i refrain from making further allusion--it is possible, mr. jarndyce, that that gentleman may have done me the honour so far to misapprehend my character as to induce you to believe that you would not have been received by my local establishment in lincolnshire with that urbanity, that courtesy, which its members are instructed to show to all ladies and gentlemen who present themselves at that house. i merely beg to observe, sir, that the fact is the reverse." my guardian delicately dismissed this remark without making any verbal answer. "it has given me pain, mr. jarndyce," sir leicester weightily proceeded. "i assure you, sir, it has given--me--pain--to learn from the housekeeper at chesney wold that a gentleman who was in your company in that part of the county, and who would appear to possess a cultivated taste for the fine arts, was likewise deterred by some such cause from examining the family pictures with that leisure, that attention, that care, which he might have desired to bestow upon them and which some of them might possibly have repaid." here he produced a card and read, with much gravity and a little trouble, through his eye-glass, "mr. hirrold--herald--harold--skampling--skumpling--i beg your pardon--skimpole." "this is mr. harold skimpole," said my guardian, evidently surprised. "oh!" exclaimed sir leicester, "i am happy to meet mr. skimpole and to have the opportunity of tendering my personal regrets. i hope, sir, that when you again find yourself in my part of the county, you will be under no similar sense of restraint." "you are very obliging, sir leicester dedlock. so encouraged, i shall certainly give myself the pleasure and advantage of another visit to your beautiful house. the owners of such places as chesney wold," said mr. skimpole with his usual happy and easy air, "are public benefactors. they are good enough to maintain a number of delightful objects for the admiration and pleasure of us poor men; and not to reap all the admiration and pleasure that they yield is to be ungrateful to our benefactors." sir leicester seemed to approve of this sentiment highly. "an artist, sir?" "no," returned mr. skimpole. "a perfectly idle man. a mere amateur." sir leicester seemed to approve of this even more. he hoped he might have the good fortune to be at chesney wold when mr. skimpole next came down into lincolnshire. mr. skimpole professed himself much flattered and honoured. "mr. skimpole mentioned," pursued sir leicester, addressing himself again to my guardian, "mentioned to the housekeeper, who, as he may have observed, is an old and attached retainer of the family--" ("that is, when i walked through the house the other day, on the occasion of my going down to visit miss summerson and miss clare," mr. skimpole airily explained to us.) "--that the friend with whom he had formerly been staying there was mr. jarndyce." sir leicester bowed to the bearer of that name. "and hence i became aware of the circumstance for which i have professed my regret. that this should have occurred to any gentleman, mr. jarndyce, but especially a gentleman formerly known to lady dedlock, and indeed claiming some distant connexion with her, and for whom (as i learn from my lady herself) she entertains a high respect, does, i assure you, give--me--pain." "pray say no more about it, sir leicester," returned my guardian. "i am very sensible, as i am sure we all are, of your consideration. indeed the mistake was mine, and i ought to apologize for it." i had not once looked up. i had not seen the visitor and had not even appeared to myself to hear the conversation. it surprises me to find that i can recall it, for it seemed to make no impression on me as it passed. i heard them speaking, but my mind was so confused and my instinctive avoidance of this gentleman made his presence so distressing to me that i thought i understood nothing, through the rushing in my head and the beating of my heart. "i mentioned the subject to lady dedlock," said sir leicester, rising, "and my lady informed me that she had had the pleasure of exchanging a few words with mr. jarndyce and his wards on the occasion of an accidental meeting during their sojourn in the vicinity. permit me, mr. jarndyce, to repeat to yourself, and to these ladies, the assurance i have already tendered to mr. skimpole. circumstances undoubtedly prevent my saying that it would afford me any gratification to hear that mr. boythorn had favoured my house with his presence, but those circumstances are confined to that gentleman himself and do not extend beyond him." "you know my old opinion of him," said mr. skimpole, lightly appealing to us. "an amiable bull who is determined to make every colour scarlet!" sir leicester dedlock coughed as if he could not possibly hear another word in reference to such an individual and took his leave with great ceremony and politeness. i got to my own room with all possible speed and remained there until i had recovered my self-command. it had been very much disturbed, but i was thankful to find when i went downstairs again that they only rallied me for having been shy and mute before the great lincolnshire baronet. by that time i had made up my mind that the period was come when i must tell my guardian what i knew. the possibility of my being brought into contact with my mother, of my being taken to her house, even of mr. skimpole's, however distantly associated with me, receiving kindnesses and obligations from her husband, was so painful that i felt i could no longer guide myself without his assistance. when we had retired for the night, and ada and i had had our usual talk in our pretty room, i went out at my door again and sought my guardian among his books. i knew he always read at that hour, and as i drew near i saw the light shining out into the passage from his reading-lamp. "may i come in, guardian?" "surely, little woman. what's the matter?" "nothing is the matter. i thought i would like to take this quiet time of saying a word to you about myself." he put a chair for me, shut his book, and put it by, and turned his kind attentive face towards me. i could not help observing that it wore that curious expression i had observed in it once before--on that night when he had said that he was in no trouble which i could readily understand. "what concerns you, my dear esther," said he, "concerns us all. you cannot be more ready to speak than i am to hear." "i know that, guardian. but i have such need of your advice and support. oh! you don't know how much need i have to-night." he looked unprepared for my being so earnest, and even a little alarmed. "or how anxious i have been to speak to you," said i, "ever since the visitor was here to-day." "the visitor, my dear! sir leicester dedlock?" "yes." he folded his arms and sat looking at me with an air of the profoundest astonishment, awaiting what i should say next. i did not know how to prepare him. "why, esther," said he, breaking into a smile, "our visitor and you are the two last persons on earth i should have thought of connecting together!" "oh, yes, guardian, i know it. and i too, but a little while ago." the smile passed from his face, and he became graver than before. he crossed to the door to see that it was shut (but i had seen to that) and resumed his seat before me. "guardian," said i, "do you remember, when we were overtaken by the thunder-storm, lady dedlock's speaking to you of her sister?" "of course. of course i do." "and reminding you that she and her sister had differed, had gone their several ways?" "of course." "why did they separate, guardian?" his face quite altered as he looked at me. "my child, what questions are these! i never knew. no one but themselves ever did know, i believe. who could tell what the secrets of those two handsome and proud women were! you have seen lady dedlock. if you had ever seen her sister, you would know her to have been as resolute and haughty as she." "oh, guardian, i have seen her many and many a time!" "seen her?" he paused a little, biting his lip. "then, esther, when you spoke to me long ago of boythorn, and when i told you that he was all but married once, and that the lady did not die, but died to him, and that that time had had its influence on his later life--did you know it all, and know who the lady was?" "no, guardian," i returned, fearful of the light that dimly broke upon me. "nor do i know yet." "lady dedlock's sister." "and why," i could scarcely ask him, "why, guardian, pray tell me why were they parted?" "it was her act, and she kept its motives in her inflexible heart. he afterwards did conjecture (but it was mere conjecture) that some injury which her haughty spirit had received in her cause of quarrel with her sister had wounded her beyond all reason, but she wrote him that from the date of that letter she died to him--as in literal truth she did--and that the resolution was exacted from her by her knowledge of his proud temper and his strained sense of honour, which were both her nature too. in consideration for those master points in him, and even in consideration for them in herself, she made the sacrifice, she said, and would live in it and die in it. she did both, i fear; certainly he never saw her, never heard of her from that hour. nor did any one." "oh, guardian, what have i done!" i cried, giving way to my grief; "what sorrow have i innocently caused!" "you caused, esther?" "yes, guardian. innocently, but most surely. that secluded sister is my first remembrance." "no, no!" he cried, starting. "yes, guardian, yes! and her sister is my mother!" i would have told him all my mother's letter, but he would not hear it then. he spoke so tenderly and wisely to me, and he put so plainly before me all i had myself imperfectly thought and hoped in my better state of mind, that, penetrated as i had been with fervent gratitude towards him through so many years, i believed i had never loved him so dearly, never thanked him in my heart so fully, as i did that night. and when he had taken me to my room and kissed me at the door, and when at last i lay down to sleep, my thought was how could i ever be busy enough, how could i ever be good enough, how in my little way could i ever hope to be forgetful enough of myself, devoted enough to him, and useful enough to others, to show him how i blessed and honoured him. chapter xliv the letter and the answer my guardian called me into his room next morning, and then i told him what had been left untold on the previous night. there was nothing to be done, he said, but to keep the secret and to avoid another such encounter as that of yesterday. he understood my feeling and entirely shared it. he charged himself even with restraining mr. skimpole from improving his opportunity. one person whom he need not name to me, it was not now possible for him to advise or help. he wished it were, but no such thing could be. if her mistrust of the lawyer whom she had mentioned were well-founded, which he scarcely doubted, he dreaded discovery. he knew something of him, both by sight and by reputation, and it was certain that he was a dangerous man. whatever happened, he repeatedly impressed upon me with anxious affection and kindness, i was as innocent of as himself and as unable to influence. "nor do i understand," said he, "that any doubts tend towards you, my dear. much suspicion may exist without that connexion." "with the lawyer," i returned. "but two other persons have come into my mind since i have been anxious. then i told him all about mr. guppy, who i feared might have had his vague surmises when i little understood his meaning, but in whose silence after our last interview i expressed perfect confidence. "well," said my guardian. "then we may dismiss him for the present. who is the other?" i called to his recollection the french maid and the eager offer of herself she had made to me. "ha!" he returned thoughtfully. "that is a more alarming person than the clerk. but after all, my dear, it was but seeking for a new service. she had seen you and ada a little while before, and it was natural that you should come into her head. she merely proposed herself for your maid, you know. she did nothing more." "her manner was strange," said i. "yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off and showed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended in her death-bed," said my guardian. "it would be useless self-distress and torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. there are very few harmless circumstances that would not seem full of perilous meaning, so considered. be hopeful, little woman. you can be nothing better than yourself; be that, through this knowledge, as you were before you had it. it is the best you can do for everybody's sake. i, sharing the secret with you--" "and lightening it, guardian, so much," said i. "--will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as i can observe it from my distance. and if the time should come when i can stretch out a hand to render the least service to one whom it is better not to name even here, i will not fail to do it for her dear daughter's sake." i thanked him with my whole heart. what could i ever do but thank him! i was going out at the door when he asked me to stay a moment. quickly turning round, i saw that same expression on his face again; and all at once, i don't know how, it flashed upon me as a new and far-off possibility that i understood it. "my dear esther," said my guardian, "i have long had something in my thoughts that i have wished to say to you." "indeed?" "i have had some difficulty in approaching it, and i still have. i should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately considered. would you object to my writing it?" "dear guardian, how could i object to your writing anything for me to read?" "then see, my love," said he with his cheery smile, "am i at this moment quite as plain and easy--do i seem as open, as honest and old-fashioned--as i am at any time?" i answered in all earnestness, "quite." with the strictest truth, for his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute), and his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored. "do i look as if i suppressed anything, meant anything but what i said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?" said he with his bright clear eyes on mine. i answered, most assuredly he did not. "can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what i profess, esther?" "most thoroughly," said i with my whole heart. "my dear girl," returned my guardian, "give me your hand." he took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and looking down into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness of manner--the old protecting manner which had made that house my home in a moment--said, "you have wrought changes in me, little woman, since the winter day in the stage-coach. first and last you have done me a world of good since that time." "ah, guardian, what have you done for me since that time!" "but," said he, "that is not to be remembered now." "it never can be forgotten." "yes, esther," said he with a gentle seriousness, "it is to be forgotten now, to be forgotten for a while. you are only to remember now that nothing can change me as you know me. can you feel quite assured of that, my dear?" "i can, and i do," i said. "that's much," he answered. "that's everything. but i must not take that at a word. i will not write this something in my thoughts until you have quite resolved within yourself that nothing can change me as you know me. if you doubt that in the least degree, i will never write it. if you are sure of that, on good consideration, send charley to me this night week--'for the letter.' but if you are not quite certain, never send. mind, i trust to your truth, in this thing as in everything. if you are not quite certain on that one point, never send!" "guardian," said i, "i am already certain, i can no more be changed in that conviction than you can be changed towards me. i shall send charley for the letter." he shook my hand and said no more. nor was any more said in reference to this conversation, either by him or me, through the whole week. when the appointed night came, i said to charley as soon as i was alone, "go and knock at mr. jarndyce's door, charley, and say you have come from me--'for the letter.'" charley went up the stairs, and down the stairs, and along the passages--the zig-zag way about the old-fashioned house seemed very long in my listening ears that night--and so came back, along the passages, and down the stairs, and up the stairs, and brought the letter. "lay it on the table, charley," said i. so charley laid it on the table and went to bed, and i sat looking at it without taking it up, thinking of many things. i began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed through those timid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay dead, with her resolute face so cold and set, and when i was more solitary with mrs. rachael than if i had had no one in the world to speak to or to look at. i passed to the altered days when i was so blest as to find friends in all around me, and to be beloved. i came to the time when i first saw my dear girl and was received into that sisterly affection which was the grace and beauty of my life. i recalled the first bright gleam of welcome which had shone out of those very windows upon our expectant faces on that cold bright night, and which had never paled. i lived my happy life there over again, i went through my illness and recovery, i thought of myself so altered and of those around me so unchanged; and all this happiness shone like a light from one central figure, represented before me by the letter on the table. i opened it and read it. it was so impressive in its love for me, and in the unselfish caution it gave me, and the consideration it showed for me in every word, that my eyes were too often blinded to read much at a time. but i read it through three times before i laid it down. i had thought beforehand that i knew its purport, and i did. it asked me, would i be the mistress of bleak house. it was not a love letter, though it expressed so much love, but was written just as he would at any time have spoken to me. i saw his face, and heard his voice, and felt the influence of his kind protecting manner in every line. it addressed me as if our places were reversed, as if all the good deeds had been mine and all the feelings they had awakened his. it dwelt on my being young, and he past the prime of life; on his having attained a ripe age, while i was a child; on his writing to me with a silvered head, and knowing all this so well as to set it in full before me for mature deliberation. it told me that i would gain nothing by such a marriage and lose nothing by rejecting it, for no new relation could enhance the tenderness in which he held me, and whatever my decision was, he was certain it would be right. but he had considered this step anew since our late confidence and had decided on taking it, if it only served to show me through one poor instance that the whole world would readily unite to falsify the stern prediction of my childhood. i was the last to know what happiness i could bestow upon him, but of that he said no more, for i was always to remember that i owed him nothing and that he was my debtor, and for very much. he had often thought of our future, and foreseeing that the time must come, and fearing that it might come soon, when ada (now very nearly of age) would leave us, and when our present mode of life must be broken up, had become accustomed to reflect on this proposal. thus he made it. if i felt that i could ever give him the best right he could have to be my protector, and if i felt that i could happily and justly become the dear companion of his remaining life, superior to all lighter chances and changes than death, even then he could not have me bind myself irrevocably while this letter was yet so new to me, but even then i must have ample time for reconsideration. in that case, or in the opposite case, let him be unchanged in his old relation, in his old manner, in the old name by which i called him. and as to his bright dame durden and little housekeeper, she would ever be the same, he knew. this was the substance of the letter, written throughout with a justice and a dignity as if he were indeed my responsible guardian impartially representing the proposal of a friend against whom in his integrity he stated the full case. but he did not hint to me that when i had been better looking he had had this same proceeding in his thoughts and had refrained from it. that when my old face was gone from me, and i had no attractions, he could love me just as well as in my fairer days. that the discovery of my birth gave him no shock. that his generosity rose above my disfigurement and my inheritance of shame. that the more i stood in need of such fidelity, the more firmly i might trust in him to the last. but i knew it, i knew it well now. it came upon me as the close of the benignant history i had been pursuing, and i felt that i had but one thing to do. to devote my life to his happiness was to thank him poorly, and what had i wished for the other night but some new means of thanking him? still i cried very much, not only in the fullness of my heart after reading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect--for it was strange though i had expected the contents--but as if something for which there was no name or distinct idea were indefinitely lost to me. i was very happy, very thankful, very hopeful; but i cried very much. by and by i went to my old glass. my eyes were red and swollen, and i said, "oh, esther, esther, can that be you!" i am afraid the face in the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but i held up my finger at it, and it stopped. "that is more like the composed look you comforted me with, my dear, when you showed me such a change!" said i, beginning to let down my hair. "when you are mistress of bleak house, you are to be as cheerful as a bird. in fact, you are always to be cheerful; so let us begin for once and for all." i went on with my hair now, quite comfortably. i sobbed a little still, but that was because i had been crying, not because i was crying then. "and so esther, my dear, you are happy for life. happy with your best friends, happy in your old home, happy in the power of doing a great deal of good, and happy in the undeserved love of the best of men." i thought, all at once, if my guardian had married some one else, how should i have felt, and what should i have done! that would have been a change indeed. it presented my life in such a new and blank form that i rang my housekeeping keys and gave them a kiss before i laid them down in their basket again. then i went on to think, as i dressed my hair before the glass, how often had i considered within myself that the deep traces of my illness and the circumstances of my birth were only new reasons why i should be busy, busy, busy--useful, amiable, serviceable, in all honest, unpretending ways. this was a good time, to be sure, to sit down morbidly and cry! as to its seeming at all strange to me at first (if that were any excuse for crying, which it was not) that i was one day to be the mistress of bleak house, why should it seem strange? other people had thought of such things, if i had not. "don't you remember, my plain dear," i asked myself, looking at the glass, "what mrs. woodcourt said before those scars were there about your marrying--" perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance. the dried remains of the flowers. it would be better not to keep them now. they had only been preserved in memory of something wholly past and gone, but it would be better not to keep them now. they were in a book, and it happened to be in the next room--our sitting-room, dividing ada's chamber from mine. i took a candle and went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. after i had it in my hand, i saw my beautiful darling, through the open door, lying asleep, and i stole in to kiss her. it was weak in me, i know, and i could have no reason for crying; but i dropped a tear upon her dear face, and another, and another. weaker than that, i took the withered flowers out and put them for a moment to her lips. i thought about her love for richard, though, indeed, the flowers had nothing to do with that. then i took them into my own room and burned them at the candle, and they were dust in an instant. on entering the breakfast-room next morning, i found my guardian just as usual, quite as frank, as open, and free. there being not the least constraint in his manner, there was none (or i think there was none) in mine. i was with him several times in the course of the morning, in and out, when there was no one there, and i thought it not unlikely that he might speak to me about the letter, but he did not say a word. so, on the next morning, and the next, and for at least a week, over which time mr. skimpole prolonged his stay. i expected, every day, that my guardian might speak to me about the letter, but he never did. i thought then, growing uneasy, that i ought to write an answer. i tried over and over again in my own room at night, but i could not write an answer that at all began like a good answer, so i thought each night i would wait one more day. and i waited seven more days, and he never said a word. at last, mr. skimpole having departed, we three were one afternoon going out for a ride; and i, being dressed before ada and going down, came upon my guardian, with his back towards me, standing at the drawing-room window looking out. he turned on my coming in and said, smiling, "aye, it's you, little woman, is it?" and looked out again. i had made up my mind to speak to him now. in short, i had come down on purpose. "guardian," i said, rather hesitating and trembling, "when would you like to have the answer to the letter charley came for?" "when it's ready, my dear," he replied. "i think it is ready," said i. "is charley to bring it?" he asked pleasantly. "no. i have brought it myself, guardian," i returned. i put my two arms round his neck and kissed him, and he said was this the mistress of bleak house, and i said yes; and it made no difference presently, and we all went out together, and i said nothing to my precious pet about it. chapter xlv in trust one morning when i had done jingling about with my baskets of keys, as my beauty and i were walking round and round the garden i happened to turn my eyes towards the house and saw a long thin shadow going in which looked like mr. vholes. ada had been telling me only that morning of her hopes that richard might exhaust his ardour in the chancery suit by being so very earnest in it; and therefore, not to damp my dear girl's spirits, i said nothing about mr. vholes's shadow. presently came charley, lightly winding among the bushes and tripping along the paths, as rosy and pretty as one of flora's attendants instead of my maid, saying, "oh, if you please, miss, would you step and speak to mr. jarndyce!" it was one of charley's peculiarities that whenever she was charged with a message she always began to deliver it as soon as she beheld, at any distance, the person for whom it was intended. therefore i saw charley asking me in her usual form of words to "step and speak" to mr. jarndyce long before i heard her. and when i did hear her, she had said it so often that she was out of breath. i told ada i would make haste back and inquired of charley as we went in whether there was not a gentleman with mr. jarndyce. to which charley, whose grammar, i confess to my shame, never did any credit to my educational powers, replied, "yes, miss. him as come down in the country with mr. richard." a more complete contrast than my guardian and mr. vholes i suppose there could not be. i found them looking at one another across a table, the one so open and the other so close, the one so broad and upright and the other so narrow and stooping, the one giving out what he had to say in such a rich ringing voice and the other keeping it in in such a cold-blooded, gasping, fish-like manner that i thought i never had seen two people so unmatched. "you know mr. vholes, my dear," said my guardian. not with the greatest urbanity, i must say. mr. vholes rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seated himself again, just as he had seated himself beside richard in the gig. not having richard to look at, he looked straight before him. "mr. vholes," said my guardian, eyeing his black figure as if he were a bird of ill omen, "has brought an ugly report of our most unfortunate rick." laying a marked emphasis on "most unfortunate" as if the words were rather descriptive of his connexion with mr. vholes. i sat down between them; mr. vholes remained immovable, except that he secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his yellow face with his black glove. "and as rick and you are happily good friends, i should like to know," said my guardian, "what you think, my dear. would you be so good as to--as to speak up, mr. vholes?" doing anything but that, mr. vholes observed, "i have been saying that i have reason to know, miss summerson, as mr. c.'s professional adviser, that mr. c.'s circumstances are at the present moment in an embarrassed state. not so much in point of amount as owing to the peculiar and pressing nature of liabilities mr. c. has incurred and the means he has of liquidating or meeting the same. i have staved off many little matters for mr. c., but there is a limit to staving off, and we have reached it. i have made some advances out of pocket to accommodate these unpleasantnesses, but i necessarily look to being repaid, for i do not pretend to be a man of capital, and i have a father to support in the vale of taunton, besides striving to realize some little independence for three dear girls at home. my apprehension is, mr. c.'s circumstances being such, lest it should end in his obtaining leave to part with his commission, which at all events is desirable to be made known to his connexions." mr. vholes, who had looked at me while speaking, here emerged into the silence he could hardly be said to have broken, so stifled was his tone, and looked before him again. "imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource," said my guardian to me. "yet what can i do? you know him, esther. he would never accept of help from me now. to offer it or hint at it would be to drive him to an extremity, if nothing else did." mr. vholes hereupon addressed me again. "what mr. jarndyce remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and is the difficulty. i do not see that anything is to be done. i do not say that anything is to be done. far from it. i merely come down here under the seal of confidence and mention it in order that everything may be openly carried on and that it may not be said afterwards that everything was not openly carried on. my wish is that everything should be openly carried on. i desire to leave a good name behind me. if i consulted merely my own interests with mr. c., i should not be here. so insurmountable, as you must well know, would be his objections. this is not a professional attendance. this can he charged to nobody. i have no interest in it except as a member of society and a father--and a son," said mr. vholes, who had nearly forgotten that point. it appeared to us that mr. vholes said neither more nor less than the truth in intimating that he sought to divide the responsibility, such as it was, of knowing richard's situation. i could only suggest that i should go down to deal, where richard was then stationed, and see him, and try if it were possible to avert the worst. without consulting mr. vholes on this point, i took my guardian aside to propose it, while mr. vholes gauntly stalked to the fire and warmed his funeral gloves. the fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on my guardian's part, but as i saw he had no other, and as i was only too happy to go, i got his consent. we had then merely to dispose of mr. vholes. "well, sir," said mr. jarndyce, "miss summerson will communicate with mr. carstone, and you can only hope that his position may be yet retrievable. you will allow me to order you lunch after your journey, sir." "i thank you, mr. jarndyce," said mr. vholes, putting out his long black sleeve to check the ringing of the bell, "not any. i thank you, no, not a morsel. my digestion is much impaired, and i am but a poor knife and fork at any time. if i was to partake of solid food at this period of the day, i don't know what the consequences might be. everything having been openly carried on, sir, i will now with your permission take my leave." "and i would that you could take your leave, and we could all take our leave, mr. vholes," returned my guardian bitterly, "of a cause you know of." mr. vholes, whose black dye was so deep from head to foot that it had quite steamed before the fire, diffusing a very unpleasant perfume, made a short one-sided inclination of his head from the neck and slowly shook it. "we whose ambition it is to be looked upon in the light of respectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the wheel. we do it, sir. at least, i do it myself; and i wish to think well of my professional brethren, one and all. you are sensible of an obligation not to refer to me, miss, in communicating with mr. c.?" i said i would be careful not to do it. "just so, miss. good morning. mr. jarndyce, good morning, sir." mr. vholes put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to have any hand in it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian's fingers, and took his long thin shadow away. i thought of it on the outside of the coach, passing over all the sunny landscape between us and london, chilling the seed in the ground as it glided along. of course it became necessary to tell ada where i was going and why i was going, and of course she was anxious and distressed. but she was too true to richard to say anything but words of pity and words of excuse, and in a more loving spirit still--my dear devoted girl!--she wrote him a long letter, of which i took charge. charley was to be my travelling companion, though i am sure i wanted none and would willingly have left her at home. we all went to london that afternoon, and finding two places in the mail, secured them. at our usual bed-time, charley and i were rolling away seaward with the kentish letters. it was a night's journey in those coach times, but we had the mail to ourselves and did not find the night very tedious. it passed with me as i suppose it would with most people under such circumstances. at one while my journey looked hopeful, and at another hopeless. now i thought i should do some good, and now i wondered how i could ever have supposed so. now it seemed one of the most reasonable things in the world that i should have come, and now one of the most unreasonable. in what state i should find richard, what i should say to him, and what he would say to me occupied my mind by turns with these two states of feeling; and the wheels seemed to play one tune (to which the burden of my guardian's letter set itself) over and over again all night. at last we came into the narrow streets of deal, and very gloomy they were upon a raw misty morning. the long flat beach, with its little irregular houses, wooden and brick, and its litter of capstans, and great boats, and sheds, and bare upright poles with tackle and blocks, and loose gravelly waste places overgrown with grass and weeds, wore as dull an appearance as any place i ever saw. the sea was heaving under a thick white fog; and nothing else was moving but a few early ropemakers, who, with the yarn twisted round their bodies, looked as if, tired of their present state of existence, they were spinning themselves into cordage. but when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel and sat down, comfortably washed and dressed, to an early breakfast (for it was too late to think of going to bed), deal began to look more cheerful. our little room was like a ship's cabin, and that delighted charley very much. then the fog began to rise like a curtain, and numbers of ships that we had had no idea were near appeared. i don't know how many sail the waiter told us were then lying in the downs. some of these vessels were of grand size--one was a large indiaman just come home; and when the sun shone through the clouds, making silvery pools in the dark sea, the way in which these ships brightened, and shadowed, and changed, amid a bustle of boats pulling off from the shore to them and from them to the shore, and a general life and motion in themselves and everything around them, was most beautiful. the large indiaman was our great attraction because she had come into the downs in the night. she was surrounded by boats, and we said how glad the people on board of her must be to come ashore. charley was curious, too, about the voyage, and about the heat in india, and the serpents and the tigers; and as she picked up such information much faster than grammar, i told her what i knew on those points. i told her, too, how people in such voyages were sometimes wrecked and cast on rocks, where they were saved by the intrepidity and humanity of one man. and charley asking how that could be, i told her how we knew at home of such a case. i had thought of sending richard a note saying i was there, but it seemed so much better to go to him without preparation. as he lived in barracks i was a little doubtful whether this was feasible, but we went out to reconnoitre. peeping in at the gate of the barrack-yard, we found everything very quiet at that time in the morning, and i asked a sergeant standing on the guardhouse-steps where he lived. he sent a man before to show me, who went up some bare stairs, and knocked with his knuckles at a door, and left us. "now then!" cried richard from within. so i left charley in the little passage, and going on to the half-open door, said, "can i come in, richard? it's only dame durden." he was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin cases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus strewn all about the floor. he was only half dressed--in plain clothes, i observed, not in uniform--and his hair was unbrushed, and he looked as wild as his room. all this i saw after he had heartily welcomed me and i was seated near him, for he started upon hearing my voice and caught me in his arms in a moment. dear richard! he was ever the same to me. down to--ah, poor poor fellow!--to the end, he never received me but with something of his old merry boyish manner. "good heaven, my dear little woman," said he, "how do you come here? who could have thought of seeing you! nothing the matter? ada is well?" "quite well. lovelier than ever, richard!" "ah!" he said, leaning back in his chair. "my poor cousin! i was writing to you, esther." so worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fullness of his handsome youth, leaning back in his chair and crushing the closely written sheet of paper in his hand! "have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am i not to read it after all?" i asked. "oh, my dear," he returned with a hopeless gesture. "you may read it in the whole room. it is all over here." i mildly entreated him not to be despondent. i told him that i had heard by chance of his being in difficulty and had come to consult with him what could best be done. "like you, esther, but useless, and so not like you!" said he with a melancholy smile. "i am away on leave this day--should have been gone in another hour--and that is to smooth it over, for my selling out. well! let bygones be bygones. so this calling follows the rest. i only want to have been in the church to have made the round of all the professions." "richard," i urged, "it is not so hopeless as that?" "esther," he returned, "it is indeed. i am just so near disgrace as that those who are put in authority over me (as the catechism goes) would far rather be without me than with me. and they are right. apart from debts and duns and all such drawbacks, i am not fit even for this employment. i have no care, no mind, no heart, no soul, but for one thing. why, if this bubble hadn't broken now," he said, tearing the letter he had written into fragments and moodily casting them away, by driblets, "how could i have gone abroad? i must have been ordered abroad, but how could i have gone? how could i, with my experience of that thing, trust even vholes unless i was at his back!" i suppose he knew by my face what i was about to say, but he caught the hand i had laid upon his arm and touched my own lips with it to prevent me from going on. "no, dame durden! two subjects i forbid--must forbid. the first is john jarndyce. the second, you know what. call it madness, and i tell you i can't help it now, and can't be sane. but it is no such thing; it is the one object i have to pursue. it is a pity i ever was prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. it would be wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, and pains i have bestowed upon it! oh, yes, true wisdom. it would be very agreeable, too, to some people; but i never will." he was in that mood in which i thought it best not to increase his determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. i took out ada's letter and put it in his hand. "am i to read it now?" he asked. as i told him yes, he laid it on the table, and resting his head upon his hand, began. he had not read far when he rested his head upon his two hands--to hide his face from me. in a little while he rose as if the light were bad and went to the window. he finished reading it there, with his back towards me, and after he had finished and had folded it up, stood there for some minutes with the letter in his hand. when he came back to his chair, i saw tears in his eyes. "of course, esther, you know what she says here?" he spoke in a softened voice and kissed the letter as he asked me. "yes, richard." "offers me," he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, "the little inheritance she is certain of so soon--just as little and as much as i have wasted--and begs and prays me to take it, set myself right with it, and remain in the service." "i know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart," said i. "and, oh, my dear richard, ada's is a noble heart." "i am sure it is. i--i wish i was dead!" he went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, leaned his head down on his arm. it greatly affected me to see him so, but i hoped he might become more yielding, and i remained silent. my experience was very limited; i was not at all prepared for his rousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury. "and this is the heart that the same john jarndyce, who is not otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange from me," said he indignantly. "and the dear girl makes me this generous offer from under the same john jarndyce's roof, and with the same john jarndyce's gracious consent and connivance, i dare say, as a new means of buying me off." "richard!" i cried out, rising hastily. "i will not hear you say such shameful words!" i was very angry with him indeed, for the first time in my life, but it only lasted a moment. when i saw his worn young face looking at me as if he were sorry, i put my hand on his shoulder and said, "if you please, my dear richard, do not speak in such a tone to me. consider!" he blamed himself exceedingly and told me in the most generous manner that he had been very wrong and that he begged my pardon a thousand times. at that i laughed, but trembled a little too, for i was rather fluttered after being so fiery. "to accept this offer, my dear esther," said he, sitting down beside me and resuming our conversation, "--once more, pray, pray forgive me; i am deeply grieved--to accept my dearest cousin's offer is, i need not say, impossible. besides, i have letters and papers that i could show you which would convince you it is all over here. i have done with the red coat, believe me. but it is some satisfaction, in the midst of my troubles and perplexities, to know that i am pressing ada's interests in pressing my own. vholes has his shoulder to the wheel, and he cannot help urging it on as much for her as for me, thank god!" his sanguine hopes were rising within him and lighting up his features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been before. "no, no!" cried richard exultingly. "if every farthing of ada's little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in retaining me in what i am not fit for, can take no interest in, and am weary of. it should be devoted to what promises a better return, and should be used where she has a larger stake. don't be uneasy for me! i shall now have only one thing on my mind, and vholes and i will work it. i shall not be without means. free of my commission, i shall be able to compound with some small usurers who will hear of nothing but their bond now--vholes says so. i should have a balance in my favour anyway, but that would swell it. come, come! you shall carry a letter to ada from me, esther, and you must both of you be more hopeful of me and not believe that i am quite cast away just yet, my dear." i will not repeat what i said to richard. i know it was tiresome, and nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. it only came from my heart. he heard it patiently and feelingly, but i saw that on the two subjects he had reserved it was at present hopeless to make any representation to him. i saw too, and had experienced in this very interview, the sense of my guardian's remark that it was even more mischievous to use persuasion with him than to leave him as he was. therefore i was driven at last to asking richard if he would mind convincing me that it really was all over there, as he had said, and that it was not his mere impression. he showed me without hesitation a correspondence making it quite plain that his retirement was arranged. i found, from what he told me, that mr. vholes had copies of these papers and had been in consultation with him throughout. beyond ascertaining this, and having been the bearer of ada's letter, and being (as i was going to be) richard's companion back to london, i had done no good by coming down. admitting this to myself with a reluctant heart, i said i would return to the hotel and wait until he joined me there, so he threw a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to the gate, and charley and i went back along the beach. there was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some naval officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them with unusual interest. i said to charley this would be one of the great indiaman's boats now, and we stopped to look. the gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking good-humouredly to each other and to the people around and glancing about them as if they were glad to be in england again. "charley, charley," said i, "come away!" and i hurried on so swiftly that my little maid was surprised. it was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and i had had time to take breath that i began to think why i had made such haste. in one of the sunburnt faces i had recognized mr. allan woodcourt, and i had been afraid of his recognizing me. i had been unwilling that he should see my altered looks. i had been taken by surprise, and my courage had quite failed me. but i knew this would not do, and i now said to myself, "my dear, there is no reason--there is and there can be no reason at all--why it should be worse for you now than it ever has been. what you were last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are no better. this is not your resolution; call it up, esther, call it up!" i was in a great tremble--with running--and at first was quite unable to calm myself; but i got better, and i was very glad to know it. the party came to the hotel. i heard them speaking on the staircase. i was sure it was the same gentlemen because i knew their voices again--i mean i knew mr. woodcourt's. it would still have been a great relief to me to have gone away without making myself known, but i was determined not to do so. "no, my dear, no. no, no, no!" i untied my bonnet and put my veil half up--i think i mean half down, but it matters very little--and wrote on one of my cards that i happened to be there with mr. richard carstone, and i sent it in to mr. woodcourt. he came immediately. i told him i was rejoiced to be by chance among the first to welcome him home to england. and i saw that he was very sorry for me. "you have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, mr. woodcourt," said i, "but we can hardly call that a misfortune which enabled you to be so useful and so brave. we read of it with the truest interest. it first came to my knowledge through your old patient, poor miss flite, when i was recovering from my severe illness." "ah! little miss flite!" he said. "she lives the same life yet?" "just the same." i was so comfortable with myself now as not to mind the veil and to be able to put it aside. "her gratitude to you, mr. woodcourt, is delightful. she is a most affectionate creature, as i have reason to say." "you--you have found her so?" he returned. "i--i am glad of that." he was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak. "i assure you," said i, "that i was deeply touched by her sympathy and pleasure at the time i have referred to." "i was grieved to hear that you had been very ill." "i was very ill." "but you have quite recovered?" "i have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness," said i. "you know how good my guardian is and what a happy life we lead, and i have everything to be thankful for and nothing in the world to desire." i felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than i had ever had for myself. it inspired me with new fortitude and new calmness to find that it was i who was under the necessity of reassuring him. i spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his future plans, and of his probable return to india. he said that was very doubtful. he had not found himself more favoured by fortune there than here. he had gone out a poor ship's surgeon and had come home nothing better. while we were talking, and when i was glad to believe that i had alleviated (if i may use such a term) the shock he had had in seeing me, richard came in. he had heard downstairs who was with me, and they met with cordial pleasure. i saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they spoke of richard's career, mr. woodcourt had a perception that all was not going well with him. he frequently glanced at his face as if there were something in it that gave him pain, and more than once he looked towards me as though he sought to ascertain whether i knew what the truth was. yet richard was in one of his sanguine states and in good spirits and was thoroughly pleased to see mr. woodcourt again, whom he had always liked. richard proposed that we all should go to london together; but mr. woodcourt, having to remain by his ship a little longer, could not join us. he dined with us, however, at an early hour, and became so much more like what he used to be that i was still more at peace to think i had been able to soften his regrets. yet his mind was not relieved of richard. when the coach was almost ready and richard ran down to look after his luggage, he spoke to me about him. i was not sure that i had a right to lay his whole story open, but i referred in a few words to his estrangement from mr jarndyce and to his being entangled in the ill-fated chancery suit. mr. woodcourt listened with interest and expressed his regret. "i saw you observe him rather closely," said i, "do you think him so changed?" "he is changed," he returned, shaking his head. i felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it was only an instantaneous emotion. i turned my head aside, and it was gone. "it is not," said mr. woodcourt, "his being so much younger or older, or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there being upon his face such a singular expression. i never saw so remarkable a look in a young person. one cannot say that it is all anxiety or all weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrown despair." "you do not think he is ill?" said i. no. he looked robust in body. "that he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason to know," i proceeded. "mr. woodcourt, you are going to london?" "to-morrow or the next day." "there is nothing richard wants so much as a friend. he always liked you. pray see him when you get there. pray help him sometimes with your companionship if you can. you do not know of what service it might be. you cannot think how ada, and mr. jarndyce, and even i--how we should all thank you, mr. woodcourt!" "miss summerson," he said, more moved than he had been from the first, "before heaven, i will be a true friend to him! i will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!" "god bless you!" said i, with my eyes filling fast; but i thought they might, when it was not for myself. "ada loves him--we all love him, but ada loves him as we cannot. i will tell her what you say. thank you, and god bless you, in her name!" richard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words and gave me his arm to take me to the coach. "woodcourt," he said, unconscious with what application, "pray let us meet in london!" "meet?" returned the other. "i have scarcely a friend there now but you. where shall i find you?" "why, i must get a lodging of some sort," said richard, pondering. "say at vholes's, symond's inn." "good! without loss of time." they shook hands heartily. when i was seated in the coach and richard was yet standing in the street, mr. woodcourt laid his friendly hand on richard's shoulder and looked at me. i understood him and waved mine in thanks. and in his last look as we drove away, i saw that he was very sorry for me. i was glad to see it. i felt for my old self as the dead may feel if they ever revisit these scenes. i was glad to be tenderly remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten. chapter xlvi stop him! darkness rests upon tom-all-alone's. dilating and dilating since the sun went down last night, it has gradually swelled until it fills every void in the place. for a time there were some dungeon lights burning, as the lamp of life hums in tom-all-alone's, heavily, heavily, in the nauseous air, and winking--as that lamp, too, winks in tom-all-alone's--at many horrible things. but they are blotted out. the moon has eyed tom with a dull cold stare, as admitting some puny emulation of herself in his desert region unfit for life and blasted by volcanic fires; but she has passed on and is gone. the blackest nightmare in the infernal stables grazes on tom-all-alone's, and tom is fast asleep. much mighty speech-making there has been, both in and out of parliament, concerning tom, and much wrathful disputation how tom shall be got right. whether he shall be put into the main road by constables, or by beadles, or by bell-ringing, or by force of figures, or by correct principles of taste, or by high church, or by low church, or by no church; whether he shall be set to splitting trusses of polemical straws with the crooked knife of his mind or whether he shall be put to stone-breaking instead. in the midst of which dust and noise there is but one thing perfectly clear, to wit, that tom only may and can, or shall and will, be reclaimed according to somebody's theory but nobody's practice. and in the hopeful meantime, tom goes to perdition head foremost in his old determined spirit. but he has his revenge. even the winds are his messengers, and they serve him in these hours of darkness. there is not a drop of tom's corrupted blood but propagates infection and contagion somewhere. it shall pollute, this very night, the choice stream (in which chemists on analysis would find the genuine nobility) of a norman house, and his grace shall not be able to say nay to the infamous alliance. there is not an atom of tom's slime, not a cubic inch of any pestilential gas in which he lives, not one obscenity or degradation about him, not an ignorance, not a wickedness, not a brutality of his committing, but shall work its retribution through every order of society up to the proudest of the proud and to the highest of the high. verily, what with tainting, plundering, and spoiling, tom has his revenge. it is a moot point whether tom-all-alone's be uglier by day or by night, but on the argument that the more that is seen of it the more shocking it must be, and that no part of it left to the imagination is at all likely to be made so bad as the reality, day carries it. the day begins to break now; and in truth it might be better for the national glory even that the sun should sometimes set upon the british dominions than that it should ever rise upon so vile a wonder as tom. a brown sunburnt gentleman, who appears in some inaptitude for sleep to be wandering abroad rather than counting the hours on a restless pillow, strolls hitherward at this quiet time. attracted by curiosity, he often pauses and looks about him, up and down the miserable by-ways. nor is he merely curious, for in his bright dark eye there is compassionate interest; and as he looks here and there, he seems to understand such wretchedness and to have studied it before. on the banks of the stagnant channel of mud which is the main street of tom-all-alone's, nothing is to be seen but the crazy houses, shut up and silent. no waking creature save himself appears except in one direction, where he sees the solitary figure of a woman sitting on a door-step. he walks that way. approaching, he observes that she has journeyed a long distance and is footsore and travel-stained. she sits on the door-step in the manner of one who is waiting, with her elbow on her knee and her head upon her hand. beside her is a canvas bag, or bundle, she has carried. she is dozing probably, for she gives no heed to his steps as he comes toward her. the broken footway is so narrow that when allan woodcourt comes to where the woman sits, he has to turn into the road to pass her. looking down at her face, his eye meets hers, and he stops. "what is the matter?" "nothing, sir." "can't you make them hear? do you want to be let in?" "i'm waiting till they get up at another house--a lodging-house--not here," the woman patiently returns. "i'm waiting here because there will be sun here presently to warm me." "i am afraid you are tired. i am sorry to see you sitting in the street." "thank you, sir. it don't matter." a habit in him of speaking to the poor and of avoiding patronage or condescension or childishness (which is the favourite device, many people deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to them like little spelling books) has put him on good terms with the woman easily. "let me look at your forehead," he says, bending down. "i am a doctor. don't be afraid. i wouldn't hurt you for the world." he knows that by touching her with his skilful and accustomed hand he can soothe her yet more readily. she makes a slight objection, saying, "it's nothing"; but he has scarcely laid his fingers on the wounded place when she lifts it up to the light. "aye! a bad bruise, and the skin sadly broken. this must be very sore." "it do ache a little, sir," returns the woman with a started tear upon her cheek. "let me try to make it more comfortable. my handkerchief won't hurt you." "oh, dear no, sir, i'm sure of that!" he cleanses the injured place and dries it, and having carefully examined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his hand, takes a small case from his pocket, dresses it, and binds it up. while he is thus employed, he says, after laughing at his establishing a surgery in the street, "and so your husband is a brickmaker?" "how do you know that, sir?" asks the woman, astonished. "why, i suppose so from the colour of the clay upon your bag and on your dress. and i know brickmakers go about working at piecework in different places. and i am sorry to say i have known them cruel to their wives too." the woman hastily lifts up her eyes as if she would deny that her injury is referable to such a cause. but feeling the hand upon her forehead, and seeing his busy and composed face, she quietly drops them again. "where is he now?" asks the surgeon. "he got into trouble last night, sir; but he'll look for me at the lodging-house." "he will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large and heavy hand as he has misused it here. but you forgive him, brutal as he is, and i say no more of him, except that i wish he deserved it. you have no young child?" the woman shakes her head. "one as i calls mine, sir, but it's liz's." "your own is dead. i see! poor little thing!" by this time he has finished and is putting up his case. "i suppose you have some settled home. is it far from here?" he asks, good-humouredly making light of what he has done as she gets up and curtsys. "it's a good two or three and twenty mile from here, sir. at saint albans. you know saint albans, sir? i thought you gave a start like, as if you did." "yes, i know something of it. and now i will ask you a question in return. have you money for your lodging?" "yes, sir," she says, "really and truly." and she shows it. he tells her, in acknowledgment of her many subdued thanks, that she is very welcome, gives her good day, and walks away. tom-all-alone's is still asleep, and nothing is astir. yes, something is! as he retraces his way to the point from which he descried the woman at a distance sitting on the step, he sees a ragged figure coming very cautiously along, crouching close to the soiled walls--which the wretchedest figure might as well avoid--and furtively thrusting a hand before it. it is the figure of a youth whose face is hollow and whose eyes have an emaciated glare. he is so intent on getting along unseen that even the apparition of a stranger in whole garments does not tempt him to look back. he shades his face with his ragged elbow as he passes on the other side of the way, and goes shrinking and creeping on with his anxious hand before him and his shapeless clothes hanging in shreds. clothes made for what purpose, or of what material, it would be impossible to say. they look, in colour and in substance, like a bundle of rank leaves of swampy growth that rotted long ago. allan woodcourt pauses to look after him and note all this, with a shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before. he cannot recall how or where, but there is some association in his mind with such a form. he imagines that he must have seen it in some hospital or refuge, still, cannot make out why it comes with any special force on his remembrance. he is gradually emerging from tom-all-alone's in the morning light, thinking about it, when he hears running feet behind him, and looking round, sees the boy scouring towards him at great speed, followed by the woman. "stop him, stop him!" cries the woman, almost breathless. "stop him, sir!" he darts across the road into the boy's path, but the boy is quicker than he, makes a curve, ducks, dives under his hands, comes up half-a-dozen yards beyond him, and scours away again. still the woman follows, crying, "stop him, sir, pray stop him!" allan, not knowing but that he has just robbed her of her money, follows in chase and runs so hard that he runs the boy down a dozen times, but each time he repeats the curve, the duck, the dive, and scours away again. to strike at him on any of these occasions would be to fell and disable him, but the pursuer cannot resolve to do that, and so the grimly ridiculous pursuit continues. at last the fugitive, hard-pressed, takes to a narrow passage and a court which has no thoroughfare. here, against a hoarding of decaying timber, he is brought to bay and tumbles down, lying gasping at his pursuer, who stands and gasps at him until the woman comes up. "oh, you, jo!" cries the woman. "what? i have found you at last!" "jo," repeats allan, looking at him with attention, "jo! stay. to be sure! i recollect this lad some time ago being brought before the coroner." "yes, i see you once afore at the inkwhich," whimpers jo. "what of that? can't you never let such an unfortnet as me alone? an't i unfortnet enough for you yet? how unfortnet do you want me fur to be? i've been a-chivied and a-chivied, fust by one on you and nixt by another on you, till i'm worritted to skins and bones. the inkwhich warn't my fault. i done nothink. he wos wery good to me, he wos; he wos the only one i knowed to speak to, as ever come across my crossing. it ain't wery likely i should want him to be inkwhiched. i only wish i wos, myself. i don't know why i don't go and make a hole in the water, i'm sure i don't." he says it with such a pitiable air, and his grimy tears appear so real, and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like a growth of fungus or any unwholesome excrescence produced there in neglect and impurity, that allan woodcourt is softened towards him. he says to the woman, "miserable creature, what has he done?" to which she only replies, shaking her head at the prostrate figure more amazedly than angrily, "oh, you jo, you jo. i have found you at last!" "what has he done?" says allan. "has he robbed you?" "no, sir, no. robbed me? he did nothing but what was kind-hearted by me, and that's the wonder of it." allan looks from jo to the woman, and from the woman to jo, waiting for one of them to unravel the riddle. "but he was along with me, sir," says the woman. "oh, you jo! he was along with me, sir, down at saint albans, ill, and a young lady, lord bless her for a good friend to me, took pity on him when i durstn't, and took him home--" allan shrinks back from him with a sudden horror. "yes, sir, yes. took him home, and made him comfortable, and like a thankless monster he ran away in the night and never has been seen or heard of since till i set eyes on him just now. and that young lady that was such a pretty dear caught his illness, lost her beautiful looks, and wouldn't hardly be known for the same young lady now if it wasn't for her angel temper, and her pretty shape, and her sweet voice. do you know it? you ungrateful wretch, do you know that this is all along of you and of her goodness to you?" demands the woman, beginning to rage at him as she recalls it and breaking into passionate tears. the boy, in rough sort stunned by what he hears, falls to smearing his dirty forehead with his dirty palm, and to staring at the ground, and to shaking from head to foot until the crazy hoarding against which he leans rattles. allan restrains the woman, merely by a quiet gesture, but effectually. "richard told me--" he falters. "i mean, i have heard of this--don't mind me for a moment, i will speak presently." he turns away and stands for a while looking out at the covered passage. when he comes back, he has recovered his composure, except that he contends against an avoidance of the boy, which is so very remarkable that it absorbs the woman's attention. "you hear what she says. but get up, get up!" jo, shaking and chattering, slowly rises and stands, after the manner of his tribe in a difficulty, sideways against the hoarding, resting one of his high shoulders against it and covertly rubbing his right hand over his left and his left foot over his right. "you hear what she says, and i know it's true. have you been here ever since?" "wishermaydie if i seen tom-all-alone's till this blessed morning," replies jo hoarsely. "why have you come here now?" jo looks all round the confined court, looks at his questioner no higher than the knees, and finally answers, "i don't know how to do nothink, and i can't get nothink to do. i'm wery poor and ill, and i thought i'd come back here when there warn't nobody about, and lay down and hide somewheres as i knows on till arter dark, and then go and beg a trifle of mr. snagsby. he wos allus willin fur to give me somethink he wos, though mrs. snagsby she was allus a-chivying on me--like everybody everywheres." "where have you come from?" jo looks all round the court again, looks at his questioner's knees again, and concludes by laying his profile against the hoarding in a sort of resignation. "did you hear me ask you where you have come from?" "tramp then," says jo. "now tell me," proceeds allan, making a strong effort to overcome his repugnance, going very near to him, and leaning over him with an expression of confidence, "tell me how it came about that you left that house when the good young lady had been so unfortunate as to pity you and take you home." jo suddenly comes out of his resignation and excitedly declares, addressing the woman, that he never known about the young lady, that he never heern about it, that he never went fur to hurt her, that he would sooner have hurt his own self, that he'd sooner have had his unfortnet ed chopped off than ever gone a-nigh her, and that she wos wery good to him, she wos. conducting himself throughout as if in his poor fashion he really meant it, and winding up with some very miserable sobs. allan woodcourt sees that this is not a sham. he constrains himself to touch him. "come, jo. tell me." "no. i dustn't," says jo, relapsing into the profile state. "i dustn't, or i would." "but i must know," returns the other, "all the same. come, jo." after two or three such adjurations, jo lifts up his head again, looks round the court again, and says in a low voice, "well, i'll tell you something. i was took away. there!" "took away? in the night?" "ah!" very apprehensive of being overheard, jo looks about him and even glances up some ten feet at the top of the hoarding and through the cracks in it lest the object of his distrust should be looking over or hidden on the other side. "who took you away?" "i dustn't name him," says jo. "i dustn't do it, sir. "but i want, in the young lady's name, to know. you may trust me. no one else shall hear." "ah, but i don't know," replies jo, shaking his head fearfully, "as he don't hear." "why, he is not in this place." "oh, ain't he though?" says jo. "he's in all manner of places, all at wanst." allan looks at him in perplexity, but discovers some real meaning and good faith at the bottom of this bewildering reply. he patiently awaits an explicit answer; and jo, more baffled by his patience than by anything else, at last desperately whispers a name in his ear. "aye!" says allan. "why, what had you been doing?" "nothink, sir. never done nothink to get myself into no trouble, 'sept in not moving on and the inkwhich. but i'm a-moving on now. i'm a-moving on to the berryin ground--that's the move as i'm up to." "no, no, we will try to prevent that. but what did he do with you?" "put me in a horsepittle," replied jo, whispering, "till i was discharged, then giv me a little money--four half-bulls, wot you may call half-crowns--and ses 'hook it! nobody wants you here,' he ses. 'you hook it. you go and tramp,' he ses. 'you move on,' he ses. 'don't let me ever see you nowheres within forty mile of london, or you'll repent it.' so i shall, if ever he doos see me, and he'll see me if i'm above ground," concludes jo, nervously repeating all his former precautions and investigations. allan considers a little, then remarks, turning to the woman but keeping an encouraging eye on jo, "he is not so ungrateful as you supposed. he had a reason for going away, though it was an insufficient one." "thankee, sir, thankee!" exclaims jo. "there now! see how hard you wos upon me. but ony you tell the young lady wot the genlmn ses, and it's all right. for you wos wery good to me too, and i knows it." "now, jo," says allan, keeping his eye upon him, "come with me and i will find you a better place than this to lie down and hide in. if i take one side of the way and you the other to avoid observation, you will not run away, i know very well, if you make me a promise." "i won't, not unless i wos to see him a-coming, sir." "very well. i take your word. half the town is getting up by this time, and the whole town will be broad awake in another hour. come along. good day again, my good woman." "good day again, sir, and i thank you kindly many times again." she has been sitting on her bag, deeply attentive, and now rises and takes it up. jo, repeating, "ony you tell the young lady as i never went fur to hurt her and wot the genlmn ses!" nods and shambles and shivers, and smears and blinks, and half laughs and half cries, a farewell to her, and takes his creeping way along after allan woodcourt, close to the houses on the opposite side of the street. in this order, the two come up out of tom-all-alone's into the broad rays of the sunlight and the purer air. chapter xlvii jo's will as allan woodcourt and jo proceed along the streets where the high church spires and the distances are so near and clear in the morning light that the city itself seems renewed by rest, allan revolves in his mind how and where he shall bestow his companion. "it surely is a strange fact," he considers, "that in the heart of a civilized world this creature in human form should be more difficult to dispose of than an unowned dog." but it is none the less a fact because of its strangeness, and the difficulty remains. at first he looks behind him often to assure himself that jo is still really following. but look where he will, he still beholds him close to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary hand from brick to brick and from door to door, and often, as he creeps along, glancing over at him watchfully. soon satisfied that the last thing in his thoughts is to give him the slip, allan goes on, considering with a less divided attention what he shall do. a breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to be done. he stops there, looks round, and beckons jo. jo crosses and comes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of his right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left, kneading dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. what is a dainty repast to jo is then set before him, and he begins to gulp the coffee and to gnaw the bread and butter, looking anxiously about him in all directions as he eats and drinks, like a scared animal. but he is so sick and miserable that even hunger has abandoned him. "i thought i was amost a-starvin, sir," says jo, soon putting down his food, "but i don't know nothink--not even that. i don't care for eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em." and jo stands shivering and looking at the breakfast wonderingly. allan woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest. "draw breath, jo!" "it draws," says jo, "as heavy as a cart." he might add, "and rattles like it," but he only mutters, "i'm a-moving on, sir." allan looks about for an apothecary's shop. there is none at hand, but a tavern does as well or better. he obtains a little measure of wine and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. he begins to revive almost as soon as it passes his lips. "we may repeat that dose, jo," observes allan after watching him with his attentive face. "so! now we will take five minutes' rest, and then go on again." leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, with his back against an iron railing, allan woodcourt paces up and down in the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards him without appearing to watch him. it requires no discernment to perceive that he is warmed and refreshed. if a face so shaded can brighten, his face brightens somewhat; and by little and little he eats the slice of bread he had so hopelessly laid down. observant of these signs of improvement, allan engages him in conversation and elicits to his no small wonder the adventure of the lady in the veil, with all its consequences. jo slowly munches as he slowly tells it. when he has finished his story and his bread, they go on again. intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place of refuge for the boy to his old patient, zealous little miss flite, allan leads the way to the court where he and jo first foregathered. but all is changed at the rag and bottle shop; miss flite no longer lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured female, much obscured by dust, whose age is a problem, but who is indeed no other than the interesting judy, is tart and spare in her replies. these sufficing, however, to inform the visitor that miss flite and her birds are domiciled with a mrs. blinder, in bell yard, he repairs to that neighbouring place, where miss flite (who rises early that she may be punctual at the divan of justice held by her excellent friend the chancellor) comes running downstairs with tears of welcome and with open arms. "my dear physician!" cries miss flite. "my meritorious, distinguished, honourable officer!" she uses some odd expressions, but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be--more so than it often is. allan, very patient with her, waits until she has no more raptures to express, then points out jo, trembling in a doorway, and tells her how he comes there. "where can i lodge him hereabouts for the present? now, you have a fund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me." miss flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to consider; but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her. mrs. blinder is entirely let, and she herself occupies poor gridley's room. "gridley!" exclaims miss flite, clapping her hands after a twentieth repetition of this remark. "gridley! to be sure! of course! my dear physician! general george will help us out." it is hopeless to ask for any information about general george, and would be, though miss flite had not already run upstairs to put on her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herself with her reticule of documents. but as she informs her physician in her disjointed manner on coming down in full array that general george, whom she often calls upon, knows her dear fitz jarndyce and takes a great interest in all connected with her, allan is induced to think that they may be in the right way. so he tells jo, for his encouragement, that this walking about will soon be over now; and they repair to the general's. fortunately it is not far. from the exterior of george's shooting gallery, and the long entry, and the bare perspective beyond it, allan woodcourt augurs well. he also descries promise in the figure of mr. george himself, striding towards them in his morning exercise with his pipe in his mouth, no stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broadsword and dumbbell, weightily asserting themselves through his light shirt-sleeves. "your servant, sir," says mr. george with a military salute. good-humouredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his crisp hair, he then defers to miss flite, as, with great stateliness, and at some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of presentation. he winds it up with another "your servant, sir!" and another salute. "excuse me, sir. a sailor, i believe?" says mr. george. "i am proud to find i have the air of one," returns allan; "but i am only a sea-going doctor." "indeed, sir! i should have thought you was a regular blue-jacket myself." allan hopes mr. george will forgive his intrusion the more readily on that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside his pipe, which, in his politeness, he has testified some intention of doing. "you are very good, sir," returns the trooper. "as i know by experience that it's not disagreeable to miss flite, and since it's equally agreeable to yourself--" and finishes the sentence by putting it between his lips again. allan proceeds to tell him all he knows about jo, unto which the trooper listens with a grave face. "and that's the lad, sir, is it?" he inquires, looking along the entry to where jo stands staring up at the great letters on the whitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes. "that's he," says allan. "and, mr. george, i am in this difficulty about him. i am unwilling to place him in a hospital, even if i could procure him immediate admission, because i foresee that he would not stay there many hours if he could be so much as got there. the same objection applies to a workhouse, supposing i had the patience to be evaded and shirked, and handed about from post to pillar in trying to get him into one, which is a system that i don't take kindly to." "no man does, sir," returns mr. george. "i am convinced that he would not remain in either place, because he is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person who ordered him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he believes this person to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything." "i ask your pardon, sir," says mr. george. "but you have not mentioned that party's name. is it a secret, sir?" "the boy makes it one. but his name is bucket." "bucket the detective, sir?" "the same man." "the man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper after blowing out a cloud of smoke and squaring his chest, "and the boy is so far correct that he undoubtedly is a--rum customer." mr. george smokes with a profound meaning after this and surveys miss flite in silence. "now, i wish mr. jarndyce and miss summerson at least to know that this jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared, and to have it in their power to speak with him if they should desire to do so. therefore i want to get him, for the present moment, into any poor lodging kept by decent people where he would be admitted. decent people and jo, mr. george," says allan, following the direction of the trooper's eyes along the entry, "have not been much acquainted, as you see. hence the difficulty. do you happen to know any one in this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on my paying for him beforehand?" as he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced little man standing at the trooper's elbow and looking up, with an oddly twisted figure and countenance, into the trooper's face. after a few more puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant at the little man, and the little man winks up at the trooper. "well, sir," says mr. george, "i can assure you that i would willingly be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at all agreeable to miss summerson, and consequently i esteem it a privilege to do that young lady any service, however small. we are naturally in the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and phil. you see what the place is. you are welcome to a quiet corner of it for the boy if the same would meet your views. no charge made, except for rations. we are not in a flourishing state of circumstances here, sir. we are liable to be tumbled out neck and crop at a moment's notice. however, sir, such as the place is, and so long as it lasts, here it is at your service." with a comprehensive wave of his pipe, mr. george places the whole building at his visitor's disposal. "i take it for granted, sir," he adds, "you being one of the medical staff, that there is no present infection about this unfortunate subject?" allan is quite sure of it. "because, sir," says mr. george, shaking his head sorrowfully, "we have had enough of that." his tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance. "still i am bound to tell you," observes allan after repeating his former assurance, "that the boy is deplorably low and reduced and that he may be--i do not say that he is--too far gone to recover." "do you consider him in present danger, sir?" inquires the trooper. "yes, i fear so." "then, sir," returns the trooper in a decisive manner, "it appears to me--being naturally in the vagabond way myself--that the sooner he comes out of the street, the better. you, phil! bring him in!" mr. squod tacks out, all on one side, to execute the word of command; and the trooper, having smoked his pipe, lays it by. jo is brought in. he is not one of mrs. pardiggle's tockahoopo indians; he is not one of mrs. jellyby's lambs, being wholly unconnected with borrioboola-gha; he is not softened by distance and unfamiliarity; he is not a genuine foreign-grown savage; he is the ordinary home-made article. dirty, ugly, disagreeable to all the senses, in body a common creature of the common streets, only in soul a heathen. homely filth begrimes him, homely parasites devour him, homely sores are in him, homely rags are on him; native ignorance, the growth of english soil and climate, sinks his immortal nature lower than the beasts that perish. stand forth, jo, in uncompromising colours! from the sole of thy foot to the crown of thy head, there is nothing interesting about thee. he shuffles slowly into mr. george's gallery and stands huddled together in a bundle, looking all about the floor. he seems to know that they have an inclination to shrink from him, partly for what he is and partly for what he has caused. he, too, shrinks from them. he is not of the same order of things, not of the same place in creation. he is of no order and no place, neither of the beasts nor of humanity. "look here, jo!" says allan. "this is mr. george." jo searches the floor for some time longer, then looks up for a moment, and then down again. "he is a kind friend to you, for he is going to give you lodging room here." jo makes a scoop with one hand, which is supposed to be a bow. after a little more consideration and some backing and changing of the foot on which he rests, he mutters that he is "wery thankful." "you are quite safe here. all you have to do at present is to be obedient and to get strong. and mind you tell us the truth here, whatever you do, jo." "wishermaydie if i don't, sir," says jo, reverting to his favourite declaration. "i never done nothink yit, but wot you knows on, to get myself into no trouble. i never was in no other trouble at all, sir, 'sept not knowin' nothink and starwation." "i believe it, now attend to mr. george. i see he is going to speak to you." "my intention merely was, sir," observes mr. george, amazingly broad and upright, "to point out to him where he can lie down and get a thorough good dose of sleep. now, look here." as the trooper speaks, he conducts them to the other end of the gallery and opens one of the little cabins. "there you are, you see! here is a mattress, and here you may rest, on good behaviour, as long as mr., i ask your pardon, sir"--he refers apologetically to the card allan has given him--"mr. woodcourt pleases. don't you be alarmed if you hear shots; they'll be aimed at the target, and not you. now, there's another thing i would recommend, sir," says the trooper, turning to his visitor. "phil, come here!" phil bears down upon them according to his usual tactics. "here is a man, sir, who was found, when a baby, in the gutter. consequently, it is to be expected that he takes a natural interest in this poor creature. you do, don't you, phil?" "certainly and surely i do, guv'ner," is phil's reply. "now i was thinking, sir," says mr. george in a martial sort of confidence, as if he were giving his opinion in a council of war at a drum-head, "that if this man was to take him to a bath and was to lay out a few shillings in getting him one or two coarse articles--" "mr. george, my considerate friend," returns allan, taking out his purse, "it is the very favour i would have asked." phil squod and jo are sent out immediately on this work of improvement. miss flite, quite enraptured by her success, makes the best of her way to court, having great fears that otherwise her friend the chancellor may be uneasy about her or may give the judgment she has so long expected in her absence, and observing "which you know, my dear physician, and general, after so many years, would be too absurdly unfortunate!" allan takes the opportunity of going out to procure some restorative medicines, and obtaining them near at hand, soon returns to find the trooper walking up and down the gallery, and to fall into step and walk with him. "i take it, sir," says mr. george, "that you know miss summerson pretty well?" yes, it appears. "not related to her, sir?" no, it appears. "excuse the apparent curiosity," says mr. george. "it seemed to me probable that you might take more than a common interest in this poor creature because miss summerson had taken that unfortunate interest in him. 'tis my case, sir, i assure you." "and mine, mr. george." the trooper looks sideways at allan's sunburnt cheek and bright dark eye, rapidly measures his height and build, and seems to approve of him. "since you have been out, sir, i have been thinking that i unquestionably know the rooms in lincoln's inn fields, where bucket took the lad, according to his account. though he is not acquainted with the name, i can help you to it. it's tulkinghorn. that's what it is." allan looks at him inquiringly, repeating the name. "tulkinghorn. that's the name, sir. i know the man, and know him to have been in communication with bucket before, respecting a deceased person who had given him offence. i know the man, sir. to my sorrow." allan naturally asks what kind of man he is. "what kind of man! do you mean to look at?" "i think i know that much of him. i mean to deal with. generally, what kind of man?" "why, then i'll tell you, sir," returns the trooper, stopping short and folding his arms on his square chest so angrily that his face fires and flushes all over; "he is a confoundedly bad kind of man. he is a slow-torturing kind of man. he is no more like flesh and blood than a rusty old carbine is. he is a kind of man--by george!--that has caused me more restlessness, and more uneasiness, and more dissatisfaction with myself than all other men put together. that's the kind of man mr. tulkinghorn is!" "i am sorry," says allan, "to have touched so sore a place." "sore?" the trooper plants his legs wider apart, wets the palm of his broad right hand, and lays it on the imaginary moustache. "it's no fault of yours, sir; but you shall judge. he has got a power over me. he is the man i spoke of just now as being able to tumble me out of this place neck and crop. he keeps me on a constant see-saw. he won't hold off, and he won't come on. if i have a payment to make him, or time to ask him for, or anything to go to him about, he don't see me, don't hear me--passes me on to melchisedech's in clifford's inn, melchisedech's in clifford's inn passes me back again to him--he keeps me prowling and dangling about him as if i was made of the same stone as himself. why, i spend half my life now, pretty well, loitering and dodging about his door. what does he care? nothing. just as much as the rusty old carbine i have compared him to. he chafes and goads me till--bah! nonsense! i am forgetting myself. mr. woodcourt," the trooper resumes his march, "all i say is, he is an old man; but i am glad i shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse and riding at him in a fair field. for if i had that chance, in one of the humours he drives me into--he'd go down, sir!" mr. george has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipe his forehead on his shirt-sleeve. even while he whistles his impetuosity away with the national anthem, some involuntary shakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger behind, not to mention an occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his open shirt-collar, as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his being troubled by a choking sensation. in short, allan woodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of mr. tulkinghorn on the field referred to. jo and his conductor presently return, and jo is assisted to his mattress by the careful phil, to whom, after due administration of medicine by his own hands, allan confides all needful means and instructions. the morning is by this time getting on apace. he repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast, and then, without seeking rest, goes away to mr. jarndyce to communicate his discovery. with him mr. jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling him that there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed and showing a serious interest in it. to mr. jarndyce, jo repeats in substance what he said in the morning, without any material variation. only that cart of his is heavier to draw, and draws with a hollower sound. "let me lay here quiet and not be chivied no more," falters jo, "and be so kind any person as is a-passin nigh where i used fur to sleep, as jist to say to mr. sangsby that jo, wot he known once, is a-moving on right forards with his duty, and i'll be wery thankful. i'd be more thankful than i am aready if it wos any ways possible for an unfortnet to be it." he makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in the course of a day or two that allan, after conferring with mr. jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in cook's court, the rather, as the cart seems to be breaking down. to cook's court, therefore, he repairs. mr. snagsby is behind his counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an indenture of several skins which has just come in from the engrosser's, an immense desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a resting-place of a few large letters to break the awful monotony and save the traveller from despair. mr snagsby puts up at one of these inky wells and greets the stranger with his cough of general preparation for business. "you don't remember me, mr. snagsby?" the stationer's heart begins to thump heavily, for his old apprehensions have never abated. it is as much as he can do to answer, "no, sir, i can't say i do. i should have considered--not to put too fine a point upon it--that i never saw you before, sir." "twice before," says allan woodcourt. "once at a poor bedside, and once--" "it's come at last!" thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection breaks upon him. "it's got to a head now and is going to burst!" but he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into the little counting-house and to shut the door. "are you a married man, sir?" "no, i am not." "would you make the attempt, though single," says mr. snagsby in a melancholy whisper, "to speak as low as you can? for my little woman is a-listening somewheres, or i'll forfeit the business and five hundred pound!" in deep dejection mr. snagsby sits down on his stool, with his back against his desk, protesting, "i never had a secret of my own, sir. i can't charge my memory with ever having once attempted to deceive my little woman on my own account since she named the day. i wouldn't have done it, sir. not to put too fine a point upon it, i couldn't have done it, i dursn't have done it. whereas, and nevertheless, i find myself wrapped round with secrecy and mystery, till my life is a burden to me." his visitor professes his regret to hear it and asks him does he remember jo. mr. snagsby answers with a suppressed groan, oh, don't he! "you couldn't name an individual human being--except myself--that my little woman is more set and determined against than jo," says mr. snagsby. allan asks why. "why?" repeats mr. snagsby, in his desperation clutching at the clump of hair at the back of his bald head. "how should i know why? but you are a single person, sir, and may you long be spared to ask a married person such a question!" with this beneficent wish, mr. snagsby coughs a cough of dismal resignation and submits himself to hear what the visitor has to communicate. "there again!" says mr. snagsby, who, between the earnestness of his feelings and the suppressed tones of his voice is discoloured in the face. "at it again, in a new direction! a certain person charges me, in the solemnest way, not to talk of jo to any one, even my little woman. then comes another certain person, in the person of yourself, and charges me, in an equally solemn way, not to mention jo to that other certain person above all other persons. why, this is a private asylum! why, not to put too fine a point upon it, this is bedlam, sir!" says mr. snagsby. but it is better than he expected after all, being no explosion of the mine below him or deepening of the pit into which he has fallen. and being tender-hearted and affected by the account he hears of jo's condition, he readily engages to "look round" as early in the evening as he can manage it quietly. he looks round very quietly when the evening comes, but it may turn out that mrs. snagsby is as quiet a manager as he. jo is very glad to see his old friend and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as mr. sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. mr. snagsby, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half a crown, that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds. "and how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquires the stationer with his cough of sympathy. "i am in luck, mr. sangsby, i am," returns jo, "and don't want for nothink. i'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. mr. sangsby! i'm wery sorry that i done it, but i didn't go fur to do it, sir." the stationer softly lays down another half-crown and asks him what it is that he is sorry for having done. "mr. sangsby," says jo, "i went and giv a illness to the lady as wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good and my having been s'unfortnet. the lady come herself and see me yesday, and she ses, 'ah, jo!' she ses. 'we thought we'd lost you, jo!' she ses. and she sits down a-smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and i turns agin the wall, i doos, mr. sangsby. and mr. jarnders, i see him a-forced to turn away his own self. and mr. woodcot, he come fur to giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's allus a-doin' on day and night, and wen he come a-bending over me and a-speakin up so bold, i see his tears a-fallin, mr. sangsby." the softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings. "wot i was a-thinkin on, mr. sangsby," proceeds jo, "wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps?" "yes, jo, please god," returns the stationer. "uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says jo with eagerness. "yes, my poor boy." jo laughs with pleasure. "wot i wos a-thinking on then, mr. sangsby, wos, that when i wos moved on as fur as ever i could go and couldn't be moved no furder, whether you might be so good p'raps as to write out, wery large so that any one could see it anywheres, as that i wos wery truly hearty sorry that i done it and that i never went fur to do it, and that though i didn't know nothink at all, i knowd as mr. woodcot once cried over it and wos allus grieved over it, and that i hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. if the writin could be made to say it wery large, he might." "it shall say it, jo. very large." jo laughs again. "thankee, mr. sangsby. it's wery kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor i was afore." the meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown--he has never been so close to a case requiring so many--and is fain to depart. and jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet no more. no more. for the cart so hard to draw is near its journey's end and drags over stony ground. all round the clock it labours up the broken steps, shattered and worn. not many times can the sun rise and behold it still upon its weary road. phil squod, with his smoky gunpowder visage, at once acts as nurse and works as armourer at his little table in a corner, often looking round and saying with a nod of his green-baize cap and an encouraging elevation of his one eyebrow, "hold up, my boy! hold up!" there, too, is mr. jarndyce many a time, and allan woodcourt almost always, both thinking, much, how strangely fate has entangled this rough outcast in the web of very different lives. there, too, the trooper is a frequent visitor, filling the doorway with his athletic figure and, from his superfluity of life and strength, seeming to shed down temporary vigour upon jo, who never fails to speak more robustly in answer to his cheerful words. jo is in a sleep or in a stupor to-day, and allan woodcourt, newly arrived, stands by him, looking down upon his wasted form. after a while he softly seats himself upon the bedside with his face towards him--just as he sat in the law-writer's room--and touches his chest and heart. the cart had very nearly given up, but labours on a little more. the trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. phil has stopped in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in his hand. mr. woodcourt looks round with that grave professional interest and attention on his face, and glancing significantly at the trooper, signs to phil to carry his table out. when the little hammer is next used, there will be a speck of rust upon it. "well, jo! what is the matter? don't be frightened." "i thought," says jo, who has started and is looking round, "i thought i was in tom-all-alone's agin. ain't there nobody here but you, mr. woodcot?" "nobody." "and i ain't took back to tom-all-alone's. am i, sir?" "no." jo closes his eyes, muttering, "i'm wery thankful." after watching him closely a little while, allan puts his mouth very near his ear and says to him in a low, distinct voice, "jo! did you ever know a prayer?" "never knowd nothink, sir." "not so much as one short prayer?" "no, sir. nothink at all. mr. chadbands he wos a-prayin wunst at mr. sangsby's and i heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a-speakin to hisself, and not to me. he prayed a lot, but i couldn't make out nothink on it. different times there was other genlmen come down tom-all-alone's a-prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other 'wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a-talking to theirselves, or a-passing blame on the t'others, and not a-talkin to us. we never knowd nothink. i never knowd what it wos all about." it takes him a long time to say this, and few but an experienced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. after a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed. "stay, jo! what now?" "it's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he returns with a wild look. "lie down, and tell me. what burying ground, jo?" "where they laid him as wos wery good to me, wery good to me indeed, he wos. it's time fur me to go down to that there berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. i wants to go there and be berried. he used fur to say to me, 'i am as poor as you to-day, jo,' he ses. i wants to tell him that i am as poor as him now and have come there to be laid along with him." "by and by, jo. by and by." "ah! p'raps they wouldn't do it if i wos to go myself. but will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?" "i will, indeed." "thankee, sir. thankee, sir. they'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. and there's a step there, as i used for to clean with my broom. it's turned wery dark, sir. is there any light a-comin?" "it is coming fast, jo." fast. the cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end. "jo, my poor fellow!" "i hear you, sir, in the dark, but i'm a-gropin--a-gropin--let me catch hold of your hand." "jo, can you say what i say?" "i'll say anythink as you say, sir, for i knows it's good." "our father." "our father! yes, that's wery good, sir." "which art in heaven." "art in heaven--is the light a-comin, sir?" "it is close at hand. hallowed be thy name!" "hallowed be--thy--" the light is come upon the dark benighted way. dead! dead, your majesty. dead, my lords and gentlemen. dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. and dying thus around us every day. chapter xlviii closing in the place in lincolnshire has shut its many eyes again, and the house in town is awake. in lincolnshire the dedlocks of the past doze in their picture-frames, and the low wind murmurs through the long drawing-room as if they were breathing pretty regularly. in town the dedlocks of the present rattle in their fire-eyed carriages through the darkness of the night, and the dedlock mercuries, with ashes (or hair-powder) on their heads, symptomatic of their great humility, loll away the drowsy mornings in the little windows of the hall. the fashionable world--tremendous orb, nearly five miles round--is in full swing, and the solar system works respectfully at its appointed distances. where the throng is thickest, where the lights are brightest, where all the senses are ministered to with the greatest delicacy and refinement, lady dedlock is. from the shining heights she has scaled and taken, she is never absent. though the belief she of old reposed in herself as one able to reserve whatsoever she would under her mantle of pride is beaten down, though she has no assurance that what she is to those around her she will remain another day, it is not in her nature when envious eyes are looking on to yield or to droop. they say of her that she has lately grown more handsome and more haughty. the debilitated cousin says of her that she's beauty nough--tsetup shopofwomen--but rather larming kind--remindingmanfact--inconvenient woman--who will getoutofbedandbawthstahlishment--shakespeare. mr. tulkinghorn says nothing, looks nothing. now, as heretofore, he is to be found in doorways of rooms, with his limp white cravat loosely twisted into its old-fashioned tie, receiving patronage from the peerage and making no sign. of all men he is still the last who might be supposed to have any influence upon my lady. of all women she is still the last who might be supposed to have any dread of him. one thing has been much on her mind since their late interview in his turret-room at chesney wold. she is now decided, and prepared to throw it off. it is morning in the great world, afternoon according to the little sun. the mercuries, exhausted by looking out of window, are reposing in the hall and hang their heavy heads, the gorgeous creatures, like overblown sunflowers. like them, too, they seem to run to a deal of seed in their tags and trimmings. sir leicester, in the library, has fallen asleep for the good of the country over the report of a parliamentary committee. my lady sits in the room in which she gave audience to the young man of the name of guppy. rosa is with her and has been writing for her and reading to her. rosa is now at work upon embroidery or some such pretty thing, and as she bends her head over it, my lady watches her in silence. not for the first time to-day. "rosa." the pretty village face looks brightly up. then, seeing how serious my lady is, looks puzzled and surprised. "see to the door. is it shut?" yes. she goes to it and returns, and looks yet more surprised. "i am about to place confidence in you, child, for i know i may trust your attachment, if not your judgment. in what i am going to do, i will not disguise myself to you at least. but i confide in you. say nothing to any one of what passes between us." the timid little beauty promises in all earnestness to be trustworthy. "do you know," lady dedlock asks her, signing to her to bring her chair nearer, "do you know, rosa, that i am different to you from what i am to any one?" "yes, my lady. much kinder. but then i often think i know you as you really are." "you often think you know me as i really am? poor child, poor child!" she says it with a kind of scorn--though not of rosa--and sits brooding, looking dreamily at her. "do you think, rosa, you are any relief or comfort to me? do you suppose your being young and natural, and fond of me and grateful to me, makes it any pleasure to me to have you near me?" "i don't know, my lady; i can scarcely hope so. but with all my heart, i wish it was so." "it is so, little one." the pretty face is checked in its flush of pleasure by the dark expression on the handsome face before it. it looks timidly for an explanation. "and if i were to say to-day, 'go! leave me!' i should say what would give me great pain and disquiet, child, and what would leave me very solitary." "my lady! have i offended you?" "in nothing. come here." rosa bends down on the footstool at my lady's feet. my lady, with that motherly touch of the famous ironmaster night, lays her hand upon her dark hair and gently keeps it there. "i told you, rosa, that i wished you to be happy and that i would make you so if i could make anybody happy on this earth. i cannot. there are reasons now known to me, reasons in which you have no part, rendering it far better for you that you should not remain here. you must not remain here. i have determined that you shall not. i have written to the father of your lover, and he will be here to-day. all this i have done for your sake." the weeping girl covers her hand with kisses and says what shall she do, what shall she do, when they are separated! her mistress kisses her on the cheek and makes no other answer. "now, be happy, child, under better circumstances. be beloved and happy!" "ah, my lady, i have sometimes thought--forgive my being so free--that you are not happy." "i!" "will you be more so when you have sent me away? pray, pray, think again. let me stay a little while!" "i have said, my child, that what i do, i do for your sake, not my own. it is done. what i am towards you, rosa, is what i am now--not what i shall be a little while hence. remember this, and keep my confidence. do so much for my sake, and thus all ends between us!" she detaches herself from her simple-hearted companion and leaves the room. late in the afternoon, when she next appears upon the staircase, she is in her haughtiest and coldest state. as indifferent as if all passion, feeling, and interest had been worn out in the earlier ages of the world and had perished from its surface with its other departed monsters. mercury has announced mr. rouncewell, which is the cause of her appearance. mr. rouncewell is not in the library, but she repairs to the library. sir leicester is there, and she wishes to speak to him first. "sir leicester, i am desirous--but you are engaged." oh, dear no! not at all. only mr. tulkinghorn. always at hand. haunting every place. no relief or security from him for a moment. "i beg your pardon, lady dedlock. will you allow me to retire?" with a look that plainly says, "you know you have the power to remain if you will," she tells him it is not necessary and moves towards a chair. mr. tulkinghorn brings it a little forward for her with his clumsy bow and retires into a window opposite. interposed between her and the fading light of day in the now quiet street, his shadow falls upon her, and he darkens all before her. even so does he darken her life. it is a dull street under the best conditions, where the two long rows of houses stare at each other with that severity that half-a-dozen of its greatest mansions seem to have been slowly stared into stone rather than originally built in that material. it is a street of such dismal grandeur, so determined not to condescend to liveliness, that the doors and windows hold a gloomy state of their own in black paint and dust, and the echoing mews behind have a dry and massive appearance, as if they were reserved to stable the stone chargers of noble statues. complicated garnish of iron-work entwines itself over the flights of steps in this awful street, and from these petrified bowers, extinguishers for obsolete flambeaux gasp at the upstart gas. here and there a weak little iron hoop, through which bold boys aspire to throw their friends' caps (its only present use), retains its place among the rusty foliage, sacred to the memory of departed oil. nay, even oil itself, yet lingering at long intervals in a little absurd glass pot, with a knob in the bottom like an oyster, blinks and sulks at newer lights every night, like its high and dry master in the house of lords. therefore there is not much that lady dedlock, seated in her chair, could wish to see through the window in which mr. tulkinghorn stands. and yet--and yet--she sends a look in that direction as if it were her heart's desire to have that figure moved out of the way. sir leicester begs his lady's pardon. she was about to say? "only that mr. rouncewell is here (he has called by my appointment) and that we had better make an end of the question of that girl. i am tired to death of the matter." "what can i do--to--assist?" demands sir leicester in some considerable doubt. "let us see him here and have done with it. will you tell them to send him up?" "mr. tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. thank you. request," says sir leicester to mercury, not immediately remembering the business term, "request the iron gentleman to walk this way." mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and produces him. sir leicester receives that ferruginous person graciously. "i hope you are well, mr. rouncewell. be seated. (my solicitor, mr. tulkinghorn.) my lady was desirous, mr. rouncewell," sir leicester skilfully transfers him with a solemn wave of his hand, "was desirous to speak with you. hem!" "i shall be very happy," returns the iron gentleman, "to give my best attention to anything lady dedlock does me the honour to say." as he turns towards her, he finds that the impression she makes upon him is less agreeable than on the former occasion. a distant supercilious air makes a cold atmosphere about her, and there is nothing in her bearing, as there was before, to encourage openness. "pray, sir," says lady dedlock listlessly, "may i be allowed to inquire whether anything has passed between you and your son respecting your son's fancy?" it is almost too troublesome to her languid eyes to bestow a look upon him as she asks this question. "if my memory serves me, lady dedlock, i said, when i had the pleasure of seeing you before, that i should seriously advise my son to conquer that--fancy." the ironmaster repeats her expression with a little emphasis. "and did you?" "oh! of course i did." sir leicester gives a nod, approving and confirmatory. very proper. the iron gentleman, having said that he would do it, was bound to do it. no difference in this respect between the base metals and the precious. highly proper. "and pray has he done so?" "really, lady dedlock, i cannot make you a definite reply. i fear not. probably not yet. in our condition of life, we sometimes couple an intention with our--our fancies which renders them not altogether easy to throw off. i think it is rather our way to be in earnest." sir leicester has a misgiving that there may be a hidden wat tylerish meaning in this expression, and fumes a little. mr. rouncewell is perfectly good-humoured and polite, but within such limits, evidently adapts his tone to his reception. "because," proceeds my lady, "i have been thinking of the subject, which is tiresome to me." "i am very sorry, i am sure." "and also of what sir leicester said upon it, in which i quite concur"--sir leicester flattered--"and if you cannot give us the assurance that this fancy is at an end, i have come to the conclusion that the girl had better leave me." "i can give no such assurance, lady dedlock. nothing of the kind." "then she had better go." "excuse me, my lady," sir leicester considerately interposes, "but perhaps this may be doing an injury to the young woman which she has not merited. here is a young woman," says sir leicester, magnificently laying out the matter with his right hand like a service of plate, "whose good fortune it is to have attracted the notice and favour of an eminent lady and to live, under the protection of that eminent lady, surrounded by the various advantages which such a position confers, and which are unquestionably very great--i believe unquestionably very great, sir--for a young woman in that station of life. the question then arises, should that young woman be deprived of these many advantages and that good fortune simply because she has"--sir leicester, with an apologetic but dignified inclination of his head towards the ironmaster, winds up his sentence--"has attracted the notice of mr rouncewell's son? now, has she deserved this punishment? is this just towards her? is this our previous understanding?" "i beg your pardon," interposes mr. rouncewell's son's father. "sir leicester, will you allow me? i think i may shorten the subject. pray dismiss that from your consideration. if you remember anything so unimportant--which is not to be expected--you would recollect that my first thought in the affair was directly opposed to her remaining here." dismiss the dedlock patronage from consideration? oh! sir leicester is bound to believe a pair of ears that have been handed down to him through such a family, or he really might have mistrusted their report of the iron gentleman's observations. "it is not necessary," observes my lady in her coldest manner before he can do anything but breathe amazedly, "to enter into these matters on either side. the girl is a very good girl; i have nothing whatever to say against her, but she is so far insensible to her many advantages and her good fortune that she is in love--or supposes she is, poor little fool--and unable to appreciate them." sir leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. he might have been sure that my lady had the best grounds and reasons in support of her view. he entirely agrees with my lady. the young woman had better go. "as sir leicester observed, mr. rouncewell, on the last occasion when we were fatigued by this business," lady dedlock languidly proceeds, "we cannot make conditions with you. without conditions, and under present circumstances, the girl is quite misplaced here and had better go. i have told her so. would you wish to have her sent back to the village, or would you like to take her with you, or what would you prefer?" "lady dedlock, if i may speak plainly--" "by all means." "--i should prefer the course which will the soonest relieve you of the incumbrance and remove her from her present position." "and to speak as plainly," she returns with the same studied carelessness, "so should i. do i understand that you will take her with you?" the iron gentleman makes an iron bow. "sir leicester, will you ring?" mr. tulkinghorn steps forward from his window and pulls the bell. "i had forgotten you. thank you." he makes his usual bow and goes quietly back again. mercury, swift-responsive, appears, receives instructions whom to produce, skims away, produces the aforesaid, and departs. rosa has been crying and is yet in distress. on her coming in, the ironmaster leaves his chair, takes her arm in his, and remains with her near the door ready to depart. "you are taken charge of, you see," says my lady in her weary manner, "and are going away well protected. i have mentioned that you are a very good girl, and you have nothing to cry for." "she seems after all," observes mr. tulkinghorn, loitering a little forward with his hands behind him, "as if she were crying at going away." "why, she is not well-bred, you see," returns mr. rouncewell with some quickness in his manner, as if he were glad to have the lawyer to retort upon, "and she is an inexperienced little thing and knows no better. if she had remained here, sir, she would have improved, no doubt." "no doubt," is mr. tulkinghorn's composed reply. rosa sobs out that she is very sorry to leave my lady, and that she was happy at chesney wold, and has been happy with my lady, and that she thanks my lady over and over again. "out, you silly little puss!" says the ironmaster, checking her in a low voice, though not angrily. "have a spirit, if you're fond of watt!" my lady merely waves her off with indifference, saying, "there, there, child! you are a good girl. go away!" sir leicester has magnificently disengaged himself from the subject and retired into the sanctuary of his blue coat. mr. tulkinghorn, an indistinct form against the dark street now dotted with lamps, looms in my lady's view, bigger and blacker than before. "sir leicester and lady dedlock," says mr. rouncewell after a pause of a few moments, "i beg to take my leave, with an apology for having again troubled you, though not of my own act, on this tiresome subject. i can very well understand, i assure you, how tiresome so small a matter must have become to lady dedlock. if i am doubtful of my dealing with it, it is only because i did not at first quietly exert my influence to take my young friend here away without troubling you at all. but it appeared to me--i dare say magnifying the importance of the thing--that it was respectful to explain to you how the matter stood and candid to consult your wishes and convenience. i hope you will excuse my want of acquaintance with the polite world." sir leicester considers himself evoked out of the sanctuary by these remarks. "mr. rouncewell," he returns, "do not mention it. justifications are unnecessary, i hope, on either side." "i am glad to hear it, sir leicester; and if i may, by way of a last word, revert to what i said before of my mother's long connexion with the family and the worth it bespeaks on both sides, i would point out this little instance here on my arm who shows herself so affectionate and faithful in parting and in whom my mother, i dare say, has done something to awaken such feelings--though of course lady dedlock, by her heartfelt interest and her genial condescension, has done much more." if he mean this ironically, it may be truer than he thinks. he points it, however, by no deviation from his straightforward manner of speech, though in saying it he turns towards that part of the dim room where my lady sits. sir leicester stands to return his parting salutation, mr. tulkinghorn again rings, mercury takes another flight, and mr. rouncewell and rosa leave the house. then lights are brought in, discovering mr. tulkinghorn still standing in his window with his hands behind him and my lady still sitting with his figure before her, closing up her view of the night as well as of the day. she is very pale. mr. tulkinghorn, observing it as she rises to retire, thinks, "well she may be! the power of this woman is astonishing. she has been acting a part the whole time." but he can act a part too--his one unchanging character--and as he holds the door open for this woman, fifty pairs of eyes, each fifty times sharper than sir leicester's pair, should find no flaw in him. lady dedlock dines alone in her own room to-day. sir leicester is whipped in to the rescue of the doodle party and the discomfiture of the coodle faction. lady dedlock asks on sitting down to dinner, still deadly pale (and quite an illustration of the debilitated cousin's text), whether he is gone out? yes. whether mr. tulkinghorn is gone yet? no. presently she asks again, is he gone yet? no. what is he doing? mercury thinks he is writing letters in the library. would my lady wish to see him? anything but that. but he wishes to see my lady. within a few more minutes he is reported as sending his respects, and could my lady please to receive him for a word or two after her dinner? my lady will receive him now. he comes now, apologizing for intruding, even by her permission, while she is at table. when they are alone, my lady waves her hand to dispense with such mockeries. "what do you want, sir?" "why, lady dedlock," says the lawyer, taking a chair at a little distance from her and slowly rubbing his rusty legs up and down, up and down, up and down, "i am rather surprised by the course you have taken." "indeed?" "yes, decidedly. i was not prepared for it. i consider it a departure from our agreement and your promise. it puts us in a new position, lady dedlock. i feel myself under the necessity of saying that i don't approve of it." he stops in his rubbing and looks at her, with his hands on his knees. imperturbable and unchangeable as he is, there is still an indefinable freedom in his manner which is new and which does not escape this woman's observation. "i do not quite understand you." "oh, yes you do, i think. i think you do. come, come, lady dedlock, we must not fence and parry now. you know you like this girl." "well, sir?" "and you know--and i know--that you have not sent her away for the reasons you have assigned, but for the purpose of separating her as much as possible from--excuse my mentioning it as a matter of business--any reproach and exposure that impend over yourself." "well, sir?" "well, lady dedlock," returns the lawyer, crossing his legs and nursing the uppermost knee. "i object to that. i consider that a dangerous proceeding. i know it to be unnecessary and calculated to awaken speculation, doubt, rumour, i don't know what, in the house. besides, it is a violation of our agreement. you were to be exactly what you were before. whereas, it must be evident to yourself, as it is to me, that you have been this evening very different from what you were before. why, bless my soul, lady dedlock, transparently so!" "if, sir," she begins, "in my knowledge of my secret--" but he interrupts her. "now, lady dedlock, this is a matter of business, and in a matter of business the ground cannot be kept too clear. it is no longer your secret. excuse me. that is just the mistake. it is my secret, in trust for sir leicester and the family. if it were your secret, lady dedlock, we should not be here holding this conversation." "that is very true. if in my knowledge of the secret i do what i can to spare an innocent girl (especially, remembering your own reference to her when you told my story to the assembled guests at chesney wold) from the taint of my impending shame, i act upon a resolution i have taken. nothing in the world, and no one in the world, could shake it or could move me." this she says with great deliberation and distinctness and with no more outward passion than himself. as for him, he methodically discusses his matter of business as if she were any insensible instrument used in business. "really? then you see, lady dedlock," he returns, "you are not to be trusted. you have put the case in a perfectly plain way, and according to the literal fact; and that being the case, you are not to be trusted." "perhaps you may remember that i expressed some anxiety on this same point when we spoke at night at chesney wold?" "yes," says mr. tulkinghorn, coolly getting up and standing on the hearth. "yes. i recollect, lady dedlock, that you certainly referred to the girl, but that was before we came to our arrangement, and both the letter and the spirit of our arrangement altogether precluded any action on your part founded upon my discovery. there can be no doubt about that. as to sparing the girl, of what importance or value is she? spare! lady dedlock, here is a family name compromised. one might have supposed that the course was straight on--over everything, neither to the right nor to the left, regardless of all considerations in the way, sparing nothing, treading everything under foot." she has been looking at the table. she lifts up her eyes and looks at him. there is a stern expression on her face and a part of her lower lip is compressed under her teeth. "this woman understands me," mr. tulkinghorn thinks as she lets her glance fall again. "she cannot be spared. why should she spare others?" for a little while they are silent. lady dedlock has eaten no dinner, but has twice or thrice poured out water with a steady hand and drunk it. she rises from table, takes a lounging-chair, and reclines in it, shading her face. there is nothing in her manner to express weakness or excite compassion. it is thoughtful, gloomy, concentrated. "this woman," thinks mr. tulkinghorn, standing on the hearth, again a dark object closing up her view, "is a study." he studies her at his leisure, not speaking for a time. she too studies something at her leisure. she is not the first to speak, appearing indeed so unlikely to be so, though he stood there until midnight, that even he is driven upon breaking silence. "lady dedlock, the most disagreeable part of this business interview remains, but it is business. our agreement is broken. a lady of your sense and strength of character will be prepared for my now declaring it void and taking my own course." "i am quite prepared." mr. tulkinghorn inclines his head. "that is all i have to trouble you with, lady dedlock." she stops him as he is moving out of the room by asking, "this is the notice i was to receive? i wish not to misapprehend you." "not exactly the notice you were to receive, lady dedlock, because the contemplated notice supposed the agreement to have been observed. but virtually the same, virtually the same. the difference is merely in a lawyer's mind." "you intend to give me no other notice?" "you are right. no." "do you contemplate undeceiving sir leicester to-night?" "a home question!" says mr. tulkinghorn with a slight smile and cautiously shaking his head at the shaded face. "no, not to-night." "to-morrow?" "all things considered, i had better decline answering that question, lady dedlock. if i were to say i don't know when, exactly, you would not believe me, and it would answer no purpose. it may be to-morrow. i would rather say no more. you are prepared, and i hold out no expectations which circumstances might fail to justify. i wish you good evening." she removes her hand, turns her pale face towards him as he walks silently to the door, and stops him once again as he is about to open it. "do you intend to remain in the house any time? i heard you were writing in the library. are you going to return there?" "only for my hat. i am going home." she bows her eyes rather than her head, the movement is so slight and curious, and he withdraws. clear of the room he looks at his watch but is inclined to doubt it by a minute or thereabouts. there is a splendid clock upon the staircase, famous, as splendid clocks not often are, for its accuracy. "and what do you say," mr. tulkinghorn inquires, referring to it. "what do you say?" if it said now, "don't go home!" what a famous clock, hereafter, if it said to-night of all the nights that it has counted off, to this old man of all the young and old men who have ever stood before it, "don't go home!" with its sharp clear bell it strikes three quarters after seven and ticks on again. "why, you are worse than i thought you," says mr. tulkinghorn, muttering reproof to his watch. "two minutes wrong? at this rate you won't last my time." what a watch to return good for evil if it ticked in answer, "don't go home!" he passes out into the streets and walks on, with his hands behind him, under the shadow of the lofty houses, many of whose mysteries, difficulties, mortgages, delicate affairs of all kinds, are treasured up within his old black satin waistcoat. he is in the confidence of the very bricks and mortar. the high chimney-stacks telegraph family secrets to him. yet there is not a voice in a mile of them to whisper, "don't go home!" through the stir and motion of the commoner streets; through the roar and jar of many vehicles, many feet, many voices; with the blazing shop-lights lighting him on, the west wind blowing him on, and the crowd pressing him on, he is pitilessly urged upon his way, and nothing meets him murmuring, "don't go home!" arrived at last in his dull room to light his candles, and look round and up, and see the roman pointing from the ceiling, there is no new significance in the roman's hand to-night or in the flutter of the attendant groups to give him the late warning, "don't come here!" it is a moonlight night, but the moon, being past the full, is only now rising over the great wilderness of london. the stars are shining as they shone above the turret-leads at chesney wold. this woman, as he has of late been so accustomed to call her, looks out upon them. her soul is turbulent within her; she is sick at heart and restless. the large rooms are too cramped and close. she cannot endure their restraint and will walk alone in a neighbouring garden. too capricious and imperious in all she does to be the cause of much surprise in those about her as to anything she does, this woman, loosely muffled, goes out into the moonlight. mercury attends with the key. having opened the garden-gate, he delivers the key into his lady's hands at her request and is bidden to go back. she will walk there some time to ease her aching head. she may be an hour, she may be more. she needs no further escort. the gate shuts upon its spring with a clash, and he leaves her passing on into the dark shade of some trees. a fine night, and a bright large moon, and multitudes of stars. mr. tulkinghorn, in repairing to his cellar and in opening and shutting those resounding doors, has to cross a little prison-like yard. he looks up casually, thinking what a fine night, what a bright large moon, what multitudes of stars! a quiet night, too. a very quiet night. when the moon shines very brilliantly, a solitude and stillness seem to proceed from her that influence even crowded places full of life. not only is it a still night on dusty high roads and on hill-summits, whence a wide expanse of country may be seen in repose, quieter and quieter as it spreads away into a fringe of trees against the sky with the grey ghost of a bloom upon them; not only is it a still night in gardens and in woods, and on the river where the water-meadows are fresh and green, and the stream sparkles on among pleasant islands, murmuring weirs, and whispering rushes; not only does the stillness attend it as it flows where houses cluster thick, where many bridges are reflected in it, where wharves and shipping make it black and awful, where it winds from these disfigurements through marshes whose grim beacons stand like skeletons washed ashore, where it expands through the bolder region of rising grounds, rich in cornfield wind-mill and steeple, and where it mingles with the ever-heaving sea; not only is it a still night on the deep, and on the shore where the watcher stands to see the ship with her spread wings cross the path of light that appears to be presented to only him; but even on this stranger's wilderness of london there is some rest. its steeples and towers and its one great dome grow more ethereal; its smoky house-tops lose their grossness in the pale effulgence; the noises that arise from the streets are fewer and are softened, and the footsteps on the pavements pass more tranquilly away. in these fields of mr. tulkinghorn's inhabiting, where the shepherds play on chancery pipes that have no stop, and keep their sheep in the fold by hook and by crook until they have shorn them exceeding close, every noise is merged, this moonlight night, into a distant ringing hum, as if the city were a vast glass, vibrating. what's that? who fired a gun or pistol? where was it? the few foot-passengers start, stop, and stare about them. some windows and doors are opened, and people come out to look. it was a loud report and echoed and rattled heavily. it shook one house, or so a man says who was passing. it has aroused all the dogs in the neighbourhood, who bark vehemently. terrified cats scamper across the road. while the dogs are yet barking and howling--there is one dog howling like a demon--the church-clocks, as if they were startled too, begin to strike. the hum from the streets, likewise, seems to swell into a shout. but it is soon over. before the last clock begins to strike ten, there is a lull. when it has ceased, the fine night, the bright large moon, and multitudes of stars, are left at peace again. has mr. tulkinghorn been disturbed? his windows are dark and quiet, and his door is shut. it must be something unusual indeed to bring him out of his shell. nothing is heard of him, nothing is seen of him. what power of cannon might it take to shake that rusty old man out of his immovable composure? for many years the persistent roman has been pointing, with no particular meaning, from that ceiling. it is not likely that he has any new meaning in him to-night. once pointing, always pointing--like any roman, or even briton, with a single idea. there he is, no doubt, in his impossible attitude, pointing, unavailingly, all night long. moonlight, darkness, dawn, sunrise, day. there he is still, eagerly pointing, and no one minds him. but a little after the coming of the day come people to clean the rooms. and either the roman has some new meaning in him, not expressed before, or the foremost of them goes wild, for looking up at his outstretched hand and looking down at what is below it, that person shrieks and flies. the others, looking in as the first one looked, shriek and fly too, and there is an alarm in the street. what does it mean? no light is admitted into the darkened chamber, and people unaccustomed to it enter, and treading softly but heavily, carry a weight into the bedroom and lay it down. there is whispering and wondering all day, strict search of every corner, careful tracing of steps, and careful noting of the disposition of every article of furniture. all eyes look up at the roman, and all voices murmur, "if he could only tell what he saw!" he is pointing at a table with a bottle (nearly full of wine) and a glass upon it and two candles that were blown out suddenly soon after being lighted. he is pointing at an empty chair and at a stain upon the ground before it that might be almost covered with a hand. these objects lie directly within his range. an excited imagination might suppose that there was something in them so terrific as to drive the rest of the composition, not only the attendant big-legged boys, but the clouds and flowers and pillars too--in short, the very body and soul of allegory, and all the brains it has--stark mad. it happens surely that every one who comes into the darkened room and looks at these things looks up at the roman and that he is invested in all eyes with mystery and awe, as if he were a paralysed dumb witness. so it shall happen surely, through many years to come, that ghostly stories shall be told of the stain upon the floor, so easy to be covered, so hard to be got out, and that the roman, pointing from the ceiling shall point, so long as dust and damp and spiders spare him, with far greater significance than he ever had in mr. tulkinghorn's time, and with a deadly meaning. for mr. tulkinghorn's time is over for evermore, and the roman pointed at the murderous hand uplifted against his life, and pointed helplessly at him, from night to morning, lying face downward on the floor, shot through the heart. chapter xlix dutiful friendship a great annual occasion has come round in the establishment of mr. matthew bagnet, otherwise lignum vitae, ex-artilleryman and present bassoon-player. an occasion of feasting and festival. the celebration of a birthday in the family. it is not mr. bagnet's birthday. mr. bagnet merely distinguishes that epoch in the musical instrument business by kissing the children with an extra smack before breakfast, smoking an additional pipe after dinner, and wondering towards evening what his poor old mother is thinking about it--a subject of infinite speculation, and rendered so by his mother having departed this life twenty years. some men rarely revert to their father, but seem, in the bank-books of their remembrance, to have transferred all the stock of filial affection into their mother's name. mr. bagnet is one of these. perhaps his exalted appreciation of the merits of the old girl causes him usually to make the noun-substantive "goodness" of the feminine gender. it is not the birthday of one of the three children. those occasions are kept with some marks of distinction, but they rarely overleap the bounds of happy returns and a pudding. on young woolwich's last birthday, mr. bagnet certainly did, after observing on his growth and general advancement, proceed, in a moment of profound reflection on the changes wrought by time, to examine him in the catechism, accomplishing with extreme accuracy the questions number one and two, "what is your name?" and "who gave you that name?" but there failing in the exact precision of his memory and substituting for number three the question "and how do you like that name?" which he propounded with a sense of its importance, in itself so edifying and improving as to give it quite an orthodox air. this, however, was a speciality on that particular birthday, and not a general solemnity. it is the old girl's birthday, and that is the greatest holiday and reddest-letter day in mr. bagnet's calendar. the auspicious event is always commemorated according to certain forms settled and prescribed by mr. bagnet some years since. mr. bagnet, being deeply convinced that to have a pair of fowls for dinner is to attain the highest pitch of imperial luxury, invariably goes forth himself very early in the morning of this day to buy a pair; he is, as invariably, taken in by the vendor and installed in the possession of the oldest inhabitants of any coop in europe. returning with these triumphs of toughness tied up in a clean blue and white cotton handkerchief (essential to the arrangements), he in a casual manner invites mrs. bagnet to declare at breakfast what she would like for dinner. mrs. bagnet, by a coincidence never known to fail, replying fowls, mr. bagnet instantly produces his bundle from a place of concealment amidst general amazement and rejoicing. he further requires that the old girl shall do nothing all day long but sit in her very best gown and be served by himself and the young people. as he is not illustrious for his cookery, this may be supposed to be a matter of state rather than enjoyment on the old girl's part, but she keeps her state with all imaginable cheerfulness. on this present birthday, mr. bagnet has accomplished the usual preliminaries. he has bought two specimens of poultry, which, if there be any truth in adages, were certainly not caught with chaff, to be prepared for the spit; he has amazed and rejoiced the family by their unlooked-for production; he is himself directing the roasting of the poultry; and mrs. bagnet, with her wholesome brown fingers itching to prevent what she sees going wrong, sits in her gown of ceremony, an honoured guest. quebec and malta lay the cloth for dinner, while woolwich, serving, as beseems him, under his father, keeps the fowls revolving. to these young scullions mrs. bagnet occasionally imparts a wink, or a shake of the head, or a crooked face, as they made mistakes. "at half after one." says mr. bagnet. "to the minute. they'll be done." mrs. bagnet, with anguish, beholds one of them at a standstill before the fire and beginning to burn. "you shall have a dinner, old girl," says mr. bagnet. "fit for a queen." mrs. bagnet shows her white teeth cheerfully, but to the perception of her son, betrays so much uneasiness of spirit that he is impelled by the dictates of affection to ask her, with his eyes, what is the matter, thus standing, with his eyes wide open, more oblivious of the fowls than before, and not affording the least hope of a return to consciousness. fortunately his elder sister perceives the cause of the agitation in mrs. bagnet's breast and with an admonitory poke recalls him. the stopped fowls going round again, mrs. bagnet closes her eyes in the intensity of her relief. "george will look us up," says mr. bagnet. "at half after four. to the moment. how many years, old girl. has george looked us up. this afternoon?" "ah, lignum, lignum, as many as make an old woman of a young one, i begin to think. just about that, and no less," returns mrs. bagnet, laughing and shaking her head. "old girl," says mr. bagnet, "never mind. you'd be as young as ever you was. if you wasn't younger. which you are. as everybody knows." quebec and malta here exclaim, with clapping of hands, that bluffy is sure to bring mother something, and begin to speculate on what it will be. "do you know, lignum," says mrs. bagnet, casting a glance on the table-cloth, and winking "salt!" at malta with her right eye, and shaking the pepper away from quebec with her head, "i begin to think george is in the roving way again. "george," returns mr. bagnet, "will never desert. and leave his old comrade. in the lurch. don't be afraid of it." "no, lignum. no. i don't say he will. i don't think he will. but if he could get over this money trouble of his, i believe he would be off." mr. bagnet asks why. "well," returns his wife, considering, "george seems to me to be getting not a little impatient and restless. i don't say but what he's as free as ever. of course he must be free or he wouldn't be george, but he smarts and seems put out." "he's extra-drilled," says mr. bagnet. "by a lawyer. who would put the devil out." "there's something in that," his wife assents; "but so it is, lignum." further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity under which mr. bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force of his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry humour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the made gravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion. with a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the process of peeling, upheaving from their centres in every direction, as if they were subject to earthquakes. the legs of the fowls, too, are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly. overcoming these disadvantages to the best of his ability, mr. bagnet at last dishes and they sit down at table, mrs. bagnet occupying the guest's place at his right hand. it is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year, for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious. every kind of finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature of poultry to possess is developed in these specimens in the singular form of guitar-strings. their limbs appear to have struck roots into their breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into the earth. their legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that they must have devoted the greater part of their long and arduous lives to pedestrian exercises and the walking of matches. but mr. bagnet, unconscious of these little defects, sets his heart on mrs. bagnet eating a most severe quantity of the delicacies before her; and as that good old girl would not cause him a moment's disappointment on any day, least of all on such a day, for any consideration, she imperils her digestion fearfully. how young woolwich cleans the drum-sticks without being of ostrich descent, his anxious mother is at a loss to understand. the old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of the repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth swept, and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the backyard. the great delight and energy with which the two young ladies apply themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in imitation of their mother and skating in and out on little scaffolds of pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the present. the same causes lead to confusion of tongues, a clattering of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, and an expenditure of water, all in excess, while the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost too moving a spectacle for mrs. bagnet to look upon with the calmness proper to her position. at last the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; quebec and malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something to drink are placed upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment. when mr. bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are very near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, mr. bagnet announces, "george! military time." it is george, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl (whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and for mr. bagnet. "happy returns to all!" says mr. george. "but, george, old man!" cries mrs. bagnet, looking at him curiously. "what's come to you?" "come to me?" "ah! you are so white, george--for you--and look so shocked. now don't he, lignum?" "george," says mr. bagnet, "tell the old girl. what's the matter." "i didn't know i looked white," says the trooper, passing his hand over his brow, "and i didn't know i looked shocked, and i'm sorry i do. but the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over." "poor creetur!" says mrs. bagnet with a mother's pity. "is he gone? dear, dear!" "i didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday talk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before i sit down. i should have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, making himself speak more gaily, "but you're so quick, mrs. bagnet." "you're right. the old girl," says mr. bagnet. "is as quick. as powder." "and what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to her," cries mr. george. "see here, i have brought a little brooch along with me. it's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake. that's all the good it is, mrs. bagnet." mr. george produces his present, which is greeted with admiring leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of reverential admiration by mr. bagnet. "old girl," says mr. bagnet. "tell him my opinion of it." "why, it's a wonder, george!" mrs. bagnet exclaims. "it's the beautifullest thing that ever was seen!" "good!" says mr. bagnet. "my opinion." "it's so pretty, george," cries mrs. bagnet, turning it on all sides and holding it out at arm's length, "that it seems too choice for me." "bad!" says mr. bagnet. "not my opinion." "but whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," says mrs. bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand stretched out to him; "and though i have been a crossgrained soldier's wife to you sometimes, george, we are as strong friends, i am sure, in reality, as ever can be. now you shall fasten it on yourself, for good luck, if you will, george." the children close up to see it done, and mr. bagnet looks over young woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturely wooden, yet pleasantly childish, that mrs. bagnet cannot help laughing in her airy way and saying, "oh, lignum, lignum, what a precious old chap you are!" but the trooper fails to fasten the brooch. his hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. "would any one believe this?" says he, catching it as it drops and looking round. "i am so out of sorts that i bungle at an easy job like this!" mrs. bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to be got into action. "if that don't bring you round, george," says she, "just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and the two together must do it." "you ought to do it of yourself," george answers; "i know that very well, mrs. bagnet. i'll tell you how, one way and another, the blues have got to be too many for me. here was this poor lad. 'twas dull work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help him." "what do you mean, george? you did help him. you took him under your roof." "i helped him so far, but that's little. i mean, mrs. bagnet, there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than to know his right hand from his left. and he was too far gone to be helped out of that." "ah, poor creetur!" says mrs. bagnet. "then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his heavy hand over his hair, "that brought up gridley in a man's mind. his was a bad case too, in a different way. then the two got mixed up in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. and to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly--it made flesh and blood tingle, i do assure you." "my advice to you," returns mrs. bagnet, "is to light your pipe and tingle that way. it's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for the health altogether." "you're right," says the trooper, "and i'll do it." so he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses the young bagnets, and even causes mr. bagnet to defer the ceremony of drinking mrs. bagnet's health, always given by himself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. but the young ladies having composed what mr. bagnet is in the habit of calling "the mixtur," and george's pipe being now in a glow, mr. bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. he addresses the assembled company in the following terms. "george. woolwich. quebec. malta. this is her birthday. take a day's march. and you won't find such another. here's towards her!" the toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, mrs. bagnet returns thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. this model composition is limited to the three words "and wishing yours!" which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a well-regulated swig of the mixture. this she again follows up, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, "here's a man!" here is a man, much to the astonishment of the little company, looking in at the parlour-door. he is a sharp-eyed man--a quick keen man--and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once, individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a remarkable man. "george," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?" "why, it's bucket!" cries mr. george. "yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. "i was going down the street here when i happened to stop and look in at the musical instruments in the shop-window--a friend of mine is in want of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone--and i saw a party enjoying themselves, and i thought it was you in the corner; i thought i couldn't be mistaken. how goes the world with you, george, at the present moment? pretty smooth? and with you, ma'am? and with you, governor? and lord," says mr. bucket, opening his arms, "here's children too! you may do anything with me if you only show me children. give us a kiss, my pets. no occasion to inquire who your father and mother is. never saw such a likeness in my life!" mr. bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to mr. george and taken quebec and malta on his knees. "you pretty dears," says mr. bucket, "give us another kiss; it's the only thing i'm greedy in. lord bless you, how healthy you look! and what may be the ages of these two, ma'am? i should put 'em down at the figures of about eight and ten." "you're very near, sir," says mrs. bagnet. "i generally am near," returns mr. bucket, "being so fond of children. a friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by one mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. not so much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! and what do you call these, my darling?" pursues mr. bucket, pinching malta's cheeks. "these are peaches, these are. bless your heart! and what do you think about father? do you think father could recommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for mr. bucket's friend, my dear? my name's bucket. ain't that a funny name?" these blandishments have entirely won the family heart. mrs. bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for mr. bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. she would be glad to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him that as a friend of george's she is particularly glad to see him this evening, for george has not been in his usual spirits. "not in his usual spirits?" exclaims mr. bucket. "why, i never heard of such a thing! what's the matter, george? you don't intend to tell me you've been out of spirits. what should you be out of spirits for? you haven't got anything on your mind, you know." "nothing particular," returns the trooper. "i should think not," rejoins mr. bucket. "what could you have on your mind, you know! and have these pets got anything on their minds, eh? not they, but they'll be upon the minds of some of the young fellows, some of these days, and make 'em precious low-spirited. i ain't much of a prophet, but i can tell you that, ma'am." mrs. bagnet, quite charmed, hopes mr. bucket has a family of his own. "there, ma'am!" says mr. bucket. "would you believe it? no, i haven't. my wife and a lodger constitute my family. mrs. bucket is as fond of children as myself and as wishful to have 'em, but no. so it is. worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must not repine. what a very nice backyard, ma'am! any way out of that yard, now?" there is no way out of that yard. "ain't there really?" says mr. bucket. "i should have thought there might have been. well, i don't know as i ever saw a backyard that took my fancy more. would you allow me to look at it? thank you. no, i see there's no way out. but what a very good-proportioned yard it is!" having cast his sharp eye all about it, mr. bucket returns to his chair next his friend mr. george and pats mr. george affectionately on the shoulder. "how are your spirits now, george?" "all right now," returns the trooper. "that's your sort!" says mr. bucket. "why should you ever have been otherwise? a man of your fine figure and constitution has no right to be out of spirits. that ain't a chest to be out of spirits, is it, ma'am? and you haven't got anything on your mind, you know, george; what could you have on your mind!" somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and variety of his conversational powers, mr. bucket twice or thrice repeats it to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is particularly his own. but the sun of his sociality soon recovers from this brief eclipse and shines again. "and this is brother, is it, my dears?" says mr. bucket, referring to quebec and malta for information on the subject of young woolwich. "and a nice brother he is--half-brother i mean to say. for he's too old to be your boy, ma'am." "i can certify at all events that he is not anybody else's," returns mrs. bagnet, laughing. "well, you do surprise me! yet he's like you, there's no denying. lord, he's wonderfully like you! but about what you may call the brow, you know, there his father comes out!" mr. bucket compares the faces with one eye shut up, while mr. bagnet smokes in stolid satisfaction. this is an opportunity for mrs. bagnet to inform him that the boy is george's godson. "george's godson, is he?" rejoins mr. bucket with extreme cordiality. "i must shake hands over again with george's godson. godfather and godson do credit to one another. and what do you intend to make of him, ma'am? does he show any turn for any musical instrument?" mr. bagnet suddenly interposes, "plays the fife. beautiful." "would you believe it, governor," says mr. bucket, struck by the coincidence, "that when i was a boy i played the fife myself? not in a scientific way, as i expect he does, but by ear. lord bless you! 'british grenadiers'--there's a tune to warm an englishman up! could you give us 'british grenadiers,' my fine fellow?" nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this call upon young woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife and performs the stirring melody, during which performance mr. bucket, much enlivened, beats time and never fails to come in sharp with the burden, "british gra-a-anadeers!" in short, he shows so much musical taste that mr. bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips to express his conviction that he is a singer. mr. bucket receives the harmonious impeachment so modestly, confessing how that he did once chaunt a little, for the expression of the feelings of his own bosom, and with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends, that he is asked to sing. not to be behindhand in the sociality of the evening, he complies and gives them "believe me, if all those endearing young charms." this ballad, he informs mrs. bagnet, he considers to have been his most powerful ally in moving the heart of mrs. bucket when a maiden, and inducing her to approach the altar--mr. bucket's own words are "to come up to the scratch." this sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the evening that mr. george, who testified no great emotions of pleasure on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be rather proud of him. he is so friendly, is a man of so many resources, and so easy to get on with, that it is something to have made him known there. mr. bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible of the value of his acquaintance that he solicits the honour of his company on the old girl's next birthday. if anything can more closely cement and consolidate the esteem which mr. bucket has formed for the family, it is the discovery of the nature of the occasion. he drinks to mrs. bagnet with a warmth approaching to rapture, engages himself for that day twelvemonth more than thankfully, makes a memorandum of the day in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope that mrs. bucket and mrs. bagnet may before then become, in a manner, sisters. as he says himself, what is public life without private ties? he is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in that sphere that he finds happiness. no, it must be sought within the confines of domestic bliss. it is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn, should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an acquaintance. and he does. he keeps very close to him. whatever the subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye upon him. he waits to walk home with him. he is interested in his very boots and observes even them attentively as mr. george sits smoking cross-legged in the chimney-corner. at length mr. george rises to depart. at the same moment mr. bucket, with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. he dotes upon the children to the last and remembers the commission he has undertaken for an absent friend. "respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor--could you recommend me such a thing?" "scores," says mr. bagnet. "i am obliged to you," returns mr. bucket, squeezing his hand. "you're a friend in need. a good tone, mind you! my friend is a regular dab at it. ecod, he saws away at mozart and handel and the rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. and you needn't," says mr. bucket in a considerate and private voice, "you needn't commit yourself to too low a figure, governor. i don't want to pay too large a price for my friend, but i want you to have your proper percentage and be remunerated for your loss of time. that is but fair. every man must live, and ought to it." mr. bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they have found a jewel of price. "suppose i was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten to-morrow morning. perhaps you could name the figures of a few wiolincellers of a good tone?" says mr. bucket. nothing easier. mr. and mrs. bagnet both engage to have the requisite information ready and even hint to each other at the practicability of having a small stock collected there for approval. "thank you," says mr. bucket, "thank you. good night, ma'am. good night, governor. good night, darlings. i am much obliged to you for one of the pleasantest evenings i ever spent in my life." they, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he has given them in his company; and so they part with many expressions of goodwill on both sides. "now george, old boy," says mr. bucket, taking his arm at the shop-door, "come along!" as they go down the little street and the bagnets pause for a minute looking after them, mrs. bagnet remarks to the worthy lignum that mr. bucket "almost clings to george like, and seems to be really fond of him." the neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. mr. george therefore soon proposes to walk singly. but mr. bucket, who cannot make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, "wait half a minute, george. i should wish to speak to you first." immediately afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and into a parlour, where he confronts him and claps his own back against the door. "now, george," says mr. bucket, "duty is duty, and friendship is friendship. i never want the two to clash if i can help it. i have endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and i put it to you whether i have done it or not. you must consider yourself in custody, george." "custody? what for?" returns the trooper, thunderstruck. "now, george," says mr. bucket, urging a sensible view of the case upon him with his fat forefinger, "duty, as you know very well, is one thing, and conversation is another. it's my duty to inform you that any observations you may make will be liable to be used against you. therefore, george, be careful what you say. you don't happen to have heard of a murder?" "murder!" "now, george," says mr. bucket, keeping his forefinger in an impressive state of action, "bear in mind what i've said to you. i ask you nothing. you've been in low spirits this afternoon. i say, you don't happen to have heard of a murder?" "no. where has there been a murder?" "now, george," says mr. bucket, "don't you go and commit yourself. i'm a-going to tell you what i want you for. there has been a murder in lincoln's inn fields--gentleman of the name of tulkinghorn. he was shot last night. i want you for that." the trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start out upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face. "bucket! it's not possible that mr. tulkinghorn has been killed and that you suspect me?" "george," returns mr. bucket, keeping his forefinger going, "it is certainly possible, because it's the case. this deed was done last night at ten o'clock. now, you know where you were last night at ten o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt." "last night! last night?" repeats the trooper thoughtfully. then it flashes upon him. "why, great heaven, i was there last night!" "so i have understood, george," returns mr. bucket with great deliberation. "so i have understood. likewise you've been very often there. you've been seen hanging about the place, and you've been heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it's possible--i don't say it's certainly so, mind you, but it's possible--that he may have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dangerous fellow." the trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak. "now, george," continues mr. bucket, putting his hat upon the table with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than otherwise, "my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make things pleasant. i tell you plainly there's a reward out, of a hundred guineas, offered by sir leicester dedlock, baronet. you and me have always been pleasant together; but i have got a duty to discharge; and if that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as well be made by me as any other man. on all of which accounts, i should hope it was clear to you that i must have you, and that i'm damned if i don't have you. am i to call in any assistance, or is the trick done?" mr. george has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier. "come," he says; "i am ready." "george," continues mr. bucket, "wait a bit!" with his upholsterer manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takes from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "this is a serious charge, george, and such is my duty." the trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a moment, but holds out his two hands, clasped together, and says, "there! put them on!" mr. bucket adjusts them in a moment. "how do you find them? are they comfortable? if not, say so, for i wish to make things as pleasant as is consistent with my duty, and i've got another pair in my pocket." this remark he offers like a most respectable tradesman anxious to execute an order neatly and to the perfect satisfaction of his customer. "they'll do as they are? very well! now, you see, george"--he takes a cloak from a corner and begins adjusting it about the trooper's neck--"i was mindful of your feelings when i come out, and brought this on purpose. there! who's the wiser?" "only i," returns the trooper, "but as i know it, do me one more good turn and pull my hat over my eyes." "really, though! do you mean it? ain't it a pity? it looks so." "i can't look chance men in the face with these things on," mr. george hurriedly replies. "do, for god's sake, pull my hat forward." so strongly entreated, mr. bucket complies, puts his own hat on, and conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on as steadily as usual, though with his head less erect, and mr. bucket steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings. chapter l esther's narrative it happened that when i came home from deal i found a note from caddy jellyby (as we always continued to call her), informing me that her health, which had been for some time very delicate, was worse and that she would be more glad than she could tell me if i would go to see her. it was a note of a few lines, written from the couch on which she lay and enclosed to me in another from her husband, in which he seconded her entreaty with much solicitude. caddy was now the mother, and i the godmother, of such a poor little baby--such a tiny old-faced mite, with a countenance that seemed to be scarcely anything but cap-border, and a little lean, long-fingered hand, always clenched under its chin. it would lie in this attitude all day, with its bright specks of eyes open, wondering (as i used to imagine) how it came to be so small and weak. whenever it was moved it cried, but at all other times it was so patient that the sole desire of its life appeared to be to lie quiet and think. it had curious little dark veins in its face and curious little dark marks under its eyes like faint remembrances of poor caddy's inky days, and altogether, to those who were not used to it, it was quite a piteous little sight. but it was enough for caddy that she was used to it. the projects with which she beguiled her illness, for little esther's education, and little esther's marriage, and even for her own old age as the grandmother of little esther's little esthers, was so prettily expressive of devotion to this pride of her life that i should be tempted to recall some of them but for the timely remembrance that i am getting on irregularly as it is. to return to the letter. caddy had a superstition about me which had been strengthening in her mind ever since that night long ago when she had lain asleep with her head in my lap. she almost--i think i must say quite--believed that i did her good whenever i was near her. now although this was such a fancy of the affectionate girl's that i am almost ashamed to mention it, still it might have all the force of a fact when she was really ill. therefore i set off to caddy, with my guardian's consent, post-haste; and she and prince made so much of me that there never was anything like it. next day i went again to sit with her, and next day i went again. it was a very easy journey, for i had only to rise a little earlier in the morning, and keep my accounts, and attend to housekeeping matters before leaving home. but when i had made these three visits, my guardian said to me, on my return at night, "now, little woman, little woman, this will never do. constant dropping will wear away a stone, and constant coaching will wear out a dame durden. we will go to london for a while and take possession of our old lodgings." "not for me, dear guardian," said i, "for i never feel tired," which was strictly true. i was only too happy to be in such request. "for me then," returned my guardian, "or for ada, or for both of us. it is somebody's birthday to-morrow, i think." "truly i think it is," said i, kissing my darling, who would be twenty-one to-morrow. "well," observed my guardian, half pleasantly, half seriously, "that's a great occasion and will give my fair cousin some necessary business to transact in assertion of her independence, and will make london a more convenient place for all of us. so to london we will go. that being settled, there is another thing--how have you left caddy?" "very unwell, guardian. i fear it will be some time before she regains her health and strength." "what do you call some time, now?" asked my guardian thoughtfully. "some weeks, i am afraid." "ah!" he began to walk about the room with his hands in his pockets, showing that he had been thinking as much. "now, what do you say about her doctor? is he a good doctor, my love?" i felt obliged to confess that i knew nothing to the contrary but that prince and i had agreed only that evening that we would like his opinion to be confirmed by some one. "well, you know," returned my guardian quickly, "there's woodcourt." i had not meant that, and was rather taken by surprise. for a moment all that i had had in my mind in connexion with mr. woodcourt seemed to come back and confuse me. "you don't object to him, little woman?" "object to him, guardian? oh no!" "and you don't think the patient would object to him?" so far from that, i had no doubt of her being prepared to have a great reliance on him and to like him very much. i said that he was no stranger to her personally, for she had seen him often in his kind attendance on miss flite. "very good," said my guardian. "he has been here to-day, my dear, and i will see him about it to-morrow." i felt in this short conversation--though i did not know how, for she was quiet, and we interchanged no look--that my dear girl well remembered how merrily she had clasped me round the waist when no other hands than caddy's had brought me the little parting token. this caused me to feel that i ought to tell her, and caddy too, that i was going to be the mistress of bleak house and that if i avoided that disclosure any longer i might become less worthy in my own eyes of its master's love. therefore, when we went upstairs and had waited listening until the clock struck twelve in order that only i might be the first to wish my darling all good wishes on her birthday and to take her to my heart, i set before her, just as i had set before myself, the goodness and honour of her cousin john and the happy life that was in store for me. if ever my darling were fonder of me at one time than another in all our intercourse, she was surely fondest of me that night. and i was so rejoiced to know it and so comforted by the sense of having done right in casting this last idle reservation away that i was ten times happier than i had been before. i had scarcely thought it a reservation a few hours ago, but now that it was gone i felt as if i understood its nature better. next day we went to london. we found our old lodging vacant, and in half an hour were quietly established there, as if we had never gone away. mr. woodcourt dined with us to celebrate my darling's birthday, and we were as pleasant as we could be with the great blank among us that richard's absence naturally made on such an occasion. after that day i was for some weeks--eight or nine as i remember--very much with caddy, and thus it fell out that i saw less of ada at this time than any other since we had first come together, except the time of my own illness. she often came to caddy's, but our function there was to amuse and cheer her, and we did not talk in our usual confidential manner. whenever i went home at night we were together, but caddy's rest was broken by pain, and i often remained to nurse her. with her husband and her poor little mite of a baby to love and their home to strive for, what a good creature caddy was! so self-denying, so uncomplaining, so anxious to get well on their account, so afraid of giving trouble, and so thoughtful of the unassisted labours of her husband and the comforts of old mr. turveydrop; i had never known the best of her until now. and it seemed so curious that her pale face and helpless figure should be lying there day after day where dancing was the business of life, where the kit and the apprentices began early every morning in the ball-room, and where the untidy little boy waltzed by himself in the kitchen all the afternoon. at caddy's request i took the supreme direction of her apartment, trimmed it up, and pushed her, couch and all, into a lighter and more airy and more cheerful corner than she had yet occupied; then, every day, when we were in our neatest array, i used to lay my small small namesake in her arms and sit down to chat or work or read to her. it was at one of the first of these quiet times that i told caddy about bleak house. we had other visitors besides ada. first of all we had prince, who in his hurried intervals of teaching used to come softly in and sit softly down, with a face of loving anxiety for caddy and the very little child. whatever caddy's condition really was, she never failed to declare to prince that she was all but well--which i, heaven forgive me, never failed to confirm. this would put prince in such good spirits that he would sometimes take the kit from his pocket and play a chord or two to astonish the baby, which i never knew it to do in the least degree, for my tiny namesake never noticed it at all. then there was mrs. jellyby. she would come occasionally, with her usual distraught manner, and sit calmly looking miles beyond her grandchild as if her attention were absorbed by a young borrioboolan on its native shores. as bright-eyed as ever, as serene, and as untidy, she would say, "well, caddy, child, and how do you do to-day?" and then would sit amiably smiling and taking no notice of the reply or would sweetly glide off into a calculation of the number of letters she had lately received and answered or of the coffee-bearing power of borrioboola-gha. this she would always do with a serene contempt for our limited sphere of action, not to be disguised. then there was old mr. turveydrop, who was from morning to night and from night to morning the subject of innumerable precautions. if the baby cried, it was nearly stifled lest the noise should make him uncomfortable. if the fire wanted stirring in the night, it was surreptitiously done lest his rest should be broken. if caddy required any little comfort that the house contained, she first carefully discussed whether he was likely to require it too. in return for this consideration he would come into the room once a day, all but blessing it--showing a condescension, and a patronage, and a grace of manner in dispensing the light of his high-shouldered presence from which i might have supposed him (if i had not known better) to have been the benefactor of caddy's life. "my caroline," he would say, making the nearest approach that he could to bending over her. "tell me that you are better to-day." "oh, much better, thank you, mr. turveydrop," caddy would reply. "delighted! enchanted! and our dear miss summerson. she is not quite prostrated by fatigue?" here he would crease up his eyelids and kiss his fingers to me, though i am happy to say he had ceased to be particular in his attentions since i had been so altered. "not at all," i would assure him. "charming! we must take care of our dear caroline, miss summerson. we must spare nothing that will restore her. we must nourish her. my dear caroline"--he would turn to his daughter-in-law with infinite generosity and protection--"want for nothing, my love. frame a wish and gratify it, my daughter. everything this house contains, everything my room contains, is at your service, my dear. do not," he would sometimes add in a burst of deportment, "even allow my simple requirements to be considered if they should at any time interfere with your own, my caroline. your necessities are greater than mine." he had established such a long prescriptive right to this deportment (his son's inheritance from his mother) that i several times knew both caddy and her husband to be melted to tears by these affectionate self-sacrifices. "nay, my dears," he would remonstrate; and when i saw caddy's thin arm about his fat neck as he said it, i would be melted too, though not by the same process. "nay, nay! i have promised never to leave ye. be dutiful and affectionate towards me, and i ask no other return. now, bless ye! i am going to the park." he would take the air there presently and get an appetite for his hotel dinner. i hope i do old mr. turveydrop no wrong, but i never saw any better traits in him than these i faithfully record, except that he certainly conceived a liking for peepy and would take the child out walking with great pomp, always on those occasions sending him home before he went to dinner himself, and occasionally with a halfpenny in his pocket. but even this disinterestedness was attended with no inconsiderable cost, to my knowledge, for before peepy was sufficiently decorated to walk hand in hand with the professor of deportment, he had to be newly dressed, at the expense of caddy and her husband, from top to toe. last of our visitors, there was mr. jellyby. really when he used to come in of an evening, and ask caddy in his meek voice how she was, and then sit down with his head against the wall, and make no attempt to say anything more, i liked him very much. if he found me bustling about doing any little thing, he sometimes half took his coat off, as if with an intention of helping by a great exertion; but he never got any further. his sole occupation was to sit with his head against the wall, looking hard at the thoughtful baby; and i could not quite divest my mind of a fancy that they understood one another. i have not counted mr. woodcourt among our visitors because he was now caddy's regular attendant. she soon began to improve under his care, but he was so gentle, so skilful, so unwearying in the pains he took that it is not to be wondered at, i am sure. i saw a good deal of mr. woodcourt during this time, though not so much as might be supposed, for knowing caddy to be safe in his hands, i often slipped home at about the hours when he was expected. we frequently met, notwithstanding. i was quite reconciled to myself now, but i still felt glad to think that he was sorry for me, and he still was sorry for me i believed. he helped mr. badger in his professional engagements, which were numerous, and had as yet no settled projects for the future. it was when caddy began to recover that i began to notice a change in my dear girl. i cannot say how it first presented itself to me, because i observed it in many slight particulars which were nothing in themselves and only became something when they were pieced together. but i made it out, by putting them together, that ada was not so frankly cheerful with me as she used to be. her tenderness for me was as loving and true as ever; i did not for a moment doubt that; but there was a quiet sorrow about her which she did not confide to me, and in which i traced some hidden regret. now, i could not understand this, and i was so anxious for the happiness of my own pet that it caused me some uneasiness and set me thinking often. at length, feeling sure that ada suppressed this something from me lest it should make me unhappy too, it came into my head that she was a little grieved--for me--by what i had told her about bleak house. how i persuaded myself that this was likely, i don't know. i had no idea that there was any selfish reference in my doing so. i was not grieved for myself: i was quite contented and quite happy. still, that ada might be thinking--for me, though i had abandoned all such thoughts--of what once was, but was now all changed, seemed so easy to believe that i believed it. what could i do to reassure my darling (i considered then) and show her that i had no such feelings? well! i could only be as brisk and busy as possible, and that i had tried to be all along. however, as caddy's illness had certainly interfered, more or less, with my home duties--though i had always been there in the morning to make my guardian's breakfast, and he had a hundred times laughed and said there must be two little women, for his little woman was never missing--i resolved to be doubly diligent and gay. so i went about the house humming all the tunes i knew, and i sat working and working in a desperate manner, and i talked and talked, morning, noon, and night. and still there was the same shade between me and my darling. "so, dame trot," observed my guardian, shutting up his book one night when we were all three together, "so woodcourt has restored caddy jellyby to the full enjoyment of life again?" "yes," i said; "and to be repaid by such gratitude as hers is to be made rich, guardian." "i wish it was," he returned, "with all my heart." so did i too, for that matter. i said so. "aye! we would make him as rich as a jew if we knew how. would we not, little woman?" i laughed as i worked and replied that i was not sure about that, for it might spoil him, and he might not be so useful, and there might be many who could ill spare him. as miss flite, and caddy herself, and many others. "true," said my guardian. "i had forgotten that. but we would agree to make him rich enough to live, i suppose? rich enough to work with tolerable peace of mind? rich enough to have his own happy home and his own household gods--and household goddess, too, perhaps?" that was quite another thing, i said. we must all agree in that. "to be sure," said my guardian. "all of us. i have a great regard for woodcourt, a high esteem for him; and i have been sounding him delicately about his plans. it is difficult to offer aid to an independent man with that just kind of pride which he possesses. and yet i would be glad to do it if i might or if i knew how. he seems half inclined for another voyage. but that appears like casting such a man away." "it might open a new world to him," said i. "so it might, little woman," my guardian assented. "i doubt if he expects much of the old world. do you know i have fancied that he sometimes feels some particular disappointment or misfortune encountered in it. you never heard of anything of that sort?" i shook my head. "humph," said my guardian. "i am mistaken, i dare say." as there was a little pause here, which i thought, for my dear girl's satisfaction, had better be filled up, i hummed an air as i worked which was a favourite with my guardian. "and do you think mr. woodcourt will make another voyage?" i asked him when i had hummed it quietly all through. "i don't quite know what to think, my dear, but i should say it was likely at present that he will give a long trip to another country." "i am sure he will take the best wishes of all our hearts with him wherever he goes," said i; "and though they are not riches, he will never be the poorer for them, guardian, at least." "never, little woman," he replied. i was sitting in my usual place, which was now beside my guardian's chair. that had not been my usual place before the letter, but it was now. i looked up to ada, who was sitting opposite, and i saw, as she looked at me, that her eyes were filled with tears and that tears were falling down her face. i felt that i had only to be placid and merry once for all to undeceive my dear and set her loving heart at rest. i really was so, and i had nothing to do but to be myself. so i made my sweet girl lean upon my shoulder--how little thinking what was heavy on her mind!--and i said she was not quite well, and put my arm about her, and took her upstairs. when we were in our own room, and when she might perhaps have told me what i was so unprepared to hear, i gave her no encouragement to confide in me; i never thought she stood in need of it. "oh, my dear good esther," said ada, "if i could only make up my mind to speak to you and my cousin john when you are together!" "why, my love!" i remonstrated. "ada, why should you not speak to us!" ada only dropped her head and pressed me closer to her heart. "you surely don't forget, my beauty," said i, smiling, "what quiet, old-fashioned people we are and how i have settled down to be the discreetest of dames? you don't forget how happily and peacefully my life is all marked out for me, and by whom? i am certain that you don't forget by what a noble character, ada. that can never be." "no, never, esther." "why then, my dear," said i, "there can be nothing amiss--and why should you not speak to us?" "nothing amiss, esther?" returned ada. "oh, when i think of all these years, and of his fatherly care and kindness, and of the old relations among us, and of you, what shall i do, what shall i do!" i looked at my child in some wonder, but i thought it better not to answer otherwise than by cheering her, and so i turned off into many little recollections of our life together and prevented her from saying more. when she lay down to sleep, and not before, i returned to my guardian to say good night, and then i came back to ada and sat near her for a little while. she was asleep, and i thought as i looked at her that she was a little changed. i had thought so more than once lately. i could not decide, even looking at her while she was unconscious, how she was changed, but something in the familiar beauty of her face looked different to me. my guardian's old hopes of her and richard arose sorrowfully in my mind, and i said to myself, "she has been anxious about him," and i wondered how that love would end. when i had come home from caddy's while she was ill, i had often found ada at work, and she had always put her work away, and i had never known what it was. some of it now lay in a drawer near her, which was not quite closed. i did not open the drawer, but i still rather wondered what the work could be, for it was evidently nothing for herself. and i noticed as i kissed my dear that she lay with one hand under her pillow so that it was hidden. how much less amiable i must have been than they thought me, how much less amiable than i thought myself, to be so preoccupied with my own cheerfulness and contentment as to think that it only rested with me to put my dear girl right and set her mind at peace! but i lay down, self-deceived, in that belief. and i awoke in it next day to find that there was still the same shade between me and my darling. chapter li enlightened when mr. woodcourt arrived in london, he went, that very same day, to mr. vholes's in symond's inn. for he never once, from the moment when i entreated him to be a friend to richard, neglected or forgot his promise. he had told me that he accepted the charge as a sacred trust, and he was ever true to it in that spirit. he found mr. vholes in his office and informed mr. vholes of his agreement with richard that he should call there to learn his address. "just so, sir," said mr. vholes. "mr. c.'s address is not a hundred miles from here, sir, mr. c.'s address is not a hundred miles from here. would you take a seat, sir?" mr. woodcourt thanked mr. vholes, but he had no business with him beyond what he had mentioned. "just so, sir. i believe, sir," said mr. vholes, still quietly insisting on the seat by not giving the address, "that you have influence with mr. c. indeed i am aware that you have." "i was not aware of it myself," returned mr. woodcourt; "but i suppose you know best." "sir," rejoined mr. vholes, self-contained as usual, voice and all, "it is a part of my professional duty to know best. it is a part of my professional duty to study and to understand a gentleman who confides his interests to me. in my professional duty i shall not be wanting, sir, if i know it. i may, with the best intentions, be wanting in it without knowing it; but not if i know it, sir." mr. woodcourt again mentioned the address. "give me leave, sir," said mr. vholes. "bear with me for a moment. sir, mr. c. is playing for a considerable stake, and cannot play without--need i say what?" "money, i presume?" "sir," said mr. vholes, "to be honest with you (honesty being my golden rule, whether i gain by it or lose, and i find that i generally lose), money is the word. now, sir, upon the chances of mr. c.'s game i express to you no opinion, no opinion. it might be highly impolitic in mr. c., after playing so long and so high, to leave off; it might be the reverse; i say nothing. no, sir," said mr. vholes, bringing his hand flat down upon his desk in a positive manner, "nothing." "you seem to forget," returned mr. woodcourt, "that i ask you to say nothing and have no interest in anything you say." "pardon me, sir!" retorted mr. vholes. "you do yourself an injustice. no, sir! pardon me! you shall not--shall not in my office, if i know it--do yourself an injustice. you are interested in anything, and in everything, that relates to your friend. i know human nature much better, sir, than to admit for an instant that a gentleman of your appearance is not interested in whatever concerns his friend." "well," replied mr. woodcourt, "that may be. i am particularly interested in his address." "the number, sir," said mr. vholes parenthetically, "i believe i have already mentioned. if mr. c. is to continue to play for this considerable stake, sir, he must have funds. understand me! there are funds in hand at present. i ask for nothing; there are funds in hand. but for the onward play, more funds must be provided, unless mr. c. is to throw away what he has already ventured, which is wholly and solely a point for his consideration. this, sir, i take the opportunity of stating openly to you as the friend of mr. c. without funds i shall always be happy to appear and act for mr. c. to the extent of all such costs as are safe to be allowed out of the estate, not beyond that. i could not go beyond that, sir, without wronging some one. i must either wrong my three dear girls or my venerable father, who is entirely dependent on me, in the vale of taunton; or some one. whereas, sir, my resolution is (call it weakness or folly if you please) to wrong no one." mr. woodcourt rather sternly rejoined that he was glad to hear it. "i wish, sir," said mr. vholes, "to leave a good name behind me. therefore i take every opportunity of openly stating to a friend of mr. c. how mr. c. is situated. as to myself, sir, the labourer is worthy of his hire. if i undertake to put my shoulder to the wheel, i do it, and i earn what i get. i am here for that purpose. my name is painted on the door outside, with that object." "and mr. carstone's address, mr. vholes?" "sir," returned mr. vholes, "as i believe i have already mentioned, it is next door. on the second story you will find mr. c.'s apartments. mr. c. desires to be near his professional adviser, and i am far from objecting, for i court inquiry." upon this mr. woodcourt wished mr. vholes good day and went in search of richard, the change in whose appearance he began to understand now but too well. he found him in a dull room, fadedly furnished, much as i had found him in his barrack-room but a little while before, except that he was not writing but was sitting with a book before him, from which his eyes and thoughts were far astray. as the door chanced to be standing open, mr. woodcourt was in his presence for some moments without being perceived, and he told me that he never could forget the haggardness of his face and the dejection of his manner before he was aroused from his dream. "woodcourt, my dear fellow," cried richard, starting up with extended hands, "you come upon my vision like a ghost." "a friendly one," he replied, "and only waiting, as they say ghosts do, to be addressed. how does the mortal world go?" they were seated now, near together. "badly enough, and slowly enough," said richard, "speaking at least for my part of it." "what part is that?" "the chancery part." "i never heard," returned mr. woodcourt, shaking his head, "of its going well yet." "nor i," said richard moodily. "who ever did?" he brightened again in a moment and said with his natural openness, "woodcourt, i should be sorry to be misunderstood by you, even if i gained by it in your estimation. you must know that i have done no good this long time. i have not intended to do much harm, but i seem to have been capable of nothing else. it may be that i should have done better by keeping out of the net into which my destiny has worked me, but i think not, though i dare say you will soon hear, if you have not already heard, a very different opinion. to make short of a long story, i am afraid i have wanted an object; but i have an object now--or it has me--and it is too late to discuss it. take me as i am, and make the best of me." "a bargain," said mr. woodcourt. "do as much by me in return." "oh! you," returned richard, "you can pursue your art for its own sake, and can put your hand upon the plough and never turn, and can strike a purpose out of anything. you and i are very different creatures." he spoke regretfully and lapsed for a moment into his weary condition. "well, well!" he cried, shaking it off. "everything has an end. we shall see! so you will take me as i am, and make the best of me?" "aye! indeed i will." they shook hands upon it laughingly, but in deep earnestness. i can answer for one of them with my heart of hearts. "you come as a godsend," said richard, "for i have seen nobody here yet but vholes. woodcourt, there is one subject i should like to mention, for once and for all, in the beginning of our treaty. you can hardly make the best of me if i don't. you know, i dare say, that i have an attachment to my cousin ada?" mr. woodcourt replied that i had hinted as much to him. "now pray," returned richard, "don't think me a heap of selfishness. don't suppose that i am splitting my head and half breaking my heart over this miserable chancery suit for my own rights and interests alone. ada's are bound up with mine; they can't be separated; vholes works for both of us. do think of that!" he was so very solicitous on this head that mr. woodcourt gave him the strongest assurances that he did him no injustice. "you see," said richard, with something pathetic in his manner of lingering on the point, though it was off-hand and unstudied, "to an upright fellow like you, bringing a friendly face like yours here, i cannot bear the thought of appearing selfish and mean. i want to see ada righted, woodcourt, as well as myself; i want to do my utmost to right her, as well as myself; i venture what i can scrape together to extricate her, as well as myself. do, i beseech you, think of that!" afterwards, when mr. woodcourt came to reflect on what had passed, he was so very much impressed by the strength of richard's anxiety on this point that in telling me generally of his first visit to symond's inn he particularly dwelt upon it. it revived a fear i had had before that my dear girl's little property would be absorbed by mr. vholes and that richard's justification to himself would be sincerely this. it was just as i began to take care of caddy that the interview took place, and i now return to the time when caddy had recovered and the shade was still between me and my darling. i proposed to ada that morning that we should go and see richard. it a little surprised me to find that she hesitated and was not so radiantly willing as i had expected. "my dear," said i, "you have not had any difference with richard since i have been so much away?" "no, esther." "not heard of him, perhaps?" said i. "yes, i have heard of him," said ada. such tears in her eyes, and such love in her face. i could not make my darling out. should i go to richard's by myself? i said. no, ada thought i had better not go by myself. would she go with me? yes, ada thought she had better go with me. should we go now? yes, let us go now. well, i could not understand my darling, with the tears in her eyes and the love in her face! we were soon equipped and went out. it was a sombre day, and drops of chill rain fell at intervals. it was one of those colourless days when everything looks heavy and harsh. the houses frowned at us, the dust rose at us, the smoke swooped at us, nothing made any compromise about itself or wore a softened aspect. i fancied my beautiful girl quite out of place in the rugged streets, and i thought there were more funerals passing along the dismal pavements than i had ever seen before. we had first to find out symond's inn. we were going to inquire in a shop when ada said she thought it was near chancery lane. "we are not likely to be far out, my love, if we go in that direction," said i. so to chancery lane we went, and there, sure enough, we saw it written up. symond's inn. we had next to find out the number. "or mr. vholes's office will do," i recollected, "for mr. vholes's office is next door." upon which ada said, perhaps that was mr. vholes's office in the corner there. and it really was. then came the question, which of the two next doors? i was going for the one, and my darling was going for the other; and my darling was right again. so up we went to the second story, when we came to richard's name in great white letters on a hearse-like panel. i should have knocked, but ada said perhaps we had better turn the handle and go in. thus we came to richard, poring over a table covered with dusty bundles of papers which seemed to me like dusty mirrors reflecting his own mind. wherever i looked i saw the ominous words that ran in it repeated. jarndyce and jarndyce. he received us very affectionately, and we sat down. "if you had come a little earlier," he said, "you would have found woodcourt here. there never was such a good fellow as woodcourt is. he finds time to look in between-whiles, when anybody else with half his work to do would be thinking about not being able to come. and he is so cheery, so fresh, so sensible, so earnest, so--everything that i am not, that the place brightens whenever he comes, and darkens whenever he goes again." "god bless him," i thought, "for his truth to me!" "he is not so sanguine, ada," continued richard, casting his dejected look over the bundles of papers, "as vholes and i are usually, but he is only an outsider and is not in the mysteries. we have gone into them, and he has not. he can't be expected to know much of such a labyrinth." as his look wandered over the papers again and he passed his two hands over his head, i noticed how sunken and how large his eyes appeared, how dry his lips were, and how his finger-nails were all bitten away. "is this a healthy place to live in, richard, do you think?" said i. "why, my dear minerva," answered richard with his old gay laugh, "it is neither a rural nor a cheerful place; and when the sun shines here, you may lay a pretty heavy wager that it is shining brightly in an open spot. but it's well enough for the time. it's near the offices and near vholes." "perhaps," i hinted, "a change from both--" "might do me good?" said richard, forcing a laugh as he finished the sentence. "i shouldn't wonder! but it can only come in one way now--in one of two ways, i should rather say. either the suit must be ended, esther, or the suitor. but it shall be the suit, my dear girl, the suit, my dear girl!" these latter words were addressed to ada, who was sitting nearest to him. her face being turned away from me and towards him, i could not see it. "we are doing very well," pursued richard. "vholes will tell you so. we are really spinning along. ask vholes. we are giving them no rest. vholes knows all their windings and turnings, and we are upon them everywhere. we have astonished them already. we shall rouse up that nest of sleepers, mark my words!" his hopefulness had long been more painful to me than his despondency; it was so unlike hopefulness, had something so fierce in its determination to be it, was so hungry and eager, and yet so conscious of being forced and unsustainable that it had long touched me to the heart. but the commentary upon it now indelibly written in his handsome face made it far more distressing than it used to be. i say indelibly, for i felt persuaded that if the fatal cause could have been for ever terminated, according to his brightest visions, in that same hour, the traces of the premature anxiety, self-reproach, and disappointment it had occasioned him would have remained upon his features to the hour of his death. "the sight of our dear little woman," said richard, ada still remaining silent and quiet, "is so natural to me, and her compassionate face is so like the face of old days--" ah! no, no. i smiled and shook my head. "--so exactly like the face of old days," said richard in his cordial voice, and taking my hand with the brotherly regard which nothing ever changed, "that i can't make pretences with her. i fluctuate a little; that's the truth. sometimes i hope, my dear, and sometimes i--don't quite despair, but nearly. i get," said richard, relinquishing my hand gently and walking across the room, "so tired!" he took a few turns up and down and sunk upon the sofa. "i get," he repeated gloomily, "so tired. it is such weary, weary work!" he was leaning on his arm saying these words in a meditative voice and looking at the ground when my darling rose, put off her bonnet, kneeled down beside him with her golden hair falling like sunlight on his head, clasped her two arms round his neck, and turned her face to me. oh, what a loving and devoted face i saw! "esther, dear," she said very quietly, "i am not going home again." a light shone in upon me all at once. "never any more. i am going to stay with my dear husband. we have been married above two months. go home without me, my own esther; i shall never go home any more!" with those words my darling drew his head down on her breast and held it there. and if ever in my life i saw a love that nothing but death could change, i saw it then before me. "speak to esther, my dearest," said richard, breaking the silence presently. "tell her how it was." i met her before she could come to me and folded her in my arms. we neither of us spoke, but with her cheek against my own i wanted to hear nothing. "my pet," said i. "my love. my poor, poor girl!" i pitied her so much. i was very fond of richard, but the impulse that i had upon me was to pity her so much. "esther, will you forgive me? will my cousin john forgive me?" "my dear," said i, "to doubt it for a moment is to do him a great wrong. and as to me!" why, as to me, what had i to forgive! i dried my sobbing darling's eyes and sat beside her on the sofa, and richard sat on my other side; and while i was reminded of that so different night when they had first taken me into their confidence and had gone on in their own wild happy way, they told me between them how it was. "all i had was richard's," ada said; "and richard would not take it, esther, and what could i do but be his wife when i loved him dearly!" "and you were so fully and so kindly occupied, excellent dame durden," said richard, "that how could we speak to you at such a time! and besides, it was not a long-considered step. we went out one morning and were married." "and when it was done, esther," said my darling, "i was always thinking how to tell you and what to do for the best. and sometimes i thought you ought to know it directly, and sometimes i thought you ought not to know it and keep it from my cousin john; and i could not tell what to do, and i fretted very much." how selfish i must have been not to have thought of this before! i don't know what i said now. i was so sorry, and yet i was so fond of them and so glad that they were fond of me; i pitied them so much, and yet i felt a kind of pride in their loving one another. i never had experienced such painful and pleasurable emotion at one time, and in my own heart i did not know which predominated. but i was not there to darken their way; i did not do that. when i was less foolish and more composed, my darling took her wedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it, and put it on. then i remembered last night and told richard that ever since her marriage she had worn it at night when there was no one to see. then ada blushingly asked me how did i know that, my dear. then i told ada how i had seen her hand concealed under her pillow and had little thought why, my dear. then they began telling me how it was all over again, and i began to be sorry and glad again, and foolish again, and to hide my plain old face as much as i could lest i should put them out of heart. thus the time went on until it became necessary for me to think of returning. when that time arrived it was the worst of all, for then my darling completely broke down. she clung round my neck, calling me by every dear name she could think of and saying what should she do without me! nor was richard much better; and as for me, i should have been the worst of the three if i had not severely said to myself, "now esther, if you do, i'll never speak to you again!" "why, i declare," said i, "i never saw such a wife. i don't think she loves her husband at all. here, richard, take my child, for goodness' sake." but i held her tight all the while, and could have wept over her i don't know how long. "i give this dear young couple notice," said i, "that i am only going away to come back to-morrow and that i shall be always coming backwards and forwards until symond's inn is tired of the sight of me. so i shall not say good-bye, richard. for what would be the use of that, you know, when i am coming back so soon!" i had given my darling to him now, and i meant to go; but i lingered for one more look of the precious face which it seemed to rive my heart to turn from. so i said (in a merry, bustling manner) that unless they gave me some encouragement to come back, i was not sure that i could take that liberty, upon which my dear girl looked up, faintly smiling through her tears, and i folded her lovely face between my hands, and gave it one last kiss, and laughed, and ran away. and when i got downstairs, oh, how i cried! it almost seemed to me that i had lost my ada for ever. i was so lonely and so blank without her, and it was so desolate to be going home with no hope of seeing her there, that i could get no comfort for a little while as i walked up and down in a dim corner sobbing and crying. i came to myself by and by, after a little scolding, and took a coach home. the poor boy whom i had found at st. albans had reappeared a short time before and was lying at the point of death; indeed, was then dead, though i did not know it. my guardian had gone out to inquire about him and did not return to dinner. being quite alone, i cried a little again, though on the whole i don't think i behaved so very, very ill. it was only natural that i should not be quite accustomed to the loss of my darling yet. three or four hours were not a long time after years. but my mind dwelt so much upon the uncongenial scene in which i had left her, and i pictured it as such an overshadowed stony-hearted one, and i so longed to be near her and taking some sort of care of her, that i determined to go back in the evening only to look up at her windows. it was foolish, i dare say, but it did not then seem at all so to me, and it does not seem quite so even now. i took charley into my confidence, and we went out at dusk. it was dark when we came to the new strange home of my dear girl, and there was a light behind the yellow blinds. we walked past cautiously three or four times, looking up, and narrowly missed encountering mr. vholes, who came out of his office while we were there and turned his head to look up too before going home. the sight of his lank black figure and the lonesome air of that nook in the dark were favourable to the state of my mind. i thought of the youth and love and beauty of my dear girl, shut up in such an ill-assorted refuge, almost as if it were a cruel place. it was very solitary and very dull, and i did not doubt that i might safely steal upstairs. i left charley below and went up with a light foot, not distressed by any glare from the feeble oil lanterns on the way. i listened for a few moments, and in the musty rotting silence of the house believed that i could hear the murmur of their young voices. i put my lips to the hearse-like panel of the door as a kiss for my dear and came quietly down again, thinking that one of these days i would confess to the visit. and it really did me good, for though nobody but charley and i knew anything about it, i somehow felt as if it had diminished the separation between ada and me and had brought us together again for those moments. i went back, not quite accustomed yet to the change, but all the better for that hovering about my darling. my guardian had come home and was standing thoughtfully by the dark window. when i went in, his face cleared and he came to his seat, but he caught the light upon my face as i took mine. "little woman," said he, "you have been crying." "why, yes, guardian," said i, "i am afraid i have been, a little. ada has been in such distress, and is so very sorry, guardian." i put my arm on the back of his chair, and i saw in his glance that my words and my look at her empty place had prepared him. "is she married, my dear?" i told him all about it and how her first entreaties had referred to his forgiveness. "she has no need of it," said he. "heaven bless her and her husband!" but just as my first impulse had been to pity her, so was his. "poor girl, poor girl! poor rick! poor ada!" neither of us spoke after that, until he said with a sigh, "well, well, my dear! bleak house is thinning fast." "but its mistress remains, guardian." though i was timid about saying it, i ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which he had spoken. "she will do all she can to make it happy," said i. "she will succeed, my love!" the letter had made no difference between us except that the seat by his side had come to be mine; it made none now. he turned his old bright fatherly look upon me, laid his hand on my hand in his old way, and said again, "she will succeed, my dear. nevertheless, bleak house is thinning fast, o little woman!" i was sorry presently that this was all we said about that. i was rather disappointed. i feared i might not quite have been all i had meant to be since the letter and the answer. chapter lii obstinacy but one other day had intervened when, early in the morning as we were going to breakfast, mr. woodcourt came in haste with the astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed for which mr. george had been apprehended and was in custody. when he told us that a large reward was offered by sir leicester dedlock for the murderer's apprehension, i did not in my first consternation understand why; but a few more words explained to me that the murdered person was sir leicester's lawyer, and immediately my mother's dread of him rushed into my remembrance. this unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long watched and distrusted and who had long watched and distrusted her, one for whom she could have had few intervals of kindness, always dreading in him a dangerous and secret enemy, appeared so awful that my first thoughts were of her. how appalling to hear of such a death and be able to feel no pity! how dreadful to remember, perhaps, that she had sometimes even wished the old man away who was so swiftly hurried out of life! such crowding reflections, increasing the distress and fear i always felt when the name was mentioned, made me so agitated that i could scarcely hold my place at the table. i was quite unable to follow the conversation until i had had a little time to recover. but when i came to myself and saw how shocked my guardian was and found that they were earnestly speaking of the suspected man and recalling every favourable impression we had formed of him out of the good we had known of him, my interest and my fears were so strongly aroused in his behalf that i was quite set up again. "guardian, you don't think it possible that he is justly accused?" "my dear, i can't think so. this man whom we have seen so open-hearted and compassionate, who with the might of a giant has the gentleness of a child, who looks as brave a fellow as ever lived and is so simple and quiet with it, this man justly accused of such a crime? i can't believe it. it's not that i don't or i won't. i can't!" "and i can't," said mr. woodcourt. "still, whatever we believe or know of him, we had better not forget that some appearances are against him. he bore an animosity towards the deceased gentleman. he has openly mentioned it in many places. he is said to have expressed himself violently towards him, and he certainly did about him, to my knowledge. he admits that he was alone on the scene of the murder within a few minutes of its commission. i sincerely believe him to be as innocent of any participation in it as i am, but these are all reasons for suspicion falling upon him." "true," said my guardian. and he added, turning to me, "it would be doing him a very bad service, my dear, to shut our eyes to the truth in any of these respects." i felt, of course, that we must admit, not only to ourselves but to others, the full force of the circumstances against him. yet i knew withal (i could not help saying) that their weight would not induce us to desert him in his need. "heaven forbid!" returned my guardian. "we will stand by him, as he himself stood by the two poor creatures who are gone." he meant mr. gridley and the boy, to both of whom mr. george had given shelter. mr. woodcourt then told us that the trooper's man had been with him before day, after wandering about the streets all night like a distracted creature. that one of the trooper's first anxieties was that we should not suppose him guilty. that he had charged his messenger to represent his perfect innocence with every solemn assurance he could send us. that mr. woodcourt had only quieted the man by undertaking to come to our house very early in the morning with these representations. he added that he was now upon his way to see the prisoner himself. my guardian said directly he would go too. now, besides that i liked the retired soldier very much and that he liked me, i had that secret interest in what had happened which was only known to my guardian. i felt as if it came close and near to me. it seemed to become personally important to myself that the truth should be discovered and that no innocent people should be suspected, for suspicion, once run wild, might run wilder. in a word, i felt as if it were my duty and obligation to go with them. my guardian did not seek to dissuade me, and i went. it was a large prison with many courts and passages so like one another and so uniformly paved that i seemed to gain a new comprehension, as i passed along, of the fondness that solitary prisoners, shut up among the same staring walls from year to year, have had--as i have read--for a weed or a stray blade of grass. in an arched room by himself, like a cellar upstairs, with walls so glaringly white that they made the massive iron window-bars and iron-bound door even more profoundly black than they were, we found the trooper standing in a corner. he had been sitting on a bench there and had risen when he heard the locks and bolts turn. when he saw us, he came forward a step with his usual heavy tread, and there stopped and made a slight bow. but as i still advanced, putting out my hand to him, he understood us in a moment. "this is a load off my mind, i do assure you, miss and gentlemen," said he, saluting us with great heartiness and drawing a long breath. "and now i don't so much care how it ends." he scarcely seemed to be the prisoner. what with his coolness and his soldierly bearing, he looked far more like the prison guard. "this is even a rougher place than my gallery to receive a lady in," said mr. george, "but i know miss summerson will make the best of it." as he handed me to the bench on which he had been sitting, i sat down, which seemed to give him great satisfaction. "i thank you, miss," said he. "now, george," observed my guardian, "as we require no new assurances on your part, so i believe we need give you none on ours." "not at all, sir. i thank you with all my heart. if i was not innocent of this crime, i couldn't look at you and keep my secret to myself under the condescension of the present visit. i feel the present visit very much. i am not one of the eloquent sort, but i feel it, miss summerson and gentlemen, deeply." he laid his hand for a moment on his broad chest and bent his head to us. although he squared himself again directly, he expressed a great amount of natural emotion by these simple means. "first," said my guardian, "can we do anything for your personal comfort, george?" "for which, sir?" he inquired, clearing his throat. "for your personal comfort. is there anything you want that would lessen the hardship of this confinement?" "well, sir," replied george, after a little cogitation, "i am equally obliged to you, but tobacco being against the rules, i can't say that there is." "you will think of many little things perhaps, by and by. whenever you do, george, let us know." "thank you, sir. howsoever," observed mr. george with one of his sunburnt smiles, "a man who has been knocking about the world in a vagabond kind of a way as long as i have gets on well enough in a place like the present, so far as that goes." "next, as to your case," observed my guardian. "exactly so, sir," returned mr. george, folding his arms upon his breast with perfect self-possession and a little curiosity. "how does it stand now?" "why, sir, it is under remand at present. bucket gives me to understand that he will probably apply for a series of remands from time to time until the case is more complete. how it is to be made more complete i don't myself see, but i dare say bucket will manage it somehow." "why, heaven save us, man," exclaimed my guardian, surprised into his old oddity and vehemence, "you talk of yourself as if you were somebody else!" "no offence, sir," said mr. george. "i am very sensible of your kindness. but i don't see how an innocent man is to make up his mind to this kind of thing without knocking his head against the walls unless he takes it in that point of view. "that is true enough to a certain extent," returned my guardian, softened. "but my good fellow, even an innocent man must take ordinary precautions to defend himself." "certainly, sir. and i have done so. i have stated to the magistrates, 'gentlemen, i am as innocent of this charge as yourselves; what has been stated against me in the way of facts is perfectly true; i know no more about it.' i intend to continue stating that, sir. what more can i do? it's the truth." "but the mere truth won't do," rejoined my guardian. "won't it indeed, sir? rather a bad look-out for me!" mr. george good-humouredly observed. "you must have a lawyer," pursued my guardian. "we must engage a good one for you." "i ask your pardon, sir," said mr. george with a step backward. "i am equally obliged. but i must decidedly beg to be excused from anything of that sort." "you won't have a lawyer?" "no, sir." mr. george shook his head in the most emphatic manner. "i thank you all the same, sir, but--no lawyer!" "why not?" "i don't take kindly to the breed," said mr. george. "gridley didn't. and--if you'll excuse my saying so much--i should hardly have thought you did yourself, sir." "that's equity," my guardian explained, a little at a loss; "that's equity, george." "is it, indeed, sir?" returned the trooper in his off-hand manner. "i am not acquainted with those shades of names myself, but in a general way i object to the breed." unfolding his arms and changing his position, he stood with one massive hand upon the table and the other on his hip, as complete a picture of a man who was not to be moved from a fixed purpose as ever i saw. it was in vain that we all three talked to him and endeavoured to persuade him; he listened with that gentleness which went so well with his bluff bearing, but was evidently no more shaken by our representations that his place of confinement was. "pray think, once more, mr. george," said i. "have you no wish in reference to your case?" "i certainly could wish it to be tried, miss," he returned, "by court-martial; but that is out of the question, as i am well aware. if you will be so good as to favour me with your attention for a couple of minutes, miss, not more, i'll endeavour to explain myself as clearly as i can." he looked at us all three in turn, shook his head a little as if he were adjusting it in the stock and collar of a tight uniform, and after a moment's reflection went on. "you see, miss, i have been handcuffed and taken into custody and brought here. i am a marked and disgraced man, and here i am. my shooting gallery is rummaged, high and low, by bucket; such property as i have--'tis small--is turned this way and that till it don't know itself; and (as aforesaid) here i am! i don't particular complain of that. though i am in these present quarters through no immediately preceding fault of mine, i can very well understand that if i hadn't gone into the vagabond way in my youth, this wouldn't have happened. it has happened. then comes the question how to meet it." he rubbed his swarthy forehead for a moment with a good-humoured look and said apologetically, "i am such a short-winded talker that i must think a bit." having thought a bit, he looked up again and resumed. "how to meet it. now, the unfortunate deceased was himself a lawyer and had a pretty tight hold of me. i don't wish to rake up his ashes, but he had, what i should call if he was living, a devil of a tight hold of me. i don't like his trade the better for that. if i had kept clear of his trade, i should have kept outside this place. but that's not what i mean. now, suppose i had killed him. suppose i really had discharged into his body any one of those pistols recently fired off that bucket has found at my place, and dear me, might have found there any day since it has been my place. what should i have done as soon as i was hard and fast here? got a lawyer." he stopped on hearing some one at the locks and bolts and did not resume until the door had been opened and was shut again. for what purpose opened, i will mention presently. "i should have got a lawyer, and he would have said (as i have often read in the newspapers), 'my client says nothing, my client reserves his defence': my client this, that, and t'other. well, 'tis not the custom of that breed to go straight, according to my opinion, or to think that other men do. say i am innocent and i get a lawyer. he would be as likely to believe me guilty as not; perhaps more. what would he do, whether or not? act as if i was--shut my mouth up, tell me not to commit myself, keep circumstances back, chop the evidence small, quibble, and get me off perhaps! but, miss summerson, do i care for getting off in that way; or would i rather be hanged in my own way--if you'll excuse my mentioning anything so disagreeable to a lady?" he had warmed into his subject now, and was under no further necessity to wait a bit. "i would rather be hanged in my own way. and i mean to be! i don't intend to say," looking round upon us with his powerful arms akimbo and his dark eyebrows raised, "that i am more partial to being hanged than another man. what i say is, i must come off clear and full or not at all. therefore, when i hear stated against me what is true, i say it's true; and when they tell me, 'whatever you say will be used,' i tell them i don't mind that; i mean it to be used. if they can't make me innocent out of the whole truth, they are not likely to do it out of anything less, or anything else. and if they are, it's worth nothing to me." taking a pace or two over the stone floor, he came back to the table and finished what he had to say. "i thank you, miss and gentlemen both, many times for your attention, and many times more for your interest. that's the plain state of the matter as it points itself out to a mere trooper with a blunt broadsword kind of a mind. i have never done well in life beyond my duty as a soldier, and if the worst comes after all, i shall reap pretty much as i have sown. when i got over the first crash of being seized as a murderer--it don't take a rover who has knocked about so much as myself so very long to recover from a crash--i worked my way round to what you find me now. as such i shall remain. no relations will be disgraced by me or made unhappy for me, and--and that's all i've got to say." the door had been opened to admit another soldier-looking man of less prepossessing appearance at first sight and a weather-tanned, bright-eyed wholesome woman with a basket, who, from her entrance, had been exceedingly attentive to all mr. george had said. mr. george had received them with a familiar nod and a friendly look, but without any more particular greeting in the midst of his address. he now shook them cordially by the hand and said, "miss summerson and gentlemen, this is an old comrade of mine, matthew bagnet. and this is his wife, mrs. bagnet." mr. bagnet made us a stiff military bow, and mrs. bagnet dropped us a curtsy. "real good friends of mine, they are," sald mr. george. "it was at their house i was taken." "with a second-hand wiolinceller," mr. bagnet put in, twitching his head angrily. "of a good tone. for a friend. that money was no object to." "mat," said mr. george, "you have heard pretty well all i have been saying to this lady and these two gentlemen. i know it meets your approval?" mr. bagnet, after considering, referred the point to his wife. "old girl," said he. "tell him. whether or not. it meets my approval." "why, george," exclaimed mrs. bagnet, who had been unpacking her basket, in which there was a piece of cold pickled pork, a little tea and sugar, and a brown loaf, "you ought to know it don't. you ought to know it's enough to drive a person wild to hear you. you won't be got off this way, and you won't be got off that way--what do you mean by such picking and choosing? it's stuff and nonsense, george." "don't be severe upon me in my misfortunes, mrs. bagnet," said the trooper lightly. "oh! bother your misfortunes," cried mrs. bagnet, "if they don't make you more reasonable than that comes to. i never was so ashamed in my life to hear a man talk folly as i have been to hear you talk this day to the present company. lawyers? why, what but too many cooks should hinder you from having a dozen lawyers if the gentleman recommended them to you." "this is a very sensible woman," said my guardian. "i hope you will persuade him, mrs. bagnet." "persuade him, sir?" she returned. "lord bless you, no. you don't know george. now, there!" mrs. bagnet left her basket to point him out with both her bare brown hands. "there he stands! as self-willed and as determined a man, in the wrong way, as ever put a human creature under heaven out of patience! you could as soon take up and shoulder an eight and forty pounder by your own strength as turn that man when he has got a thing into his head and fixed it there. why, don't i know him!" cried mrs. bagnet. "don't i know you, george! you don't mean to set up for a new character with me after all these years, i hope?" her friendly indignation had an exemplary effect upon her husband, who shook his head at the trooper several times as a silent recommendation to him to yield. between whiles, mrs. bagnet looked at me; and i understood from the play of her eyes that she wished me to do something, though i did not comprehend what. "but i have given up talking to you, old fellow, years and years," said mrs. bagnet as she blew a little dust off the pickled pork, looking at me again; "and when ladies and gentlemen know you as well as i do, they'll give up talking to you too. if you are not too headstrong to accept of a bit of dinner, here it is." "i accept it with many thanks," returned the trooper. "do you though, indeed?" said mrs. bagnet, continuing to grumble on good-humouredly. "i'm sure i'm surprised at that. i wonder you don't starve in your own way also. it would only be like you. perhaps you'll set your mind upon that next." here she again looked at me, and i now perceived from her glances at the door and at me, by turns, that she wished us to retire and to await her following us outside the prison. communicating this by similar means to my guardian and mr. woodcourt, i rose. "we hope you will think better of it, mr. george," said i, "and we shall come to see you again, trusting to find you more reasonable." "more grateful, miss summerson, you can't find me," he returned. "but more persuadable we can, i hope," said i. "and let me entreat you to consider that the clearing up of this mystery and the discovery of the real perpetrator of this deed may be of the last importance to others besides yourself." he heard me respectfully but without much heeding these words, which i spoke a little turned from him, already on my way to the door; he was observing (this they afterwards told me) my height and figure, which seemed to catch his attention all at once. "'tis curious," said he. "and yet i thought so at the time!" my guardian asked him what he meant. "why, sir," he answered, "when my ill fortune took me to the dead man's staircase on the night of his murder, i saw a shape so like miss summerson's go by me in the dark that i had half a mind to speak to it." for an instant i felt such a shudder as i never felt before or since and hope i shall never feel again. "it came downstairs as i went up," said the trooper, "and crossed the moonlighted window with a loose black mantle on; i noticed a deep fringe to it. however, it has nothing to do with the present subject, excepting that miss summerson looked so like it at the moment that it came into my head." i cannot separate and define the feelings that arose in me after this; it is enough that the vague duty and obligation i had felt upon me from the first of following the investigation was, without my distinctly daring to ask myself any question, increased, and that i was indignantly sure of there being no possibility of a reason for my being afraid. we three went out of the prison and walked up and down at some short distance from the gate, which was in a retired place. we had not waited long when mr. and mrs. bagnet came out too and quickly joined us. there was a tear in each of mrs. bagnet's eyes, and her face was flushed and hurried. "i didn't let george see what i thought about it, you know, miss," was her first remark when she came up, "but he's in a bad way, poor old fellow!" "not with care and prudence and good help," said my guardian. "a gentleman like you ought to know best, sir," returned mrs. bagnet, hurriedly drying her eyes on the hem of her grey cloak, "but i am uneasy for him. he has been so careless and said so much that he never meant. the gentlemen of the juries might not understand him as lignum and me do. and then such a number of circumstances have happened bad for him, and such a number of people will be brought forward to speak against him, and bucket is so deep." "with a second-hand wiolinceller. and said he played the fife. when a boy," mr. bagnet added with great solemnity. "now, i tell you, miss," said mrs. bagnet; "and when i say miss, i mean all! just come into the corner of the wall and i'll tell you!" mrs. bagnet hurried us into a more secluded place and was at first too breathless to proceed, occasioning mr. bagnet to say, "old girl! tell 'em!" "why, then, miss," the old girl proceeded, untying the strings of her bonnet for more air, "you could as soon move dover castle as move george on this point unless you had got a new power to move him with. and i have got it!" "you are a jewel of a woman," said my guardian. "go on!" "now, i tell you, miss," she proceeded, clapping her hands in her hurry and agitation a dozen times in every sentence, "that what he says concerning no relations is all bosh. they don't know of him, but he does know of them. he has said more to me at odd times than to anybody else, and it warn't for nothing that he once spoke to my woolwich about whitening and wrinkling mothers' heads. for fifty pounds he had seen his mother that day. she's alive and must be brought here straight!" instantly mrs. bagnet put some pins into her mouth and began pinning up her skirts all round a little higher than the level of her grey cloak, which she accomplished with surpassing dispatch and dexterity. "lignum," said mrs. bagnet, "you take care of the children, old man, and give me the umbrella! i'm away to lincolnshire to bring that old lady here." "but, bless the woman," cried my guardian with his hand in his pocket, "how is she going? what money has she got?" mrs. bagnet made another application to her skirts and brought forth a leathern purse in which she hastily counted over a few shillings and which she then shut up with perfect satisfaction. "never you mind for me, miss. i'm a soldier's wife and accustomed to travel my own way. lignum, old boy," kissing him, "one for yourself, three for the children. now i'm away into lincolnshire after george's mother!" and she actually set off while we three stood looking at one another lost in amazement. she actually trudged away in her grey cloak at a sturdy pace, and turned the corner, and was gone. "mr. bagnet," said my guardian. "do you mean to let her go in that way?" "can't help it," he returned. "made her way home once from another quarter of the world. with the same grey cloak. and same umbrella. whatever the old girl says, do. do it! whenever the old girl says, i'll do it. she does it." "then she is as honest and genuine as she looks," rejoined my guardian, "and it is impossible to say more for her." "she's colour-sergeant of the nonpareil battalion," said mr. bagnet, looking at us over his shoulder as he went his way also. "and there's not such another. but i never own to it before her. discipline must be maintained." chapter liii the track mr. bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation together under existing circumstances. when mr. bucket has a matter of this pressing interest under his consideration, the fat forefinger seems to rise, to the dignity of a familiar demon. he puts it to his ears, and it whispers information; he puts it to his lips, and it enjoins him to secrecy; he rubs it over his nose, and it sharpens his scent; he shakes it before a guilty man, and it charms him to his destruction. the augurs of the detective temple invariably predict that when mr. bucket and that finger are in much conference, a terrible avenger will be heard of before long. otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature, on the whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe upon the follies of mankind, mr. bucket pervades a vast number of houses and strolls about an infinity of streets, to outward appearance rather languishing for want of an object. he is in the friendliest condition towards his species and will drink with most of them. he is free with his money, affable in his manners, innocent in his conversation--but through the placid stream of his life there glides an under-current of forefinger. time and place cannot bind mr. bucket. like man in the abstract, he is here to-day and gone to-morrow--but, very unlike man indeed, he is here again the next day. this evening he will be casually looking into the iron extinguishers at the door of sir leicester dedlock's house in town; and to-morrow morning he will be walking on the leads at chesney wold, where erst the old man walked whose ghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas. drawers, desks, pockets, all things belonging to him, mr. bucket examines. a few hours afterwards, he and the roman will be alone together comparing forefingers. it is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with home enjoyment, but it is certain that mr. bucket at present does not go home. though in general he highly appreciates the society of mrs. bucket--a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it had been improved by professional exercise, might have done great things, but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur--he holds himself aloof from that dear solace. mrs. bucket is dependent on their lodger (fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an interest) for companionship and conversation. a great crowd assembles in lincoln's inn fields on the day of the funeral. sir leicester dedlock attends the ceremony in person; strictly speaking, there are only three other human followers, that is to say, lord doodle, william buffy, and the debilitated cousin (thrown in as a make-weight), but the amount of inconsolable carriages is immense. the peerage contributes more four-wheeled affliction than has ever been seen in that neighbourhood. such is the assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels that the herald's college might be supposed to have lost its father and mother at a blow. the duke of foodle sends a splendid pile of dust and ashes, with silver wheel-boxes, patent axles, all the last improvements, and three bereaved worms, six feet high, holding on behind, in a bunch of woe. all the state coachmen in london seem plunged into mourning; and if that dead old man of the rusty garb be not beyond a taste in horseflesh (which appears impossible), it must be highly gratified this day. quiet among the undertakers and the equipages and the calves of so many legs all steeped in grief, mr. bucket sits concealed in one of the inconsolable carriages and at his ease surveys the crowd through the lattice blinds. he has a keen eye for a crowd--as for what not?--and looking here and there, now from this side of the carriage, now from the other, now up at the house windows, now along the people's heads, nothing escapes him. "and there you are, my partner, eh?" says mr. bucket to himself, apostrophizing mrs. bucket, stationed, by his favour, on the steps of the deceased's house. "and so you are. and so you are! and very well indeed you are looking, mrs. bucket!" the procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause of its assemblage to be brought out. mr. bucket, in the foremost emblazoned carriage, uses his two fat forefingers to hold the lattice a hair's breadth open while he looks. and it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that he is still occupied with mrs. b. "there you are, my partner, eh?" he murmuringly repeats. "and our lodger with you. i'm taking notice of you, mrs. bucket; i hope you're all right in your health, my dear!" not another word does mr. bucket say, but sits with most attentive eyes until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought down--where are all those secrets now? does he keep them yet? did they fly with him on that sudden journey?--and until the procession moves, and mr. bucket's view is changed. after which he composes himself for an easy ride and takes note of the fittings of the carriage in case he should ever find such knowledge useful. contrast enough between mr. tulkinghorn shut up in his dark carriage and mr. bucket shut up in his. between the immeasurable track of space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one into the fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of the streets, and the narrow track of blood which keeps the other in the watchful state expressed in every hair of his head! but it is all one to both; neither is troubled about that. mr. bucket sits out the procession in his own easy manner and glides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled with himself arrives. he makes for sir leicester dedlock's, which is at present a sort of home to him, where he comes and goes as he likes at all hours, where he is always welcome and made much of, where he knows the whole establishment, and walks in an atmosphere of mysterious greatness. no knocking or ringing for mr. bucket. he has caused himself to be provided with a key and can pass in at his pleasure. as he is crossing the hall, mercury informs him, "here's another letter for you, mr. bucket, come by post," and gives it him. "another one, eh?" says mr. bucket. if mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering curiosity as to mr. bucket's letters, that wary person is not the man to gratify it. mr. bucket looks at him as if his face were a vista of some miles in length and he were leisurely contemplating the same. "do you happen to carry a box?" says mr. bucket. unfortunately mercury is no snuff-taker. "could you fetch me a pinch from anywheres?" says mr. bucket. "thankee. it don't matter what it is; i'm not particular as to the kind. thankee!" having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed from somebody downstairs for the purpose, and having made a considerable show of tasting it, first with one side of his nose and then with the other, mr. bucket, with much deliberation, pronounces it of the right sort and goes on, letter in hand. now although mr. bucket walks upstairs to the little library within the larger one with the face of a man who receives some scores of letters every day, it happens that much correspondence is not incidental to his life. he is no great scribe, rather handling his pen like the pocket-staff he carries about with him always convenient to his grasp, and discourages correspondence with himself in others as being too artless and direct a way of doing delicate business. further, he often sees damaging letters produced in evidence and has occasion to reflect that it was a green thing to write them. for these reasons he has very little to do with letters, either as sender or receiver. and yet he has received a round half-dozen within the last twenty-four hours. "and this," says mr. bucket, spreading it out on the table, "is in the same hand, and consists of the same two words." what two words? he turns the key in the door, ungirdles his black pocket-book (book of fate to many), lays another letter by it, and reads, boldly written in each, "lady dedlock." "yes, yes," says mr. bucket. "but i could have made the money without this anonymous information." having put the letters in his book of fate and girdled it up again, he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner, which is brought upon a goodly tray with a decanter of sherry. mr. bucket frequently observes, in friendly circles where there is no restraint, that he likes a toothful of your fine old brown east inder sherry better than anything you can offer him. consequently he fills and empties his glass with a smack of his lips and is proceeding with his refreshment when an idea enters his mind. mr. bucket softly opens the door of communication between that room and the next and looks in. the library is deserted, and the fire is sinking low. mr. bucket's eye, after taking a pigeon-flight round the room, alights upon a table where letters are usually put as they arrive. several letters for sir leicester are upon it. mr. bucket draws near and examines the directions. "no," he says, "there's none in that hand. it's only me as is written to. i can break it to sir leicester dedlock, baronet, to-morrow." with that he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite, and after a light nap, is summoned into the drawing-room. sir leicester has received him there these several evenings past to know whether he has anything to report. the debilitated cousin (much exhausted by the funeral) and volumnia are in attendance. mr. bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these three people. a bow of homage to sir leicester, a bow of gallantry to volumnia, and a bow of recognition to the debilitated cousin, to whom it airily says, "you are a swell about town, and you know me, and i know you." having distributed these little specimens of his tact, mr. bucket rubs his hands. "have you anything new to communicate, officer?" inquires sir leicester. "do you wish to hold any conversation with me in private?" "why--not to-night, sir leicester dedlock, baronet." "because my time," pursues sir leicester, "is wholly at your disposal with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty of the law." mr. bucket coughs and glances at volumnia, rouged and necklaced, as though he would respectfully observe, "i do assure you, you're a pretty creetur. i've seen hundreds worse looking at your time of life, i have indeed." the fair volumnia, not quite unconscious perhaps of the humanizing influence of her charms, pauses in the writing of cocked-hat notes and meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. mr. bucket prices that decoration in his mind and thinks it as likely as not that volumnia is writing poetry. "if i have not," pursues sir leicester, "in the most emphatic manner, adjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in this atrocious case, i particularly desire to take the present opportunity of rectifying any omission i may have made. let no expense be a consideration. i am prepared to defray all charges. you can incur none in pursuit of the object you have undertaken that i shall hesitate for a moment to bear." mr. bucket made sir leicester's bow again as a response to this liberality. "my mind," sir leicester adds with a generous warmth, "has not, as may be easily supposed, recovered its tone since the late diabolical occurrence. it is not likely ever to recover its tone. but it is full of indignation to-night after undergoing the ordeal of consigning to the tomb the remains of a faithful, a zealous, a devoted adherent." sir leicester's voice trembles and his grey hair stirs upon his head. tears are in his eyes; the best part of his nature is aroused. "i declare," he says, "i solemnly declare that until this crime is discovered and, in the course of justice, punished, i almost feel as if there were a stain upon my name. a gentleman who has devoted a large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has devoted the last day of his life to me, a gentleman who has constantly sat at my table and slept under my roof, goes from my house to his own, and is struck down within an hour of his leaving my house. i cannot say but that he may have been followed from my house, watched at my house, even first marked because of his association with my house--which may have suggested his possessing greater wealth and being altogether of greater importance than his own retiring demeanour would have indicated. if i cannot with my means and influence and my position bring all the perpetrators of such a crime to light, i fail in the assertion of my respect for that gentleman's memory and of my fidelity towards one who was ever faithful to me." while he makes this protestation with great emotion and earnestness, looking round the room as if he were addressing an assembly, mr. bucket glances at him with an observant gravity in which there might be, but for the audacity of the thought, a touch of compassion. "the ceremony of to-day," continues sir leicester, "strikingly illustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend"--he lays a stress upon the word, for death levels all distinctions--"was held by the flower of the land, has, i say, aggravated the shock i have received from this most horrible and audacious crime. if it were my brother who had committed it, i would not spare him." mr. bucket looks very grave. volumnia remarks of the deceased that he was the trustiest and dearest person! "you must feel it as a deprivation to you, miss," replies mr. bucket soothingly, "no doubt. he was calculated to be a deprivation, i'm sure he was." volumnia gives mr. bucket to understand, in reply, that her sensitive mind is fully made up never to get the better of it as long as she lives, that her nerves are unstrung for ever, and that she has not the least expectation of ever smiling again. meanwhile she folds up a cocked hat for that redoubtable old general at bath, descriptive of her melancholy condition. "it gives a start to a delicate female," says mr. bucket sympathetically, "but it'll wear off." volumnia wishes of all things to know what is doing? whether they are going to convict, or whatever it is, that dreadful soldier? whether he had any accomplices, or whatever the thing is called in the law? and a great deal more to the like artless purpose. "why you see, miss," returns mr. bucket, bringing the finger into persuasive action--and such is his natural gallantry that he had almost said "my dear"--"it ain't easy to answer those questions at the present moment. not at the present moment. i've kept myself on this case, sir leicester dedlock, baronet," whom mr. bucket takes into the conversation in right of his importance, "morning, noon, and night. but for a glass or two of sherry, i don't think i could have had my mind so much upon the stretch as it has been. i could answer your questions, miss, but duty forbids it. sir leicester dedlock, baronet, will very soon be made acquainted with all that has been traced. and i hope that he may find it"--mr. bucket again looks grave--"to his satisfaction." the debilitated cousin only hopes some fler'll be executed--zample. thinks more interest's wanted--get man hanged presentime--than get man place ten thousand a year. hasn't a doubt--zample--far better hang wrong fler than no fler. "you know life, you know, sir," says mr. bucket with a complimentary twinkle of his eye and crook of his finger, "and you can confirm what i've mentioned to this lady. you don't want to be told that from information i have received i have gone to work. you're up to what a lady can't be expected to be up to. lord! especially in your elevated station of society, miss," says mr. bucket, quite reddening at another narrow escape from "my dear." "the officer, volumnia," observes sir leicester, "is faithful to his duty, and perfectly right." mr. bucket murmurs, "glad to have the honour of your approbation, sir leicester dedlock, baronet." "in fact, volumnia," proceeds sir leicester, "it is not holding up a good model for imitation to ask the officer any such questions as you have put to him. he is the best judge of his own responsibility; he acts upon his responsibility. and it does not become us, who assist in making the laws, to impede or interfere with those who carry them into execution. or," says sir leicester somewhat sternly, for volumnia was going to cut in before he had rounded his sentence, "or who vindicate their outraged majesty." volumnia with all humility explains that she had not merely the plea of curiosity to urge (in common with the giddy youth of her sex in general) but that she is perfectly dying with regret and interest for the darling man whose loss they all deplore. "very well, volumnia," returns sir leicester. "then you cannot be too discreet." mr. bucket takes the opportunity of a pause to be heard again. "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, i have no objections to telling this lady, with your leave and among ourselves, that i look upon the case as pretty well complete. it is a beautiful case--a beautiful case--and what little is wanting to complete it, i expect to be able to supply in a few hours." "i am very glad indeed to hear it," says sir leicester. "highly creditable to you." "sir leicester dedlock, baronet," returns mr. bucket very seriously, "i hope it may at one and the same time do me credit and prove satisfactory to all. when i depict it as a beautiful case, you see, miss," mr. bucket goes on, glancing gravely at sir leicester, "i mean from my point of view. as considered from other points of view, such cases will always involve more or less unpleasantness. very strange things comes to our knowledge in families, miss; bless your heart, what you would think to be phenomenons, quite." volumnia, with her innocent little scream, supposes so. "aye, and even in gen-teel families, in high families, in great families," says mr. bucket, again gravely eyeing sir leicester aside. "i have had the honour of being employed in high families before, and you have no idea--come, i'll go so far as to say not even you have any idea, sir," this to the debilitated cousin, "what games goes on!" the cousin, who has been casting sofa-pillows on his head, in a prostration of boredom yawns, "vayli," being the used-up for "very likely." sir leicester, deeming it time to dismiss the officer, here majestically interposes with the words, "very good. thank you!" and also with a wave of his hand, implying not only that there is an end of the discourse, but that if high families fall into low habits they must take the consequences. "you will not forget, officer," he adds with condescension, "that i am at your disposal when you please." mr. bucket (still grave) inquires if to-morrow morning, now, would suit, in case he should be as for'ard as he expects to be. sir leicester replies, "all times are alike to me." mr. bucket makes his three bows and is withdrawing when a forgotten point occurs to him. "might i ask, by the by," he says in a low voice, cautiously returning, "who posted the reward-bill on the staircase." "i ordered it to be put up there," replies sir leicester. "would it be considered a liberty, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, if i was to ask you why?" "not at all. i chose it as a conspicuous part of the house. i think it cannot be too prominently kept before the whole establishment. i wish my people to be impressed with the enormity of the crime, the determination to punish it, and the hopelessness of escape. at the same time, officer, if you in your better knowledge of the subject see any objection--" mr. bucket sees none now; the bill having been put up, had better not be taken down. repeating his three bows he withdraws, closing the door on volumnia's little scream, which is a preliminary to her remarking that that charmingly horrible person is a perfect blue chamber. in his fondness for society and his adaptability to all grades, mr. bucket is presently standing before the hall-fire--bright and warm on the early winter night--admiring mercury. "why, you're six foot two, i suppose?" says mr. bucket. "three," says mercury. "are you so much? but then, you see, you're broad in proportion and don't look it. you're not one of the weak-legged ones, you ain't. was you ever modelled now?" mr. bucket asks, conveying the expression of an artist into the turn of his eye and head. mercury never was modelled. "then you ought to be, you know," says mr. bucket; "and a friend of mine that you'll hear of one day as a royal academy sculptor would stand something handsome to make a drawing of your proportions for the marble. my lady's out, ain't she?" "out to dinner." "goes out pretty well every day, don't she?" "yes." "not to be wondered at!" says mr. bucket. "such a fine woman as her, so handsome and so graceful and so elegant, is like a fresh lemon on a dinner-table, ornamental wherever she goes. was your father in the same way of life as yourself?" answer in the negative. "mine was," says mr. bucket. "my father was first a page, then a footman, then a butler, then a steward, then an inn-keeper. lived universally respected, and died lamented. said with his last breath that he considered service the most honourable part of his career, and so it was. i've a brother in service, and a brother-in-law. my lady a good temper?" mercury replies, "as good as you can expect." "ah!" says mr. bucket. "a little spoilt? a little capricious? lord! what can you anticipate when they're so handsome as that? and we like 'em all the better for it, don't we?" mercury, with his hands in the pockets of his bright peach-blossom small-clothes, stretches his symmetrical silk legs with the air of a man of gallantry and can't deny it. come the roll of wheels and a violent ringing at the bell. "talk of the angels," says mr. bucket. "here she is!" the doors are thrown open, and she passes through the hall. still very pale, she is dressed in slight mourning and wears two beautiful bracelets. either their beauty or the beauty of her arms is particularly attractive to mr. bucket. he looks at them with an eager eye and rattles something in his pocket--halfpence perhaps. noticing him at his distance, she turns an inquiring look on the other mercury who has brought her home. "mr. bucket, my lady." mr. bucket makes a leg and comes forward, passing his familiar demon over the region of his mouth. "are you waiting to see sir leicester?" "no, my lady, i've seen him!" "have you anything to say to me?" "not just at present, my lady." "have you made any new discoveries?" "a few, my lady." this is merely in passing. she scarcely makes a stop, and sweeps upstairs alone. mr. bucket, moving towards the staircase-foot, watches her as she goes up the steps the old man came down to his grave, past murderous groups of statuary repeated with their shadowy weapons on the wall, past the printed bill, which she looks at going by, out of view. "she's a lovely woman, too, she really is," says mr. bucket, coming back to mercury. "don't look quite healthy though." is not quite healthy, mercury informs him. suffers much from headaches. really? that's a pity! walking, mr. bucket would recommend for that. well, she tries walking, mercury rejoins. walks sometimes for two hours when she has them bad. by night, too. "are you sure you're quite so much as six foot three?" asks mr. bucket. "begging your pardon for interrupting you a moment?" not a doubt about it. "you're so well put together that i shouldn't have thought it. but the household troops, though considered fine men, are built so straggling. walks by night, does she? when it's moonlight, though?" oh, yes. when it's moonlight! of course. oh, of course! conversational and acquiescent on both sides. "i suppose you ain't in the habit of walking yourself?" says mr. bucket. "not much time for it, i should say?" besides which, mercury don't like it. prefers carriage exercise. "to be sure," says mr. bucket. "that makes a difference. now i think of it," says mr. bucket, warming his hands and looking pleasantly at the blaze, "she went out walking the very night of this business." "to be sure she did! i let her into the garden over the way." "and left her there. certainly you did. i saw you doing it." "i didn't see you," says mercury. "i was rather in a hurry," returns mr. bucket, "for i was going to visit a aunt of mine that lives at chelsea--next door but two to the old original bun house--ninety year old the old lady is, a single woman, and got a little property. yes, i chanced to be passing at the time. let's see. what time might it be? it wasn't ten." "half-past nine." "you're right. so it was. and if i don't deceive myself, my lady was muffled in a loose black mantle, with a deep fringe to it?" "of course she was." of course she was. mr. bucket must return to a little work he has to get on with upstairs, but he must shake hands with mercury in acknowledgment of his agreeable conversation, and will he--this is all he asks--will he, when he has a leisure half-hour, think of bestowing it on that royal academy sculptor, for the advantage of both parties? chapter liv springing a mine refreshed by sleep, mr. bucket rises betimes in the morning and prepares for a field-day. smartened up by the aid of a clean shirt and a wet hairbrush, with which instrument, on occasions of ceremony, he lubricates such thin locks as remain to him after his life of severe study, mr. bucket lays in a breakfast of two mutton chops as a foundation to work upon, together with tea, eggs, toast, and marmalade on a corresponding scale. having much enjoyed these strengthening matters and having held subtle conference with his familiar demon, he confidently instructs mercury "just to mention quietly to sir leicester dedlock, baronet, that whenever he's ready for me, i'm ready for him." a gracious message being returned that sir leicester will expedite his dressing and join mr. bucket in the library within ten minutes, mr. bucket repairs to that apartment and stands before the fire with his finger on his chin, looking at the blazing coals. thoughtful mr. bucket is, as a man may be with weighty work to do, but composed, sure, confident. from the expression of his face he might be a famous whist-player for a large stake--say a hundred guineas certain--with the game in his hand, but with a high reputation involved in his playing his hand out to the last card in a masterly way. not in the least anxious or disturbed is mr. bucket when sir leicester appears, but he eyes the baronet aside as he comes slowly to his easy-chair with that observant gravity of yesterday in which there might have been yesterday, but for the audacity of the idea, a touch of compassion. "i am sorry to have kept you waiting, officer, but i am rather later than my usual hour this morning. i am not well. the agitation and the indignation from which i have recently suffered have been too much for me. i am subject to--gout"--sir leicester was going to say indisposition and would have said it to anybody else, but mr. bucket palpably knows all about it--"and recent circumstances have brought it on." as he takes his seat with some difficulty and with an air of pain, mr. bucket draws a little nearer, standing with one of his large hands on the library-table. "i am not aware, officer," sir leicester observes; raising his eyes to his face, "whether you wish us to be alone, but that is entirely as you please. if you do, well and good. if not, miss dedlock would be interested--" "why, sir leicester dedlock, baronet," returns mr. bucket with his head persuasively on one side and his forefinger pendant at one ear like an earring, "we can't be too private just at present. you will presently see that we can't be too private. a lady, under the circumstances, and especially in miss dedlock's elevated station of society, can't but be agreeable to me, but speaking without a view to myself, i will take the liberty of assuring you that i know we can't be too private." "that is enough." "so much so, sir leicester dedlock, baronet," mr. bucket resumes, "that i was on the point of asking your permission to turn the key in the door." "by all means." mr. bucket skilfully and softly takes that precaution, stooping on his knee for a moment from mere force of habit so to adjust the key in the lock as that no one shall peep in from the outerside. "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, i mentioned yesterday evening that i wanted but a very little to complete this case. i have now completed it and collected proof against the person who did this crime." "against the soldier?" "no, sir leicester dedlock; not the soldier." sir leicester looks astounded and inquires, "is the man in custody?" mr. bucket tells him, after a pause, "it was a woman." sir leicester leans back in his chair, and breathlessly ejaculates, "good heaven!" "now, sir leicester dedlock, baronet," mr. bucket begins, standing over him with one hand spread out on the library-table and the forefinger of the other in impressive use, "it's my duty to prepare you for a train of circumstances that may, and i go so far as to say that will, give you a shock. but sir leicester dedlock, baronet, you are a gentleman, and i know what a gentleman is and what a gentleman is capable of. a gentleman can bear a shock when it must come, boldly and steadily. a gentleman can make up his mind to stand up against almost any blow. why, take yourself, sir leicester dedlock, baronet. if there's a blow to be inflicted on you, you naturally think of your family. you ask yourself, how would all them ancestors of yours, away to julius caesar--not to go beyond him at present--have borne that blow; you remember scores of them that would have borne it well; and you bear it well on their accounts, and to maintain the family credit. that's the way you argue, and that's the way you act, sir leicester dedlock, baronet." sir leicester, leaning back in his chair and grasping the elbows, sits looking at him with a stony face. "now, sir leicester dedlock," proceeds mr. bucket, "thus preparing you, let me beg of you not to trouble your mind for a moment as to anything having come to my knowledge. i know so much about so many characters, high and low, that a piece of information more or less don't signify a straw. i don't suppose there's a move on the board that would surprise me, and as to this or that move having taken place, why my knowing it is no odds at all, any possible move whatever (provided it's in a wrong direction) being a probable move according to my experience. therefore, what i say to you, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, is, don't you go and let yourself be put out of the way because of my knowing anything of your family affairs." "i thank you for your preparation," returns sir leicester after a silence, without moving hand, foot, or feature, "which i hope is not necessary; though i give it credit for being well intended. be so good as to go on. also"--sir leicester seems to shrink in the shadow of his figure--"also, to take a seat, if you have no objection." none at all. mr. bucket brings a chair and diminishes his shadow. "now, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, with this short preface i come to the point. lady dedlock--" sir leicester raises himself in his seat and stares at him fiercely. mr. bucket brings the finger into play as an emollient. "lady dedlock, you see she's universally admired. that's what her ladyship is; she's universally admired," says mr. bucket. "i would greatly prefer, officer," sir leicester returns stiffly, "my lady's name being entirely omitted from this discussion." "so would i, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, but--it's impossible." "impossible?" mr. bucket shakes his relentless head. "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, it's altogether impossible. what i have got to say is about her ladyship. she is the pivot it all turns on." "officer," retorts sir leicester with a fiery eye and a quivering lip, "you know your duty. do your duty, but be careful not to overstep it. i would not suffer it. i would not endure it. you bring my lady's name into this communication upon your responsibility--upon your responsibility. my lady's name is not a name for common persons to trifle with!" "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, i say what i must say, and no more." "i hope it may prove so. very well. go on. go on, sir!" glancing at the angry eyes which now avoid him and at the angry figure trembling from head to foot, yet striving to be still, mr. bucket feels his way with his forefinger and in a low voice proceeds. "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, it becomes my duty to tell you that the deceased mr. tulkinghorn long entertained mistrusts and suspicions of lady dedlock." "if he had dared to breathe them to me, sir--which he never did--i would have killed him myself!" exclaims sir leicester, striking his hand upon the table. but in the very heat and fury of the act he stops, fixed by the knowing eyes of mr. bucket, whose forefinger is slowly going and who, with mingled confidence and patience, shakes his head. "sir leicester dedlock, the deceased mr. tulkinghorn was deep and close, and what he fully had in his mind in the very beginning i can't quite take upon myself to say. but i know from his lips that he long ago suspected lady dedlock of having discovered, through the sight of some handwriting--in this very house, and when you yourself, sir leicester dedlock, were present--the existence, in great poverty, of a certain person who had been her lover before you courted her and who ought to have been her husband." mr. bucket stops and deliberately repeats, "ought to have been her husband, not a doubt about it. i know from his lips that when that person soon afterwards died, he suspected lady dedlock of visiting his wretched lodging and his wretched grave, alone and in secret. i know from my own inquiries and through my eyes and ears that lady dedlock did make such visit in the dress of her own maid, for the deceased mr. tulkinghorn employed me to reckon up her ladyship--if you'll excuse my making use of the term we commonly employ--and i reckoned her up, so far, completely. i confronted the maid in the chambers in lincoln's inn fields with a witness who had been lady dedlock's guide, and there couldn't be the shadow of a doubt that she had worn the young woman's dress, unknown to her. sir leicester dedlock, baronet, i did endeavour to pave the way a little towards these unpleasant disclosures yesterday by saying that very strange things happened even in high families sometimes. all this, and more, has happened in your own family, and to and through your own lady. it's my belief that the deceased mr. tulkinghorn followed up these inquiries to the hour of his death and that he and lady dedlock even had bad blood between them upon the matter that very night. now, only you put that to lady dedlock, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, and ask her ladyship whether, even after he had left here, she didn't go down to his chambers with the intention of saying something further to him, dressed in a loose black mantle with a deep fringe to it." sir leicester sits like a statue, gazing at the cruel finger that is probing the life-blood of his heart. "you put that to her ladyship, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, from me, inspector bucket of the detective. and if her ladyship makes any difficulty about admitting of it, you tell her that it's no use, that inspector bucket knows it and knows that she passed the soldier as you called him (though he's not in the army now) and knows that she knows she passed him on the staircase. now, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, why do i relate all this?" sir leicester, who has covered his face with his hands, uttering a single groan, requests him to pause for a moment. by and by he takes his hands away, and so preserves his dignity and outward calmness, though there is no more colour in his face than in his white hair, that mr. bucket is a little awed by him. something frozen and fixed is upon his manner, over and above its usual shell of haughtiness, and mr. bucket soon detects an unusual slowness in his speech, with now and then a curious trouble in beginning, which occasions him to utter inarticulate sounds. with such sounds he now breaks silence, soon, however, controlling himself to say that he does not comprehend why a gentleman so faithful and zealous as the late mr. tulkinghorn should have communicated to him nothing of this painful, this distressing, this unlooked-for, this overwhelming, this incredible intelligence. "again, sir leicester dedlock, baronet," returns mr. bucket, "put it to her ladyship to clear that up. put it to her ladyship, if you think it right, from inspector bucket of the detective. you'll find, or i'm much mistaken, that the deceased mr. tulkinghorn had the intention of communicating the whole to you as soon as he considered it ripe, and further, that he had given her ladyship so to understand. why, he might have been going to reveal it the very morning when i examined the body! you don't know what i'm going to say and do five minutes from this present time, sir leicester dedlock, baronet; and supposing i was to be picked off now, you might wonder why i hadn't done it, don't you see?" true. sir leicester, avoiding, with some trouble those obtrusive sounds, says, "true." at this juncture a considerable noise of voices is heard in the hall. mr. bucket, after listening, goes to the library-door, softly unlocks and opens it, and listens again. then he draws in his head and whispers hurriedly but composedly, "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, this unfortunate family affair has taken air, as i expected it might, the deceased mr. tulkinghorn being cut down so sudden. the chance to hush it is to let in these people now in a wrangle with your footmen. would you mind sitting quiet--on the family account--while i reckon 'em up? and would you just throw in a nod when i seem to ask you for it?" sir leicester indistinctly answers, "officer. the best you can, the best you can!" and mr. bucket, with a nod and a sagacious crook of the forefinger, slips down into the hall, where the voices quickly die away. he is not long in returning; a few paces ahead of mercury and a brother deity also powdered and in peach-blossomed smalls, who bear between them a chair in which is an incapable old man. another man and two women come behind. directing the pitching of the chair in an affable and easy manner, mr. bucket dismisses the mercuries and locks the door again. sir leicester looks on at this invasion of the sacred precincts with an icy stare. "now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen," says mr. bucket in a confidential voice. "i am inspector bucket of the detective, i am; and this," producing the tip of his convenient little staff from his breast-pocket, "is my authority. now, you wanted to see sir leicester dedlock, baronet. well! you do see him, and mind you, it ain't every one as is admitted to that honour. your name, old gentleman, is smallweed; that's what your name is; i know it well." "well, and you never heard any harm of it!" cries mr. smallweed in a shrill loud voice. "you don't happen to know why they killed the pig, do you?" retorts mr. bucket with a steadfast look, but without loss of temper. "no!" "why, they killed him," says mr. bucket, "on account of his having so much cheek. don't you get into the same position, because it isn't worthy of you. you ain't in the habit of conversing with a deaf person, are you?" "yes," snarls mr. smallweed, "my wife's deaf." "that accounts for your pitching your voice so high. but as she ain't here; just pitch it an octave or two lower, will you, and i'll not only be obliged to you, but it'll do you more credit," says mr. bucket. "this other gentleman is in the preaching line, i think?" "name of chadband," mr. smallweed puts in, speaking henceforth in a much lower key. "once had a friend and brother serjeant of the same name," says mr. bucket, offering his hand, "and consequently feel a liking for it. mrs. chadband, no doubt?" "and mrs. snagsby," mr. smallweed introduces. "husband a law-stationer and a friend of my own," says mr. bucket. "love him like a brother! now, what's up?" "do you mean what business have we come upon?" mr. smallweed asks, a little dashed by the suddenness of this turn. "ah! you know what i mean. let us hear what it's all about in presence of sir leicester dedlock, baronet. come." mr. smallweed, beckoning mr. chadband, takes a moment's counsel with him in a whisper. mr. chadband, expressing a considerable amount of oil from the pores of his forehead and the palms of his hands, says aloud, "yes. you first!" and retires to his former place. "i was the client and friend of mr. tulkinghorn," pipes grandfather smallweed then; "i did business with him. i was useful to him, and he was useful to me. krook, dead and gone, was my brother-in-law. he was own brother to a brimstone magpie--leastways mrs. smallweed. i come into krook's property. i examined all his papers and all his effects. they was all dug out under my eyes. there was a bundle of letters belonging to a dead and gone lodger as was hid away at the back of a shelf in the side of lady jane's bed--his cat's bed. he hid all manner of things away, everywheres. mr. tulkinghorn wanted 'em and got 'em, but i looked 'em over first. i'm a man of business, and i took a squint at 'em. they was letters from the lodger's sweetheart, and she signed honoria. dear me, that's not a common name, honoria, is it? there's no lady in this house that signs honoria is there? oh, no, i don't think so! oh, no, i don't think so! and not in the same hand, perhaps? oh, no, i don't think so!" here mr. smallweed, seized with a fit of coughing in the midst of his triumph, breaks off to ejaculate, "oh, dear me! oh, lord! i'm shaken all to pieces!" "now, when you're ready," says mr. bucket after awaiting his recovery, "to come to anything that concerns sir leicester dedlock, baronet, here the gentleman sits, you know." "haven't i come to it, mr. bucket?" cries grandfather smallweed. "isn't the gentleman concerned yet? not with captain hawdon, and his ever affectionate honoria, and their child into the bargain? come, then, i want to know where those letters are. that concerns me, if it don't concern sir leicester dedlock. i will know where they are. i won't have 'em disappear so quietly. i handed 'em over to my friend and solicitor, mr. tulkinghorn, not to anybody else." "why, he paid you for them, you know, and handsome too," says mr. bucket. "i don't care for that. i want to know who's got 'em. and i tell you what we want--what we all here want, mr. bucket. we want more painstaking and search-making into this murder. we know where the interest and the motive was, and you have not done enough. if george the vagabond dragoon had any hand in it, he was only an accomplice, and was set on. you know what i mean as well as any man." "now i tell you what," says mr. bucket, instantaneously altering his manner, coming close to him, and communicating an extraordinary fascination to the forefinger, "i am damned if i am a-going to have my case spoilt, or interfered with, or anticipated by so much as half a second of time by any human being in creation. you want more painstaking and search-making! you do? do you see this hand, and do you think that i don't know the right time to stretch it out and put it on the arm that fired that shot?" such is the dread power of the man, and so terribly evident it is that he makes no idle boast, that mr. smallweed begins to apologize. mr. bucket, dismissing his sudden anger, checks him. "the advice i give you is, don't you trouble your head about the murder. that's my affair. you keep half an eye on the newspapers, and i shouldn't wonder if you was to read something about it before long, if you look sharp. i know my business, and that's all i've got to say to you on that subject. now about those letters. you want to know who's got 'em. i don't mind telling you. i have got 'em. is that the packet?" mr. smallweed looks, with greedy eyes, at the little bundle mr. bucket produces from a mysterious part of his coat, and identifies it as the same. "what have you got to say next?" asks mr. bucket. "now, don't open your mouth too wide, because you don't look handsome when you do it." "i want five hundred pound." "no, you don't; you mean fifty," says mr. bucket humorously. it appears, however, that mr. smallweed means five hundred. "that is, i am deputed by sir leicester dedlock, baronet, to consider (without admitting or promising anything) this bit of business," says mr. bucket--sir leicester mechanically bows his head--"and you ask me to consider a proposal of five hundred pounds. why, it's an unreasonable proposal! two fifty would be bad enough, but better than that. hadn't you better say two fifty?" mr. smallweed is quite clear that he had better not. "then," says mr. bucket, "let's hear mr. chadband. lord! many a time i've heard my old fellow-serjeant of that name; and a moderate man he was in all respects, as ever i come across!" thus invited, mr. chadband steps forth, and after a little sleek smiling and a little oil-grinding with the palms of his hands, delivers himself as follows, "my friends, we are now--rachael, my wife, and i--in the mansions of the rich and great. why are we now in the mansions of the rich and great, my friends? is it because we are invited? because we are bidden to feast with them, because we are bidden to rejoice with them, because we are bidden to play the lute with them, because we are bidden to dance with them? no. then why are we here, my friends? air we in possession of a sinful secret, and do we require corn, and wine, and oil, or what is much the same thing, money, for the keeping thereof? probably so, my friends." "you're a man of business, you are," returns mr. bucket, very attentive, "and consequently you're going on to mention what the nature of your secret is. you are right. you couldn't do better." "let us then, my brother, in a spirit of love," says mr. chadband with a cunning eye, "proceed unto it. rachael, my wife, advance!" mrs. chadband, more than ready, so advances as to jostle her husband into the background and confronts mr. bucket with a hard, frowning smile. "since you want to know what we know," says she, "i'll tell you. i helped to bring up miss hawdon, her ladyship's daughter. i was in the service of her ladyship's sister, who was very sensitive to the disgrace her ladyship brought upon her, and gave out, even to her ladyship, that the child was dead--she was very nearly so--when she was born. but she's alive, and i know her." with these words, and a laugh, and laying a bitter stress on the word "ladyship," mrs. chadband folds her arms and looks implacably at mr. bucket. "i suppose now," returns that officer, "you will be expecting a twenty-pound note or a present of about that figure?" mrs. chadband merely laughs and contemptuously tells him he can "offer" twenty pence. "my friend the law-stationer's good lady, over there," says mr. bucket, luring mrs. snagsby forward with the finger. "what may your game be, ma'am?" mrs. snagsby is at first prevented, by tears and lamentations, from stating the nature of her game, but by degrees it confusedly comes to light that she is a woman overwhelmed with injuries and wrongs, whom mr. snagsby has habitually deceived, abandoned, and sought to keep in darkness, and whose chief comfort, under her afflictions, has been the sympathy of the late mr. tulkinghorn, who showed so much commiseration for her on one occasion of his calling in cook's court in the absence of her perjured husband that she has of late habitually carried to him all her woes. everybody it appears, the present company excepted, has plotted against mrs. snagsby's peace. there is mr. guppy, clerk to kenge and carboy, who was at first as open as the sun at noon, but who suddenly shut up as close as midnight, under the influence--no doubt--of mr. snagsby's suborning and tampering. there is mr. weevle, friend of mr. guppy, who lived mysteriously up a court, owing to the like coherent causes. there was krook, deceased; there was nimrod, deceased; and there was jo, deceased; and they were "all in it." in what, mrs. snagsby does not with particularity express, but she knows that jo was mr. snagsby's son, "as well as if a trumpet had spoken it," and she followed mr. snagsby when he went on his last visit to the boy, and if he was not his son why did he go? the one occupation of her life has been, for some time back, to follow mr. snagsby to and fro, and up and down, and to piece suspicious circumstances together--and every circumstance that has happened has been most suspicious; and in this way she has pursued her object of detecting and confounding her false husband, night and day. thus did it come to pass that she brought the chadbands and mr. tulkinghorn together, and conferred with mr. tulkinghorn on the change in mr. guppy, and helped to turn up the circumstances in which the present company are interested, casually, by the wayside, being still and ever on the great high road that is to terminate in mr. snagsby's full exposure and a matrimonial separation. all this, mrs. snagsby, as an injured woman, and the friend of mrs. chadband, and the follower of mr. chadband, and the mourner of the late mr. tulkinghorn, is here to certify under the seal of confidence, with every possible confusion and involvement possible and impossible, having no pecuniary motive whatever, no scheme or project but the one mentioned, and bringing here, and taking everywhere, her own dense atmosphere of dust, arising from the ceaseless working of her mill of jealousy. while this exordium is in hand--and it takes some time--mr. bucket, who has seen through the transparency of mrs. snagsby's vinegar at a glance, confers with his familiar demon and bestows his shrewd attention on the chadbands and mr. smallweed. sir leicester dedlock remains immovable, with the same icy surface upon him, except that he once or twice looks towards mr. bucket, as relying on that officer alone of all mankind. "very good," says mr. bucket. "now i understand you, you know, and being deputed by sir leicester dedlock, baronet, to look into this little matter," again sir leicester mechanically bows in confirmation of the statement, "can give it my fair and full attention. now i won't allude to conspiring to extort money or anything of that sort, because we are men and women of the world here, and our object is to make things pleasant. but i tell you what i do wonder at; i am surprised that you should think of making a noise below in the hall. it was so opposed to your interests. that's what i look at." "we wanted to get in," pleads mr. smallweed. "why, of course you wanted to get in," mr. bucket asserts with cheerfulness; "but for a old gentleman at your time of life--what i call truly venerable, mind you!--with his wits sharpened, as i have no doubt they are, by the loss of the use of his limbs, which occasions all his animation to mount up into his head, not to consider that if he don't keep such a business as the present as close as possible it can't be worth a mag to him, is so curious! you see your temper got the better of you; that's where you lost ground," says mr. bucket in an argumentative and friendly way. "i only said i wouldn't go without one of the servants came up to sir leicester dedlock," returns mr. smallweed. "that's it! that's where your temper got the better of you. now, you keep it under another time and you'll make money by it. shall i ring for them to carry you down?" "when are we to hear more of this?" mrs. chadband sternly demands. "bless your heart for a true woman! always curious, your delightful sex is!" replies mr. bucket with gallantry. "i shall have the pleasure of giving you a call to-morrow or next day--not forgetting mr. smallweed and his proposal of two fifty." "five hundred!" exclaims mr. smallweed. "all right! nominally five hundred." mr. bucket has his hand on the bell-rope. "shall i wish you good day for the present on the part of myself and the gentleman of the house?" he asks in an insinuating tone. nobody having the hardihood to object to his doing so, he does it, and the party retire as they came up. mr. bucket follows them to the door, and returning, says with an air of serious business, "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, it's for you to consider whether or not to buy this up. i should recommend, on the whole, it's being bought up myself; and i think it may be bought pretty cheap. you see, that little pickled cowcumber of a mrs. snagsby has been used by all sides of the speculation and has done a deal more harm in bringing odds and ends together than if she had meant it. mr. tulkinghorn, deceased, he held all these horses in his hand and could have drove 'em his own way, i haven't a doubt; but he was fetched off the box head-foremost, and now they have got their legs over the traces, and are all dragging and pulling their own ways. so it is, and such is life. the cat's away, and the mice they play; the frost breaks up, and the water runs. now, with regard to the party to be apprehended." sir leicester seems to wake, though his eyes have been wide open, and he looks intently at mr. bucket as mr. bucket refers to his watch. "the party to be apprehended is now in this house," proceeds mr. bucket, putting up his watch with a steady hand and with rising spirits, "and i'm about to take her into custody in your presence. sir leicester dedlock, baronet, don't you say a word nor yet stir. there'll be no noise and no disturbance at all. i'll come back in the course of the evening, if agreeable to you, and endeavour to meet your wishes respecting this unfortunate family matter and the nobbiest way of keeping it quiet. now, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, don't you be nervous on account of the apprehension at present coming off. you shall see the whole case clear, from first to last." mr. bucket rings, goes to the door, briefly whispers mercury, shuts the door, and stands behind it with his arms folded. after a suspense of a minute or two the door slowly opens and a frenchwoman enters. mademoiselle hortense. the moment she is in the room mr. bucket claps the door to and puts his back against it. the suddenness of the noise occasions her to turn, and then for the first time she sees sir leicester dedlock in his chair. "i ask you pardon," she mutters hurriedly. "they tell me there was no one here." her step towards the door brings her front to front with mr. bucket. suddenly a spasm shoots across her face and she turns deadly pale. "this is my lodger, sir leicester dedlock," says mr. bucket, nodding at her. "this foreign young woman has been my lodger for some weeks back." "what do sir leicester care for that, you think, my angel?" returns mademoiselle in a jocular strain. "why, my angel," returns mr. bucket, "we shall see." mademoiselle hortense eyes him with a scowl upon her tight face, which gradually changes into a smile of scorn, "you are very mysterieuse. are you drunk?" "tolerable sober, my angel," returns mr. bucket. "i come from arriving at this so detestable house with your wife. your wife have left me since some minutes. they tell me downstairs that your wife is here. i come here, and your wife is not here. what is the intention of this fool's play, say then?" mademoiselle demands, with her arms composedly crossed, but with something in her dark cheek beating like a clock. mr. bucket merely shakes the finger at her. "ah, my god, you are an unhappy idiot!" cries mademoiselle with a toss of her head and a laugh. "leave me to pass downstairs, great pig." with a stamp of her foot and a menace. "now, mademoiselle," says mr. bucket in a cool determined way, "you go and sit down upon that sofy." "i will not sit down upon nothing," she replies with a shower of nods. "now, mademoiselle," repeats mr. bucket, making no demonstration except with the finger, "you sit down upon that sofy." "why?" "because i take you into custody on a charge of murder, and you don't need to be told it. now, i want to be polite to one of your sex and a foreigner if i can. if i can't, i must be rough, and there's rougher ones outside. what i am to be depends on you. so i recommend you, as a friend, afore another half a blessed moment has passed over your head, to go and sit down upon that sofy." mademoiselle complies, saying in a concentrated voice while that something in her cheek beats fast and hard, "you are a devil." "now, you see," mr. bucket proceeds approvingly, "you're comfortable and conducting yourself as i should expect a foreign young woman of your sense to do. so i'll give you a piece of advice, and it's this, don't you talk too much. you're not expected to say anything here, and you can't keep too quiet a tongue in your head. in short, the less you parlay, the better, you know." mr. bucket is very complacent over this french explanation. mademoiselle, with that tigerish expansion of the mouth and her black eyes darting fire upon him, sits upright on the sofa in a rigid state, with her hands clenched--and her feet too, one might suppose--muttering, "oh, you bucket, you are a devil!" "now, sir leicester dedlock, baronet," says mr. bucket, and from this time forth the finger never rests, "this young woman, my lodger, was her ladyship's maid at the time i have mentioned to you; and this young woman, besides being extraordinary vehement and passionate against her ladyship after being discharged--" "lie!" cries mademoiselle. "i discharge myself." "now, why don't you take my advice?" returns mr. bucket in an impressive, almost in an imploring, tone. "i'm surprised at the indiscreetness you commit. you'll say something that'll be used against you, you know. you're sure to come to it. never you mind what i say till it's given in evidence. it is not addressed to you." "discharge, too," cries mademoiselle furiously, "by her ladyship! eh, my faith, a pretty ladyship! why, i r-r-r-ruin my character by remaining with a ladyship so infame!" "upon my soul i wonder at you!" mr. bucket remonstrates. "i thought the french were a polite nation, i did, really. yet to hear a female going on like that before sir leicester dedlock, baronet!" "he is a poor abused!" cries mademoiselle. "i spit upon his house, upon his name, upon his imbecility," all of which she makes the carpet represent. "oh, that he is a great man! oh, yes, superb! oh, heaven! bah!" "well, sir leicester dedlock," proceeds mr. bucket, "this intemperate foreigner also angrily took it into her head that she had established a claim upon mr. tulkinghorn, deceased, by attending on the occasion i told you of at his chambers, though she was liberally paid for her time and trouble." "lie!" cries mademoiselle. "i ref-use his money all togezzer." "if you will parlay, you know," says mr. bucket parenthetically, "you must take the consequences. now, whether she became my lodger, sir leicester dedlock, with any deliberate intention then of doing this deed and blinding me, i give no opinion on; but she lived in my house in that capacity at the time that she was hovering about the chambers of the deceased mr. tulkinghorn with a view to a wrangle, and likewise persecuting and half frightening the life out of an unfortunate stationer." "lie!" cries mademoiselle. "all lie!" "the murder was committed, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, and you know under what circumstances. now, i beg of you to follow me close with your attention for a minute or two. i was sent for, and the case was entrusted to me. i examined the place, and the body, and the papers, and everything. from information i received (from a clerk in the same house) i took george into custody as having been seen hanging about there on the night, and at very nigh the time of the murder, also as having been overheard in high words with the deceased on former occasions--even threatening him, as the witness made out. if you ask me, sir leicester dedlock, whether from the first i believed george to be the murderer, i tell you candidly no, but he might be, notwithstanding, and there was enough against him to make it my duty to take him and get him kept under remand. now, observe!" as mr. bucket bends forward in some excitement--for him--and inaugurates what he is going to say with one ghostly beat of his forefinger in the air, mademoiselle hortense fixes her black eyes upon him with a dark frown and sets her dry lips closely and firmly together. "i went home, sir leicester dedlock, baronet, at night and found this young woman having supper with my wife, mrs. bucket. she had made a mighty show of being fond of mrs. bucket from her first offering herself as our lodger, but that night she made more than ever--in fact, overdid it. likewise she overdid her respect, and all that, for the lamented memory of the deceased mr. tulkinghorn. by the living lord it flashed upon me, as i sat opposite to her at the table and saw her with a knife in her hand, that she had done it!" mademoiselle is hardly audible in straining through her teeth and lips the words, "you are a devil." "now where," pursues mr. bucket, "had she been on the night of the murder? she had been to the theayter. (she really was there, i have since found, both before the deed and after it.) i knew i had an artful customer to deal with and that proof would be very difficult; and i laid a trap for her--such a trap as i never laid yet, and such a venture as i never made yet. i worked it out in my mind while i was talking to her at supper. when i went upstairs to bed, our house being small and this young woman's ears sharp, i stuffed the sheet into mrs. bucket's mouth that she shouldn't say a word of surprise and told her all about it. my dear, don't you give your mind to that again, or i shall link your feet together at the ankles." mr. bucket, breaking off, has made a noiseless descent upon mademoiselle and laid his heavy hand upon her shoulder. "what is the matter with you now?" she asks him. "don't you think any more," returns mr. bucket with admonitory finger, "of throwing yourself out of window. that's what's the matter with me. come! just take my arm. you needn't get up; i'll sit down by you. now take my arm, will you? i'm a married man, you know; you're acquainted with my wife. just take my arm." vainly endeavouring to moisten those dry lips, with a painful sound she struggles with herself and complies. "now we're all right again. sir leicester dedlock, baronet, this case could never have been the case it is but for mrs. bucket, who is a woman in fifty thousand--in a hundred and fifty thousand! to throw this young woman off her guard, i have never set foot in our house since, though i've communicated with mrs. bucket in the baker's loaves and in the milk as often as required. my whispered words to mrs. bucket when she had the sheet in her mouth were, 'my dear, can you throw her off continually with natural accounts of my suspicions against george, and this, and that, and t'other? can you do without rest and keep watch upon her night and day? can you undertake to say, 'she shall do nothing without my knowledge, she shall be my prisoner without suspecting it, she shall no more escape from me than from death, and her life shall be my life, and her soul my soul, till i have got her, if she did this murder?' mrs. bucket says to me, as well as she could speak on account of the sheet, 'bucket, i can!' and she has acted up to it glorious!" "lies!" mademoiselle interposes. "all lies, my friend!" "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, how did my calculations come out under these circumstances? when i calculated that this impetuous young woman would overdo it in new directions, was i wrong or right? i was right. what does she try to do? don't let it give you a turn? to throw the murder on her ladyship." sir leicester rises from his chair and staggers down again. "and she got encouragement in it from hearing that i was always here, which was done a-purpose. now, open that pocket-book of mine, sir leicester dedlock, if i may take the liberty of throwing it towards you, and look at the letters sent to me, each with the two words 'lady dedlock' in it. open the one directed to yourself, which i stopped this very morning, and read the three words 'lady dedlock, murderess' in it. these letters have been falling about like a shower of lady-birds. what do you say now to mrs. bucket, from her spy-place having seen them all 'written by this young woman? what do you say to mrs. bucket having, within this half-hour, secured the corresponding ink and paper, fellow half-sheets and what not? what do you say to mrs. bucket having watched the posting of 'em every one by this young woman, sir leicester dedlock, baronet?" mr. bucket asks, triumphant in his admiration of his lady's genius. two things are especially observable as mr. bucket proceeds to a conclusion. first, that he seems imperceptibly to establish a dreadful right of property in mademoiselle. secondly, that the very atmosphere she breathes seems to narrow and contract about her as if a close net or a pall were being drawn nearer and yet nearer around her breathless figure. "there is no doubt that her ladyship was on the spot at the eventful period," says mr. bucket, "and my foreign friend here saw her, i believe, from the upper part of the staircase. her ladyship and george and my foreign friend were all pretty close on one another's heels. but that don't signify any more, so i'll not go into it. i found the wadding of the pistol with which the deceased mr. tulkinghorn was shot. it was a bit of the printed description of your house at chesney wold. not much in that, you'll say, sir leicester dedlock, baronet. no. but when my foreign friend here is so thoroughly off her guard as to think it a safe time to tear up the rest of that leaf, and when mrs. bucket puts the pieces together and finds the wadding wanting, it begins to look like queer street." "these are very long lies," mademoiselle interposes. "you prose great deal. is it that you have almost all finished, or are you speaking always?" "sir leicester dedlock, baronet," proceeds mr. bucket, who delights in a full title and does violence to himself when he dispenses with any fragment of it, "the last point in the case which i am now going to mention shows the necessity of patience in our business, and never doing a thing in a hurry. i watched this young woman yesterday without her knowledge when she was looking at the funeral, in company with my wife, who planned to take her there; and i had so much to convict her, and i saw such an expression in her face, and my mind so rose against her malice towards her ladyship, and the time was altogether such a time for bringing down what you may call retribution upon her, that if i had been a younger hand with less experience, i should have taken her, certain. equally, last night, when her ladyship, as is so universally admired i am sure, come home looking--why, lord, a man might almost say like venus rising from the ocean--it was so unpleasant and inconsistent to think of her being charged with a murder of which she was innocent that i felt quite to want to put an end to the job. what should i have lost? sir leicester dedlock, baronet, i should have lost the weapon. my prisoner here proposed to mrs. bucket, after the departure of the funeral, that they should go per bus a little ways into the country and take tea at a very decent house of entertainment. now, near that house of entertainment there's a piece of water. at tea, my prisoner got up to fetch her pocket handkercher from the bedroom where the bonnets was; she was rather a long time gone and came back a little out of wind. as soon as they came home this was reported to me by mrs. bucket, along with her observations and suspicions. i had the piece of water dragged by moonlight, in presence of a couple of our men, and the pocket pistol was brought up before it had been there half-a-dozen hours. now, my dear, put your arm a little further through mine, and hold it steady, and i shan't hurt you!" in a trice mr. bucket snaps a handcuff on her wrist. "that's one," says mr. bucket. "now the other, darling. two, and all told!" he rises; she rises too. "where," she asks him, darkening her large eyes until their drooping lids almost conceal them--and yet they stare, "where is your false, your treacherous, and cursed wife?" "she's gone forrard to the police office," returns mr. bucket. "you'll see her there, my dear." "i would like to kiss her!" exclaims mademoiselle hortense, panting tigress-like. "you'd bite her, i suspect," says mr. bucket. "i would!" making her eyes very large. "i would love to tear her limb from limb." "bless you, darling," says mr. bucket with the greatest composure, "i'm fully prepared to hear that. your sex have such a surprising animosity against one another when you do differ. you don't mind me half so much, do you?" "no. though you are a devil still." "angel and devil by turns, eh?" cries mr. bucket. "but i am in my regular employment, you must consider. let me put your shawl tidy. i've been lady's maid to a good many before now. anything wanting to the bonnet? there's a cab at the door." mademoiselle hortense, casting an indignant eye at the glass, shakes herself perfectly neat in one shake and looks, to do her justice, uncommonly genteel. "listen then, my angel," says she after several sarcastic nods. "you are very spiritual. but can you restore him back to life?" mr. bucket answers, "not exactly." "that is droll. listen yet one time. you are very spiritual. can you make a honourable lady of her?" "don't be so malicious," says mr. bucket. "or a haughty gentleman of him?" cries mademoiselle, referring to sir leicester with ineffable disdain. "eh! oh, then regard him! the poor infant! ha! ha! ha!" "come, come, why this is worse parlaying than the other," says mr. bucket. "come along!" "you cannot do these things? then you can do as you please with me. it is but the death, it is all the same. let us go, my angel. adieu, you old man, grey. i pity you, and i despise you!" with these last words she snaps her teeth together as if her mouth closed with a spring. it is impossible to describe how mr. bucket gets her out, but he accomplishes that feat in a manner so peculiar to himself, enfolding and pervading her like a cloud, and hovering away with her as if he were a homely jupiter and she the object of his affections. sir leicester, left alone, remains in the same attitude, as though he were still listening and his attention were still occupied. at length he gazes round the empty room, and finding it deserted, rises unsteadily to his feet, pushes back his chair, and walks a few steps, supporting himself by the table. then he stops, and with more of those inarticulate sounds, lifts up his eyes and seems to stare at something. heaven knows what he sees. the green, green woods of chesney wold, the noble house, the pictures of his forefathers, strangers defacing them, officers of police coarsely handling his most precious heirlooms, thousands of fingers pointing at him, thousands of faces sneering at him. but if such shadows flit before him to his bewilderment, there is one other shadow which he can name with something like distinctness even yet and to which alone he addresses his tearing of his white hair and his extended arms. it is she in association with whom, saving that she has been for years a main fibre of the root of his dignity and pride, he has never had a selfish thought. it is she whom he has loved, admired, honoured, and set up for the world to respect. it is she who, at the core of all the constrained formalities and conventionalities of his life, has been a stock of living tenderness and love, susceptible as nothing else is of being struck with the agony he feels. he sees her, almost to the exclusion of himself, and cannot bear to look upon her cast down from the high place she has graced so well. and even to the point of his sinking on the ground, oblivious of his suffering, he can yet pronounce her name with something like distinctness in the midst of those intrusive sounds, and in a tone of mourning and compassion rather than reproach. chapter lv flight inspector bucket of the detective has not yet struck his great blow, as just now chronicled, but is yet refreshing himself with sleep preparatory to his field-day, when through the night and along the freezing wintry roads a chaise and pair comes out of lincolnshire, making its way towards london. railroads shall soon traverse all this country, and with a rattle and a glare the engine and train shall shoot like a meteor over the wide night-landscape, turning the moon paler; but as yet such things are non-existent in these parts, though not wholly unexpected. preparations are afoot, measurements are made, ground is staked out. bridges are begun, and their not yet united piers desolately look at one another over roads and streams like brick and mortar couples with an obstacle to their union; fragments of embankments are thrown up and left as precipices with torrents of rusty carts and barrows tumbling over them; tripods of tall poles appear on hilltops, where there are rumours of tunnels; everything looks chaotic and abandoned in full hopelessness. along the freezing roads, and through the night, the post-chaise makes its way without a railroad on its mind. mrs. rouncewell, so many years housekeeper at chesney wold, sits within the chaise; and by her side sits mrs. bagnet with her grey cloak and umbrella. the old girl would prefer the bar in front, as being exposed to the weather and a primitive sort of perch more in accordance with her usual course of travelling, but mrs. rouncewell is too thoughtful of her comfort to admit of her proposing it. the old lady cannot make enough of the old girl. she sits, in her stately manner, holding her hand, and regardless of its roughness, puts it often to her lips. "you are a mother, my dear soul," says she many times, "and you found out my george's mother!" "why, george," returns mrs. bagnet, "was always free with me, ma'am, and when he said at our house to my woolwich that of all the things my woolwich could have to think of when he grew to be a man, the comfortablest would be that he had never brought a sorrowful line into his mother's face or turned a hair of her head grey, then i felt sure, from his way, that something fresh had brought his own mother into his mind. i had often known him say to me, in past times, that he had behaved bad to her." "never, my dear!" returns mrs. rouncewell, bursting into tears. "my blessing on him, never! he was always fond of me, and loving to me, was my george! but he had a bold spirit, and he ran a little wild and went for a soldier. and i know he waited at first, in letting us know about himself, till he should rise to be an officer; and when he didn't rise, i know he considered himself beneath us, and wouldn't be a disgrace to us. for he had a lion heart, had my george, always from a baby!" the old lady's hands stray about her as of yore, while she recalls, all in a tremble, what a likely lad, what a fine lad, what a gay good-humoured clever lad he was; how they all took to him down at chesney wold; how sir leicester took to him when he was a young gentleman; how the dogs took to him; how even the people who had been angry with him forgave him the moment he was gone, poor boy. and now to see him after all, and in a prison too! and the broad stomacher heaves, and the quaint upright old-fashioned figure bends under its load of affectionate distress. mrs. bagnet, with the instinctive skill of a good warm heart, leaves the old housekeeper to her emotions for a little while--not without passing the back of her hand across her own motherly eyes--and presently chirps up in her cheery manner, "so i says to george when i goes to call him in to tea (he pretended to be smoking his pipe outside), 'what ails you this afternoon, george, for gracious sake? i have seen all sorts, and i have seen you pretty often in season and out of season, abroad and at home, and i never see you so melancholy penitent.' 'why, mrs. bagnet,' says george, 'it's because i am melancholy and penitent both, this afternoon, that you see me so.' 'what have you done, old fellow?' i says. 'why, mrs. bagnet,' says george, shaking his head, 'what i have done has been done this many a long year, and is best not tried to be undone now. if i ever get to heaven it won't be for being a good son to a widowed mother; i say no more.' now, ma'am, when george says to me that it's best not tried to be undone now, i have my thoughts as i have often had before, and i draw it out of george how he comes to have such things on him that afternoon. then george tells me that he has seen by chance, at the lawyer's office, a fine old lady that has brought his mother plain before him, and he runs on about that old lady till he quite forgets himself and paints her picture to me as she used to be, years upon years back. so i says to george when he has done, who is this old lady he has seen? and george tells me it's mrs. rouncewell, housekeeper for more than half a century to the dedlock family down at chesney wold in lincolnshire. george has frequently told me before that he's a lincolnshire man, and i says to my old lignum that night, 'lignum, that's his mother for five and for-ty pound!'" all this mrs. bagnet now relates for the twentieth time at least within the last four hours. trilling it out like a kind of bird, with a pretty high note, that it may be audible to the old lady above the hum of the wheels. "bless you, and thank you," says mrs. rouncewell. "bless you, and thank you, my worthy soul!" "dear heart!" cries mrs. bagnet in the most natural manner. "no thanks to me, i am sure. thanks to yourself, ma'am, for being so ready to pay 'em! and mind once more, ma'am, what you had best do on finding george to be your own son is to make him--for your sake--have every sort of help to put himself in the right and clear himself of a charge of which he is as innocent as you or me. it won't do to have truth and justice on his side; he must have law and lawyers," exclaims the old girl, apparently persuaded that the latter form a separate establishment and have dissolved partnership with truth and justice for ever and a day. "he shall have," says mrs. rouncewell, "all the help that can be got for him in the world, my dear. i will spend all i have, and thankfully, to procure it. sir leicester will do his best, the whole family will do their best. i--i know something, my dear; and will make my own appeal, as his mother parted from him all these years, and finding him in a jail at last." the extreme disquietude of the old housekeeper's manner in saying this, her broken words, and her wringing of her hands make a powerful impression on mrs. bagnet and would astonish her but that she refers them all to her sorrow for her son's condition. and yet mrs. bagnet wonders too why mrs. rouncewell should murmur so distractedly, "my lady, my lady, my lady!" over and over again. the frosty night wears away, and the dawn breaks, and the post-chaise comes rolling on through the early mist like the ghost of a chaise departed. it has plenty of spectral company in ghosts of trees and hedges, slowly vanishing and giving place to the realities of day. london reached, the travellers alight, the old housekeeper in great tribulation and confusion, mrs. bagnet quite fresh and collected--as she would be if her next point, with no new equipage and outfit, were the cape of good hope, the island of ascension, hong kong, or any other military station. but when they set out for the prison where the trooper is confined, the old lady has managed to draw about her, with her lavender-coloured dress, much of the staid calmness which is its usual accompaniment. a wonderfully grave, precise, and handsome piece of old china she looks, though her heart beats fast and her stomacher is ruffled more than even the remembrance of this wayward son has ruffled it these many years. approaching the cell, they find the door opening and a warder in the act of coming out. the old girl promptly makes a sign of entreaty to him to say nothing; assenting with a nod, he suffers them to enter as he shuts the door. so george, who is writing at his table, supposing himself to be alone, does not raise his eyes, but remains absorbed. the old housekeeper looks at him, and those wandering hands of hers are quite enough for mrs. bagnet's confirmation, even if she could see the mother and the son together, knowing what she knows, and doubt their relationship. not a rustle of the housekeeper's dress, not a gesture, not a word betrays her. she stands looking at him as he writes on, all unconscious, and only her fluttering hands give utterance to her emotions. but they are very eloquent, very, very eloquent. mrs. bagnet understands them. they speak of gratitude, of joy, of grief, of hope; of inextinguishable affection, cherished with no return since this stalwart man was a stripling; of a better son loved less, and this son loved so fondly and so proudly; and they speak in such touching language that mrs. bagnet's eyes brim up with tears and they run glistening down her sun-brown face. "george rouncewell! oh, my dear child, turn and look at me!" the trooper starts up, clasps his mother round the neck, and falls down on his knees before her. whether in a late repentance, whether in the first association that comes back upon him, he puts his hands together as a child does when it says its prayers, and raising them towards her breast, bows down his head, and cries. "my george, my dearest son! always my favourite, and my favourite still, where have you been these cruel years and years? grown such a man too, grown such a fine strong man. grown so like what i knew he must be, if it pleased god he was alive!" she can ask, and he can answer, nothing connected for a time. all that time the old girl, turned away, leans one arm against the whitened wall, leans her honest forehead upon it, wipes her eyes with her serviceable grey cloak, and quite enjoys herself like the best of old girls as she is. "mother," says the trooper when they are more composed, "forgive me first of all, for i know my need of it." forgive him! she does it with all her heart and soul. she always has done it. she tells him how she has had it written in her will, these many years, that he was her beloved son george. she has never believed any ill of him, never. if she had died without this happiness--and she is an old woman now and can't look to live very long--she would have blessed him with her last breath, if she had had her senses, as her beloved son george. "mother, i have been an undutiful trouble to you, and i have my reward; but of late years i have had a kind of glimmering of a purpose in me too. when i left home i didn't care much, mother--i am afraid not a great deal--for leaving; and went away and 'listed, harum-scarum, making believe to think that i cared for nobody, no not i, and that nobody cared for me." the trooper has dried his eyes and put away his handkerchief, but there is an extraordinary contrast between his habitual manner of expressing himself and carrying himself and the softened tone in which he speaks, interrupted occasionally by a half-stifled sob. "so i wrote a line home, mother, as you too well know, to say i had 'listed under another name, and i went abroad. abroad, at one time i thought i would write home next year, when i might be better off; and when that year was out, i thought i would write home next year, when i might be better off; and when that year was out again, perhaps i didn't think much about it. so on, from year to year, through a service of ten years, till i began to get older, and to ask myself why should i ever write." "i don't find any fault, child--but not to ease my mind, george? not a word to your loving mother, who was growing older too?" this almost overturns the trooper afresh, but he sets himself up with a great, rough, sounding clearance of his throat. "heaven forgive me, mother, but i thought there would be small consolation then in hearing anything about me. there were you, respected and esteemed. there was my brother, as i read in chance north country papers now and then, rising to be prosperous and famous. there was i a dragoon, roving, unsettled, not self-made like him, but self-unmade--all my earlier advantages thrown away, all my little learning unlearnt, nothing picked up but what unfitted me for most things that i could think of. what business had i to make myself known? after letting all that time go by me, what good could come of it? the worst was past with you, mother. i knew by that time (being a man) how you had mourned for me, and wept for me, and prayed for me; and the pain was over, or was softened down, and i was better in your mind as it was." the old lady sorrowfully shakes her head, and taking one of his powerful hands, lays it lovingly upon her shoulder. "no, i don't say that it was so, mother, but that i made it out to be so. i said just now, what good could come of it? well, my dear mother, some good might have come of it to myself--and there was the meanness of it. you would have sought me out; you would have purchased my discharge; you would have taken me down to chesney wold; you would have brought me and my brother and my brother's family together; you would all have considered anxiously how to do something for me and set me up as a respectable civilian. but how could any of you feel sure of me when i couldn't so much as feel sure of myself? how could you help regarding as an incumbrance and a discredit to you an idle dragooning chap who was an incumbrance and a discredit to himself, excepting under discipline? how could i look my brother's children in the face and pretend to set them an example--i, the vagabond boy who had run away from home and been the grief and unhappiness of my mother's life? 'no, george.' such were my words, mother, when i passed this in review before me: 'you have made your bed. now, lie upon it.'" mrs. rouncewell, drawing up her stately form, shakes her head at the old girl with a swelling pride upon her, as much as to say, "i told you so!" the old girl relieves her feelings and testifies her interest in the conversation by giving the trooper a great poke between the shoulders with her umbrella; this action she afterwards repeats, at intervals, in a species of affectionate lunacy, never failing, after the administration of each of these remonstrances, to resort to the whitened wall and the grey cloak again. "this was the way i brought myself to think, mother, that my best amends was to lie upon that bed i had made, and die upon it. and i should have done it (though i have been to see you more than once down at chesney wold, when you little thought of me) but for my old comrade's wife here, who i find has been too many for me. but i thank her for it. i thank you for it, mrs. bagnet, with all my heart and might." to which mrs. bagnet responds with two pokes. and now the old lady impresses upon her son george, her own dear recovered boy, her joy and pride, the light of her eyes, the happy close of her life, and every fond name she can think of, that he must be governed by the best advice obtainable by money and influence, that he must yield up his case to the greatest lawyers that can be got, that he must act in this serious plight as he shall be advised to act and must not be self-willed, however right, but must promise to think only of his poor old mother's anxiety and suffering until he is released, or he will break her heart. "mother, 'tis little enough to consent to," returns the trooper, stopping her with a kiss; "tell me what i shall do, and i'll make a late beginning and do it. mrs. bagnet, you'll take care of my mother, i know?" a very hard poke from the old girl's umbrella. "if you'll bring her acquainted with mr. jarndyce and miss summerson, she will find them of her way of thinking, and they will give her the best advice and assistance." "and, george," says the old lady, "we must send with all haste for your brother. he is a sensible sound man as they tell me--out in the world beyond chesney wold, my dear, though i don't know much of it myself--and will be of great service." "mother," returns the trooper, "is it too soon to ask a favour?" "surely not, my dear." "then grant me this one great favour. don't let my brother know." "not know what, my dear?" "not know of me. in fact, mother, i can't bear it; i can't make up my mind to it. he has proved himself so different from me and has done so much to raise himself while i've been soldiering that i haven't brass enough in my composition to see him in this place and under this charge. how could a man like him be expected to have any pleasure in such a discovery? it's impossible. no, keep my secret from him, mother; do me a greater kindness than i deserve and keep my secret from my brother, of all men." "but not always, dear george?" "why, mother, perhaps not for good and all--though i may come to ask that too--but keep it now, i do entreat you. if it's ever broke to him that his rip of a brother has turned up, i could wish," says the trooper, shaking his head very doubtfully, "to break it myself and be governed as to advancing or retreating by the way in which he seems to take it." as he evidently has a rooted feeling on this point, and as the depth of it is recognized in mrs. bagnet's face, his mother yields her implicit assent to what he asks. for this he thanks her kindly. "in all other respects, my dear mother, i'll be as tractable and obedient as you can wish; on this one alone, i stand out. so now i am ready even for the lawyers. i have been drawing up," he glances at his writing on the table, "an exact account of what i knew of the deceased and how i came to be involved in this unfortunate affair. it's entered, plain and regular, like an orderly-book; not a word in it but what's wanted for the facts. i did intend to read it, straight on end, whensoever i was called upon to say anything in my defence. i hope i may be let to do it still; but i have no longer a will of my own in this case, and whatever is said or done, i give my promise not to have any." matters being brought to this so far satisfactory pass, and time being on the wane, mrs. bagnet proposes a departure. again and again the old lady hangs upon her son's neck, and again and again the trooper holds her to his broad chest. "where are you going to take my mother, mrs. bagnet?" "i am going to the town house, my dear, the family house. i have some business there that must be looked to directly," mrs. rouncewell answers. "will you see my mother safe there in a coach, mrs. bagnet? but of course i know you will. why should i ask it!" why indeed, mrs. bagnet expresses with the umbrella. "take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along with you. kisses to quebec and malta, love to my godson, a hearty shake of the hand to lignum, and this for yourself, and i wish it was ten thousand pound in gold, my dear!" so saying, the trooper puts his lips to the old girl's tanned forehead, and the door shuts upon him in his cell. no entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will induce mrs. bagnet to retain the coach for her own conveyance home. jumping out cheerfully at the door of the dedlock mansion and handing mrs. rouncewell up the steps, the old girl shakes hands and trudges off, arriving soon afterwards in the bosom of the bagnet family and falling to washing the greens as if nothing had happened. my lady is in that room in which she held her last conference with the murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night, and is looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth studying her so leisurely, when a tap comes at the door. who is it? mrs. rouncewell. what has brought mrs. rouncewell to town so unexpectedly? "trouble, my lady. sad trouble. oh, my lady, may i beg a word with you?" what new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old woman tremble so? far happier than her lady, as her lady has often thought, why does she falter in this manner and look at her with such strange mistrust? "what is the matter? sit down and take your breath." "oh, my lady, my lady. i have found my son--my youngest, who went away for a soldier so long ago. and he is in prison." "for debt?" "oh, no, my lady; i would have paid any debt, and joyful." "for what is he in prison then?" "charged with a murder, my lady, of which he is as innocent as--as i am. accused of the murder of mr. tulkinghorn." what does she mean by this look and this imploring gesture? why does she come so close? what is the letter that she holds? "lady dedlock, my dear lady, my good lady, my kind lady! you must have a heart to feel for me, you must have a heart to forgive me. i was in this family before you were born. i am devoted to it. but think of my dear son wrongfully accused." "i do not accuse him." "no, my lady, no. but others do, and he is in prison and in danger. oh, lady dedlock, if you can say but a word to help to clear him, say it!" what delusion can this be? what power does she suppose is in the person she petitions to avert this unjust suspicion, if it be unjust? her lady's handsome eyes regard her with astonishment, almost with fear. "my lady, i came away last night from chesney wold to find my son in my old age, and the step upon the ghost's walk was so constant and so solemn that i never heard the like in all these years. night after night, as it has fallen dark, the sound has echoed through your rooms, but last night it was awfullest. and as it fell dark last night, my lady, i got this letter." "what letter is it?" "hush! hush!" the housekeeper looks round and answers in a frightened whisper, "my lady, i have not breathed a word of it, i don't believe what's written in it, i know it can't be true, i am sure and certain that it is not true. but my son is in danger, and you must have a heart to pity me. if you know of anything that is not known to others, if you have any suspicion, if you have any clue at all, and any reason for keeping it in your own breast, oh, my dear lady, think of me, and conquer that reason, and let it be known! this is the most i consider possible. i know you are not a hard lady, but you go your own way always without help, and you are not familiar with your friends; and all who admire you--and all do--as a beautiful and elegant lady, know you to be one far away from themselves who can't be approached close. my lady, you may have some proud or angry reasons for disdaining to utter something that you know; if so, pray, oh, pray, think of a faithful servant whose whole life has been passed in this family which she dearly loves, and relent, and help to clear my son! my lady, my good lady," the old housekeeper pleads with genuine simplicity, "i am so humble in my place and you are by nature so high and distant that you may not think what i feel for my child, but i feel so much that i have come here to make so bold as to beg and pray you not to be scornful of us if you can do us any right or justice at this fearful time!" lady dedlock raises her without one word, until she takes the letter from her hand. "am i to read this?" "when i am gone, my lady, if you please, and then remembering the most that i consider possible." "i know of nothing i can do. i know of nothing i reserve that can affect your son. i have never accused him." "my lady, you may pity him the more under a false accusation after reading the letter." the old housekeeper leaves her with the letter in her hand. in truth she is not a hard lady naturally, and the time has been when the sight of the venerable figure suing to her with such strong earnestness would have moved her to great compassion. but so long accustomed to suppress emotion and keep down reality, so long schooled for her own purposes in that destructive school which shuts up the natural feelings of the heart like flies in amber and spreads one uniform and dreary gloss over the good and bad, the feeling and the unfeeling, the sensible and the senseless, she had subdued even her wonder until now. she opens the letter. spread out upon the paper is a printed account of the discovery of the body as it lay face downward on the floor, shot through the heart; and underneath is written her own name, with the word "murderess" attached. it falls out of her hand. how long it may have lain upon the ground she knows not, but it lies where it fell when a servant stands before her announcing the young man of the name of guppy. the words have probably been repeated several times, for they are ringing in her head before she begins to understand them. "let him come in!" he comes in. holding the letter in her hand, which she has taken from the floor, she tries to collect her thoughts. in the eyes of mr. guppy she is the same lady dedlock, holding the same prepared, proud, chilling state. "your ladyship may not be at first disposed to excuse this visit from one who has never been welcome to your ladyship"--which he don't complain of, for he is bound to confess that there never has been any particular reason on the face of things why he should be--"but i hope when i mention my motives to your ladyship you will not find fault with me," says mr. guppy. "do so." "thank your ladyship. i ought first to explain to your ladyship," mr. guppy sits on the edge of a chair and puts his hat on the carpet at his feet, "that miss summerson, whose image, as i formerly mentioned to your ladyship, was at one period of my life imprinted on my 'eart until erased by circumstances over which i had no control, communicated to me, after i had the pleasure of waiting on your ladyship last, that she particularly wished me to take no steps whatever in any manner at all relating to her. and miss summerson's wishes being to me a law (except as connected with circumstances over which i have no control), i consequently never expected to have the distinguished honour of waiting on your ladyship again." and yet he is here now, lady dedlock moodily reminds him. "and yet i am here now," mr. guppy admits. "my object being to communicate to your ladyship, under the seal of confidence, why i am here." he cannot do so, she tells him, too plainly or too briefly. "nor can i," mr. guppy returns with a sense of injury upon him, "too particularly request your ladyship to take particular notice that it's no personal affair of mine that brings me here. i have no interested views of my own to serve in coming here. if it was not for my promise to miss summerson and my keeping of it sacred--i, in point of fact, shouldn't have darkened these doors again, but should have seen 'em further first." mr. guppy considers this a favourable moment for sticking up his hair with both hands. "your ladyship will remember when i mention it that the last time i was here i run against a party very eminent in our profession and whose loss we all deplore. that party certainly did from that time apply himself to cutting in against me in a way that i will call sharp practice, and did make it, at every turn and point, extremely difficult for me to be sure that i hadn't inadvertently led up to something contrary to miss summerson's wishes. self-praise is no recommendation, but i may say for myself that i am not so bad a man of business neither." lady dedlock looks at him in stern inquiry. mr. guppy immediately withdraws his eyes from her face and looks anywhere else. "indeed, it has been made so hard," he goes on, "to have any idea what that party was up to in combination with others that until the loss which we all deplore i was gravelled--an expression which your ladyship, moving in the higher circles, will be so good as to consider tantamount to knocked over. small likewise--a name by which i refer to another party, a friend of mine that your ladyship is not acquainted with--got to be so close and double-faced that at times it wasn't easy to keep one's hands off his 'ead. however, what with the exertion of my humble abilities, and what with the help of a mutual friend by the name of mr. tony weevle (who is of a high aristocratic turn and has your ladyship's portrait always hanging up in his room), i have now reasons for an apprehension as to which i come to put your ladyship upon your guard. first, will your ladyship allow me to ask you whether you have had any strange visitors this morning? i don't mean fashionable visitors, but such visitors, for instance, as miss barbary's old servant, or as a person without the use of his lower extremities, carried upstairs similarly to a guy?" "no!" "then i assure your ladyship that such visitors have been here and have been received here. because i saw them at the door, and waited at the corner of the square till they came out, and took half an hour's turn afterwards to avoid them." "what have i to do with that, or what have you? i do not understand you. what do you mean?" "your ladyship, i come to put you on your guard. there may be no occasion for it. very well. then i have only done my best to keep my promise to miss summerson. i strongly suspect (from what small has dropped, and from what we have corkscrewed out of him) that those letters i was to have brought to your ladyship were not destroyed when i supposed they were. that if there was anything to be blown upon, it is blown upon. that the visitors i have alluded to have been here this morning to make money of it. and that the money is made, or making." mr. guppy picks up his hat and rises. "your ladyship, you know best whether there's anything in what i say or whether there's nothing. something or nothing, i have acted up to miss summerson's wishes in letting things alone and in undoing what i had begun to do, as far as possible; that's sufficient for me. in case i should be taking a liberty in putting your ladyship on your guard when there's no necessity for it, you will endeavour, i should hope, to outlive my presumption, and i shall endeavour to outlive your disapprobation. i now take my farewell of your ladyship, and assure you that there's no danger of your ever being waited on by me again." she scarcely acknowledges these parting words by any look, but when he has been gone a little while, she rings her bell. "where is sir leicester?" mercury reports that he is at present shut up in the library alone. "has sir leicester had any visitors this morning?" several, on business. mercury proceeds to a description of them, which has been anticipated by mr. guppy. enough; he may go. so! all is broken down. her name is in these many mouths, her husband knows his wrongs, her shame will be published--may be spreading while she thinks about it--and in addition to the thunderbolt so long foreseen by her, so unforeseen by him, she is denounced by an invisible accuser as the murderess of her enemy. her enemy he was, and she has often, often, often wished him dead. her enemy he is, even in his grave. this dreadful accusation comes upon her like a new torment at his lifeless hand. and when she recalls how she was secretly at his door that night, and how she may be represented to have sent her favourite girl away so soon before merely to release herself from observation, she shudders as if the hangman's hands were at her neck. she has thrown herself upon the floor and lies with her hair all wildly scattered and her face buried in the cushions of a couch. she rises up, hurries to and fro, flings herself down again, and rocks and moans. the horror that is upon her is unutterable. if she really were the murderess, it could hardly be, for the moment, more intense. for as her murderous perspective, before the doing of the deed, however subtle the precautions for its commission, would have been closed up by a gigantic dilatation of the hateful figure, preventing her from seeing any consequences beyond it; and as those consequences would have rushed in, in an unimagined flood, the moment the figure was laid low--which always happens when a murder is done; so, now she sees that when he used to be on the watch before her, and she used to think, "if some mortal stroke would but fall on this old man and take him from my way!" it was but wishing that all he held against her in his hand might be flung to the winds and chance-sown in many places. so, too, with the wicked relief she has felt in his death. what was his death but the key-stone of a gloomy arch removed, and now the arch begins to fall in a thousand fragments, each crushing and mangling piecemeal! thus, a terrible impression steals upon and overshadows her that from this pursuer, living or dead--obdurate and imperturbable before her in his well-remembered shape, or not more obdurate and imperturbable in his coffin-bed--there is no escape but in death. hunted, she flies. the complication of her shame, her dread, remorse, and misery, overwhelms her at its height; and even her strength of self-reliance is overturned and whirled away like a leaf before a mighty wind. she hurriedly addresses these lines to her husband, seals, and leaves them on her table: if i am sought for, or accused of, his murder, believe that i am wholly innocent. believe no other good of me, for i am innocent of nothing else that you have heard, or will hear, laid to my charge. he prepared me, on that fatal night, for his disclosure of my guilt to you. after he had left me, i went out on pretence of walking in the garden where i sometimes walk, but really to follow him and make one last petition that he would not protract the dreadful suspense on which i have been racked by him, you do not know how long, but would mercifully strike next morning. i found his house dark and silent. i rang twice at his door, but there was no reply, and i came home. i have no home left. i will encumber you no more. may you, in your just resentment, be able to forget the unworthy woman on whom you have wasted a most generous devotion--who avoids you only with a deeper shame than that with which she hurries from herself--and who writes this last adieu. she veils and dresses quickly, leaves all her jewels and her money, listens, goes downstairs at a moment when the hall is empty, opens and shuts the great door, flutters away in the shrill frosty wind. chapter lvi pursuit impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the dedlock town house stares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur and gives no outward sign of anything going wrong within. carriages rattle, doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls; ancient charmers with skeleton throats and peachy cheeks that have a rather ghastly bloom upon them seen by daylight, when indeed these fascinating creatures look like death and the lady fused together, dazzle the eyes of men. forth from the frigid mews come easily swinging carriages guided by short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs, deep sunk into downy hammercloths, and up behind mount luscious mercuries bearing sticks of state and wearing cocked hats broadwise, a spectacle for the angels. the dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours pass before its exalted dullness is disturbed within. but volumnia the fair, being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom and finding that disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence, ventures at length to repair to the library for change of scene. her gentle tapping at the door producing no response, she opens it and peeps in; seeing no one there, takes possession. the sprightly dedlock is reputed, in that grass-grown city of the ancients, bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity which impels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidle about with a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of every description. certain it is that she avails herself of the present opportunity of hovering over her kinsman's letters and papers like a bird, taking a short peck at this document and a blink with her head on one side at that document, and hopping about from table to table with her glass at her eye in an inquisitive and restless manner. in the course of these researches she stumbles over something, and turning her glass in that direction, sees her kinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree. volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentation of reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly in commotion. servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violently rung, doctors are sent for, and lady dedlock is sought in all directions, but not found. nobody has seen or heard her since she last rang her bell. her letter to sir leicester is discovered on her table, but it is doubtful yet whether he has not received another missive from another world requiring to be personally answered, and all the living languages, and all the dead, are as one to him. they lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan, and put ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. howbeit, the day has ebbed away, and it is night in his room before his stertorous breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousness of the candle that is occasionally passed before them. but when this change begins, it goes on; and by and by he nods or moves his eyes or even his hand in token that he hears and comprehends. he fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman, somewhat infirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled face. he lies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepit shadow of himself. his voice was rich and mellow and he had so long been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import to mankind of any word he said that his words really had come to sound as if there were something in them. but now he can only whisper, and what he whispers sounds like what it is--mere jumble and jargon. his favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. it is the first act he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure from it. after vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, he makes signs for a pencil. so inexpressively that they cannot at first understand him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out what he wants and brings in a slate. after pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it in a hand that is not his, "chesney wold?" no, she tells him; he is in london. he was taken ill in the library this morning. right thankful she is that she happened to come to london and is able to attend upon him. "it is not an illness of any serious consequence, sir leicester. you will be much better to-morrow, sir leicester. all the gentlemen say so." this, with the tears coursing down her fair old face. after making a survey of the room and looking with particular attention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes, "my lady." "my lady went out, sir leicester, before you were taken ill, and don't know of your illness yet." he points again, in great agitation, at the two words. they all try to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation. on their looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes the slate once more and writes "my lady. for god's sake, where?" and makes an imploring moan. it is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him lady dedlock's letter, the contents of which no one knows or can surmise. she opens it for him and puts it out for his perusal. having read it twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that it shall not be seen and lies moaning. he passes into a kind of relapse or into a swoon, and it is an hour before he opens his eyes, reclining on his faithful and attached old servant's arm. the doctors know that he is best with her, and when not actively engaged about him, stand aloof. the slate comes into requisition again, but the word he wants to write he cannot remember. his anxiety, his eagerness, and affliction at this pass are pitiable to behold. it seems as if he must go mad in the necessity he feels for haste and the inability under which he labours of expressing to do what or to fetch whom. he has written the letter b, and there stopped. of a sudden, in the height of his misery, he puts mr. before it. the old housekeeper suggests bucket. thank heaven! that's his meaning. mr. bucket is found to be downstairs, by appointment. shall he come up? there is no possibility of misconstruing sir leicester's burning wish to see him or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared of every one but the housekeeper. it is speedily done, and mr. bucket appears. of all men upon earth, sir leicester seems fallen from his high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon this man. "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, i'm sorry to see you like this. i hope you'll cheer up. i'm sure you will, on account of the family credit." sir leicester puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in his face while he reads it. a new intelligence comes into mr. bucket's eye as he reads on; with one hook of his finger, while that eye is still glancing over the words, he indicates, "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, i understand you." sir leicester writes upon the slate. "full forgiveness. find--" mr. bucket stops his hand. "sir leicester dedlock, baronet, i'll find her. but my search after her must be begun out of hand. not a minute must be lost." with the quickness of thought, he follows sir leicester dedlock's look towards a little box upon a table. "bring it here, sir leicester dedlock, baronet? certainly. open it with one of these here keys? certainly. the littlest key? to be sure. take the notes out? so i will. count 'em? that's soon done. twenty and thirty's fifty, and twenty's seventy, and fifty's one twenty, and forty's one sixty. take 'em for expenses? that i'll do, and render an account of course. don't spare money? no i won't." the velocity and certainty of mr. bucket's interpretation on all these heads is little short of miraculous. mrs. rouncewell, who holds the light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and hands as he starts up, furnished for his journey. "you're george's mother, old lady; that's about what you are, i believe?" says mr. bucket aside, with his hat already on and buttoning his coat. "yes, sir, i am his distressed mother." "so i thought, according to what he mentioned to me just now. well, then, i'll tell you something. you needn't be distressed no more. your son's all right. now, don't you begin a-crying, because what you've got to do is to take care of sir leicester dedlock, baronet, and you won't do that by crying. as to your son, he's all right, i tell you; and he sends his loving duty, and hoping you're the same. he's discharged honourable; that's about what he is; with no more imputation on his character than there is on yours, and yours is a tidy one, i'll bet a pound. you may trust me, for i took your son. he conducted himself in a game way, too, on that occasion; and he's a fine-made man, and you're a fine-made old lady, and you're a mother and son, the pair of you, as might be showed for models in a caravan. sir leicester dedlock, baronet, what you've trusted to me i'll go through with. don't you be afraid of my turning out of my way, right or left, or taking a sleep, or a wash, or a shave till i have found what i go in search of. say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part? sir leicester dedlock, baronet, i will. and i wish you better, and these family affairs smoothed over--as, lord, many other family affairs equally has been, and equally will be, to the end of time." with this peroration, mr. bucket, buttoned up, goes quietly out, looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing the night in quest of the fugitive. his first step is to take himself to lady dedlock's rooms and look all over them for any trifling indication that may help him. the rooms are in darkness now; and to see mr. bucket with a wax-light in his hand, holding it above his head and taking a sharp mental inventory of the many delicate objects so curiously at variance with himself, would be to see a sight--which nobody does see, as he is particular to lock himself in. "a spicy boudoir, this," says mr. bucket, who feels in a manner furbished up in his french by the blow of the morning. "must have cost a sight of money. rum articles to cut away from, these; she must have been hard put to it!" opening and shutting table-drawers and looking into caskets and jewel-cases, he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors, and moralizes thereon. "one might suppose i was a-moving in the fashionable circles and getting myself up for almac's," says mr. bucket. "i begin to think i must be a swell in the guards without knowing it." ever looking about, he has opened a dainty little chest in an inner drawer. his great hand, turning over some gloves which it can scarcely feel, they are so light and soft within it, comes upon a white handkerchief. "hum! let's have a look at you," says mr. bucket, putting down the light. "what should you be kept by yourself for? what's your motive? are you her ladyship's property, or somebody else's? you've got a mark upon you somewheres or another, i suppose?" he finds it as he speaks, "esther summerson." "oh!" says mr. bucket, pausing, with his finger at his ear. "come, i'll take you." he completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has carried them on, leaves everything else precisely as he found it, glides away after some five minutes in all, and passes into the street. with a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of sir leicester's room, he sets off, full-swing, to the nearest coach-stand, picks out the horse for his money, and directs to be driven to the shooting gallery. mr. bucket does not claim to be a scientific judge of horses, but he lays out a little money on the principal events in that line, and generally sums up his knowledge of the subject in the remark that when he sees a horse as can go, he knows him. his knowledge is not at fault in the present instance. clattering over the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing his keen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in the midnight streets, and even on the lights in upper windows where people are going or gone to bed, and on all the turnings that he rattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on the earth where the snow lies thin--for something may present itself to assist him, anywhere--he dashes to his destination at such a speed that when he stops the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam. "unbear him half a moment to freshen him up, and i'll be back." he runs up the long wooden entry and finds the trooper smoking his pipe. "i thought i should, george, after what you have gone through, my lad. i haven't a word to spare. now, honour! all to save a woman. miss summerson that was here when gridley died--that was the name, i know--all right--where does she live?" the trooper has just come from there and gives him the address, near oxford street. "you won't repent it, george. good night!" he is off again, with an impression of having seen phil sitting by the frosty fire staring at him open-mouthed, and gallops away again, and gets out in a cloud of steam again. mr. jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going to bed, rises from his book on hearing the rapid ringing at the bell, and comes down to the door in his dressing-gown. "don't be alarmed, sir." in a moment his visitor is confidential with him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his hand upon the lock. "i've had the pleasure of seeing you before. inspector bucket. look at that handkerchief, sir, miss esther summerson's. found it myself put away in a drawer of lady dedlock's, quarter of an hour ago. not a moment to lose. matter of life or death. you know lady dedlock?" "yes." "there has been a discovery there to-day. family affairs have come out. sir leicester dedlock, baronet, has had a fit--apoplexy or paralysis--and couldn't be brought to, and precious time has been lost. lady dedlock disappeared this afternoon and left a letter for him that looks bad. run your eye over it. here it is!" mr. jarndyce, having read it, asks him what he thinks. "i don't know. it looks like suicide. anyways, there's more and more danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. i'd give a hundred pound an hour to have got the start of the present time. now, mr. jarndyce, i am employed by sir leicester dedlock, baronet, to follow her and find her, to save her and take her his forgiveness. i have money and full power, but i want something else. i want miss summerson." mr. jarndyce in a troubled voice repeats, "miss summerson?" "now, mr. jarndyce"--mr. bucket has read his face with the greatest attention all along--"i speak to you as a gentleman of a humane heart, and under such pressing circumstances as don't often happen. if ever delay was dangerous, it's dangerous now; and if ever you couldn't afterwards forgive yourself for causing it, this is the time. eight or ten hours, worth, as i tell you, a hundred pound apiece at least, have been lost since lady dedlock disappeared. i am charged to find her. i am inspector bucket. besides all the rest that's heavy on her, she has upon her, as she believes, suspicion of murder. if i follow her alone, she, being in ignorance of what sir leicester dedlock, baronet, has communicated to me, may be driven to desperation. but if i follow her in company with a young lady, answering to the description of a young lady that she has a tenderness for--i ask no question, and i say no more than that--she will give me credit for being friendly. let me come up with her and be able to have the hold upon her of putting that young lady for'ard, and i'll save her and prevail with her if she is alive. let me come up with her alone--a hard matter--and i'll do my best, but i don't answer for what the best may be. time flies; it's getting on for one o'clock. when one strikes, there's another hour gone, and it's worth a thousand pound now instead of a hundred." this is all true, and the pressing nature of the case cannot be questioned. mr. jarndyce begs him to remain there while he speaks to miss summerson. mr. bucket says he will, but acting on his usual principle, does no such thing, following upstairs instead and keeping his man in sight. so he remains, dodging and lurking about in the gloom of the staircase while they confer. in a very little time mr. jarndyce comes down and tells him that miss summerson will join him directly and place herself under his protection to accompany him where he pleases. mr. bucket, satisfied, expresses high approval and awaits her coming at the door. there he mounts a high tower in his mind and looks out far and wide. many solitary figures he perceives creeping through the streets; many solitary figures out on heaths, and roads, and lying under haystacks. but the figure that he seeks is not among them. other solitaries he perceives, in nooks of bridges, looking over; and in shadowed places down by the river's level; and a dark, dark, shapeless object drifting with the tide, more solitary than all, clings with a drowning hold on his attention. where is she? living or dead, where is she? if, as he folds the handkerchief and carefully puts it up, it were able with an enchanted power to bring before him the place where she found it and the night-landscape near the cottage where it covered the little child, would he descry her there? on the waste where the brick-kilns are burning with a pale blue flare, where the straw-roofs of the wretched huts in which the bricks are made are being scattered by the wind, where the clay and water are hard frozen and the mill in which the gaunt blind horse goes round all day looks like an instrument of human torture--traversing this deserted, blighted spot there is a lonely figure with the sad world to itself, pelted by the snow and driven by the wind, and cast out, it would seem, from all companionship. it is the figure of a woman, too; but it is miserably dressed, and no such clothes ever came through the hall and out at the great door of the dedlock mansion. chapter lvii esther's narrative i had gone to bed and fallen asleep when my guardian knocked at the door of my room and begged me to get up directly. on my hurrying to speak to him and learn what had happened, he told me, after a word or two of preparation, that there had been a discovery at sir leicester dedlock's. that my mother had fled, that a person was now at our door who was empowered to convey to her the fullest assurances of affectionate protection and forgiveness if he could possibly find her, and that i was sought for to accompany him in the hope that my entreaties might prevail upon her if his failed. something to this general purpose i made out, but i was thrown into such a tumult of alarm, and hurry and distress, that in spite of every effort i could make to subdue my agitation, i did not seem, to myself, fully to recover my right mind until hours had passed. but i dressed and wrapped up expeditiously without waking charley or any one and went down to mr. bucket, who was the person entrusted with the secret. in taking me to him my guardian told me this, and also explained how it was that he had come to think of me. mr. bucket, in a low voice, by the light of my guardian's candle, read to me in the hall a letter that my mother had left upon her table; and i suppose within ten minutes of my having been aroused i was sitting beside him, rolling swiftly through the streets. his manner was very keen, and yet considerate when he explained to me that a great deal might depend on my being able to answer, without confusion, a few questions that he wished to ask me. these were, chiefly, whether i had had much communication with my mother (to whom he only referred as lady dedlock), when and where i had spoken with her last, and how she had become possessed of my handkerchief. when i had satisfied him on these points, he asked me particularly to consider--taking time to think--whether within my knowledge there was any one, no matter where, in whom she might be at all likely to confide under circumstances of the last necessity. i could think of no one but my guardian. but by and by i mentioned mr. boythorn. he came into my mind as connected with his old chivalrous manner of mentioning my mother's name and with what my guardian had informed me of his engagement to her sister and his unconscious connexion with her unhappy story. my companion had stopped the driver while we held this conversation, that we might the better hear each other. he now told him to go on again and said to me, after considering within himself for a few moments, that he had made up his mind how to proceed. he was quite willing to tell me what his plan was, but i did not feel clear enough to understand it. we had not driven very far from our lodgings when we stopped in a by-street at a public-looking place lighted up with gas. mr. bucket took me in and sat me in an arm-chair by a bright fire. it was now past one, as i saw by the clock against the wall. two police officers, looking in their perfectly neat uniform not at all like people who were up all night, were quietly writing at a desk; and the place seemed very quiet altogether, except for some beating and calling out at distant doors underground, to which nobody paid any attention. a third man in uniform, whom mr. bucket called and to whom he whispered his instructions, went out; and then the two others advised together while one wrote from mr. bucket's subdued dictation. it was a description of my mother that they were busy with, for mr. bucket brought it to me when it was done and read it in a whisper. it was very accurate indeed. the second officer, who had attended to it closely, then copied it out and called in another man in uniform (there were several in an outer room), who took it up and went away with it. all this was done with the greatest dispatch and without the waste of a moment; yet nobody was at all hurried. as soon as the paper was sent out upon its travels, the two officers resumed their former quiet work of writing with neatness and care. mr. bucket thoughtfully came and warmed the soles of his boots, first one and then the other, at the fire. "are you well wrapped up, miss summerson?" he asked me as his eyes met mine. "it's a desperate sharp night for a young lady to be out in." i told him i cared for no weather and was warmly clothed. "it may be a long job," he observed; "but so that it ends well, never mind, miss." "i pray to heaven it may end well!" said i. he nodded comfortingly. "you see, whatever you do, don't you go and fret yourself. you keep yourself cool and equal for anything that may happen, and it'll be the better for you, the better for me, the better for lady dedlock, and the better for sir leicester dedlock, baronet." he was really very kind and gentle, and as he stood before the fire warming his boots and rubbing his face with his forefinger, i felt a confidence in his sagacity which reassured me. it was not yet a quarter to two when i heard horses' feet and wheels outside. "now, miss summerson," said he, "we are off, if you please!" he gave me his arm, and the two officers courteously bowed me out, and we found at the door a phaeton or barouche with a postilion and post horses. mr. bucket handed me in and took his own seat on the box. the man in uniform whom he had sent to fetch this equipage then handed him up a dark lantern at his request, and when he had given a few directions to the driver, we rattled away. i was far from sure that i was not in a dream. we rattled with great rapidity through such a labyrinth of streets that i soon lost all idea where we were, except that we had crossed and re-crossed the river, and still seemed to be traversing a low-lying, waterside, dense neighbourhood of narrow thoroughfares chequered by docks and basins, high piles of warehouses, swing-bridges, and masts of ships. at length we stopped at the corner of a little slimy turning, which the wind from the river, rushing up it, did not purify; and i saw my companion, by the light of his lantern, in conference with several men who looked like a mixture of police and sailors. against the mouldering wall by which they stood, there was a bill, on which i could discern the words, "found drowned"; and this and an inscription about drags possessed me with the awful suspicion shadowed forth in our visit to that place. i had no need to remind myself that i was not there by the indulgence of any feeling of mine to increase the difficulties of the search, or to lessen its hopes, or enhance its delays. i remained quiet, but what i suffered in that dreadful spot i never can forget. and still it was like the horror of a dream. a man yet dark and muddy, in long swollen sodden boots and a hat like them, was called out of a boat and whispered with mr. bucket, who went away with him down some slippery steps--as if to look at something secret that he had to show. they came back, wiping their hands upon their coats, after turning over something wet; but thank god it was not what i feared! after some further conference, mr. bucket (whom everybody seemed to know and defer to) went in with the others at a door and left me in the carriage, while the driver walked up and down by his horses to warm himself. the tide was coming in, as i judged from the sound it made, and i could hear it break at the end of the alley with a little rush towards me. it never did so--and i thought it did so, hundreds of times, in what can have been at the most a quarter of an hour, and probably was less--but the thought shuddered through me that it would cast my mother at the horses' feet. mr. bucket came out again, exhorting the others to be vigilant, darkened his lantern, and once more took his seat. "don't you be alarmed, miss summerson, on account of our coming down here," he said, turning to me. "i only want to have everything in train and to know that it is in train by looking after it myself. get on, my lad!" we appeared to retrace the way we had come. not that i had taken note of any particular objects in my perturbed state of mind, but judging from the general character of the streets. we called at another office or station for a minute and crossed the river again. during the whole of this time, and during the whole search, my companion, wrapped up on the box, never relaxed in his vigilance a single moment; but when we crossed the bridge he seemed, if possible, to be more on the alert than before. he stood up to look over the parapet, he alighted and went back after a shadowy female figure that flitted past us, and he gazed into the profound black pit of water with a face that made my heart die within me. the river had a fearful look, so overcast and secret, creeping away so fast between the low flat lines of shore--so heavy with indistinct and awful shapes, both of substance and shadow; so death-like and mysterious. i have seen it many times since then, by sunlight and by moonlight, but never free from the impressions of that journey. in my memory the lights upon the bridge are always burning dim, the cutting wind is eddying round the homeless woman whom we pass, the monotonous wheels are whirling on, and the light of the carriage-lamps reflected back looks palely in upon me--a face rising out of the dreaded water. clattering and clattering through the empty streets, we came at length from the pavement on to dark smooth roads and began to leave the houses behind us. after a while i recognized the familiar way to saint albans. at barnet fresh horses were ready for us, and we changed and went on. it was very cold indeed, and the open country was white with snow, though none was falling then. "an old acquaintance of yours, this road, miss summerson," said mr. bucket cheerfully. "yes," i returned. "have you gathered any intelligence?" "none that can be quite depended on as yet," he answered, "but it's early times as yet." he had gone into every late or early public-house where there was a light (they were not a few at that time, the road being then much frequented by drovers) and had got down to talk to the turnpike-keepers. i had heard him ordering drink, and chinking money, and making himself agreeable and merry everywhere; but whenever he took his seat upon the box again, his face resumed its watchful steady look, and he always said to the driver in the same business tone, "get on, my lad!" with all these stoppages, it was between five and six o'clock and we were yet a few miles short of saint albans when he came out of one of these houses and handed me in a cup of tea. "drink it, miss summerson, it'll do you good. you're beginning to get more yourself now, ain't you?" i thanked him and said i hoped so. "you was what you may call stunned at first," he returned; "and lord, no wonder! don't speak loud, my dear. it's all right. she's on ahead." i don't know what joyful exclamation i made or was going to make, but he put up his finger and i stopped myself. "passed through here on foot this evening about eight or nine. i heard of her first at the archway toll, over at highgate, but couldn't make quite sure. traced her all along, on and off. picked her up at one place, and dropped her at another; but she's before us now, safe. take hold of this cup and saucer, ostler. now, if you wasn't brought up to the butter trade, look out and see if you can catch half a crown in your t'other hand. one, two, three, and there you are! now, my lad, try a gallop!" we were soon in saint albans and alighted a little before day, when i was just beginning to arrange and comprehend the occurrences of the night and really to believe that they were not a dream. leaving the carriage at the posting-house and ordering fresh horses to be ready, my companion gave me his arm, and we went towards home. "as this is your regular abode, miss summerson, you see," he observed, "i should like to know whether you've been asked for by any stranger answering the description, or whether mr. jarndyce has. i don't much expect it, but it might be." as we ascended the hill, he looked about him with a sharp eye--the day was now breaking--and reminded me that i had come down it one night, as i had reason for remembering, with my little servant and poor jo, whom he called toughey. i wondered how he knew that. "when you passed a man upon the road, just yonder, you know," said mr. bucket. yes, i remembered that too, very well. "that was me," said mr. bucket. seeing my surprise, he went on, "i drove down in a gig that afternoon to look after that boy. you might have heard my wheels when you came out to look after him yourself, for i was aware of you and your little maid going up when i was walking the horse down. making an inquiry or two about him in the town, i soon heard what company he was in and was coming among the brick-fields to look for him when i observed you bringing him home here." "had he committed any crime?" i asked. "none was charged against him," said mr. bucket, coolly lifting off his hat, "but i suppose he wasn't over-particular. no. what i wanted him for was in connexion with keeping this very matter of lady dedlock quiet. he had been making his tongue more free than welcome as to a small accidental service he had been paid for by the deceased mr. tulkinghorn; and it wouldn't do, at any sort of price, to have him playing those games. so having warned him out of london, i made an afternoon of it to warn him to keep out of it now he was away, and go farther from it, and maintain a bright look-out that i didn't catch him coming back again." "poor creature!" said i. "poor enough," assented mr. bucket, "and trouble enough, and well enough away from london, or anywhere else. i was regularly turned on my back when i found him taken up by your establishment, i do assure you." i asked him why. "why, my dear?" said mr. bucket. "naturally there was no end to his tongue then. he might as well have been born with a yard and a half of it, and a remnant over." although i remember this conversation now, my head was in confusion at the time, and my power of attention hardly did more than enable me to understand that he entered into these particulars to divert me. with the same kind intention, manifestly, he often spoke to me of indifferent things, while his face was busy with the one object that we had in view. he still pursued this subject as we turned in at the garden-gate. "ah!" said mr. bucket. "here we are, and a nice retired place it is. puts a man in mind of the country house in the woodpecker-tapping, that was known by the smoke which so gracefully curled. they're early with the kitchen fire, and that denotes good servants. but what you've always got to be careful of with servants is who comes to see 'em; you never know what they're up to if you don't know that. and another thing, my dear. whenever you find a young man behind the kitchen-door, you give that young man in charge on suspicion of being secreted in a dwelling-house with an unlawful purpose." we were now in front of the house; he looked attentively and closely at the gravel for footprints before he raised his eyes to the windows. "do you generally put that elderly young gentleman in the same room when he's on a visit here, miss summerson?" he inquired, glancing at mr. skimpole's usual chamber. "you know mr. skimpole!" said i. "what do you call him again?" returned mr. bucket, bending down his ear. "skimpole, is it? i've often wondered what his name might be. skimpole. not john, i should say, nor yet jacob?" "harold," i told him. "harold. yes. he's a queer bird is harold," said mr. bucket, eyeing me with great expression. "he is a singular character," said i. "no idea of money," observed mr. bucket. "he takes it, though!" i involuntarily returned for answer that i perceived mr. bucket knew him. "why, now i'll tell you, miss summerson," he replied. "your mind will be all the better for not running on one point too continually, and i'll tell you for a change. it was him as pointed out to me where toughey was. i made up my mind that night to come to the door and ask for toughey, if that was all; but willing to try a move or so first, if any such was on the board, i just pitched up a morsel of gravel at that window where i saw a shadow. as soon as harold opens it and i have had a look at him, thinks i, you're the man for me. so i smoothed him down a bit about not wanting to disturb the family after they was gone to bed and about its being a thing to be regretted that charitable young ladies should harbour vagrants; and then, when i pretty well understood his ways, i said i should consider a fypunnote well bestowed if i could relieve the premises of toughey without causing any noise or trouble. then says he, lifting up his eyebrows in the gayest way, 'it's no use mentioning a fypunnote to me, my friend, because i'm a mere child in such matters and have no idea of money.' of course i understood what his taking it so easy meant; and being now quite sure he was the man for me, i wrapped the note round a little stone and threw it up to him. well! he laughs and beams, and looks as innocent as you like, and says, 'but i don't know the value of these things. what am i to do with this?' 'spend it, sir,' says i. 'but i shall be taken in,' he says, 'they won't give me the right change, i shall lose it, it's no use to me.' lord, you never saw such a face as he carried it with! of course he told me where to find toughey, and i found him." i regarded this as very treacherous on the part of mr. skimpole towards my guardian and as passing the usual bounds of his childish innocence. "bounds, my dear?" returned mr. bucket. "bounds? now, miss summerson, i'll give you a piece of advice that your husband will find useful when you are happily married and have got a family about you. whenever a person says to you that they are as innocent as can be in all concerning money, look well after your own money, for they are dead certain to collar it if they can. whenever a person proclaims to you 'in worldly matters i'm a child,' you consider that that person is only a-crying off from being held accountable and that you have got that person's number, and it's number one. now, i am not a poetical man myself, except in a vocal way when it goes round a company, but i'm a practical one, and that's my experience. so's this rule. fast and loose in one thing, fast and loose in everything. i never knew it fail. no more will you. nor no one. with which caution to the unwary, my dear, i take the liberty of pulling this here bell, and so go back to our business." i believe it had not been for a moment out of his mind, any more than it had been out of my mind, or out of his face. the whole household were amazed to see me, without any notice, at that time in the morning, and so accompanied; and their surprise was not diminished by my inquiries. no one, however, had been there. it could not be doubted that this was the truth. "then, miss summerson," said my companion, "we can't be too soon at the cottage where those brickmakers are to be found. most inquiries there i leave to you, if you'll be so good as to make 'em. the naturalest way is the best way, and the naturalest way is your own way." we set off again immediately. on arriving at the cottage, we found it shut up and apparently deserted, but one of the neighbours who knew me and who came out when i was trying to make some one hear informed me that the two women and their husbands now lived together in another house, made of loose rough bricks, which stood on the margin of the piece of ground where the kilns were and where the long rows of bricks were drying. we lost no time in repairing to this place, which was within a few hundred yards; and as the door stood ajar, i pushed it open. there were only three of them sitting at breakfast, the child lying asleep on a bed in the corner. it was jenny, the mother of the dead child, who was absent. the other woman rose on seeing me; and the men, though they were, as usual, sulky and silent, each gave me a morose nod of recognition. a look passed between them when mr. bucket followed me in, and i was surprised to see that the woman evidently knew him. i had asked leave to enter of course. liz (the only name by which i knew her) rose to give me her own chair, but i sat down on a stool near the fire, and mr. bucket took a corner of the bedstead. now that i had to speak and was among people with whom i was not familiar, i became conscious of being hurried and giddy. it was very difficult to begin, and i could not help bursting into tears. "liz," said i, "i have come a long way in the night and through the snow to inquire after a lady--" "who has been here, you know," mr. bucket struck in, addressing the whole group with a composed propitiatory face; "that's the lady the young lady means. the lady that was here last night, you know." "and who told you as there was anybody here?" inquired jenny's husband, who had made a surly stop in his eating to listen and now measured him with his eye. "a person of the name of michael jackson, with a blue welveteen waistcoat with a double row of mother of pearl buttons," mr. bucket immediately answered. "he had as good mind his own business, whoever he is," growled the man. "he's out of employment, i believe," said mr. bucket apologetically for michael jackson, "and so gets talking." the woman had not resumed her chair, but stood faltering with her hand upon its broken back, looking at me. i thought she would have spoken to me privately if she had dared. she was still in this attitude of uncertainty when her husband, who was eating with a lump of bread and fat in one hand and his clasp-knife in the other, struck the handle of his knife violently on the table and told her with an oath to mind her own business at any rate and sit down. "i should like to have seen jenny very much," said i, "for i am sure she would have told me all she could about this lady, whom i am very anxious indeed--you cannot think how anxious--to overtake. will jenny be here soon? where is she?" the woman had a great desire to answer, but the man, with another oath, openly kicked at her foot with his heavy boot. he left it to jenny's husband to say what he chose, and after a dogged silence the latter turned his shaggy head towards me. "i'm not partial to gentlefolks coming into my place, as you've heerd me say afore now, i think, miss. i let their places be, and it's curious they can't let my place be. there'd be a pretty shine made if i was to go a-wisitin them, i think. howsoever, i don't so much complain of you as of some others, and i'm agreeable to make you a civil answer, though i give notice that i'm not a-going to be drawed like a badger. will jenny be here soon? no she won't. where is she? she's gone up to lunnun." "did she go last night?" i asked. "did she go last night? ah! she went last night," he answered with a sulky jerk of his head. "but was she here when the lady came? and what did the lady say to her? and where is the lady gone? i beg and pray you to be so kind as to tell me," said i, "for i am in great distress to know." "if my master would let me speak, and not say a word of harm--" the woman timidly began. "your master," said her husband, muttering an imprecation with slow emphasis, "will break your neck if you meddle with wot don't concern you." after another silence, the husband of the absent woman, turning to me again, answered me with his usual grumbling unwillingness. "wos jenny here when the lady come? yes, she wos here when the lady come. wot did the lady say to her? well, i'll tell you wot the lady said to her. she said, 'you remember me as come one time to talk to you about the young lady as had been a-wisiting of you? you remember me as give you somethink handsome for a handkercher wot she had left?' ah, she remembered. so we all did. well, then, wos that young lady up at the house now? no, she warn't up at the house now. well, then, lookee here. the lady was upon a journey all alone, strange as we might think it, and could she rest herself where you're a setten for a hour or so. yes she could, and so she did. then she went--it might be at twenty minutes past eleven, and it might be at twenty minutes past twelve; we ain't got no watches here to know the time by, nor yet clocks. where did she go? i don't know where she go'd. she went one way, and jenny went another; one went right to lunnun, and t'other went right from it. that's all about it. ask this man. he heerd it all, and see it all. he knows." the other man repeated, "that's all about it." "was the lady crying?" i inquired. "devil a bit," returned the first man. "her shoes was the worse, and her clothes was the worse, but she warn't--not as i see." the woman sat with her arms crossed and her eyes upon the ground. her husband had turned his seat a little so as to face her and kept his hammer-like hand upon the table as if it were in readiness to execute his threat if she disobeyed him. "i hope you will not object to my asking your wife," said i, "how the lady looked." "come, then!" he gruffly cried to her. "you hear what she says. cut it short and tell her." "bad," replied the woman. "pale and exhausted. very bad." "did she speak much?" "not much, but her voice was hoarse." she answered, looking all the while at her husband for leave. "was she faint?" said i. "did she eat or drink here?" "go on!" said the husband in answer to her look. "tell her and cut it short." "she had a little water, miss, and jenny fetched her some bread and tea. but she hardly touched it." "and when she went from here," i was proceeding, when jenny's husband impatiently took me up. "when she went from here, she went right away nor'ard by the high road. ask on the road if you doubt me, and see if it warn't so. now, there's the end. that's all about it." i glanced at my companion, and finding that he had already risen and was ready to depart, thanked them for what they had told me, and took my leave. the woman looked full at mr. bucket as he went out, and he looked full at her. "now, miss summerson," he said to me as we walked quickly away. "they've got her ladyship's watch among 'em. that's a positive fact." "you saw it?" i exclaimed. "just as good as saw it," he returned. "else why should he talk about his 'twenty minutes past' and about his having no watch to tell the time by? twenty minutes! he don't usually cut his time so fine as that. if he comes to half-hours, it's as much as he does. now, you see, either her ladyship gave him that watch or he took it. i think she gave it him. now, what should she give it him for? what should she give it him for?" he repeated this question to himself several times as we hurried on, appearing to balance between a variety of answers that arose in his mind. "if time could be spared," said mr. bucket, "which is the only thing that can't be spared in this case, i might get it out of that woman; but it's too doubtful a chance to trust to under present circumstances. they are up to keeping a close eye upon her, and any fool knows that a poor creetur like her, beaten and kicked and scarred and bruised from head to foot, will stand by the husband that ill uses her through thick and thin. there's something kept back. it's a pity but what we had seen the other woman." i regretted it exceedingly, for she was very grateful, and i felt sure would have resisted no entreaty of mine. "it's possible, miss summerson," said mr. bucket, pondering on it, "that her ladyship sent her up to london with some word for you, and it's possible that her husband got the watch to let her go. it don't come out altogether so plain as to please me, but it's on the cards. now, i don't take kindly to laying out the money of sir leicester dedlock, baronet, on these roughs, and i don't see my way to the usefulness of it at present. no! so far our road, miss summerson, is for'ard--straight ahead--and keeping everything quiet!" we called at home once more that i might send a hasty note to my guardian, and then we hurried back to where we had left the carriage. the horses were brought out as soon as we were seen coming, and we were on the road again in a few minutes. it had set in snowing at daybreak, and it now snowed hard. the air was so thick with the darkness of the day and the density of the fall that we could see but a very little way in any direction. although it was extremely cold, the snow was but partially frozen, and it churned--with a sound as if it were a beach of small shells--under the hoofs of the horses into mire and water. they sometimes slipped and floundered for a mile together, and we were obliged to come to a standstill to rest them. one horse fell three times in this first stage, and trembled so and was so shaken that the driver had to dismount from his saddle and lead him at last. i could eat nothing and could not sleep, and i grew so nervous under those delays and the slow pace at which we travelled that i had an unreasonable desire upon me to get out and walk. yielding to my companion's better sense, however, i remained where i was. all this time, kept fresh by a certain enjoyment of the work in which he was engaged, he was up and down at every house we came to, addressing people whom he had never beheld before as old acquaintances, running in to warm himself at every fire he saw, talking and drinking and shaking hands at every bar and tap, friendly with every waggoner, wheelwright, blacksmith, and toll-taker, yet never seeming to lose time, and always mounting to the box again with his watchful, steady face and his business-like "get on, my lad!" when we were changing horses the next time, he came from the stable-yard, with the wet snow encrusted upon him and dropping off him--plashing and crashing through it to his wet knees as he had been doing frequently since we left saint albans--and spoke to me at the carriage side. "keep up your spirits. it's certainly true that she came on here, miss summerson. there's not a doubt of the dress by this time, and the dress has been seen here." "still on foot?" said i. "still on foot. i think the gentleman you mentioned must be the point she's aiming at, and yet i don't like his living down in her own part of the country neither." "i know so little," said i. "there may be some one else nearer here, of whom i never heard." "that's true. but whatever you do, don't you fall a-crying, my dear; and don't you worry yourself no more than you can help. get on, my lad!" the sleet fell all that day unceasingly, a thick mist came on early, and it never rose or lightened for a moment. such roads i had never seen. i sometimes feared we had missed the way and got into the ploughed grounds or the marshes. if i ever thought of the time i had been out, it presented itself as an indefinite period of great duration, and i seemed, in a strange way, never to have been free from the anxiety under which i then laboured. as we advanced, i began to feel misgivings that my companion lost confidence. he was the same as before with all the roadside people, but he looked graver when he sat by himself on the box. i saw his finger uneasily going across and across his mouth during the whole of one long weary stage. i overheard that he began to ask the drivers of coaches and other vehicles coming towards us what passengers they had seen in other coaches and vehicles that were in advance. their replies did not encourage him. he always gave me a reassuring beck of his finger and lift of his eyelid as he got upon the box again, but he seemed perplexed now when he said, "get on, my lad!" at last, when we were changing, he told me that he had lost the track of the dress so long that he began to be surprised. it was nothing, he said, to lose such a track for one while, and to take it up for another while, and so on; but it had disappeared here in an unaccountable manner, and we had not come upon it since. this corroborated the apprehensions i had formed, when he began to look at direction-posts, and to leave the carriage at cross roads for a quarter of an hour at a time while he explored them. but i was not to be down-hearted, he told me, for it was as likely as not that the next stage might set us right again. the next stage, however, ended as that one ended; we had no new clue. there was a spacious inn here, solitary, but a comfortable substantial building, and as we drove in under a large gateway before i knew it, where a landlady and her pretty daughters came to the carriage-door, entreating me to alight and refresh myself while the horses were making ready, i thought it would be uncharitable to refuse. they took me upstairs to a warm room and left me there. it was at the corner of the house, i remember, looking two ways. on one side to a stable-yard open to a by-road, where the ostlers were unharnessing the splashed and tired horses from the muddy carriage, and beyond that to the by-road itself, across which the sign was heavily swinging; on the other side to a wood of dark pine-trees. their branches were encumbered with snow, and it silently dropped off in wet heaps while i stood at the window. night was setting in, and its bleakness was enhanced by the contrast of the pictured fire glowing and gleaming in the window-pane. as i looked among the stems of the trees and followed the discoloured marks in the snow where the thaw was sinking into it and undermining it, i thought of the motherly face brightly set off by daughters that had just now welcomed me and of my mother lying down in such a wood to die. i was frightened when i found them all about me, but i remembered that before i fainted i tried very hard not to do it; and that was some little comfort. they cushioned me up on a large sofa by the fire, and then the comely landlady told me that i must travel no further to-night, but must go to bed. but this put me into such a tremble lest they should detain me there that she soon recalled her words and compromised for a rest of half an hour. a good endearing creature she was. she and her three fair girls, all so busy about me. i was to take hot soup and broiled fowl, while mr. bucket dried himself and dined elsewhere; but i could not do it when a snug round table was presently spread by the fireside, though i was very unwilling to disappoint them. however, i could take some toast and some hot negus, and as i really enjoyed that refreshment, it made some recompense. punctual to the time, at the half-hour's end the carriage came rumbling under the gateway, and they took me down, warmed, refreshed, comforted by kindness, and safe (i assured them) not to faint any more. after i had got in and had taken a grateful leave of them all, the youngest daughter--a blooming girl of nineteen, who was to be the first married, they had told me--got upon the carriage step, reached in, and kissed me. i have never seen her, from that hour, but i think of her to this hour as my friend. the transparent windows with the fire and light, looking so bright and warm from the cold darkness out of doors, were soon gone, and again we were crushing and churning the loose snow. we went on with toil enough, but the dismal roads were not much worse than they had been, and the stage was only nine miles. my companion smoking on the box--i had thought at the last inn of begging him to do so when i saw him standing at a great fire in a comfortable cloud of tobacco--was as vigilant as ever and as quickly down and up again when we came to any human abode or any human creature. he had lighted his little dark lantern, which seemed to be a favourite with him, for we had lamps to the carriage; and every now and then he turned it upon me to see that i was doing well. there was a folding-window to the carriage-head, but i never closed it, for it seemed like shutting out hope. we came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was not recovered. i looked at him anxiously when we stopped to change, but i knew by his yet graver face as he stood watching the ostlers that he had heard nothing. almost in an instant afterwards, as i leaned back in my seat, he looked in, with his lighted lantern in his hand, an excited and quite different man. "what is it?" said i, starting. "is she here?" "no, no. don't deceive yourself, my dear. nobody's here. but i've got it!" the crystallized snow was in his eyelashes, in his hair, lying in ridges on his dress. he had to shake it from his face and get his breath before he spoke to me. "now, miss summerson," said he, beating his finger on the apron, "don't you be disappointed at what i'm a-going to do. you know me. i'm inspector bucket, and you can trust me. we've come a long way; never mind. four horses out there for the next stage up! quick!" there was a commotion in the yard, and a man came running out of the stables to know if he meant up or down. "up, i tell you! up! ain't it english? up!" "up?" said i, astonished. "to london! are we going back?" "miss summerson," he answered, "back. straight back as a die. you know me. don't be afraid. i'll follow the other, by g----" "the other?" i repeated. "who?" "you called her jenny, didn't you? i'll follow her. bring those two pair out here for a crown a man. wake up, some of you!" "you will not desert this lady we are in search of; you will not abandon her on such a night and in such a state of mind as i know her to be in!" said i, in an agony, and grasping his hand. "you are right, my dear, i won't. but i'll follow the other. look alive here with them horses. send a man for'ard in the saddle to the next stage, and let him send another for'ard again, and order four on, up, right through. my darling, don't you be afraid!" these orders and the way in which he ran about the yard urging them caused a general excitement that was scarcely less bewildering to me than the sudden change. but in the height of the confusion, a mounted man galloped away to order the relays, and our horses were put to with great speed. "my dear," said mr. bucket, jumping to his seat and looking in again, "--you'll excuse me if i'm too familiar--don't you fret and worry yourself no more than you can help. i say nothing else at present; but you know me, my dear; now, don't you?" i endeavoured to say that i knew he was far more capable than i of deciding what we ought to do, but was he sure that this was right? could i not go forward by myself in search of--i grasped his hand again in my distress and whispered it to him--of my own mother. "my dear," he answered, "i know, i know, and would i put you wrong, do you think? inspector bucket. now you know me, don't you?" what could i say but yes! "then you keep up as good a heart as you can, and you rely upon me for standing by you, no less than by sir leicester dedlock, baronet. now, are you right there?" "all right, sir!" "off she goes, then. and get on, my lads!" we were again upon the melancholy road by which we had come, tearing up the miry sleet and thawing snow as if they were torn up by a waterwheel. chapter lviii a wintry day and night still impassive, as behoves its breeding, the dedlock town house carries itself as usual towards the street of dismal grandeur. there are powdered heads from time to time in the little windows of the hall, looking out at the untaxed powder falling all day from the sky; and in the same conservatory there is peach blossom turning itself exotically to the great hall fire from the nipping weather out of doors. it is given out that my lady has gone down into lincolnshire, but is expected to return presently. rumour, busy overmuch, however, will not go down into lincolnshire. it persists in flitting and chattering about town. it knows that that poor unfortunate man, sir leicester, has been sadly used. it hears, my dear child, all sorts of shocking things. it makes the world of five miles round quite merry. not to know that there is something wrong at the dedlocks' is to augur yourself unknown. one of the peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats is already apprised of all the principal circumstances that will come out before the lords on sir leicester's application for a bill of divorce. at blaze and sparkle's the jewellers and at sheen and gloss's the mercers, it is and will be for several hours the topic of the age, the feature of the century. the patronesses of those establishments, albeit so loftily inscrutable, being as nicely weighed and measured there as any other article of the stock-in-trade, are perfectly understood in this new fashion by the rawest hand behind the counter. "our people, mr. jones," said blaze and sparkle to the hand in question on engaging him, "our people, sir, are sheep--mere sheep. where two or three marked ones go, all the rest follow. keep those two or three in your eye, mr. jones, and you have the flock." so, likewise, sheen and gloss to their jones, in reference to knowing where to have the fashionable people and how to bring what they (sheen and gloss) choose into fashion. on similar unerring principles, mr. sladdery the librarian, and indeed the great farmer of gorgeous sheep, admits this very day, "why yes, sir, there certainly are reports concerning lady dedlock, very current indeed among my high connexion, sir. you see, my high connexion must talk about something, sir; and it's only to get a subject into vogue with one or two ladies i could name to make it go down with the whole. just what i should have done with those ladies, sir, in the case of any novelty you had left to me to bring in, they have done of themselves in this case through knowing lady dedlock and being perhaps a little innocently jealous of her too, sir. you'll find, sir, that this topic will be very popular among my high connexion. if it had been a speculation, sir, it would have brought money. and when i say so, you may trust to my being right, sir, for i have made it my business to study my high connexion and to be able to wind it up like a clock, sir." thus rumour thrives in the capital, and will not go down into lincolnshire. by half-past five, post meridian, horse guards' time, it has even elicited a new remark from the honourable mr. stables, which bids fair to outshine the old one, on which he has so long rested his colloquial reputation. this sparkling sally is to the effect that although he always knew she was the best-groomed woman in the stud, he had no idea she was a bolter. it is immensely received in turf-circles. at feasts and festivals also, in firmaments she has often graced, and among constellations she outshone but yesterday, she is still the prevalent subject. what is it? who is it? when was it? where was it? how was it? she is discussed by her dear friends with all the genteelest slang in vogue, with the last new word, the last new manner, the last new drawl, and the perfection of polite indifference. a remarkable feature of the theme is that it is found to be so inspiring that several people come out upon it who never came out before--positively say things! william buffy carries one of these smartnesses from the place where he dines down to the house, where the whip for his party hands it about with his snuff-box to keep men together who want to be off, with such effect that the speaker (who has had it privately insinuated into his own ear under the corner of his wig) cries, "order at the bar!" three times without making an impression. and not the least amazing circumstance connected with her being vaguely the town talk is that people hovering on the confines of mr. sladdery's high connexion, people who know nothing and ever did know nothing about her, think it essential to their reputation to pretend that she is their topic too, and to retail her at second-hand with the last new word and the last new manner, and the last new drawl, and the last new polite indifference, and all the rest of it, all at second-hand but considered equal to new in inferior systems and to fainter stars. if there be any man of letters, art, or science among these little dealers, how noble in him to support the feeble sisters on such majestic crutches! so goes the wintry day outside the dedlock mansion. how within it? sir leicester, lying in his bed, can speak a little, though with difficulty and indistinctness. he is enjoined to silence and to rest, and they have given him some opiate to lull his pain, for his old enemy is very hard with him. he is never asleep, though sometimes he seems to fall into a dull waking doze. he caused his bedstead to be moved out nearer to the window when he heard it was such inclement weather, and his head to be so adjusted that he could see the driving snow and sleet. he watches it as it falls, throughout the whole wintry day. upon the least noise in the house, which is kept hushed, his hand is at the pencil. the old housekeeper, sitting by him, knows what he would write and whispers, "no, he has not come back yet, sir leicester. it was late last night when he went. he has been but a little time gone yet." he withdraws his hand and falls to looking at the sleet and snow again until they seem, by being long looked at, to fall so thick and fast that he is obliged to close his eyes for a minute on the giddy whirl of white flakes and icy blots. he began to look at them as soon as it was light. the day is not yet far spent when he conceives it to be necessary that her rooms should be prepared for her. it is very cold and wet. let there be good fires. let them know that she is expected. please see to it yourself. he writes to this purpose on his slate, and mrs. rouncewell with a heavy heart obeys. "for i dread, george," the old lady says to her son, who waits below to keep her company when she has a little leisure, "i dread, my dear, that my lady will never more set foot within these walls." "that's a bad presentiment, mother." "nor yet within the walls of chesney wold, my dear." "that's worse. but why, mother?" "when i saw my lady yesterday, george, she looked to me--and i may say at me too--as if the step on the ghost's walk had almost walked her down." "come, come! you alarm yourself with old-story fears, mother." "no i don't, my dear. no i don't. it's going on for sixty year that i have been in this family, and i never had any fears for it before. but it's breaking up, my dear; the great old dedlock family is breaking up." "i hope not, mother." "i am thankful i have lived long enough to be with sir leicester in this illness and trouble, for i know i am not too old nor too useless to be a welcomer sight to him than anybody else in my place would be. but the step on the ghost's walk will walk my lady down, george; it has been many a day behind her, and now it will pass her and go on." "well, mother dear, i say again, i hope not." "ah, so do i, george," the old lady returns, shaking her head and parting her folded hands. "but if my fears come true, and he has to know it, who will tell him!" "are these her rooms?" "these are my lady's rooms, just as she left them." "why, now," says the trooper, glancing round him and speaking in a lower voice, "i begin to understand how you come to think as you do think, mother. rooms get an awful look about them when they are fitted up, like these, for one person you are used to see in them, and that person is away under any shadow, let alone being god knows where." he is not far out. as all partings foreshadow the great final one, so, empty rooms, bereft of a familiar presence, mournfully whisper what your room and what mine must one day be. my lady's state has a hollow look, thus gloomy and abandoned; and in the inner apartment, where mr. bucket last night made his secret perquisition, the traces of her dresses and her ornaments, even the mirrors accustomed to reflect them when they were a portion of herself, have a desolate and vacant air. dark and cold as the wintry day is, it is darker and colder in these deserted chambers than in many a hut that will barely exclude the weather; and though the servants heap fires in the grates and set the couches and the chairs within the warm glass screens that let their ruddy light shoot through to the furthest corners, there is a heavy cloud upon the rooms which no light will dispel. the old housekeeper and her son remain until the preparations are complete, and then she returns upstairs. volumnia has taken mrs. rouncewell's place in the meantime, though pearl necklaces and rouge pots, however calculated to embellish bath, are but indifferent comforts to the invalid under present circumstances. volumnia, not being supposed to know (and indeed not knowing) what is the matter, has found it a ticklish task to offer appropriate observations and consequently has supplied their place with distracting smoothings of the bed-linen, elaborate locomotion on tiptoe, vigilant peeping at her kinsman's eyes, and one exasperating whisper to herself of, "he is asleep." in disproof of which superfluous remark sir leicester has indignantly written on the slate, "i am not." yielding, therefore, the chair at the bedside to the quaint old housekeeper, volumnia sits at a table a little removed, sympathetically sighing. sir leicester watches the sleet and snow and listens for the returning steps that he expects. in the ears of his old servant, looking as if she had stepped out of an old picture-frame to attend a summoned dedlock to another world, the silence is fraught with echoes of her own words, "who will tell him!" he has been under his valet's hands this morning to be made presentable and is as well got up as the circumstances will allow. he is propped with pillows, his grey hair is brushed in its usual manner, his linen is arranged to a nicety, and he is wrapped in a responsible dressing-gown. his eye-glass and his watch are ready to his hand. it is necessary--less to his own dignity now perhaps than for her sake--that he should be seen as little disturbed and as much himself as may be. women will talk, and volumnia, though a dedlock, is no exceptional case. he keeps her here, there is little doubt, to prevent her talking somewhere else. he is very ill, but he makes his present stand against distress of mind and body most courageously. the fair volumnia, being one of those sprightly girls who cannot long continue silent without imminent peril of seizure by the dragon boredom, soon indicates the approach of that monster with a series of undisguisable yawns. finding it impossible to suppress those yawns by any other process than conversation, she compliments mrs. rouncewell on her son, declaring that he positively is one of the finest figures she ever saw and as soldierly a looking person, she should think, as what's his name, her favourite life guardsman--the man she dotes on, the dearest of creatures--who was killed at waterloo. sir leicester hears this tribute with so much surprise and stares about him in such a confused way that mrs. rouncewell feels it necessary to explain. "miss dedlock don't speak of my eldest son, sir leicester, but my youngest. i have found him. he has come home." sir leicester breaks silence with a harsh cry. "george? your son george come home, mrs. rouncewell?" the old housekeeper wipes her eyes. "thank god. yes, sir leicester." does this discovery of some one lost, this return of some one so long gone, come upon him as a strong confirmation of his hopes? does he think, "shall i not, with the aid i have, recall her safely after this, there being fewer hours in her case than there are years in his?" it is of no use entreating him; he is determined to speak now, and he does. in a thick crowd of sounds, but still intelligibly enough to be understood. "why did you not tell me, mrs. rouncewell?" "it happened only yesterday, sir leicester, and i doubted your being well enough to be talked to of such things." besides, the giddy volumnia now remembers with her little scream that nobody was to have known of his being mrs. rouncewell's son and that she was not to have told. but mrs. rouncewell protests, with warmth enough to swell the stomacher, that of course she would have told sir leicester as soon as he got better. "where is your son george, mrs. rouncewell?" asks sir leicester, mrs. rouncewell, not a little alarmed by his disregard of the doctor's injunctions, replies, in london. "where in london?" mrs. rouncewell is constrained to admit that he is in the house. "bring him here to my room. bring him directly." the old lady can do nothing but go in search of him. sir leicester, with such power of movement as he has, arranges himself a little to receive him. when he has done so, he looks out again at the falling sleet and snow and listens again for the returning steps. a quantity of straw has been tumbled down in the street to deaden the noises there, and she might be driven to the door perhaps without his hearing wheels. he is lying thus, apparently forgetful of his newer and minor surprise, when the housekeeper returns, accompanied by her trooper son. mr. george approaches softly to the bedside, makes his bow, squares his chest, and stands, with his face flushed, very heartily ashamed of himself. "good heaven, and it is really george rouncewell!" exclaims sir leicester. "do you remember me, george?" the trooper needs to look at him and to separate this sound from that sound before he knows what he has said, but doing this and being a little helped by his mother, he replies, "i must have a very bad memory, indeed, sir leicester, if i failed to remember you." "when i look at you, george rouncewell," sir leicester observes with difficulty, "i see something of a boy at chesney wold--i remember well--very well." he looks at the trooper until tears come into his eyes, and then he looks at the sleet and snow again. "i ask your pardon, sir leicester," says the trooper, "but would you accept of my arms to raise you up? you would lie easier, sir leicester, if you would allow me to move you." "if you please, george rouncewell; if you will be so good." the trooper takes him in his arms like a child, lightly raises him, and turns him with his face more towards the window. "thank you. you have your mother's gentleness," returns sir leicester, "and your own strength. thank you." he signs to him with his hand not to go away. george quietly remains at the bedside, waiting to be spoken to. "why did you wish for secrecy?" it takes sir leicester some time to ask this. "truly i am not much to boast of, sir leicester, and i--i should still, sir leicester, if you was not so indisposed--which i hope you will not be long--i should still hope for the favour of being allowed to remain unknown in general. that involves explanations not very hard to be guessed at, not very well timed here, and not very creditable to myself. however opinions may differ on a variety of subjects, i should think it would be universally agreed, sir leicester, that i am not much to boast of." "you have been a soldier," observes sir leicester, "and a faithful one." george makes his military bow. "as far as that goes, sir leicester, i have done my duty under discipline, and it was the least i could do." "you find me," says sir leicester, whose eyes are much attracted towards him, "far from well, george rouncewell." "i am very sorry both to hear it and to see it, sir leicester." "i am sure you are. no. in addition to my older malady, i have had a sudden and bad attack. something that deadens," making an endeavour to pass one hand down one side, "and confuses," touching his lips. george, with a look of assent and sympathy, makes another bow. the different times when they were both young men (the trooper much the younger of the two) and looked at one another down at chesney wold arise before them both and soften both. sir leicester, evidently with a great determination to say, in his own manner, something that is on his mind before relapsing into silence, tries to raise himself among his pillows a little more. george, observant of the action, takes him in his arms again and places him as he desires to be. "thank you, george. you are another self to me. you have often carried my spare gun at chesney wold, george. you are familiar to me in these strange circumstances, very familiar." he has put sir leicester's sounder arm over his shoulder in lifting him up, and sir leicester is slow in drawing it away again as he says these words. "i was about to add," he presently goes on, "i was about to add, respecting this attack, that it was unfortunately simultaneous with a slight misunderstanding between my lady and myself. i do not mean that there was any difference between us (for there has been none), but that there was a misunderstanding of certain circumstances important only to ourselves, which deprives me, for a little while, of my lady's society. she has found it necessary to make a journey--i trust will shortly return. volumnia, do i make myself intelligible? the words are not quite under my command in the manner of pronouncing them." volumnia understands him perfectly, and in truth he delivers himself with far greater plainness than could have been supposed possible a minute ago. the effort by which he does so is written in the anxious and labouring expression of his face. nothing but the strength of his purpose enables him to make it. "therefore, volumnia, i desire to say in your presence--and in the presence of my old retainer and friend, mrs. rouncewell, whose truth and fidelity no one can question, and in the presence of her son george, who comes back like a familiar recollection of my youth in the home of my ancestors at chesney wold--in case i should relapse, in case i should not recover, in case i should lose both my speech and the power of writing, though i hope for better things--" the old housekeeper weeping silently; volumnia in the greatest agitation, with the freshest bloom on her cheeks; the trooper with his arms folded and his head a little bent, respectfully attentive. "therefore i desire to say, and to call you all to witness--beginning, volumnia, with yourself, most solemnly--that i am on unaltered terms with lady dedlock. that i assert no cause whatever of complaint against her. that i have ever had the strongest affection for her, and that i retain it undiminished. say this to herself, and to every one. if you ever say less than this, you will be guilty of deliberate falsehood to me." volumnia tremblingly protests that she will observe his injunctions to the letter. "my lady is too high in position, too handsome, too accomplished, too superior in most respects to the best of those by whom she is surrounded, not to have her enemies and traducers, i dare say. let it be known to them, as i make it known to you, that being of sound mind, memory, and understanding, i revoke no disposition i have made in her favour. i abridge nothing i have ever bestowed upon her. i am on unaltered terms with her, and i recall--having the full power to do it if i were so disposed, as you see--no act i have done for her advantage and happiness." his formal array of words might have at any other time, as it has often had, something ludicrous in it, but at this time it is serious and affecting. his noble earnestness, his fidelity, his gallant shielding of her, his generous conquest of his own wrong and his own pride for her sake, are simply honourable, manly, and true. nothing less worthy can be seen through the lustre of such qualities in the commonest mechanic, nothing less worthy can be seen in the best-born gentleman. in such a light both aspire alike, both rise alike, both children of the dust shine equally. overpowered by his exertions, he lays his head back on his pillows and closes his eyes for not more than a minute, when he again resumes his watching of the weather and his attention to the muffled sounds. in the rendering of those little services, and in the manner of their acceptance, the trooper has become installed as necessary to him. nothing has been said, but it is quite understood. he falls a step or two backward to be out of sight and mounts guard a little behind his mother's chair. the day is now beginning to decline. the mist and the sleet into which the snow has all resolved itself are darker, and the blaze begins to tell more vividly upon the room walls and furniture. the gloom augments; the bright gas springs up in the streets; and the pertinacious oil lamps which yet hold their ground there, with their source of life half frozen and half thawed, twinkle gaspingly like fiery fish out of water--as they are. the world, which has been rumbling over the straw and pulling at the bell, "to inquire," begins to go home, begins to dress, to dine, to discuss its dear friend with all the last new modes, as already mentioned. now does sir leicester become worse, restless, uneasy, and in great pain. volumnia, lighting a candle (with a predestined aptitude for doing something objectionable), is bidden to put it out again, for it is not yet dark enough. yet it is very dark too, as dark as it will be all night. by and by she tries again. no! put it out. it is not dark enough yet. his old housekeeper is the first to understand that he is striving to uphold the fiction with himself that it is not growing late. "dear sir leicester, my honoured master," she softly whispers, "i must, for your own good, and my duty, take the freedom of begging and praying that you will not lie here in the lone darkness watching and waiting and dragging through the time. let me draw the curtains, and light the candles, and make things more comfortable about you. the church-clocks will strike the hours just the same, sir leicester, and the night will pass away just the same. my lady will come back, just the same." "i know it, mrs. rouncewell, but i am weak--and she has been so long gone." "not so very long, sir leicester. not twenty-four hours yet." "but that is a long time. oh, it is a long time!" he says it with a groan that wrings her heart. she knows that this is not a period for bringing the rough light upon him; she thinks his tears too sacred to be seen, even by her. therefore she sits in the darkness for a while without a word, then gently begins to move about, now stirring the fire, now standing at the dark window looking out. finally he tells her, with recovered self-command, "as you say, mrs. rouncewell, it is no worse for being confessed. it is getting late, and they are not come. light the room!" when it is lighted and the weather shut out, it is only left to him to listen. but they find that however dejected and ill he is, he brightens when a quiet pretence is made of looking at the fires in her rooms and being sure that everything is ready to receive her. poor pretence as it is, these allusions to her being expected keep up hope within him. midnight comes, and with it the same blank. the carriages in the streets are few, and other late sounds in that neighbourhood there are none, unless a man so very nomadically drunk as to stray into the frigid zone goes brawling and bellowing along the pavement. upon this wintry night it is so still that listening to the intense silence is like looking at intense darkness. if any distant sound be audible in this case, it departs through the gloom like a feeble light in that, and all is heavier than before. the corporation of servants are dismissed to bed (not unwilling to go, for they were up all last night), and only mrs. rouncewell and george keep watch in sir leicester's room. as the night lags tardily on--or rather when it seems to stop altogether, at between two and three o'clock--they find a restless craving on him to know more about the weather, now he cannot see it. hence george, patrolling regularly every half-hour to the rooms so carefully looked after, extends his march to the hall-door, looks about him, and brings back the best report he can make of the worst of nights, the sleet still falling and even the stone footways lying ankle-deep in icy sludge. volumnia, in her room up a retired landing on the staircase--the second turning past the end of the carving and gilding, a cousinly room containing a fearful abortion of a portrait of sir leicester banished for its crimes, and commanding in the day a solemn yard planted with dried-up shrubs like antediluvian specimens of black tea--is a prey to horrors of many kinds. not last nor least among them, possibly, is a horror of what may befall her little income in the event, as she expresses it, "of anything happening" to sir leicester. anything, in this sense, meaning one thing only; and that the last thing that can happen to the consciousness of any baronet in the known world. an effect of these horrors is that volumnia finds she cannot go to bed in her own room or sit by the fire in her own room, but must come forth with her fair head tied up in a profusion of shawl, and her fair form enrobed in drapery, and parade the mansion like a ghost, particularly haunting the rooms, warm and luxurious, prepared for one who still does not return. solitude under such circumstances being not to be thought of, volumnia is attended by her maid, who, impressed from her own bed for that purpose, extremely cold, very sleepy, and generally an injured maid as condemned by circumstances to take office with a cousin, when she had resolved to be maid to nothing less than ten thousand a year, has not a sweet expression of countenance. the periodical visits of the trooper to these rooms, however, in the course of his patrolling is an assurance of protection and company both to mistress and maid, which renders them very acceptable in the small hours of the night. whenever he is heard advancing, they both make some little decorative preparation to receive him; at other times they divide their watches into short scraps of oblivion and dialogues not wholly free from acerbity, as to whether miss dedlock, sitting with her feet upon the fender, was or was not falling into the fire when rescued (to her great displeasure) by her guardian genius the maid. "how is sir leicester now, mr. george?" inquires volumnia, adjusting her cowl over her head. "why, sir leicester is much the same, miss. he is very low and ill, and he even wanders a little sometimes." "has he asked for me?" inquires volumnia tenderly. "why, no, i can't say he has, miss. not within my hearing, that is to say." "this is a truly sad time, mr. george." "it is indeed, miss. hadn't you better go to bed?" "you had a deal better go to bed, miss dedlock," quoth the maid sharply. but volumnia answers no! no! she may be asked for, she may be wanted at a moment's notice. she never should forgive herself "if anything was to happen" and she was not on the spot. she declines to enter on the question, mooted by the maid, how the spot comes to be there, and not in her room (which is nearer to sir leicester's), but staunchly declares that on the spot she will remain. volumnia further makes a merit of not having "closed an eye"--as if she had twenty or thirty--though it is hard to reconcile this statement with her having most indisputably opened two within five minutes. but when it comes to four o'clock, and still the same blank, volumnia's constancy begins to fail her, or rather it begins to strengthen, for she now considers that it is her duty to be ready for the morrow, when much may be expected of her, that, in fact, howsoever anxious to remain upon the spot, it may be required of her, as an act of self-devotion, to desert the spot. so when the trooper reappears with his, "hadn't you better go to bed, miss?" and when the maid protests, more sharply than before, "you had a deal better go to bed, miss dedlock!" she meekly rises and says, "do with me what you think best!" mr. george undoubtedly thinks it best to escort her on his arm to the door of her cousinly chamber, and the maid as undoubtedly thinks it best to hustle her into bed with mighty little ceremony. accordingly, these steps are taken; and now the trooper, in his rounds, has the house to himself. there is no improvement in the weather. from the portico, from the eaves, from the parapet, from every ledge and post and pillar, drips the thawed snow. it has crept, as if for shelter, into the lintels of the great door--under it, into the corners of the windows, into every chink and crevice of retreat, and there wastes and dies. it is falling still; upon the roof, upon the skylight, even through the skylight, and drip, drip, drip, with the regularity of the ghost's walk, on the stone floor below. the trooper, his old recollections awakened by the solitary grandeur of a great house--no novelty to him once at chesney wold--goes up the stairs and through the chief rooms, holding up his light at arm's length. thinking of his varied fortunes within the last few weeks, and of his rustic boyhood, and of the two periods of his life so strangely brought together across the wide intermediate space; thinking of the murdered man whose image is fresh in his mind; thinking of the lady who has disappeared from these very rooms and the tokens of whose recent presence are all here; thinking of the master of the house upstairs and of the foreboding, "who will tell him!" he looks here and looks there, and reflects how he might see something now, which it would tax his boldness to walk up to, lay his hand upon, and prove to be a fancy. but it is all blank, blank as the darkness above and below, while he goes up the great staircase again, blank as the oppressive silence. "all is still in readiness, george rouncewell?" "quite orderly and right, sir leicester." "no word of any kind?" the trooper shakes his head. "no letter that can possibly have been overlooked?" but he knows there is no such hope as that and lays his head down without looking for an answer. very familiar to him, as he said himself some hours ago, george rouncewell lifts him into easier positions through the long remainder of the blank wintry night, and equally familiar with his unexpressed wish, extinguishes the light and undraws the curtains at the first late break of day. the day comes like a phantom. cold, colourless, and vague, it sends a warning streak before it of a deathlike hue, as if it cried out, "look what i am bringing you who watch there! who will tell him!" chapter lix esther's narrative it was three o'clock in the morning when the houses outside london did at last begin to exclude the country and to close us in with streets. we had made our way along roads in a far worse condition than when we had traversed them by daylight, both the fall and the thaw having lasted ever since; but the energy of my companion never slackened. it had only been, as i thought, of less assistance than the horses in getting us on, and it had often aided them. they had stopped exhausted half-way up hills, they had been driven through streams of turbulent water, they had slipped down and become entangled with the harness; but he and his little lantern had been always ready, and when the mishap was set right, i had never heard any variation in his cool, "get on, my lads!" the steadiness and confidence with which he had directed our journey back i could not account for. never wavering, he never even stopped to make an inquiry until we were within a few miles of london. a very few words, here and there, were then enough for him; and thus we came, at between three and four o'clock in the morning, into islington. i will not dwell on the suspense and anxiety with which i reflected all this time that we were leaving my mother farther and farther behind every minute. i think i had some strong hope that he must be right and could not fail to have a satisfactory object in following this woman, but i tormented myself with questioning it and discussing it during the whole journey. what was to ensue when we found her and what could compensate us for this loss of time were questions also that i could not possibly dismiss; my mind was quite tortured by long dwelling on such reflections when we stopped. we stopped in a high-street where there was a coach-stand. my companion paid our two drivers, who were as completely covered with splashes as if they had been dragged along the roads like the carriage itself, and giving them some brief direction where to take it, lifted me out of it and into a hackney-coach he had chosen from the rest. "why, my dear!" he said as he did this. "how wet you are!" i had not been conscious of it. but the melted snow had found its way into the carriage, and i had got out two or three times when a fallen horse was plunging and had to be got up, and the wet had penetrated my dress. i assured him it was no matter, but the driver, who knew him, would not be dissuaded by me from running down the street to his stable, whence he brought an armful of clean dry straw. they shook it out and strewed it well about me, and i found it warm and comfortable. "now, my dear," said mr. bucket, with his head in at the window after i was shut up. "we're a-going to mark this person down. it may take a little time, but you don't mind that. you're pretty sure that i've got a motive. ain't you?" i little thought what it was, little thought in how short a time i should understand it better, but i assured him that i had confidence in him. "so you may have, my dear," he returned. "and i tell you what! if you only repose half as much confidence in me as i repose in you after what i've experienced of you, that'll do. lord! you're no trouble at all. i never see a young woman in any station of society--and i've seen many elevated ones too--conduct herself like you have conducted yourself since you was called out of your bed. you're a pattern, you know, that's what you are," said mr. bucket warmly; "you're a pattern." i told him i was very glad, as indeed i was, to have been no hindrance to him, and that i hoped i should be none now. "my dear," he returned, "when a young lady is as mild as she's game, and as game as she's mild, that's all i ask, and more than i expect. she then becomes a queen, and that's about what you are yourself." with these encouraging words--they really were encouraging to me under those lonely and anxious circumstances--he got upon the box, and we once more drove away. where we drove i neither knew then nor have ever known since, but we appeared to seek out the narrowest and worst streets in london. whenever i saw him directing the driver, i was prepared for our descending into a deeper complication of such streets, and we never failed to do so. sometimes we emerged upon a wider thoroughfare or came to a larger building than the generality, well lighted. then we stopped at offices like those we had visited when we began our journey, and i saw him in consultation with others. sometimes he would get down by an archway or at a street corner and mysteriously show the light of his little lantern. this would attract similar lights from various dark quarters, like so many insects, and a fresh consultation would be held. by degrees we appeared to contract our search within narrower and easier limits. single police-officers on duty could now tell mr. bucket what he wanted to know and point to him where to go. at last we stopped for a rather long conversation between him and one of these men, which i supposed to be satisfactory from his manner of nodding from time to time. when it was finished he came to me looking very busy and very attentive. "now, miss summerson," he said to me, "you won't be alarmed whatever comes off, i know. it's not necessary for me to give you any further caution than to tell you that we have marked this person down and that you may be of use to me before i know it myself. i don't like to ask such a thing, my dear, but would you walk a little way?" of course i got out directly and took his arm. "it ain't so easy to keep your feet," said mr. bucket, "but take time." although i looked about me confusedly and hurriedly as we crossed the street, i thought i knew the place. "are we in holborn?" i asked him. "yes," said mr. bucket. "do you know this turning?" "it looks like chancery lane." "and was christened so, my dear," said mr. bucket. we turned down it, and as we went shuffling through the sleet, i heard the clocks strike half-past five. we passed on in silence and as quickly as we could with such a foot-hold, when some one coming towards us on the narrow pavement, wrapped in a cloak, stopped and stood aside to give me room. in the same moment i heard an exclamation of wonder and my own name from mr. woodcourt. i knew his voice very well. it was so unexpected and so--i don't know what to call it, whether pleasant or painful--to come upon it after my feverish wandering journey, and in the midst of the night, that i could not keep back the tears from my eyes. it was like hearing his voice in a strange country. "my dear miss summerson, that you should be out at this hour, and in such weather!" he had heard from my guardian of my having been called away on some uncommon business and said so to dispense with any explanation. i told him that we had but just left a coach and were going--but then i was obliged to look at my companion. "why, you see, mr. woodcourt"--he had caught the name from me--"we are a-going at present into the next street. inspector bucket." mr. woodcourt, disregarding my remonstrances, had hurriedly taken off his cloak and was putting it about me. "that's a good move, too," said mr. bucket, assisting, "a very good move." "may i go with you?" said mr. woodcourt. i don't know whether to me or to my companion. "why, lord!" exclaimed mr. bucket, taking the answer on himself. "of course you may." it was all said in a moment, and they took me between them, wrapped in the cloak. "i have just left richard," said mr. woodcourt. "i have been sitting with him since ten o'clock last night." "oh, dear me, he is ill!" "no, no, believe me; not ill, but not quite well. he was depressed and faint--you know he gets so worried and so worn sometimes--and ada sent to me of course; and when i came home i found her note and came straight here. well! richard revived so much after a little while, and ada was so happy and so convinced of its being my doing, though god knows i had little enough to do with it, that i remained with him until he had been fast asleep some hours. as fast asleep as she is now, i hope!" his friendly and familiar way of speaking of them, his unaffected devotion to them, the grateful confidence with which i knew he had inspired my darling, and the comfort he was to her; could i separate all this from his promise to me? how thankless i must have been if it had not recalled the words he said to me when he was so moved by the change in my appearance: "i will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!" we now turned into another narrow street. "mr. woodcourt," said mr. bucket, who had eyed him closely as we came along, "our business takes us to a law-stationer's here, a certain mr. snagsby's. what, you know him, do you?" he was so quick that he saw it in an instant. "yes, i know a little of him and have called upon him at this place." "indeed, sir?" said mr. bucket. "then you will be so good as to let me leave miss summerson with you for a moment while i go and have half a word with him?" the last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standing silently behind us. i was not aware of it until he struck in on my saying i heard some one crying. "don't be alarmed, miss," he returned. "it's snagsby's servant." "why, you see," said mr. bucket, "the girl's subject to fits, and has 'em bad upon her to-night. a most contrary circumstance it is, for i want certain information out of that girl, and she must be brought to reason somehow." "at all events, they wouldn't be up yet if it wasn't for her, mr. bucket," said the other man. "she's been at it pretty well all night, sir." "well, that's true," he returned. "my light's burnt out. show yours a moment." all this passed in a whisper a door or two from the house in which i could faintly hear crying and moaning. in the little round of light produced for the purpose, mr. bucket went up to the door and knocked. the door was opened after he had knocked twice, and he went in, leaving us standing in the street. "miss summerson," said mr. woodcourt, "if without obtruding myself on your confidence i may remain near you, pray let me do so." "you are truly kind," i answered. "i need wish to keep no secret of my own from you; if i keep any, it is another's." "i quite understand. trust me, i will remain near you only so long as i can fully respect it." "i trust implicitly to you," i said. "i know and deeply feel how sacredly you keep your promise." after a short time the little round of light shone out again, and mr. bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face. "please to come in, miss summerson," he said, "and sit down by the fire. mr. woodcourt, from information i have received i understand you are a medical man. would you look to this girl and see if anything can be done to bring her round. she has a letter somewhere that i particularly want. it's not in her box, and i think it must be about her; but she is so twisted and clenched up that she is difficult to handle without hurting." we all three went into the house together; although it was cold and raw, it smelt close too from being up all night. in the passage behind the door stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man in a grey coat who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spoke meekly. "downstairs, if you please, mr. bucket," said he. "the lady will excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room. the back is guster's bedroom, and in it she's a-carrying on, poor thing, to a frightful extent!" we went downstairs, followed by mr. snagsby, as i soon found the little man to be. in the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, was mrs. snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression of face. "my little woman," said mr. snagsby, entering behind us, "to wave--not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear--hostilities for one single moment in the course of this prolonged night, here is inspector bucket, mr. woodcourt, and a lady." she looked very much astonished, as she had reason for doing, and looked particularly hard at me. "my little woman," said mr. snagsby, sitting down in the remotest corner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, "it is not unlikely that you may inquire of me why inspector bucket, mr. woodcourt, and a lady call upon us in cook's court, cursitor street, at the present hour. i don't know. i have not the least idea. if i was to be informed, i should despair of understanding, and i'd rather not be told." he appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand, and i appeared so unwelcome, that i was going to offer an apology when mr. bucket took the matter on himself. "now, mr. snagsby," said he, "the best thing you can do is to go along with mr. woodcourt to look after your guster--" "my guster, mr. bucket!" cried mr. snagsby. "go on, sir, go on. i shall be charged with that next." "and to hold the candle," pursued mr. bucket without correcting himself, "or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you're asked. which there's not a man alive more ready to do, for you're a man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you've got the sort of heart that can feel for another. mr. woodcourt, would you be so good as see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, to let me have it as soon as ever you can?" as they went out, mr. bucket made me sit down in a corner by the fire and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry upon the fender, talking all the time. "don't you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable look from mrs. snagsby there, because she's under a mistake altogether. she'll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a lady of her generally correct manner of forming her thoughts, because i'm a-going to explain it to her." here, standing on the hearth with his wet hat and shawls in his hand, himself a pile of wet, he turned to mrs. snagsby. "now, the first thing that i say to you, as a married woman possessing what you may call charms, you know--'believe me, if all those endearing,' and cetrer--you're well acquainted with the song, because it's in vain for you to tell me that you and good society are strangers--charms--attractions, mind you, that ought to give you confidence in yourself--is, that you've done it." mrs. snagsby looked rather alarmed, relented a little and faltered, what did mr. bucket mean. "what does mr. bucket mean?" he repeated, and i saw by his face that all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery of the letter, to my own great agitation, for i knew then how important it must be; "i'll tell you what he means, ma'am. go and see othello acted. that's the tragedy for you." mrs. snagsby consciously asked why. "why?" said mr. bucket. "because you'll come to that if you don't look out. why, at the very moment while i speak, i know what your mind's not wholly free from respecting this young lady. but shall i tell you who this young lady is? now, come, you're what i call an intellectual woman--with your soul too large for your body, if you come to that, and chafing it--and you know me, and you recollect where you saw me last, and what was talked of in that circle. don't you? yes! very well. this young lady is that young lady." mrs. snagsby appeared to understand the reference better than i did at the time. "and toughey--him as you call jo--was mixed up in the same business, and no other; and the law-writer that you know of was mixed up in the same business, and no other; and your husband, with no more knowledge of it than your great grandfather, was mixed up (by mr. tulkinghorn, deceased, his best customer) in the same business, and no other; and the whole bileing of people was mixed up in the same business, and no other. and yet a married woman, possessing your attractions, shuts her eyes (and sparklers too), and goes and runs her delicate-formed head against a wall. why, i am ashamed of you! (i expected mr. woodcourt might have got it by this time.)" mrs. snagsby shook her head and put her handkerchief to her eyes. "is that all?" said mr. bucket excitedly. "no. see what happens. another person mixed up in that business and no other, a person in a wretched state, comes here to-night and is seen a-speaking to your maid-servant; and between her and your maid-servant there passes a paper that i would give a hundred pound for, down. what do you do? you hide and you watch 'em, and you pounce upon that maid-servant--knowing what she's subject to and what a little thing will bring 'em on--in that surprising manner and with that severity that, by the lord, she goes off and keeps off, when a life may be hanging upon that girl's words!" he so thoroughly meant what he said now that i involuntarily clasped my hands and felt the room turning away from me. but it stopped. mr. woodcourt came in, put a paper into his hand, and went away again. "now, mrs. snagsby, the only amends you can make," said mr. bucket, rapidly glancing at it, "is to let me speak a word to this young lady in private here. and if you know of any help that you can give to that gentleman in the next kitchen there or can think of any one thing that's likelier than another to bring the girl round, do your swiftest and best!" in an instant she was gone, and he had shut the door. "now my dear, you're steady and quite sure of yourself?" "quite," said i. "whose writing is that?" it was my mother's. a pencil-writing, on a crushed and torn piece of paper, blotted with wet. folded roughly like a letter, and directed to me at my guardian's. "you know the hand," he said, "and if you are firm enough to read it to me, do! but be particular to a word." it had been written in portions, at different times. i read what follows: i came to the cottage with two objects. first, to see the dear one, if i could, once more--but only to see her--not to speak to her or let her know that i was near. the other object, to elude pursuit and to be lost. do not blame the mother for her share. the assistance that she rendered me, she rendered on my strongest assurance that it was for the dear one's good. you remember her dead child. the men's consent i bought, but her help was freely given. "'i came.' that was written," said my companion, "when she rested there. it bears out what i made of it. i was right." the next was written at another time: i have wandered a long distance, and for many hours, and i know that i must soon die. these streets! i have no purpose but to die. when i left, i had a worse, but i am saved from adding that guilt to the rest. cold, wet, and fatigue are sufficient causes for my being found dead, but i shall die of others, though i suffer from these. it was right that all that had sustained me should give way at once and that i should die of terror and my conscience. "take courage," said mr. bucket. "there's only a few words more." those, too, were written at another time. to all appearance, almost in the dark: i have done all i could do to be lost. i shall be soon forgotten so, and shall disgrace him least. i have nothing about me by which i can be recognized. this paper i part with now. the place where i shall lie down, if i can get so far, has been often in my mind. farewell. forgive. mr. bucket, supporting me with his arm, lowered me gently into my chair. "cheer up! don't think me hard with you, my dear, but as soon as ever you feel equal to it, get your shoes on and be ready." i did as he required, but i was left there a long time, praying for my unhappy mother. they were all occupied with the poor girl, and i heard mr. woodcourt directing them and speaking to her often. at length he came in with mr. bucket and said that as it was important to address her gently, he thought it best that i should ask her for whatever information we desired to obtain. there was no doubt that she could now reply to questions if she were soothed and not alarmed. the questions, mr. bucket said, were how she came by the letter, what passed between her and the person who gave her the letter, and where the person went. holding my mind as steadily as i could to these points, i went into the next room with them. mr. woodcourt would have remained outside, but at my solicitation went in with us. the poor girl was sitting on the floor where they had laid her down. they stood around her, though at a little distance, that she might have air. she was not pretty and looked weak and poor, but she had a plaintive and a good face, though it was still a little wild. i kneeled on the ground beside her and put her poor head upon my shoulder, whereupon she drew her arm round my neck and burst into tears. "my poor girl," said i, laying my face against her forehead, for indeed i was crying too, and trembling, "it seems cruel to trouble you now, but more depends on our knowing something about this letter than i could tell you in an hour." she began piteously declaring that she didn't mean any harm, she didn't mean any harm, mrs. snagsby! "we are all sure of that," said i. "but pray tell me how you got it." "yes, dear lady, i will, and tell you true. i'll tell true, indeed, mrs. snagsby." "i am sure of that," said i. "and how was it?" "i had been out on an errand, dear lady--long after it was dark--quite late; and when i came home, i found a common-looking person, all wet and muddy, looking up at our house. when she saw me coming in at the door, she called me back and said did i live here. and i said yes, and she said she knew only one or two places about here, but had lost her way and couldn't find them. oh, what shall i do, what shall i do! they won't believe me! she didn't say any harm to me, and i didn't say any harm to her, indeed, mrs. snagsby!" it was necessary for her mistress to comfort her--which she did, i must say, with a good deal of contrition--before she could be got beyond this. "she could not find those places," said i. "no!" cried the girl, shaking her head. "no! couldn't find them. and she was so faint, and lame, and miserable, oh so wretched, that if you had seen her, mr. snagsby, you'd have given her half a crown, i know!" "well, guster, my girl," said he, at first not knowing what to say. "i hope i should." "and yet she was so well spoken," said the girl, looking at me with wide open eyes, "that it made a person's heart bleed. and so she said to me, did i know the way to the burying ground? and i asked her which burying ground. and she said, the poor burying ground. and so i told her i had been a poor child myself, and it was according to parishes. but she said she meant a poor burying ground not very far from here, where there was an archway, and a step, and an iron gate." as i watched her face and soothed her to go on, i saw that mr. bucket received this with a look which i could not separate from one of alarm. "oh, dear, dear!" cried the girl, pressing her hair back with her hands. "what shall i do, what shall i do! she meant the burying ground where the man was buried that took the sleeping-stuff--that you came home and told us of, mr. snagsby--that frightened me so, mrs. snagsby. oh, i am frightened again. hold me!" "you are so much better now," sald i. "pray, pray tell me more." "yes i will, yes i will! but don't be angry with me, that's a dear lady, because i have been so ill." angry with her, poor soul! "there! now i will, now i will. so she said, could i tell her how to find it, and i said yes, and i told her; and she looked at me with eyes like almost as if she was blind, and herself all waving back. and so she took out the letter, and showed it me, and said if she was to put that in the post-office, it would be rubbed out and not minded and never sent; and would i take it from her, and send it, and the messenger would be paid at the house. and so i said yes, if it was no harm, and she said no--no harm. and so i took it from her, and she said she had nothing to give me, and i said i was poor myself and consequently wanted nothing. and so she said god bless you, and went." "and did she go--" "yes," cried the girl, anticipating the inquiry. "yes! she went the way i had shown her. then i came in, and mrs. snagsby came behind me from somewhere and laid hold of me, and i was frightened." mr. woodcourt took her kindly from me. mr. bucket wrapped me up, and immediately we were in the street. mr. woodcourt hesitated, but i said, "don't leave me now!" and mr. bucket added, "you'll be better with us, we may want you; don't lose time!" i have the most confused impressions of that walk. i recollect that it was neither night nor day, that morning was dawning but the street-lamps were not yet put out, that the sleet was still falling and that all the ways were deep with it. i recollect a few chilled people passing in the streets. i recollect the wet house-tops, the clogged and bursting gutters and water-spouts, the mounds of blackened ice and snow over which we passed, the narrowness of the courts by which we went. at the same time i remember that the poor girl seemed to be yet telling her story audibly and plainly in my hearing, that i could feel her resting on my arm, that the stained house-fronts put on human shapes and looked at me, that great water-gates seemed to be opening and closing in my head or in the air, and that the unreal things were more substantial than the real. at last we stood under a dark and miserable covered way, where one lamp was burning over an iron gate and where the morning faintly struggled in. the gate was closed. beyond it was a burial ground--a dreadful spot in which the night was very slowly stirring, but where i could dimly see heaps of dishonoured graves and stones, hemmed in by filthy houses with a few dull lights in their windows and on whose walls a thick humidity broke out like a disease. on the step at the gate, drenched in the fearful wet of such a place, which oozed and splashed down everywhere, i saw, with a cry of pity and horror, a woman lying--jenny, the mother of the dead child. i ran forward, but they stopped me, and mr. woodcourt entreated me with the greatest earnestness, even with tears, before i went up to the figure to listen for an instant to what mr. bucket said. i did so, as i thought. i did so, as i am sure. "miss summerson, you'll understand me, if you think a moment. they changed clothes at the cottage." they changed clothes at the cottage. i could repeat the words in my mind, and i knew what they meant of themselves, but i attached no meaning to them in any other connexion. "and one returned," said mr. bucket, "and one went on. and the one that went on only went on a certain way agreed upon to deceive and then turned across country and went home. think a moment!" i could repeat this in my mind too, but i had not the least idea what it meant. i saw before me, lying on the step, the mother of the dead child. she lay there with one arm creeping round a bar of the iron gate and seeming to embrace it. she lay there, who had so lately spoken to my mother. she lay there, a distressed, unsheltered, senseless creature. she who had brought my mother's letter, who could give me the only clue to where my mother was; she, who was to guide us to rescue and save her whom we had sought so far, who had come to this condition by some means connected with my mother that i could not follow, and might be passing beyond our reach and help at that moment; she lay there, and they stopped me! i saw but did not comprehend the solemn and compassionate look in mr. woodcourt's face. i saw but did not comprehend his touching the other on the breast to keep him back. i saw him stand uncovered in the bitter air, with a reverence for something. but my understanding for all this was gone. i even heard it said between them, "shall she go?" "she had better go. her hands should be the first to touch her. they have a higher right than ours." i passed on to the gate and stooped down. i lifted the heavy head, put the long dank hair aside, and turned the face. and it was my mother, cold and dead. chapter lx perspective i proceed to other passages of my narrative. from the goodness of all about me i derived such consolation as i can never think of unmoved. i have already said so much of myself, and so much still remains, that i will not dwell upon my sorrow. i had an illness, but it was not a long one; and i would avoid even this mention of it if i could quite keep down the recollection of their sympathy. i proceed to other passages of my narrative. during the time of my illness, we were still in london, where mrs. woodcourt had come, on my guardian's invitation, to stay with us. when my guardian thought me well and cheerful enough to talk with him in our old way--though i could have done that sooner if he would have believed me--i resumed my work and my chair beside his. he had appointed the time himself, and we were alone. "dame trot," said he, receiving me with a kiss, "welcome to the growlery again, my dear. i have a scheme to develop, little woman. i propose to remain here, perhaps for six months, perhaps for a longer time--as it may be. quite to settle here for a while, in short." "and in the meanwhile leave bleak house?" said i. "aye, my dear? bleak house," he returned, "must learn to take care of itself." i thought his tone sounded sorrowful, but looking at him, i saw his kind face lighted up by its pleasantest smile. "bleak house," he repeated--and his tone did not sound sorrowful, i found--"must learn to take care of itself. it is a long way from ada, my dear, and ada stands much in need of you." "it's like you, guardian," said i, "to have been taking that into consideration for a happy surprise to both of us." "not so disinterested either, my dear, if you mean to extol me for that virtue, since if you were generally on the road, you could be seldom with me. and besides, i wish to hear as much and as often of ada as i can in this condition of estrangement from poor rick. not of her alone, but of him too, poor fellow." "have you seen mr. woodcourt, this morning, guardian?" "i see mr. woodcourt every morning, dame durden." "does he still say the same of richard?" "just the same. he knows of no direct bodily illness that he has; on the contrary, he believes that he has none. yet he is not easy about him; who can be?" my dear girl had been to see us lately every day, some times twice in a day. but we had foreseen, all along, that this would only last until i was quite myself. we knew full well that her fervent heart was as full of affection and gratitude towards her cousin john as it had ever been, and we acquitted richard of laying any injunctions upon her to stay away; but we knew on the other hand that she felt it a part of her duty to him to be sparing of her visits at our house. my guardian's delicacy had soon perceived this and had tried to convey to her that he thought she was right. "dear, unfortunate, mistaken richard," said i. "when will he awake from his delusion!" "he is not in the way to do so now, my dear," replied my guardian. "the more he suffers, the more averse he will be to me, having made me the principal representative of the great occasion of his suffering." i could not help adding, "so unreasonably!" "ah, dame trot, dame trot," returned my guardian, "what shall we find reasonable in jarndyce and jarndyce! unreason and injustice at the top, unreason and injustice at the heart and at the bottom, unreason and injustice from beginning to end--if it ever has an end--how should poor rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it? he no more gathers grapes from thorns or figs from thistles than older men did in old times." his gentleness and consideration for richard whenever we spoke of him touched me so that i was always silent on this subject very soon. "i suppose the lord chancellor, and the vice chancellors, and the whole chancery battery of great guns would be infinitely astonished by such unreason and injustice in one of their suitors," pursued my guardian. "when those learned gentlemen begin to raise moss-roses from the powder they sow in their wigs, i shall begin to be astonished too!" he checked himself in glancing towards the window to look where the wind was and leaned on the back of my chair instead. "well, well, little woman! to go on, my dear. this rock we must leave to time, chance, and hopeful circumstance. we must not shipwreck ada upon it. she cannot afford, and he cannot afford, the remotest chance of another separation from a friend. therefore i have particularly begged of woodcourt, and i now particularly beg of you, my dear, not to move this subject with rick. let it rest. next week, next month, next year, sooner or later, he will see me with clearer eyes. i can wait." but i had already discussed it with him, i confessed; and so, i thought, had mr. woodcourt. "so he tells me," returned my guardian. "very good. he has made his protest, and dame durden has made hers, and there is nothing more to be said about it. now i come to mrs. woodcourt. how do you like her, my dear?" in answer to this question, which was oddly abrupt, i said i liked her very much and thought she was more agreeable than she used to be. "i think so too," said my guardian. "less pedigree? not so much of morgan ap--what's his name?" that was what i meant, i acknowledged, though he was a very harmless person, even when we had had more of him. "still, upon the whole, he is as well in his native mountains," said my guardian. "i agree with you. then, little woman, can i do better for a time than retain mrs. woodcourt here?" no. and yet-- my guardian looked at me, waiting for what i had to say. i had nothing to say. at least i had nothing in my mind that i could say. i had an undefined impression that it might have been better if we had had some other inmate, but i could hardly have explained why even to myself. or, if to myself, certainly not to anybody else. "you see," said my guardian, "our neighbourhood is in woodcourt's way, and he can come here to see her as often as he likes, which is agreeable to them both; and she is familiar to us and fond of you." yes. that was undeniable. i had nothing to say against it. i could not have suggested a better arrangement, but i was not quite easy in my mind. esther, esther, why not? esther, think! "it is a very good plan indeed, dear guardian, and we could not do better." "sure, little woman?" quite sure. i had had a moment's time to think, since i had urged that duty on myself, and i was quite sure. "good," said my guardian. "it shall be done. carried unanimously." "carried unanimously," i repeated, going on with my work. it was a cover for his book-table that i happened to be ornamenting. it had been laid by on the night preceding my sad journey and never resumed. i showed it to him now, and he admired it highly. after i had explained the pattern to him and all the great effects that were to come out by and by, i thought i would go back to our last theme. "you said, dear guardian, when we spoke of mr. woodcourt before ada left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to another country. have you been advising him since?" "yes, little woman, pretty often." "has he decided to do so?" "i rather think not." "some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?" said i. "why--yes--perhaps," returned my guardian, beginning his answer in a very deliberate manner. "about half a year hence or so, there is a medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain place in yorkshire. it is a thriving place, pleasantly situated--streams and streets, town and country, mill and moor--and seems to present an opening for such a man. i mean a man whose hopes and aims may sometimes lie (as most men's sometimes do, i dare say) above the ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enough after all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good service leading to no other. all generous spirits are ambitious, i suppose, but the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road, instead of spasmodically trying to fly over it, is of the kind i care for. it is woodcourt's kind." "and will he get this appointment?" i asked. "why, little woman," returned my guardian, smiling, "not being an oracle, i cannot confidently say, but i think so. his reputation stands very high; there were people from that part of the country in the shipwreck; and strange to say, i believe the best man has the best chance. you must not suppose it to be a fine endowment. it is a very, very commonplace affair, my dear, an appointment to a great amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better things will gather about it, it may be fairly hoped." "the poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if it falls on mr. woodcourt, guardian." "you are right, little woman; that i am sure they will." we said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the future of bleak house. but it was the first time i had taken my seat at his side in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it, i considered. i now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull dark corner where she lived. the morning was my usual time, but whenever i found i had an hour or so to spare, i put on my bonnet and bustled off to chancery lane. they were both so glad to see me at all hours, and used to brighten up so when they heard me opening the door and coming in (being quite at home, i never knocked), that i had no fear of becoming troublesome just yet. on these occasions i frequently found richard absent. at other times he would be writing or reading papers in the cause at that table of his, so covered with papers, which was never disturbed. sometimes i would come upon him lingering at the door of mr. vholes's office. sometimes i would meet him in the neighbourhood lounging about and biting his nails. i often met him wandering in lincoln's inn, near the place where i had first seen him, oh how different, how different! that the money ada brought him was melting away with the candles i used to see burning after dark in mr. vholes's office i knew very well. it was not a large amount in the beginning, he had married in debt, and i could not fail to understand, by this time, what was meant by mr. vholes's shoulder being at the wheel--as i still heard it was. my dear made the best of housekeepers and tried hard to save, but i knew that they were getting poorer and poorer every day. she shone in the miserable corner like a beautiful star. she adorned and graced it so that it became another place. paler than she had been at home, and a little quieter than i had thought natural when she was yet so cheerful and hopeful, her face was so unshadowed that i half believed she was blinded by her love for richard to his ruinous career. i went one day to dine with them while i was under this impression. as i turned into symond's inn, i met little miss flite coming out. she had been to make a stately call upon the wards in jarndyce, as she still called them, and had derived the highest gratification from that ceremony. ada had already told me that she called every monday at five o'clock, with one little extra white bow in her bonnet, which never appeared there at any other time, and with her largest reticule of documents on her arm. "my dear!" she began. "so delighted! how do you do! so glad to see you. and you are going to visit our interesting jarndyce wards? to be sure! our beauty is at home, my dear, and will be charmed to see you." "then richard is not come in yet?" said i. "i am glad of that, for i was afraid of being a little late." "no, he is not come in," returned miss flite. "he has had a long day in court. i left him there with vholes. you don't like vholes, i hope? don't like vholes. dan-gerous man!" "i am afraid you see richard oftener than ever now," said i. "my dearest," returned miss flite, "daily and hourly. you know what i told you of the attraction on the chancellor's table? my dear, next to myself he is the most constant suitor in court. he begins quite to amuse our little party. ve-ry friendly little party, are we not?" it was miserable to hear this from her poor mad lips, though it was no surprise. "in short, my valued friend," pursued miss flite, advancing her lips to my ear with an air of equal patronage and mystery, "i must tell you a secret. i have made him my executor. nominated, constituted, and appointed him. in my will. ye-es." "indeed?" said i. "ye-es," repeated miss flite in her most genteel accents, "my executor, administrator, and assign. (our chancery phrases, my love.) i have reflected that if i should wear out, he will be able to watch that judgment. being so very regular in his attendance." it made me sigh to think of him. "i did at one time mean," said miss flite, echoing the sigh, "to nominate, constitute, and appoint poor gridley. also very regular, my charming girl. i assure you, most exemplary! but he wore out, poor man, so i have appointed his successor. don't mention it. this is in confidence." she carefully opened her reticule a little way and showed me a folded piece of paper inside as the appointment of which she spoke. "another secret, my dear. i have added to my collection of birds." "really, miss flite?" said i, knowing how it pleased her to have her confidence received with an appearance of interest. she nodded several times, and her face became overcast and gloomy. "two more. i call them the wards in jarndyce. they are caged up with all the others. with hope, joy, youth, peace, rest, life, dust, ashes, waste, want, ruin, despair, madness, death, cunning, folly, words, wigs, rags, sheepskin, plunder, precedent, jargon, gammon, and spinach!" the poor soul kissed me with the most troubled look i had ever seen in her and went her way. her manner of running over the names of her birds, as if she were afraid of hearing them even from her own lips, quite chilled me. this was not a cheering preparation for my visit, and i could have dispensed with the company of mr. vholes, when richard (who arrived within a minute or two after me) brought him to share our dinner. although it was a very plain one, ada and richard were for some minutes both out of the room together helping to get ready what we were to eat and drink. mr. vholes took that opportunity of holding a little conversation in a low voice with me. he came to the window where i was sitting and began upon symond's inn. "a dull place, miss summerson, for a life that is not an official one," said mr. vholes, smearing the glass with his black glove to make it clearer for me. "there is not much to see here," said i. "nor to hear, miss," returned mr. vholes. "a little music does occasionally stray in, but we are not musical in the law and soon eject it. i hope mr. jarndyce is as well as his friends could wish him?" i thanked mr. vholes and said he was quite well. "i have not the pleasure to be admitted among the number of his friends myself," said mr. vholes, "and i am aware that the gentlemen of our profession are sometimes regarded in such quarters with an unfavourable eye. our plain course, however, under good report and evil report, and all kinds of prejudice (we are the victims of prejudice), is to have everything openly carried on. how do you find mr. c. looking, miss summerson?" "he looks very ill. dreadfully anxious." "just so," said mr. vholes. he stood behind me with his long black figure reaching nearly to the ceiling of those low rooms, feeling the pimples on his face as if they were ornaments and speaking inwardly and evenly as though there were not a human passion or emotion in his nature. "mr. woodcourt is in attendance upon mr. c., i believe?" he resumed. "mr. woodcourt is his disinterested friend," i answered. "but i mean in professional attendance, medical attendance." "that can do little for an unhappy mind," said i. "just so," said mr. vholes. so slow, so eager, so bloodless and gaunt, i felt as if richard were wasting away beneath the eyes of this adviser and there were something of the vampire in him. "miss summerson," said mr. vholes, very slowly rubbing his gloved hands, as if, to his cold sense of touch, they were much the same in black kid or out of it, "this was an ill-advised marriage of mr. c.'s." i begged he would excuse me from discussing it. they had been engaged when they were both very young, i told him (a little indignantly) and when the prospect before them was much fairer and brighter. when richard had not yielded himself to the unhappy influence which now darkened his life. "just so," assented mr. vholes again. "still, with a view to everything being openly carried on, i will, with your permission, miss summerson, observe to you that i consider this a very ill-advised marriage indeed. i owe the opinion not only to mr. c.'s connexions, against whom i should naturally wish to protect myself, but also to my own reputation--dear to myself as a professional man aiming to keep respectable; dear to my three girls at home, for whom i am striving to realize some little independence; dear, i will even say, to my aged father, whom it is my privilege to support." "it would become a very different marriage, a much happier and better marriage, another marriage altogether, mr. vholes," said i, "if richard were persuaded to turn his back on the fatal pursuit in which you are engaged with him." mr. vholes, with a noiseless cough--or rather gasp--into one of his black gloves, inclined his head as if he did not wholly dispute even that. "miss summerson," he said, "it may be so; and i freely admit that the young lady who has taken mr. c.'s name upon herself in so ill-advised a manner--you will i am sure not quarrel with me for throwing out that remark again, as a duty i owe to mr. c.'s connexions--is a highly genteel young lady. business has prevented me from mixing much with general society in any but a professional character; still i trust i am competent to perceive that she is a highly genteel young lady. as to beauty, i am not a judge of that myself, and i never did give much attention to it from a boy, but i dare say the young lady is equally eligible in that point of view. she is considered so (i have heard) among the clerks in the inn, and it is a point more in their way than in mine. in reference to mr. c.'s pursuit of his interests--" "oh! his interests, mr. vholes!" "pardon me," returned mr. vholes, going on in exactly the same inward and dispassionate manner. "mr. c. takes certain interests under certain wills disputed in the suit. it is a term we use. in reference to mr. c,'s pursuit of his interests, i mentioned to you, miss summerson, the first time i had the pleasure of seeing you, in my desire that everything should be openly carried on--i used those words, for i happened afterwards to note them in my diary, which is producible at any time--i mentioned to you that mr. c. had laid down the principle of watching his own interests, and that when a client of mine laid down a principle which was not of an immoral (that is to say, unlawful) nature, it devolved upon me to carry it out. i have carried it out; i do carry it out. but i will not smooth things over to any connexion of mr. c.'s on any account. as open as i was to mr. jarndyce, i am to you. i regard it in the light of a professional duty to be so, though it can be charged to no one. i openly say, unpalatable as it may be, that i consider mr. c.'s affairs in a very bad way, that i consider mr. c. himself in a very bad way, and that i regard this as an exceedingly ill-advised marriage. am i here, sir? yes, i thank you; i am here, mr. c., and enjoying the pleasure of some agreeable conversation with miss summerson, for which i have to thank you very much, sir!" he broke off thus in answer to richard, who addressed him as he came into the room. by this time i too well understood mr. vholes's scrupulous way of saving himself and his respectability not to feel that our worst fears did but keep pace with his client's progress. we sat down to dinner, and i had an opportunity of observing richard, anxiously. i was not disturbed by mr. vholes (who took off his gloves to dine), though he sat opposite to me at the small table, for i doubt if, looking up at all, he once removed his eyes from his host's face. i found richard thin and languid, slovenly in his dress, abstracted in his manner, forcing his spirits now and then, and at other intervals relapsing into a dull thoughtfulness. about his large bright eyes that used to be so merry there was a wanness and a restlessness that changed them altogether. i cannot use the expression that he looked old. there is a ruin of youth which is not like age, and into such a ruin richard's youth and youthful beauty had all fallen away. he ate little and seemed indifferent what it was, showed himself to be much more impatient than he used to be, and was quick even with ada. i thought at first that his old light-hearted manner was all gone, but it shone out of him sometimes as i had occasionally known little momentary glimpses of my own old face to look out upon me from the glass. his laugh had not quite left him either, but it was like the echo of a joyful sound, and that is always sorrowful. yet he was as glad as ever, in his old affectionate way, to have me there, and we talked of the old times pleasantly. these did not appear to be interesting to mr. vholes, though he occasionally made a gasp which i believe was his smile. he rose shortly after dinner and said that with the permission of the ladies he would retire to his office. "always devoted to business, vholes!" cried richard. "yes, mr. c.," he returned, "the interests of clients are never to be neglected, sir. they are paramount in the thoughts of a professional man like myself, who wishes to preserve a good name among his fellow-practitioners and society at large. my denying myself the pleasure of the present agreeable conversation may not be wholly irrespective of your own interests, mr. c." richard expressed himself quite sure of that and lighted mr. vholes out. on his return he told us, more than once, that vholes was a good fellow, a safe fellow, a man who did what he pretended to do, a very good fellow indeed! he was so defiant about it that it struck me he had begun to doubt mr. vholes. then he threw himself on the sofa, tired out; and ada and i put things to rights, for they had no other servant than the woman who attended to the chambers. my dear girl had a cottage piano there and quietly sat down to sing some of richard's favourites, the lamp being first removed into the next room, as he complained of its hurting his eyes. i sat between them, at my dear girl's side, and felt very melancholy listening to her sweet voice. i think richard did too; i think he darkened the room for that reason. she had been singing some time, rising between whiles to bend over him and speak to him, when mr. woodcourt came in. then he sat down by richard and half playfully, half earnestly, quite naturally and easily, found out how he felt and where he had been all day. presently he proposed to accompany him in a short walk on one of the bridges, as it was a moonlight airy night; and richard readily consenting, they went out together. they left my dear girl still sitting at the piano and me still sitting beside her. when they were gone out, i drew my arm round her waist. she put her left hand in mine (i was sitting on that side), but kept her right upon the keys, going over and over them without striking any note. "esther, my dearest," she said, breaking silence, "richard is never so well and i am never so easy about him as when he is with allan woodcourt. we have to thank you for that." i pointed out to my darling how this could scarcely be, because mr. woodcourt had come to her cousin john's house and had known us all there, and because he had always liked richard, and richard had always liked him, and--and so forth. "all true," said ada, "but that he is such a devoted friend to us we owe to you." i thought it best to let my dear girl have her way and to say no more about it. so i said as much. i said it lightly, because i felt her trembling. "esther, my dearest, i want to be a good wife, a very, very good wife indeed. you shall teach me." i teach! i said no more, for i noticed the hand that was fluttering over the keys, and i knew that it was not i who ought to speak, that it was she who had something to say to me. "when i married richard i was not insensible to what was before him. i had been perfectly happy for a long time with you, and i had never known any trouble or anxiety, so loved and cared for, but i understood the danger he was in, dear esther." "i know, i know, my darling." "when we were married i had some little hope that i might be able to convince him of his mistake, that he might come to regard it in a new way as my husband and not pursue it all the more desperately for my sake--as he does. but if i had not had that hope, i would have married him just the same, esther. just the same!" in the momentary firmness of the hand that was never still--a firmness inspired by the utterance of these last words, and dying away with them--i saw the confirmation of her earnest tones. "you are not to think, my dearest esther, that i fail to see what you see and fear what you fear. no one can understand him better than i do. the greatest wisdom that ever lived in the world could scarcely know richard better than my love does." she spoke so modestly and softly and her trembling hand expressed such agitation as it moved to and fro upon the silent notes! my dear, dear girl! "i see him at his worst every day. i watch him in his sleep. i know every change of his face. but when i married richard i was quite determined, esther, if heaven would help me, never to show him that i grieved for what he did and so to make him more unhappy. i want him, when he comes home, to find no trouble in my face. i want him, when he looks at me, to see what he loved in me. i married him to do this, and this supports me." i felt her trembling more. i waited for what was yet to come, and i now thought i began to know what it was. "and something else supports me, esther." she stopped a minute. stopped speaking only; her hand was still in motion. "i look forward a little while, and i don't know what great aid may come to me. when richard turns his eyes upon me then, there may be something lying on my breast more eloquent than i have been, with greater power than mine to show him his true course and win him back." her hand stopped now. she clasped me in her arms, and i clasped her in mine. "if that little creature should fail too, esther, i still look forward. i look forward a long while, through years and years, and think that then, when i am growing old, or when i am dead perhaps, a beautiful woman, his daughter, happily married, may be proud of him and a blessing to him. or that a generous brave man, as handsome as he used to be, as hopeful, and far more happy, may walk in the sunshine with him, honouring his grey head and saying to himself, 'i thank god this is my father! ruined by a fatal inheritance, and restored through me!'" oh, my sweet girl, what a heart was that which beat so fast against me! "these hopes uphold me, my dear esther, and i know they will. though sometimes even they depart from me before a dread that arises when i look at richard." i tried to cheer my darling, and asked her what it was. sobbing and weeping, she replied, "that he may not live to see his child." chapter lxi a discovery the days when i frequented that miserable corner which my dear girl brightened can never fade in my remembrance. i never see it, and i never wish to see it now; i have been there only once since, but in my memory there is a mournful glory shining on the place which will shine for ever. not a day passed without my going there, of course. at first i found mr. skimpole there, on two or three occasions, idly playing the piano and talking in his usual vivacious strain. now, besides my very much mistrusting the probability of his being there without making richard poorer, i felt as if there were something in his careless gaiety too inconsistent with what i knew of the depths of ada's life. i clearly perceived, too, that ada shared my feelings. i therefore resolved, after much thinking of it, to make a private visit to mr. skimpole and try delicately to explain myself. my dear girl was the great consideration that made me bold. i set off one morning, accompanied by charley, for somers town. as i approached the house, i was strongly inclined to turn back, for i felt what a desperate attempt it was to make an impression on mr. skimpole and how extremely likely it was that he would signally defeat me. however, i thought that being there, i would go through with it. i knocked with a trembling hand at mr. skimpole's door--literally with a hand, for the knocker was gone--and after a long parley gained admission from an irishwoman, who was in the area when i knocked, breaking up the lid of a water-butt with a poker to light the fire with. mr. skimpole, lying on the sofa in his room, playing the flute a little, was enchanted to see me. now, who should receive me, he asked. who would i prefer for mistress of the ceremonies? would i have his comedy daughter, his beauty daughter, or his sentiment daughter? or would i have all the daughters at once in a perfect nosegay? i replied, half defeated already, that i wished to speak to himself only if he would give me leave. "my dear miss summerson, most joyfully! of course," he said, bringing his chair nearer mine and breaking into his fascinating smile, "of course it's not business. then it's pleasure!" i said it certainly was not business that i came upon, but it was not quite a pleasant matter. "then, my dear miss summerson," said he with the frankest gaiety, "don't allude to it. why should you allude to anything that is not a pleasant matter? i never do. and you are a much pleasanter creature, in every point of view, than i. you are perfectly pleasant; i am imperfectly pleasant; then, if i never allude to an unpleasant matter, how much less should you! so that's disposed of, and we will talk of something else." although i was embarrassed, i took courage to intimate that i still wished to pursue the subject. "i should think it a mistake," said mr. skimpole with his airy laugh, "if i thought miss summerson capable of making one. but i don't!" "mr. skimpole," said i, raising my eyes to his, "i have so often heard you say that you are unacquainted with the common affairs of life--" "meaning our three banking-house friends, l, s, and who's the junior partner? d?" said mr. skimpole, brightly. "not an idea of them!" "--that perhaps," i went on, "you will excuse my boldness on that account. i think you ought most seriously to know that richard is poorer than he was." "dear me!" said mr. skimpole. "so am i, they tell me." "and in very embarrassed circumstances." "parallel case, exactly!" said mr. skimpole with a delighted countenance. "this at present naturally causes ada much secret anxiety, and as i think she is less anxious when no claims are made upon her by visitors, and as richard has one uneasiness always heavy on his mind, it has occurred to me to take the liberty of saying that--if you would--not--" i was coming to the point with great difficulty when he took me by both hands and with a radiant face and in the liveliest way anticipated it. "not go there? certainly not, my dear miss summerson, most assuredly not. why should i go there? when i go anywhere, i go for pleasure. i don't go anywhere for pain, because i was made for pleasure. pain comes to me when it wants me. now, i have had very little pleasure at our dear richard's lately, and your practical sagacity demonstrates why. our young friends, losing the youthful poetry which was once so captivating in them, begin to think, 'this is a man who wants pounds.' so i am; i always want pounds; not for myself, but because tradespeople always want them of me. next, our young friends begin to think, becoming mercenary, 'this is the man who had pounds, who borrowed them,' which i did. i always borrow pounds. so our young friends, reduced to prose (which is much to be regretted), degenerate in their power of imparting pleasure to me. why should i go to see them, therefore? absurd!" through the beaming smile with which he regarded me as he reasoned thus, there now broke forth a look of disinterested benevolence quite astonishing. "besides," he said, pursuing his argument in his tone of light-hearted conviction, "if i don't go anywhere for pain--which would be a perversion of the intention of my being, and a monstrous thing to do--why should i go anywhere to be the cause of pain? if i went to see our young friends in their present ill-regulated state of mind, i should give them pain. the associations with me would be disagreeable. they might say, 'this is the man who had pounds and who can't pay pounds,' which i can't, of course; nothing could be more out of the question! then kindness requires that i shouldn't go near them--and i won't." he finished by genially kissing my hand and thanking me. nothing but miss summerson's fine tact, he said, would have found this out for him. i was much disconcerted, but i reflected that if the main point were gained, it mattered little how strangely he perverted everything leading to it. i had determined to mention something else, however, and i thought i was not to be put off in that. "mr. skimpole," said i, "i must take the liberty of saying before i conclude my visit that i was much surprised to learn, on the best authority, some little time ago, that you knew with whom that poor boy left bleak house and that you accepted a present on that occasion. i have not mentioned it to my guardian, for i fear it would hurt him unnecessarily; but i may say to you that i was much surprised." "no? really surprised, my dear miss summerson?" he returned inquiringly, raising his pleasant eyebrows. "greatly surprised." he thought about it for a little while with a highly agreeable and whimsical expression of face, then quite gave it up and said in his most engaging manner, "you know what a child i am. why surprised?" i was reluctant to enter minutely into that question, but as he begged i would, for he was really curious to know, i gave him to understand in the gentlest words i could use that his conduct seemed to involve a disregard of several moral obligations. he was much amused and interested when he heard this and said, "no, really?" with ingenuous simplicity. "you know i don't intend to be responsible. i never could do it. responsibility is a thing that has always been above me--or below me," said mr. skimpole. "i don't even know which; but as i understand the way in which my dear miss summerson (always remarkable for her practical good sense and clearness) puts this case, i should imagine it was chiefly a question of money, do you know?" i incautiously gave a qualified assent to this. "ah! then you see," said mr. skimpole, shaking his head, "i am hopeless of understanding it." i suggested, as i rose to go, that it was not right to betray my guardian's confidence for a bribe. "my dear miss summerson," he returned with a candid hilarity that was all his own, "i can't be bribed." "not by mr. bucket?" said i. "no," said he. "not by anybody. i don't attach any value to money. i don't care about it, i don't know about it, i don't want it, i don't keep it--it goes away from me directly. how can i be bribed?" i showed that i was of a different opinion, though i had not the capacity for arguing the question. "on the contrary," said mr. skimpole, "i am exactly the man to be placed in a superior position in such a case as that. i am above the rest of mankind in such a case as that. i can act with philosophy in such a case as that. i am not warped by prejudices, as an italian baby is by bandages. i am as free as the air. i feel myself as far above suspicion as caesar's wife." anything to equal the lightness of his manner and the playful impartiality with which he seemed to convince himself, as he tossed the matter about like a ball of feathers, was surely never seen in anybody else! "observe the case, my dear miss summerson. here is a boy received into the house and put to bed in a state that i strongly object to. the boy being in bed, a man arrives--like the house that jack built. here is the man who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in a state that i strongly object to. here is a bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in a state that i strongly object to. here is the skimpole who accepts the bank-note produced by the man who demands the boy who is received into the house and put to bed in a state that i strongly object to. those are the facts. very well. should the skimpole have refused the note? why should the skimpole have refused the note? skimpole protests to bucket, 'what's this for? i don't understand it, it is of no use to me, take it away.' bucket still entreats skimpole to accept it. are there reasons why skimpole, not being warped by prejudices, should accept it? yes. skimpole perceives them. what are they? skimpole reasons with himself, this is a tamed lynx, an active police-officer, an intelligent man, a person of a peculiarly directed energy and great subtlety both of conception and execution, who discovers our friends and enemies for us when they run away, recovers our property for us when we are robbed, avenges us comfortably when we are murdered. this active police-officer and intelligent man has acquired, in the exercise of his art, a strong faith in money; he finds it very useful to him, and he makes it very useful to society. shall i shake that faith in bucket because i want it myself; shall i deliberately blunt one of bucket's weapons; shall i positively paralyse bucket in his next detective operation? and again. if it is blameable in skimpole to take the note, it is blameable in bucket to offer the note--much more blameable in bucket, because he is the knowing man. now, skimpole wishes to think well of bucket; skimpole deems it essential, in its little place, to the general cohesion of things, that he should think well of bucket. the state expressly asks him to trust to bucket. and he does. and that's all he does!" i had nothing to offer in reply to this exposition and therefore took my leave. mr. skimpole, however, who was in excellent spirits, would not hear of my returning home attended only by "little coavinses," and accompanied me himself. he entertained me on the way with a variety of delightful conversation and assured me, at parting, that he should never forget the fine tact with which i had found that out for him about our young friends. as it so happened that i never saw mr. skimpole again, i may at once finish what i know of his history. a coolness arose between him and my guardian, based principally on the foregoing grounds and on his having heartlessly disregarded my guardian's entreaties (as we afterwards learned from ada) in reference to richard. his being heavily in my guardian's debt had nothing to do with their separation. he died some five years afterwards and left a diary behind him, with letters and other materials towards his life, which was published and which showed him to have been the victim of a combination on the part of mankind against an amiable child. it was considered very pleasant reading, but i never read more of it myself than the sentence on which i chanced to light on opening the book. it was this: "jarndyce, in common with most other men i have known, is the incarnation of selfishness." and now i come to a part of my story touching myself very nearly indeed, and for which i was quite unprepared when the circumstance occurred. whatever little lingerings may have now and then revived in my mind associated with my poor old face had only revived as belonging to a part of my life that was gone--gone like my infancy or my childhood. i have suppressed none of my many weaknesses on that subject, but have written them as faithfully as my memory has recalled them. and i hope to do, and mean to do, the same down to the last words of these pages, which i see now not so very far before me. the months were gliding away, and my dear girl, sustained by the hopes she had confided in me, was the same beautiful star in the miserable corner. richard, more worn and haggard, haunted the court day after day, listlessly sat there the whole day long when he knew there was no remote chance of the suit being mentioned, and became one of the stock sights of the place. i wonder whether any of the gentlemen remembered him as he was when he first went there. so completely was he absorbed in his fixed idea that he used to avow in his cheerful moments that he should never have breathed the fresh air now "but for woodcourt." it was only mr. woodcourt who could occasionally divert his attention for a few hours at a time and rouse him, even when he sunk into a lethargy of mind and body that alarmed us greatly, and the returns of which became more frequent as the months went on. my dear girl was right in saying that he only pursued his errors the more desperately for her sake. i have no doubt that his desire to retrieve what he had lost was rendered the more intense by his grief for his young wife, and became like the madness of a gamester. i was there, as i have mentioned, at all hours. when i was there at night, i generally went home with charley in a coach; sometimes my guardian would meet me in the neighbourhood, and we would walk home together. one evening he had arranged to meet me at eight o'clock. i could not leave, as i usually did, quite punctually at the time, for i was working for my dear girl and had a few stitches more to do to finish what i was about; but it was within a few minutes of the hour when i bundled up my little work-basket, gave my darling my last kiss for the night, and hurried downstairs. mr. woodcourt went with me, as it was dusk. when we came to the usual place of meeting--it was close by, and mr. woodcourt had often accompanied me before--my guardian was not there. we waited half an hour, walking up and down, but there were no signs of him. we agreed that he was either prevented from coming or that he had come and gone away, and mr. woodcourt proposed to walk home with me. it was the first walk we had ever taken together, except that very short one to the usual place of meeting. we spoke of richard and ada the whole way. i did not thank him in words for what he had done--my appreciation of it had risen above all words then--but i hoped he might not be without some understanding of what i felt so strongly. arriving at home and going upstairs, we found that my guardian was out and that mrs. woodcourt was out too. we were in the very same room into which i had brought my blushing girl when her youthful lover, now her so altered husband, was the choice of her young heart, the very same room from which my guardian and i had watched them going away through the sunlight in the fresh bloom of their hope and promise. we were standing by the opened window looking down into the street when mr. woodcourt spoke to me. i learned in a moment that he loved me. i learned in a moment that my scarred face was all unchanged to him. i learned in a moment that what i had thought was pity and compassion was devoted, generous, faithful love. oh, too late to know it now, too late, too late. that was the first ungrateful thought i had. too late. "when i returned," he told me, "when i came back, no richer than when i went away, and found you newly risen from a sick bed, yet so inspired by sweet consideration for others and so free from a selfish thought--" "oh, mr. woodcourt, forbear, forbear!" i entreated him. "i do not deserve your high praise. i had many selfish thoughts at that time, many!" "heaven knows, beloved of my life," said he, "that my praise is not a lover's praise, but the truth. you do not know what all around you see in esther summerson, how many hearts she touches and awakens, what sacred admiration and what love she wins." "oh, mr. woodcourt," cried i, "it is a great thing to win love, it is a great thing to win love! i am proud of it, and honoured by it; and the hearing of it causes me to shed these tears of mingled joy and sorrow--joy that i have won it, sorrow that i have not deserved it better; but i am not free to think of yours." i said it with a stronger heart, for when he praised me thus and when i heard his voice thrill with his belief that what he said was true, i aspired to be more worthy of it. it was not too late for that. although i closed this unforeseen page in my life to-night, i could be worthier of it all through my life. and it was a comfort to me, and an impulse to me, and i felt a dignity rise up within me that was derived from him when i thought so. he broke the silence. "i should poorly show the trust that i have in the dear one who will evermore be as dear to me as now"--and the deep earnestness with which he said it at once strengthened me and made me weep--"if, after her assurance that she is not free to think of my love, i urged it. dear esther, let me only tell you that the fond idea of you which i took abroad was exalted to the heavens when i came home. i have always hoped, in the first hour when i seemed to stand in any ray of good fortune, to tell you this. i have always feared that i should tell it you in vain. my hopes and fears are both fulfilled to-night. i distress you. i have said enough." something seemed to pass into my place that was like the angel he thought me, and i felt so sorrowful for the loss he had sustained! i wished to help him in his trouble, as i had wished to do when he showed that first commiseration for me. "dear mr. woodcourt," said i, "before we part to-night, something is left for me to say. i never could say it as i wish--i never shall--but--" i had to think again of being more deserving of his love and his affliction before i could go on. "--i am deeply sensible of your generosity, and i shall treasure its remembrance to my dying hour. i know full well how changed i am, i know you are not unacquainted with my history, and i know what a noble love that is which is so faithful. what you have said to me could have affected me so much from no other lips, for there are none that could give it such a value to me. it shall not be lost. it shall make me better." he covered his eyes with his hand and turned away his head. how could i ever be worthy of those tears? "if, in the unchanged intercourse we shall have together--in tending richard and ada, and i hope in many happier scenes of life--you ever find anything in me which you can honestly think is better than it used to be, believe that it will have sprung up from to-night and that i shall owe it to you. and never believe, dear dear mr. woodcourt, never believe that i forget this night or that while my heart beats it can be insensible to the pride and joy of having been beloved by you." he took my hand and kissed it. he was like himself again, and i felt still more encouraged. "i am induced by what you said just now," said i, "to hope that you have succeeded in your endeavour." "i have," he answered. "with such help from mr. jarndyce as you who know him so well can imagine him to have rendered me, i have succeeded." "heaven bless him for it," said i, giving him my hand; "and heaven bless you in all you do!" "i shall do it better for the wish," he answered; "it will make me enter on these new duties as on another sacred trust from you." "ah! richard!" i exclaimed involuntarily, "what will he do when you are gone!" "i am not required to go yet; i would not desert him, dear miss summerson, even if i were." one other thing i felt it needful to touch upon before he left me. i knew that i should not be worthier of the love i could not take if i reserved it. "mr. woodcourt," said i, "you will be glad to know from my lips before i say good night that in the future, which is clear and bright before me, i am most happy, most fortunate, have nothing to regret or desire." it was indeed a glad hearing to him, he replied. "from my childhood i have been," said i, "the object of the untiring goodness of the best of human beings, to whom i am so bound by every tie of attachment, gratitude, and love, that nothing i could do in the compass of a life could express the feelings of a single day." "i share those feelings," he returned. "you speak of mr. jarndyce." "you know his virtues well," said i, "but few can know the greatness of his character as i know it. all its highest and best qualities have been revealed to me in nothing more brightly than in the shaping out of that future in which i am so happy. and if your highest homage and respect had not been his already--which i know they are--they would have been his, i think, on this assurance and in the feeling it would have awakened in you towards him for my sake." he fervently replied that indeed indeed they would have been. i gave him my hand again. "good night," i said, "good-bye." "the first until we meet to-morrow, the second as a farewell to this theme between us for ever." "yes." "good night; good-bye." he left me, and i stood at the dark window watching the street. his love, in all its constancy and generosity, had come so suddenly upon me that he had not left me a minute when my fortitude gave way again and the street was blotted out by my rushing tears. but they were not tears of regret and sorrow. no. he had called me the beloved of his life and had said i would be evermore as dear to him as i was then, and i felt as if my heart would not hold the triumph of having heard those words. my first wild thought had died away. it was not too late to hear them, for it was not too late to be animated by them to be good, true, grateful, and contented. how easy my path, how much easier than his! chapter lxii another discovery i had not the courage to see any one that night. i had not even the courage to see myself, for i was afraid that my tears might a little reproach me. i went up to my room in the dark, and prayed in the dark, and lay down in the dark to sleep. i had no need of any light to read my guardian's letter by, for i knew it by heart. i took it from the place where i kept it, and repeated its contents by its own clear light of integrity and love, and went to sleep with it on my pillow. i was up very early in the morning and called charley to come for a walk. we bought flowers for the breakfast-table, and came back and arranged them, and were as busy as possible. we were so early that i had a good time still for charley's lesson before breakfast; charley (who was not in the least improved in the old defective article of grammar) came through it with great applause; and we were altogether very notable. when my guardian appeared he said, "why, little woman, you look fresher than your flowers!" and mrs. woodcourt repeated and translated a passage from the mewlinnwillinwodd expressive of my being like a mountain with the sun upon it. this was all so pleasant that i hope it made me still more like the mountain than i had been before. after breakfast i waited my opportunity and peeped about a little until i saw my guardian in his own room--the room of last night--by himself. then i made an excuse to go in with my housekeeping keys, shutting the door after me. "well, dame durden?" said my guardian; the post had brought him several letters, and he was writing. "you want money?" "no, indeed, i have plenty in hand." "there never was such a dame durden," said my guardian, "for making money last." he had laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair looking at me. i have often spoken of his bright face, but i thought i had never seen it look so bright and good. there was a high happiness upon it which made me think, "he has been doing some great kindness this morning." "there never was," said my guardian, musing as he smiled upon me, "such a dame durden for making money last." he had never yet altered his old manner. i loved it and him so much that when i now went up to him and took my usual chair, which was always put at his side--for sometimes i read to him, and sometimes i talked to him, and sometimes i silently worked by him--i hardly liked to disturb it by laying my hand on his breast. but i found i did not disturb it at all. "dear guardian," said i, "i want to speak to you. have i been remiss in anything?" "remiss in anything, my dear!" "have i not been what i have meant to be since--i brought the answer to your letter, guardian?" "you have been everything i could desire, my love." "i am very glad indeed to hear that," i returned. "you know, you said to me, was this the mistress of bleak house. and i said, yes." "yes," said my guardian, nodding his head. he had put his arm about me as if there were something to protect me from and looked in my face, smiling. "since then," said i, "we have never spoken on the subject except once." "and then i said bleak house was thinning fast; and so it was, my dear." "and i said," i timidly reminded him, "but its mistress remained." he still held me in the same protecting manner and with the same bright goodness in his face. "dear guardian," said i, "i know how you have felt all that has happened, and how considerate you have been. as so much time has passed, and as you spoke only this morning of my being so well again, perhaps you expect me to renew the subject. perhaps i ought to do so. i will be the mistress of bleak house when you please." "see," he returned gaily, "what a sympathy there must be between us! i have had nothing else, poor rick excepted--it's a large exception--in my mind. when you came in, i was full of it. when shall we give bleak house its mistress, little woman?" "when you please." "next month?" "next month, dear guardian." "the day on which i take the happiest and best step of my life--the day on which i shall be a man more exulting and more enviable than any other man in the world--the day on which i give bleak house its little mistress--shall be next month then," said my guardian. i put my arms round his neck and kissed him just as i had done on the day when i brought my answer. a servant came to the door to announce mr. bucket, which was quite unnecessary, for mr. bucket was already looking in over the servant's shoulder. "mr. jarndyce and miss summerson," said he, rather out of breath, "with all apologies for intruding, will you allow me to order up a person that's on the stairs and that objects to being left there in case of becoming the subject of observations in his absence? thank you. be so good as chair that there member in this direction, will you?" said mr. bucket, beckoning over the banisters. this singular request produced an old man in a black skull-cap, unable to walk, who was carried up by a couple of bearers and deposited in the room near the door. mr. bucket immediately got rid of the bearers, mysteriously shut the door, and bolted it. "now you see, mr. jarndyce," he then began, putting down his hat and opening his subject with a flourish of his well-remembered finger, "you know me, and miss summerson knows me. this gentleman likewise knows me, and his name is smallweed. the discounting line is his line principally, and he's what you may call a dealer in bills. that's about what you are, you know, ain't you?" said mr. bucket, stopping a little to address the gentleman in question, who was exceedingly suspicious of him. he seemed about to dispute this designation of himself when he was seized with a violent fit of coughing. "now, moral, you know!" said mr. bucket, improving the accident. "don't you contradict when there ain't no occasion, and you won't be took in that way. now, mr. jarndyce, i address myself to you. i've been negotiating with this gentleman on behalf of sir leicester dedlock, baronet, and one way and another i've been in and out and about his premises a deal. his premises are the premises formerly occupied by krook, marine store dealer--a relation of this gentleman's that you saw in his lifetime if i don't mistake?" my guardian replied, "yes." "well! you are to understand," said mr. bucket, "that this gentleman he come into krook's property, and a good deal of magpie property there was. vast lots of waste-paper among the rest. lord bless you, of no use to nobody!" the cunning of mr. bucket's eye and the masterly manner in which he contrived, without a look or a word against which his watchful auditor could protest, to let us know that he stated the case according to previous agreement and could say much more of mr. smallweed if he thought it advisable, deprived us of any merit in quite understanding him. his difficulty was increased by mr. smallweed's being deaf as well as suspicious and watching his face with the closest attention. "among them odd heaps of old papers, this gentleman, when he comes into the property, naturally begins to rummage, don't you see?" said mr. bucket. "to which? say that again," cried mr. smallweed in a shrill, sharp voice. "to rummage," repeated mr. bucket. "being a prudent man and accustomed to take care of your own affairs, you begin to rummage among the papers as you have come into; don't you?" "of course i do," cried mr. smallweed. "of course you do," said mr. bucket conversationally, "and much to blame you would be if you didn't. and so you chance to find, you know," mr. bucket went on, stooping over him with an air of cheerful raillery which mr. smallweed by no means reciprocated, "and so you chance to find, you know, a paper with the signature of jarndyce to it. don't you?" mr. smallweed glanced with a troubled eye at us and grudgingly nodded assent. "and coming to look at that paper at your full leisure and convenience--all in good time, for you're not curious to read it, and why should you be?--what do you find it to be but a will, you see. that's the drollery of it," said mr. bucket with the same lively air of recalling a joke for the enjoyment of mr. smallweed, who still had the same crest-fallen appearance of not enjoying it at all; "what do you find it to be but a will?" "i don't know that it's good as a will or as anything else," snarled mr. smallweed. mr. bucket eyed the old man for a moment--he had slipped and shrunk down in his chair into a mere bundle--as if he were much disposed to pounce upon him; nevertheless, he continued to bend over him with the same agreeable air, keeping the corner of one of his eyes upon us. "notwithstanding which," said mr. bucket, "you get a little doubtful and uncomfortable in your mind about it, having a very tender mind of your own." "eh? what do you say i have got of my own?" asked mr. smallweed with his hand to his ear. "a very tender mind." "ho! well, go on," said mr. smallweed. "and as you've heard a good deal mentioned regarding a celebrated chancery will case of the same name, and as you know what a card krook was for buying all manner of old pieces of furniter, and books, and papers, and what not, and never liking to part with 'em, and always a-going to teach himself to read, you begin to think--and you never was more correct in your born days--'ecod, if i don't look about me, i may get into trouble regarding this will.'" "now, mind how you put it, bucket," cried the old man anxiously with his hand at his ear. "speak up; none of your brimstone tricks. pick me up; i want to hear better. oh, lord, i am shaken to bits!" mr. bucket had certainly picked him up at a dart. however, as soon as he could be heard through mr. smallweed's coughing and his vicious ejaculations of "oh, my bones! oh, dear! i've no breath in my body! i'm worse than the chattering, clattering, brimstone pig at home!" mr. bucket proceeded in the same convivial manner as before. "so, as i happen to be in the habit of coming about your premises, you take me into your confidence, don't you?" i think it would be impossible to make an admission with more ill will and a worse grace than mr. smallweed displayed when he admitted this, rendering it perfectly evident that mr. bucket was the very last person he would have thought of taking into his confidence if he could by any possibility have kept him out of it. "and i go into the business with you--very pleasant we are over it; and i confirm you in your well-founded fears that you will get yourself into a most precious line if you don't come out with that there will," said mr. bucket emphatically; "and accordingly you arrange with me that it shall be delivered up to this present mr. jarndyce, on no conditions. if it should prove to be valuable, you trusting yourself to him for your reward; that's about where it is, ain't it?" "that's what was agreed," mr. smallweed assented with the same bad grace. "in consequence of which," said mr. bucket, dismissing his agreeable manner all at once and becoming strictly business-like, "you've got that will upon your person at the present time, and the only thing that remains for you to do is just to out with it!" having given us one glance out of the watching corner of his eye, and having given his nose one triumphant rub with his forefinger, mr. bucket stood with his eyes fastened on his confidential friend and his hand stretched forth ready to take the paper and present it to my guardian. it was not produced without much reluctance and many declarations on the part of mr. smallweed that he was a poor industrious man and that he left it to mr. jarndyce's honour not to let him lose by his honesty. little by little he very slowly took from a breast-pocket a stained, discoloured paper which was much singed upon the outside and a little burnt at the edges, as if it had long ago been thrown upon a fire and hastily snatched off again. mr. bucket lost no time in transferring this paper, with the dexterity of a conjuror, from mr. smallweed to mr. jarndyce. as he gave it to my guardian, he whispered behind his fingers, "hadn't settled how to make their market of it. quarrelled and hinted about it. i laid out twenty pound upon it. first the avaricious grandchildren split upon him on account of their objections to his living so unreasonably long, and then they split on one another. lord! there ain't one of the family that wouldn't sell the other for a pound or two, except the old lady--and she's only out of it because she's too weak in her mind to drive a bargain." "mr bucket," said my guardian aloud, "whatever the worth of this paper may be to any one, my obligations are great to you; and if it be of any worth, i hold myself bound to see mr. smallweed remunerated accordingly." "not according to your merits, you know," said mr. bucket in friendly explanation to mr. smallweed. "don't you be afraid of that. according to its value." "that is what i mean," said my guardian. "you may observe, mr. bucket, that i abstain from examining this paper myself. the plain truth is, i have forsworn and abjured the whole business these many years, and my soul is sick of it. but miss summerson and i will immediately place the paper in the hands of my solicitor in the cause, and its existence shall be made known without delay to all other parties interested." "mr. jarndyce can't say fairer than that, you understand," observed mr. bucket to his fellow-visitor. "and it being now made clear to you that nobody's a-going to be wronged--which must be a great relief to your mind--we may proceed with the ceremony of chairing you home again." he unbolted the door, called in the bearers, wished us good morning, and with a look full of meaning and a crook of his finger at parting went his way. we went our way too, which was to lincoln's inn, as quickly as possible. mr. kenge was disengaged, and we found him at his table in his dusty room with the inexpressive-looking books and the piles of papers. chairs having been placed for us by mr. guppy, mr. kenge expressed the surprise and gratification he felt at the unusual sight of mr. jarndyce in his office. he turned over his double eye-glass as he spoke and was more conversation kenge than ever. "i hope," said mr. kenge, "that the genial influence of miss summerson," he bowed to me, "may have induced mr. jarndyce," he bowed to him, "to forego some little of his animosity towards a cause and towards a court which are--shall i say, which take their place in the stately vista of the pillars of our profession?" "i am inclined to think," returned my guardian, "that miss summerson has seen too much of the effects of the court and the cause to exert any influence in their favour. nevertheless, they are a part of the occasion of my being here. mr. kenge, before i lay this paper on your desk and have done with it, let me tell you how it has come into my hands." he did so shortly and distinctly. "it could not, sir," said mr. kenge, "have been stated more plainly and to the purpose if it had been a case at law." "did you ever know english law, or equity either, plain and to the purpose?" said my guardian. "oh, fie!" said mr. kenge. at first he had not seemed to attach much importance to the paper, but when he saw it he appeared more interested, and when he had opened and read a little of it through his eye-glass, he became amazed. "mr. jarndyce," he said, looking off it, "you have perused this?" "not i!" returned my guardian. "but, my dear sir," said mr. kenge, "it is a will of later date than any in the suit. it appears to be all in the testator's handwriting. it is duly executed and attested. and even if intended to be cancelled, as might possibly be supposed to be denoted by these marks of fire, it is not cancelled. here it is, a perfect instrument!" "well!" said my guardian. "what is that to me?" "mr. guppy!" cried mr. kenge, raising his voice. "i beg your pardon, mr. jarndyce." "sir." "mr. vholes of symond's inn. my compliments. jarndyce and jarndyce. glad to speak with him." mr. guppy disappeared. "you ask me what is this to you, mr. jarndyce. if you had perused this document, you would have seen that it reduces your interest considerably, though still leaving it a very handsome one, still leaving it a very handsome one," said mr. kenge, waving his hand persuasively and blandly. "you would further have seen that the interests of mr. richard carstone and of miss ada clare, now mrs. richard carstone, are very materially advanced by it." "kenge," said my guardian, "if all the flourishing wealth that the suit brought into this vile court of chancery could fall to my two young cousins, i should be well contented. but do you ask me to believe that any good is to come of jarndyce and jarndyce?" "oh, really, mr. jarndyce! prejudice, prejudice. my dear sir, this is a very great country, a very great country. its system of equity is a very great system, a very great system. really, really!" my guardian said no more, and mr. vholes arrived. he was modestly impressed by mr. kenge's professional eminence. "how do you do, mr. vholes? will you be so good as to take a chair here by me and look over this paper?" mr. vholes did as he was asked and seemed to read it every word. he was not excited by it, but he was not excited by anything. when he had well examined it, he retired with mr. kenge into a window, and shading his mouth with his black glove, spoke to him at some length. i was not surprised to observe mr. kenge inclined to dispute what he said before he had said much, for i knew that no two people ever did agree about anything in jarndyce and jarndyce. but he seemed to get the better of mr. kenge too in a conversation that sounded as if it were almost composed of the words "receiver-general," "accountant-general," "report," "estate," and "costs." when they had finished, they came back to mr. kenge's table and spoke aloud. "well! but this is a very remarkable document, mr. vholes," said mr. kenge. mr. vholes said, "very much so." "and a very important document, mr. vholes," said mr. kenge. again mr. vholes said, "very much so." "and as you say, mr. vholes, when the cause is in the paper next term, this document will be an unexpected and interesting feature in it," said mr. kenge, looking loftily at my guardian. mr. vholes was gratified, as a smaller practitioner striving to keep respectable, to be confirmed in any opinion of his own by such an authority. "and when," asked my guardian, rising after a pause, during which mr. kenge had rattled his money and mr. vholes had picked his pimples, "when is next term?" "next term, mr. jarndyce, will be next month," said mr. kenge. "of course we shall at once proceed to do what is necessary with this document and to collect the necessary evidence concerning it; and of course you will receive our usual notification of the cause being in the paper." "to which i shall pay, of course, my usual attention." "still bent, my dear sir," said mr. kenge, showing us through the outer office to the door, "still bent, even with your enlarged mind, on echoing a popular prejudice? we are a prosperous community, mr. jarndyce, a very prosperous community. we are a great country, mr. jarndyce, we are a very great country. this is a great system, mr. jarndyce, and would you wish a great country to have a little system? now, really, really!" he said this at the stair-head, gently moving his right hand as if it were a silver trowel with which to spread the cement of his words on the structure of the system and consolidate it for a thousand ages. chapter lxiii steel and iron george's shooting gallery is to let, and the stock is sold off, and george himself is at chesney wold attending on sir leicester in his rides and riding very near his bridle-rein because of the uncertain hand with which he guides his horse. but not to-day is george so occupied. he is journeying to-day into the iron country farther north to look about him. as he comes into the iron country farther north, such fresh green woods as those of chesney wold are left behind; and coal pits and ashes, high chimneys and red bricks, blighted verdure, scorching fires, and a heavy never-lightening cloud of smoke become the features of the scenery. among such objects rides the trooper, looking about him and always looking for something he has come to find. at last, on the black canal bridge of a busy town, with a clang of iron in it, and more fires and more smoke than he has seen yet, the trooper, swart with the dust of the coal roads, checks his horse and asks a workman does he know the name of rouncewell thereabouts. "why, master," quoth the workman, "do i know my own name?" "'tis so well known here, is it, comrade?" asks the trooper. "rouncewell's? ah! you're right." "and where might it be now?" asks the trooper with a glance before him. "the bank, the factory, or the house?" the workman wants to know. "hum! rouncewell's is so great apparently," mutters the trooper, stroking his chin, "that i have as good as half a mind to go back again. why, i don't know which i want. should i find mr. rouncewell at the factory, do you think?" "tain't easy to say where you'd find him--at this time of the day you might find either him or his son there, if he's in town; but his contracts take him away." and which is the factory? why, he sees those chimneys--the tallest ones! yes, he sees them. well! let him keep his eye on those chimneys, going on as straight as ever he can, and presently he'll see 'em down a turning on the left, shut in by a great brick wall which forms one side of the street. that's rouncewell's. the trooper thanks his informant and rides slowly on, looking about him. he does not turn back, but puts up his horse (and is much disposed to groom him too) at a public-house where some of rouncewell's hands are dining, as the ostler tells him. some of rouncewell's hands have just knocked off for dinner-time and seem to be invading the whole town. they are very sinewy and strong, are rouncewell's hands--a little sooty too. he comes to a gateway in the brick wall, looks in, and sees a great perplexity of iron lying about in every stage and in a vast variety of shapes--in bars, in wedges, in sheets; in tanks, in boilers, in axles, in wheels, in cogs, in cranks, in rails; twisted and wrenched into eccentric and perverse forms as separate parts of machinery; mountains of it broken up, and rusty in its age; distant furnaces of it glowing and bubbling in its youth; bright fireworks of it showering about under the blows of the steam-hammer; red-hot iron, white-hot iron, cold-black iron; an iron taste, an iron smell, and a babel of iron sounds. "this is a place to make a man's head ache too!" says the trooper, looking about him for a counting-house. "who comes here? this is very like me before i was set up. this ought to be my nephew, if likenesses run in families. your servant, sir." "yours, sir. are you looking for any one?" "excuse me. young mr. rouncewell, i believe?" "yes." "i was looking for your father, sir. i wish to have a word with him." the young man, telling him he is fortunate in his choice of a time, for his father is there, leads the way to the office where he is to be found. "very like me before i was set up--devilish like me!" thinks the trooper as he follows. they come to a building in the yard with an office on an upper floor. at sight of the gentleman in the office, mr. george turns very red. "what name shall i say to my father?" asks the young man. george, full of the idea of iron, in desperation answers "steel," and is so presented. he is left alone with the gentleman in the office, who sits at a table with account-books before him and some sheets of paper blotted with hosts of figures and drawings of cunning shapes. it is a bare office, with bare windows, looking on the iron view below. tumbled together on the table are some pieces of iron, purposely broken to be tested at various periods of their service, in various capacities. there is iron-dust on everything; and the smoke is seen through the windows rolling heavily out of the tall chimneys to mingle with the smoke from a vaporous babylon of other chimneys. "i am at your service, mr. steel," says the gentleman when his visitor has taken a rusty chair. "well, mr. rouncewell," george replies, leaning forward with his left arm on his knee and his hat in his hand, and very chary of meeting his brother's eye, "i am not without my expectations that in the present visit i may prove to be more free than welcome. i have served as a dragoon in my day, and a comrade of mine that i was once rather partial to was, if i don't deceive myself, a brother of yours. i believe you had a brother who gave his family some trouble, and ran away, and never did any good but in keeping away?" "are you quite sure," returns the ironmaster in an altered voice, "that your name is steel?" the trooper falters and looks at him. his brother starts up, calls him by his name, and grasps him by both hands. "you are too quick for me!" cries the trooper with the tears springing out of his eyes. "how do you do, my dear old fellow? i never could have thought you would have been half so glad to see me as all this. how do you do, my dear old fellow, how do you do!" they shake hands and embrace each other over and over again, the trooper still coupling his "how do you do, my dear old fellow!" with his protestation that he never thought his brother would have been half so glad to see him as all this! "so far from it," he declares at the end of a full account of what has preceded his arrival there, "i had very little idea of making myself known. i thought if you took by any means forgivingly to my name i might gradually get myself up to the point of writing a letter. but i should not have been surprised, brother, if you had considered it anything but welcome news to hear of me." "we will show you at home what kind of news we think it, george," returns his brother. "this is a great day at home, and you could not have arrived, you bronzed old soldier, on a better. i make an agreement with my son watt to-day that on this day twelvemonth he shall marry as pretty and as good a girl as you have seen in all your travels. she goes to germany to-morrow with one of your nieces for a little polishing up in her education. we make a feast of the event, and you will be made the hero of it." mr. george is so entirely overcome at first by this prospect that he resists the proposed honour with great earnestness. being overborne, however, by his brother and his nephew--concerning whom he renews his protestations that he never could have thought they would have been half so glad to see him--he is taken home to an elegant house in all the arrangements of which there is to be observed a pleasant mixture of the originally simple habits of the father and mother with such as are suited to their altered station and the higher fortunes of their children. here mr. george is much dismayed by the graces and accomplishments of his nieces that are and by the beauty of rosa, his niece that is to be, and by the affectionate salutations of these young ladies, which he receives in a sort of dream. he is sorely taken aback, too, by the dutiful behaviour of his nephew and has a woeful consciousness upon him of being a scapegrace. however, there is great rejoicing and a very hearty company and infinite enjoyment, and mr. george comes bluff and martial through it all, and his pledge to be present at the marriage and give away the bride is received with universal favour. a whirling head has mr. george that night when he lies down in the state-bed of his brother's house to think of all these things and to see the images of his nieces (awful all the evening in their floating muslins) waltzing, after the german manner, over his counterpane. the brothers are closeted next morning in the ironmaster's room, where the elder is proceeding, in his clear sensible way, to show how he thinks he may best dispose of george in his business, when george squeezes his hand and stops him. "brother, i thank you a million times for your more than brotherly welcome, and a million times more to that for your more than brotherly intentions. but my plans are made. before i say a word as to them, i wish to consult you upon one family point. how," says the trooper, folding his arms and looking with indomitable firmness at his brother, "how is my mother to be got to scratch me?" "i am not sure that i understand you, george," replies the ironmaster. "i say, brother, how is my mother to be got to scratch me? she must be got to do it somehow." "scratch you out of her will, i think you mean?" "of course i do. in short," says the trooper, folding his arms more resolutely yet, "i mean--to--scratch me!" "my dear george," returns his brother, "is it so indispensable that you should undergo that process?" "quite! absolutely! i couldn't be guilty of the meanness of coming back without it. i should never be safe not to be off again. i have not sneaked home to rob your children, if not yourself, brother, of your rights. i, who forfeited mine long ago! if i am to remain and hold up my head, i must be scratched. come. you are a man of celebrated penetration and intelligence, and you can tell me how it's to be brought about." "i can tell you, george," replies the ironmaster deliberately, "how it is not to be brought about, which i hope may answer the purpose as well. look at our mother, think of her, recall her emotion when she recovered you. do you believe there is a consideration in the world that would induce her to take such a step against her favourite son? do you believe there is any chance of her consent, to balance against the outrage it would be to her (loving dear old lady!) to propose it? if you do, you are wrong. no, george! you must make up your mind to remain unscratched, i think." there is an amused smile on the ironmaster's face as he watches his brother, who is pondering, deeply disappointed. "i think you may manage almost as well as if the thing were done, though." "how, brother?" "being bent upon it, you can dispose by will of anything you have the misfortune to inherit in any way you like, you know." "that's true!" says the trooper, pondering again. then he wistfully asks, with his hand on his brother's, "would you mind mentioning that, brother, to your wife and family?" "not at all." "thank you. you wouldn't object to say, perhaps, that although an undoubted vagabond, i am a vagabond of the harum-scarum order, and not of the mean sort?" the ironmaster, repressing his amused smile, assents. "thank you. thank you. it's a weight off my mind," says the trooper with a heave of his chest as he unfolds his arms and puts a hand on each leg, "though i had set my heart on being scratched, too!" the brothers are very like each other, sitting face to face; but a certain massive simplicity and absence of usage in the ways of the world is all on the trooper's side. "well," he proceeds, throwing off his disappointment, "next and last, those plans of mine. you have been so brotherly as to propose to me to fall in here and take my place among the products of your perseverance and sense. i thank you heartily. it's more than brotherly, as i said before, and i thank you heartily for it," shaking him a long time by the hand. "but the truth is, brother, i am a--i am a kind of a weed, and it's too late to plant me in a regular garden." "my dear george," returns the elder, concentrating his strong steady brow upon him and smiling confidently, "leave that to me, and let me try." george shakes his head. "you could do it, i have not a doubt, if anybody could; but it's not to be done. not to be done, sir! whereas it so falls out, on the other hand, that i am able to be of some trifle of use to sir leicester dedlock since his illness--brought on by family sorrows--and that he would rather have that help from our mother's son than from anybody else." "well, my dear george," returns the other with a very slight shade upon his open face, "if you prefer to serve in sir leicester dedlock's household brigade--" "there it is, brother," cries the trooper, checking him, with his hand upon his knee again; "there it is! you don't take kindly to that idea; i don't mind it. you are not used to being officered; i am. everything about you is in perfect order and discipline; everything about me requires to be kept so. we are not accustomed to carry things with the same hand or to look at 'em from the same point. i don't say much about my garrison manners because i found myself pretty well at my ease last night, and they wouldn't be noticed here, i dare say, once and away. but i shall get on best at chesney wold, where there's more room for a weed than there is here; and the dear old lady will be made happy besides. therefore i accept of sir leicester dedlock's proposals. when i come over next year to give away the bride, or whenever i come, i shall have the sense to keep the household brigade in ambuscade and not to manoeuvre it on your ground. i thank you heartily again and am proud to think of the rouncewells as they'll be founded by you." "you know yourself, george," says the elder brother, returning the grip of his hand, "and perhaps you know me better than i know myself. take your way. so that we don't quite lose one another again, take your way." "no fear of that!" returns the trooper. "now, before i turn my horse's head homewards, brother, i will ask you--if you'll be so good--to look over a letter for me. i brought it with me to send from these parts, as chesney wold might be a painful name just now to the person it's written to. i am not much accustomed to correspondence myself, and i am particular respecting this present letter because i want it to be both straightforward and delicate." herewith he hands a letter, closely written in somewhat pale ink but in a neat round hand, to the ironmaster, who reads as follows: miss esther summerson, a communication having been made to me by inspector bucket of a letter to myself being found among the papers of a certain person, i take the liberty to make known to you that it was but a few lines of instruction from abroad, when, where, and how to deliver an enclosed letter to a young and beautiful lady, then unmarried, in england. i duly observed the same. i further take the liberty to make known to you that it was got from me as a proof of handwriting only and that otherwise i would not have given it up, as appearing to be the most harmless in my possession, without being previously shot through the heart. i further take the liberty to mention that if i could have supposed a certain unfortunate gentleman to have been in existence, i never could and never would have rested until i had discovered his retreat and shared my last farthing with him, as my duty and my inclination would have equally been. but he was (officially) reported drowned, and assuredly went over the side of a transport-ship at night in an irish harbour within a few hours of her arrival from the west indies, as i have myself heard both from officers and men on board, and know to have been (officially) confirmed. i further take the liberty to state that in my humble quality as one of the rank and file, i am, and shall ever continue to be, your thoroughly devoted and admiring servant and that i esteem the qualities you possess above all others far beyond the limits of the present dispatch. i have the honour to be, george "a little formal," observes the elder brother, refolding it with a puzzled face. "but nothing that might not be sent to a pattern young lady?" asks the younger. "nothing at all." therefore it is sealed and deposited for posting among the iron correspondence of the day. this done, mr. george takes a hearty farewell of the family party and prepares to saddle and mount. his brother, however, unwilling to part with him so soon, proposes to ride with him in a light open carriage to the place where he will bait for the night, and there remain with him until morning, a servant riding for so much of the journey on the thoroughbred old grey from chesney wold. the offer, being gladly accepted, is followed by a pleasant ride, a pleasant dinner, and a pleasant breakfast, all in brotherly communion. then they once more shake hands long and heartily and part, the ironmaster turning his face to the smoke and fires, and the trooper to the green country. early in the afternoon the subdued sound of his heavy military trot is heard on the turf in the avenue as he rides on with imaginary clank and jingle of accoutrements under the old elm-trees. chapter lxiv esther's narrative soon after i had that conversation with my guardian, he put a sealed paper in my hand one morning and said, "this is for next month, my dear." i found in it two hundred pounds. i now began very quietly to make such preparations as i thought were necessary. regulating my purchases by my guardian's taste, which i knew very well of course, i arranged my wardrobe to please him and hoped i should be highly successful. i did it all so quietly because i was not quite free from my old apprehension that ada would be rather sorry and because my guardian was so quiet himself. i had no doubt that under all the circumstances we should be married in the most private and simple manner. perhaps i should only have to say to ada, "would you like to come and see me married to-morrow, my pet?" perhaps our wedding might even be as unpretending as her own, and i might not find it necessary to say anything about it until it was over. i thought that if i were to choose, i would like this best. the only exception i made was mrs. woodcourt. i told her that i was going to be married to my guardian and that we had been engaged some time. she highly approved. she could never do enough for me and was remarkably softened now in comparison with what she had been when we first knew her. there was no trouble she would not have taken to have been of use to me, but i need hardly say that i only allowed her to take as little as gratified her kindness without tasking it. of course this was not a time to neglect my guardian, and of course it was not a time for neglecting my darling. so i had plenty of occupation, which i was glad of; and as to charley, she was absolutely not to be seen for needlework. to surround herself with great heaps of it--baskets full and tables full--and do a little, and spend a great deal of time in staring with her round eyes at what there was to do, and persuade herself that she was going to do it, were charley's great dignities and delights. meanwhile, i must say, i could not agree with my guardian on the subject of the will, and i had some sanguine hopes of jarndyce and jarndyce. which of us was right will soon appear, but i certainly did encourage expectations. in richard, the discovery gave occasion for a burst of business and agitation that buoyed him up for a little time, but he had lost the elasticity even of hope now and seemed to me to retain only its feverish anxieties. from something my guardian said one day when we were talking about this, i understood that my marriage would not take place until after the term-time we had been told to look forward to; and i thought the more, for that, how rejoiced i should be if i could be married when richard and ada were a little more prosperous. the term was very near indeed when my guardian was called out of town and went down into yorkshire on mr. woodcourt's business. he had told me beforehand that his presence there would be necessary. i had just come in one night from my dear girl's and was sitting in the midst of all my new clothes, looking at them all around me and thinking, when a letter from my guardian was brought to me. it asked me to join him in the country and mentioned by what stage-coach my place was taken and at what time in the morning i should have to leave town. it added in a postscript that i would not be many hours from ada. i expected few things less than a journey at that time, but i was ready for it in half an hour and set off as appointed early next morning. i travelled all day, wondering all day what i could be wanted for at such a distance; now i thought it might be for this purpose, and now i thought it might be for that purpose, but i was never, never, never near the truth. it was night when i came to my journey's end and found my guardian waiting for me. this was a great relief, for towards evening i had begun to fear (the more so as his letter was a very short one) that he might be ill. however, there he was, as well as it was possible to be; and when i saw his genial face again at its brightest and best, i said to myself, he has been doing some other great kindness. not that it required much penetration to say that, because i knew that his being there at all was an act of kindness. supper was ready at the hotel, and when we were alone at table he said, "full of curiosity, no doubt, little woman, to know why i have brought you here?" "well, guardian," said i, "without thinking myself a fatima or you a blue beard, i am a little curious about it." "then to ensure your night's rest, my love," he returned gaily, "i won't wait until to-morrow to tell you. i have very much wished to express to woodcourt, somehow, my sense of his humanity to poor unfortunate jo, his inestimable services to my young cousins, and his value to us all. when it was decided that he should settle here, it came into my head that i might ask his acceptance of some unpretending and suitable little place to lay his own head in. i therefore caused such a place to be looked out for, and such a place was found on very easy terms, and i have been touching it up for him and making it habitable. however, when i walked over it the day before yesterday and it was reported ready, i found that i was not housekeeper enough to know whether things were all as they ought to be. so i sent off for the best little housekeeper that could possibly be got to come and give me her advice and opinion. and here she is," said my guardian, "laughing and crying both together!" because he was so dear, so good, so admirable. i tried to tell him what i thought of him, but i could not articulate a word. "tut, tut!" said my guardian. "you make too much of it, little woman. why, how you sob, dame durden, how you sob!" "it is with exquisite pleasure, guardian--with a heart full of thanks." "well, well," said he. "i am delighted that you approve. i thought you would. i meant it as a pleasant surprise for the little mistress of bleak house." i kissed him and dried my eyes. "i know now!" said i. "i have seen this in your face a long while." "no; have you really, my dear?" said he. "what a dame durden it is to read a face!" he was so quaintly cheerful that i could not long be otherwise, and was almost ashamed of having been otherwise at all. when i went to bed, i cried. i am bound to confess that i cried; but i hope it was with pleasure, though i am not quite sure it was with pleasure. i repeated every word of the letter twice over. a most beautiful summer morning succeeded, and after breakfast we went out arm in arm to see the house of which i was to give my mighty housekeeping opinion. we entered a flower-garden by a gate in a side wall, of which he had the key, and the first thing i saw was that the beds and flowers were all laid out according to the manner of my beds and flowers at home. "you see, my dear," observed my guardian, standing still with a delighted face to watch my looks, "knowing there could be no better plan, i borrowed yours." we went on by a pretty little orchard, where the cherries were nestling among the green leaves and the shadows of the apple-trees were sporting on the grass, to the house itself--a cottage, quite a rustic cottage of doll's rooms; but such a lovely place, so tranquil and so beautiful, with such a rich and smiling country spread around it; with water sparkling away into the distance, here all overhung with summer-growth, there turning a humming mill; at its nearest point glancing through a meadow by the cheerful town, where cricket-players were assembling in bright groups and a flag was flying from a white tent that rippled in the sweet west wind. and still, as we went through the pretty rooms, out at the little rustic verandah doors, and underneath the tiny wooden colonnades garlanded with woodbine, jasmine, and honey-suckle, i saw in the papering on the walls, in the colours of the furniture, in the arrangement of all the pretty objects, my little tastes and fancies, my little methods and inventions which they used to laugh at while they praised them, my odd ways everywhere. i could not say enough in admiration of what was all so beautiful, but one secret doubt arose in my mind when i saw this, i thought, oh, would he be the happier for it! would it not have been better for his peace that i should not have been so brought before him? because although i was not what he thought me, still he loved me very dearly, and it might remind him mournfully of what be believed he had lost. i did not wish him to forget me--perhaps he might not have done so, without these aids to his memory--but my way was easier than his, and i could have reconciled myself even to that so that he had been the happier for it. "and now, little woman," said my guardian, whom i had never seen so proud and joyful as in showing me these things and watching my appreciation of them, "now, last of all, for the name of this house." "what is it called, dear guardian?" "my child," said he, "come and see," he took me to the porch, which he had hitherto avoided, and said, pausing before we went out, "my dear child, don't you guess the name?" "no!" said i. we went out of the porch and he showed me written over it, bleak house. he led me to a seat among the leaves close by, and sitting down beside me and taking my hand in his, spoke to me thus, "my darling girl, in what there has been between us, i have, i hope, been really solicitous for your happiness. when i wrote you the letter to which you brought the answer," smiling as he referred to it, "i had my own too much in view; but i had yours too. whether, under different circumstances, i might ever have renewed the old dream i sometimes dreamed when you were very young, of making you my wife one day, i need not ask myself. i did renew it, and i wrote my letter, and you brought your answer. you are following what i say, my child?" i was cold, and i trembled violently, but not a word he uttered was lost. as i sat looking fixedly at him and the sun's rays descended, softly shining through the leaves upon his bare head, i felt as if the brightness on him must be like the brightness of the angels. "hear me, my love, but do not speak. it is for me to speak now. when it was that i began to doubt whether what i had done would really make you happy is no matter. woodcourt came home, and i soon had no doubt at all." i clasped him round the neck and hung my head upon his breast and wept. "lie lightly, confidently here, my child," said he, pressing me gently to him. "i am your guardian and your father now. rest confidently here." soothingly, like the gentle rustling of the leaves; and genially, like the ripening weather; and radiantly and beneficently, like the sunshine, he went on. "understand me, my dear girl. i had no doubt of your being contented and happy with me, being so dutiful and so devoted; but i saw with whom you would be happier. that i penetrated his secret when dame durden was blind to it is no wonder, for i knew the good that could never change in her better far than she did. well! i have long been in allan woodcourt's confidence, although he was not, until yesterday, a few hours before you came here, in mine. but i would not have my esther's bright example lost; i would not have a jot of my dear girl's virtues unobserved and unhonoured; i would not have her admitted on sufferance into the line of morgan ap-kerrig, no, not for the weight in gold of all the mountains in wales!" he stopped to kiss me on the forehead, and i sobbed and wept afresh. for i felt as if i could not bear the painful delight of his praise. "hush, little woman! don't cry; this is to be a day of joy. i have looked forward to it," he said exultingly, "for months on months! a few words more, dame trot, and i have said my say. determined not to throw away one atom of my esther's worth, i took mrs. woodcourt into a separate confidence. 'now, madam,' said i, 'i clearly perceive--and indeed i know, to boot--that your son loves my ward. i am further very sure that my ward loves your son, but will sacrifice her love to a sense of duty and affection, and will sacrifice it so completely, so entirely, so religiously, that you should never suspect it though you watched her night and day.' then i told her all our story--ours--yours and mine. 'now, madam,' said i, 'come you, knowing this, and live with us. come you, and see my child from hour to hour; set what you see against her pedigree, which is this, and this'--for i scorned to mince it--'and tell me what is the true legitimacy when you shall have quite made up your mind on that subject.' why, honour to her old welsh blood, my dear," cried my guardian with enthusiasm, "i believe the heart it animates beats no less warmly, no less admiringly, no less lovingly, towards dame durden than my own!" he tenderly raised my head, and as i clung to him, kissed me in his old fatherly way again and again. what a light, now, on the protecting manner i had thought about! "one more last word. when allan woodcourt spoke to you, my dear, he spoke with my knowledge and consent--but i gave him no encouragement, not i, for these surprises were my great reward, and i was too miserly to part with a scrap of it. he was to come and tell me all that passed, and he did. i have no more to say. my dearest, allan woodcourt stood beside your father when he lay dead--stood beside your mother. this is bleak house. this day i give this house its little mistress; and before god, it is the brightest day in all my life!" he rose and raised me with him. we were no longer alone. my husband--i have called him by that name full seven happy years now--stood at my side. "allan," said my guardian, "take from me a willing gift, the best wife that ever man had. what more can i say for you than that i know you deserve her! take with her the little home she brings you. you know what she will make it, allan; you know what she has made its namesake. let me share its felicity sometimes, and what do i sacrifice? nothing, nothing." he kissed me once again, and now the tears were in his eyes as he said more softly, "esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is a kind of parting in this too. i know that my mistake has caused you some distress. forgive your old guardian, in restoring him to his old place in your affections; and blot it out of your memory. allan, take my dear." he moved away from under the green roof of leaves, and stopping in the sunlight outside and turning cheerfully towards us, said, "i shall be found about here somewhere. it's a west wind, little woman, due west! let no one thank me any more, for i am going to revert to my bachelor habits, and if anybody disregards this warning, i'll run away and never come back!" what happiness was ours that day, what joy, what rest, what hope, what gratitude, what bliss! we were to be married before the month was out, but when we were to come and take possession of our own house was to depend on richard and ada. we all three went home together next day. as soon as we arrived in town, allan went straight to see richard and to carry our joyful news to him and my darling. late as it was, i meant to go to her for a few minutes before lying down to sleep, but i went home with my guardian first to make his tea for him and to occupy the old chair by his side, for i did not like to think of its being empty so soon. when we came home we found that a young man had called three times in the course of that one day to see me and that having been told on the occasion of his third call that i was not expected to return before ten o'clock at night, he had left word that he would call about then. he had left his card three times. mr. guppy. as i naturally speculated on the object of these visits, and as i always associated something ludicrous with the visitor, it fell out that in laughing about mr. guppy i told my guardian of his old proposal and his subsequent retraction. "after that," said my guardian, "we will certainly receive this hero." so instructions were given that mr. guppy should be shown in when he came again, and they were scarcely given when he did come again. he was embarrassed when he found my guardian with me, but recovered himself and said, "how de do, sir?" "how do you do, sir?" returned my guardian. "thank you, sir, i am tolerable," returned mr. guppy. "will you allow me to introduce my mother, mrs. guppy of the old street road, and my particular friend, mr. weevle. that is to say, my friend has gone by the name of weevle, but his name is really and truly jobling." my guardian begged them to be seated, and they all sat down. "tony," said mr. guppy to his friend after an awkward silence. "will you open the case?" "do it yourself," returned the friend rather tartly. "well, mr. jarndyce, sir," mr. guppy, after a moment's consideration, began, to the great diversion of his mother, which she displayed by nudging mr. jobling with her elbow and winking at me in a most remarkable manner, "i had an idea that i should see miss summerson by herself and was not quite prepared for your esteemed presence. but miss summerson has mentioned to you, perhaps, that something has passed between us on former occasions?" "miss summerson," returned my guardian, smiling, "has made a communication to that effect to me." "that," said mr. guppy, "makes matters easier. sir, i have come out of my articles at kenge and carboy's, and i believe with satisfaction to all parties. i am now admitted (after undergoing an examination that's enough to badger a man blue, touching a pack of nonsense that he don't want to know) on the roll of attorneys and have taken out my certificate, if it would be any satisfaction to you to see it." "thank you, mr. guppy," returned my guardian. "i am quite willing--i believe i use a legal phrase--to admit the certificate." mr. guppy therefore desisted from taking something out of his pocket and proceeded without it. "i have no capital myself, but my mother has a little property which takes the form of an annuity"--here mr. guppy's mother rolled her head as if she never could sufficiently enjoy the observation, and put her handkerchief to her mouth, and again winked at me--"and a few pounds for expenses out of pocket in conducting business will never be wanting, free of interest, which is an advantage, you know," said mr. guppy feelingly. "certainly an advantage," returned my guardian. "i have some connexion," pursued mr. guppy, "and it lays in the direction of walcot square, lambeth. i have therefore taken a 'ouse in that locality, which, in the opinion of my friends, is a hollow bargain (taxes ridiculous, and use of fixtures included in the rent), and intend setting up professionally for myself there forthwith." here mr. guppy's mother fell into an extraordinary passion of rolling her head and smiling waggishly at anybody who would look at her. "it's a six-roomer, exclusive of kitchens," said mr. guppy, "and in the opinion of my friends, a commodious tenement. when i mention my friends, i refer principally to my friend jobling, who i believe has known me," mr. guppy looked at him with a sentimental air, "from boyhood's hour." mr. jobling confirmed this with a sliding movement of his legs. "my friend jobling will render me his assistance in the capacity of clerk and will live in the 'ouse," said mr. guppy. "my mother will likewise live in the 'ouse when her present quarter in the old street road shall have ceased and expired; and consequently there will be no want of society. my friend jobling is naturally aristocratic by taste, and besides being acquainted with the movements of the upper circles, fully backs me in the intentions i am now developing." mr. jobling said "certainly" and withdrew a little from the elbow of mr guppy's mother. "now, i have no occasion to mention to you, sir, you being in the confidence of miss summerson," said mr. guppy, "(mother, i wish you'd be so good as to keep still), that miss summerson's image was formerly imprinted on my 'eart and that i made her a proposal of marriage." "that i have heard," returned my guardian. "circumstances," pursued mr. guppy, "over which i had no control, but quite the contrary, weakened the impression of that image for a time. at which time miss summerson's conduct was highly genteel; i may even add, magnanimous." my guardian patted me on the shoulder and seemed much amused. "now, sir," said mr. guppy, "i have got into that state of mind myself that i wish for a reciprocity of magnanimous behaviour. i wish to prove to miss summerson that i can rise to a heighth of which perhaps she hardly thought me capable. i find that the image which i did suppose had been eradicated from my 'eart is not eradicated. its influence over me is still tremenjous, and yielding to it, i am willing to overlook the circumstances over which none of us have had any control and to renew those proposals to miss summerson which i had the honour to make at a former period. i beg to lay the 'ouse in walcot square, the business, and myself before miss summerson for her acceptance." "very magnanimous indeed, sir," observed my guardian. "well, sir," replied mr. guppy with candour, "my wish is to be magnanimous. i do not consider that in making this offer to miss summerson i am by any means throwing myself away; neither is that the opinion of my friends. still, there are circumstances which i submit may be taken into account as a set off against any little drawbacks of mine, and so a fair and equitable balance arrived at." "i take upon myself, sir," said my guardian, laughing as he rang the bell, "to reply to your proposals on behalf of miss summerson. she is very sensible of your handsome intentions, and wishes you good evening, and wishes you well." "oh!" said mr. guppy with a blank look. "is that tantamount, sir, to acceptance, or rejection, or consideration?" "to decided rejection, if you please," returned my guardian. mr. guppy looked incredulously at his friend, and at his mother, who suddenly turned very angry, and at the floor, and at the ceiling. "indeed?" said he. "then, jobling, if you was the friend you represent yourself, i should think you might hand my mother out of the gangway instead of allowing her to remain where she ain't wanted." but mrs. guppy positively refused to come out of the gangway. she wouldn't hear of it. "why, get along with you," said she to my guardian, "what do you mean? ain't my son good enough for you? you ought to be ashamed of yourself. get out with you!" "my good lady," returned my guardian, "it is hardly reasonable to ask me to get out of my own room." "i don't care for that," said mrs. guppy. "get out with you. if we ain't good enough for you, go and procure somebody that is good enough. go along and find 'em." i was quite unprepared for the rapid manner in which mrs. guppy's power of jocularity merged into a power of taking the profoundest offence. "go along and find somebody that's good enough for you," repeated mrs. guppy. "get out!" nothing seemed to astonish mr. guppy's mother so much and to make her so very indignant as our not getting out. "why don't you get out?" said mrs. guppy. "what are you stopping here for?" "mother," interposed her son, always getting before her and pushing her back with one shoulder as she sidled at my guardian, "will you hold your tongue?" "no, william," she returned, "i won't! not unless he gets out, i won't!" however, mr. guppy and mr. jobling together closed on mr. guppy's mother (who began to be quite abusive) and took her, very much against her will, downstairs, her voice rising a stair higher every time her figure got a stair lower, and insisting that we should immediately go and find somebody who was good enough for us, and above all things that we should get out. chapter lxv beginning the world the term had commenced, and my guardian found an intimation from mr. kenge that the cause would come on in two days. as i had sufficient hopes of the will to be in a flutter about it, allan and i agreed to go down to the court that morning. richard was extremely agitated and was so weak and low, though his illness was still of the mind, that my dear girl indeed had sore occasion to be supported. but she looked forward--a very little way now--to the help that was to come to her, and never drooped. it was at westminster that the cause was to come on. it had come on there, i dare say, a hundred times before, but i could not divest myself of an idea that it might lead to some result now. we left home directly after breakfast to be at westminster hall in good time and walked down there through the lively streets--so happily and strangely it seemed!--together. as we were going along, planning what we should do for richard and ada, i heard somebody calling "esther! my dear esther! esther!" and there was caddy jellyby, with her head out of the window of a little carriage which she hired now to go about in to her pupils (she had so many), as if she wanted to embrace me at a hundred yards' distance. i had written her a note to tell her of all that my guardian had done, but had not had a moment to go and see her. of course we turned back, and the affectionate girl was in that state of rapture, and was so overjoyed to talk about the night when she brought me the flowers, and was so determined to squeeze my face (bonnet and all) between her hands, and go on in a wild manner altogether, calling me all kinds of precious names, and telling allan i had done i don't know what for her, that i was just obliged to get into the little carriage and calm her down by letting her say and do exactly what she liked. allan, standing at the window, was as pleased as caddy; and i was as pleased as either of them; and i wonder that i got away as i did, rather than that i came off laughing, and red, and anything but tidy, and looking after caddy, who looked after us out of the coach-window as long as she could see us. this made us some quarter of an hour late, and when we came to westminster hall we found that the day's business was begun. worse than that, we found such an unusual crowd in the court of chancery that it was full to the door, and we could neither see nor hear what was passing within. it appeared to be something droll, for occasionally there was a laugh and a cry of "silence!" it appeared to be something interesting, for every one was pushing and striving to get nearer. it appeared to be something that made the professional gentlemen very merry, for there were several young counsellors in wigs and whiskers on the outside of the crowd, and when one of them told the others about it, they put their hands in their pockets, and quite doubled themselves up with laughter, and went stamping about the pavement of the hall. we asked a gentleman by us if he knew what cause was on. he told us jarndyce and jarndyce. we asked him if he knew what was doing in it. he said really, no he did not, nobody ever did, but as well as he could make out, it was over. over for the day? we asked him. no, he said, over for good. over for good! when we heard this unaccountable answer, we looked at one another quite lost in amazement. could it be possible that the will had set things right at last and that richard and ada were going to be rich? it seemed too good to be true. alas it was! our suspense was short, for a break-up soon took place in the crowd, and the people came streaming out looking flushed and hot and bringing a quantity of bad air with them. still they were all exceedingly amused and were more like people coming out from a farce or a juggler than from a court of justice. we stood aside, watching for any countenance we knew, and presently great bundles of paper began to be carried out--bundles in bags, bundles too large to be got into any bags, immense masses of papers of all shapes and no shapes, which the bearers staggered under, and threw down for the time being, anyhow, on the hall pavement, while they went back to bring out more. even these clerks were laughing. we glanced at the papers, and seeing jarndyce and jarndyce everywhere, asked an official-looking person who was standing in the midst of them whether the cause was over. yes, he said, it was all up with it at last, and burst out laughing too. at this juncture we perceived mr. kenge coming out of court with an affable dignity upon him, listening to mr. vholes, who was deferential and carried his own bag. mr. vholes was the first to see us. "here is miss summerson, sir," he said. "and mr. woodcourt." "oh, indeed! yes. truly!" said mr. kenge, raising his hat to me with polished politeness. "how do you do? glad to see you. mr. jarndyce is not here?" no. he never came there, i reminded him. "really," returned mr. kenge, "it is as well that he is not here to-day, for his--shall i say, in my good friend's absence, his indomitable singularity of opinion?--might have been strengthened, perhaps; not reasonably, but might have been strengthened." "pray what has been done to-day?" asked allan. "i beg your pardon?" said mr. kenge with excessive urbanity. "what has been done to-day?" "what has been done," repeated mr. kenge. "quite so. yes. why, not much has been done; not much. we have been checked--brought up suddenly, i would say--upon the--shall i term it threshold?" "is this will considered a genuine document, sir?" said allan. "will you tell us that?" "most certainly, if i could," said mr. kenge; "but we have not gone into that, we have not gone into that." "we have not gone into that," repeated mr. vholes as if his low inward voice were an echo. "you are to reflect, mr. woodcourt," observed mr. kenge, using his silver trowel persuasively and smoothingly, "that this has been a great cause, that this has been a protracted cause, that this has been a complex cause. jarndyce and jarndyce has been termed, not inaptly, a monument of chancery practice." "and patience has sat upon it a long time," said allan. "very well indeed, sir," returned mr. kenge with a certain condescending laugh he had. "very well! you are further to reflect, mr. woodcourt," becoming dignified almost to severity, "that on the numerous difficulties, contingencies, masterly fictions, and forms of procedure in this great cause, there has been expended study, ability, eloquence, knowledge, intellect, mr. woodcourt, high intellect. for many years, the--a--i would say the flower of the bar, and the--a--i would presume to add, the matured autumnal fruits of the woolsack--have been lavished upon jarndyce and jarndyce. if the public have the benefit, and if the country have the adornment, of this great grasp, it must be paid for in money or money's worth, sir." "mr. kenge," said allan, appearing enlightened all in a moment. "excuse me, our time presses. do i understand that the whole estate is found to have been absorbed in costs?" "hem! i believe so," returned mr. kenge. "mr. vholes, what do you say?" "i believe so," said mr. vholes. "and that thus the suit lapses and melts away?" "probably," returned mr. kenge. "mr. vholes?" "probably," said mr. vholes. "my dearest life," whispered allan, "this will break richard's heart!" there was such a shock of apprehension in his face, and he knew richard so perfectly, and i too had seen so much of his gradual decay, that what my dear girl had said to me in the fullness of her foreboding love sounded like a knell in my ears. "in case you should be wanting mr. c., sir," said mr. vholes, coming after us, "you'll find him in court. i left him there resting himself a little. good day, sir; good day, miss summerson." as he gave me that slowly devouring look of his, while twisting up the strings of his bag before he hastened with it after mr. kenge, the benignant shadow of whose conversational presence he seemed afraid to leave, he gave one gasp as if he had swallowed the last morsel of his client, and his black buttoned-up unwholesome figure glided away to the low door at the end of the hall. "my dear love," said allan, "leave to me, for a little while, the charge you gave me. go home with this intelligence and come to ada's by and by!" i would not let him take me to a coach, but entreated him to go to richard without a moment's delay and leave me to do as he wished. hurrying home, i found my guardian and told him gradually with what news i had returned. "little woman," said he, quite unmoved for himself, "to have done with the suit on any terms is a greater blessing than i had looked for. but my poor young cousins!" we talked about them all the morning and discussed what it was possible to do. in the afternoon my guardian walked with me to symond's inn and left me at the door. i went upstairs. when my darling heard my footsteps, she came out into the small passage and threw her arms round my neck, but she composed herself directly and said that richard had asked for me several times. allan had found him sitting in the corner of the court, she told me, like a stone figure. on being roused, he had broken away and made as if he would have spoken in a fierce voice to the judge. he was stopped by his mouth being full of blood, and allan had brought him home. he was lying on a sofa with his eyes closed when i went in. there were restoratives on the table; the room was made as airy as possible, and was darkened, and was very orderly and quiet. allan stood behind him watching him gravely. his face appeared to me to be quite destitute of colour, and now that i saw him without his seeing me, i fully saw, for the first time, how worn away he was. but he looked handsomer than i had seen him look for many a day. i sat down by his side in silence. opening his eyes by and by, he said in a weak voice, but with his old smile, "dame durden, kiss me, my dear!" it was a great comfort and surprise to me to find him in his low state cheerful and looking forward. he was happier, he said, in our intended marriage than he could find words to tell me. my husband had been a guardian angel to him and ada, and he blessed us both and wished us all the joy that life could yield us. i almost felt as if my own heart would have broken when i saw him take my husband's hand and hold it to his breast. we spoke of the future as much as possible, and he said several times that he must be present at our marriage if he could stand upon his feet. ada would contrive to take him, somehow, he said. "yes, surely, dearest richard!" but as my darling answered him thus hopefully, so serene and beautiful, with the help that was to come to her so near--i knew--i knew! it was not good for him to talk too much, and when he was silent, we were silent too. sitting beside him, i made a pretence of working for my dear, as he had always been used to joke about my being busy. ada leaned upon his pillow, holding his head upon her arm. he dozed often, and whenever he awoke without seeing him, said first of all, "where is woodcourt?" evening had come on when i lifted up my eyes and saw my guardian standing in the little hall. "who is that, dame durden?" richard asked me. the door was behind him, but he had observed in my face that some one was there. i looked to allan for advice, and as he nodded "yes," bent over richard and told him. my guardian saw what passed, came softly by me in a moment, and laid his hand on richard's. "oh, sir," said richard, "you are a good man, you are a good man!" and burst into tears for the first time. my guardian, the picture of a good man, sat down in my place, keeping his hand on richard's. "my dear rick," said he, "the clouds have cleared away, and it is bright now. we can see now. we were all bewildered, rick, more or less. what matters! and how are you, my dear boy?" "i am very weak, sir, but i hope i shall be stronger. i have to begin the world." "aye, truly; well said!" cried my guardian. "i will not begin it in the old way now," said richard with a sad smile. "i have learned a lesson now, sir. it was a hard one, but you shall be assured, indeed, that i have learned it." "well, well," said my guardian, comforting him; "well, well, well, dear boy!" "i was thinking, sir," resumed richard, "that there is nothing on earth i should so much like to see as their house--dame durden's and woodcourt's house. if i could be removed there when i begin to recover my strength, i feel as if i should get well there sooner than anywhere." "why, so have i been thinking too, rick," said my guardian, "and our little woman likewise; she and i have been talking of it this very day. i dare say her husband won't object. what do you think?" richard smiled and lifted up his arm to touch him as he stood behind the head of the couch. "i say nothing of ada," said richard, "but i think of her, and have thought of her very much. look at her! see her here, sir, bending over this pillow when she has so much need to rest upon it herself, my dear love, my poor girl!" he clasped her in his arms, and none of us spoke. he gradually released her, and she looked upon us, and looked up to heaven, and moved her lips. "when i get down to bleak house," said richard, "i shall have much to tell you, sir, and you will have much to show me. you will go, won't you?" "undoubtedly, dear rick." "thank you; like you, like you," said richard. "but it's all like you. they have been telling me how you planned it and how you remembered all esther's familiar tastes and ways. it will be like coming to the old bleak house again." "and you will come there too, i hope, rick. i am a solitary man now, you know, and it will be a charity to come to me. a charity to come to me, my love!" he repeated to ada as he gently passed his hand over her golden hair and put a lock of it to his lips. (i think he vowed within himself to cherish her if she were left alone.) "it was a troubled dream?" said richard, clasping both my guardian's hands eagerly. "nothing more, rick; nothing more." "and you, being a good man, can pass it as such, and forgive and pity the dreamer, and be lenient and encouraging when he wakes?" "indeed i can. what am i but another dreamer, rick?" "i will begin the world!" said richard with a light in his eyes. my husband drew a little nearer towards ada, and i saw him solemnly lift up his hand to warn my guardian. "when shall i go from this place to that pleasant country where the old times are, where i shall have strength to tell what ada has been to me, where i shall be able to recall my many faults and blindnesses, where i shall prepare myself to be a guide to my unborn child?" said richard. "when shall i go?" "dear rick, when you are strong enough," returned my guardian. "ada, my darling!" he sought to raise himself a little. allan raised him so that she could hold him on her bosom, which was what he wanted. "i have done you many wrongs, my own. i have fallen like a poor stray shadow on your way, i have married you to poverty and trouble, i have scattered your means to the winds. you will forgive me all this, my ada, before i begin the world?" a smile irradiated his face as she bent to kiss him. he slowly laid his face down upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round her neck, and with one parting sob began the world. not this world, oh, not this! the world that sets this right. when all was still, at a late hour, poor crazed miss flite came weeping to me and told me she had given her birds their liberty. chapter lxvi down in lincolnshire there is a hush upon chesney wold in these altered days, as there is upon a portion of the family history. the story goes that sir leicester paid some who could have spoken out to hold their peace; but it is a lame story, feebly whispering and creeping about, and any brighter spark of life it shows soon dies away. it is known for certain that the handsome lady dedlock lies in the mausoleum in the park, where the trees arch darkly overhead, and the owl is heard at night making the woods ring; but whence she was brought home to be laid among the echoes of that solitary place, or how she died, is all mystery. some of her old friends, principally to be found among the peachy-cheeked charmers with the skeleton throats, did once occasionally say, as they toyed in a ghastly manner with large fans--like charmers reduced to flirting with grim death, after losing all their other beaux--did once occasionally say, when the world assembled together, that they wondered the ashes of the dedlocks, entombed in the mausoleum, never rose against the profanation of her company. but the dead-and-gone dedlocks take it very calmly and have never been known to object. up from among the fern in the hollow, and winding by the bridle-road among the trees, comes sometimes to this lonely spot the sound of horses' hoofs. then may be seen sir leicester--invalided, bent, and almost blind, but of worthy presence yet--riding with a stalwart man beside him, constant to his bridle-rein. when they come to a certain spot before the mausoleum-door, sir leicester's accustomed horse stops of his own accord, and sir leicester, pulling off his hat, is still for a few moments before they ride away. war rages yet with the audacious boythorn, though at uncertain intervals, and now hotly, and now coolly, flickering like an unsteady fire. the truth is said to be that when sir leicester came down to lincolnshire for good, mr. boythorn showed a manifest desire to abandon his right of way and do whatever sir leicester would, which sir leicester, conceiving to be a condescension to his illness or misfortune, took in such high dudgeon, and was so magnificently aggrieved by, that mr. boythorn found himself under the necessity of committing a flagrant trespass to restore his neighbour to himself. similarly, mr. boythorn continues to post tremendous placards on the disputed thoroughfare and (with his bird upon his head) to hold forth vehemently against sir leicester in the sanctuary of his own home; similarly, also, he defies him as of old in the little church by testifying a bland unconsciousness of his existence. but it is whispered that when he is most ferocious towards his old foe, he is really most considerate, and that sir leicester, in the dignity of being implacable, little supposes how much he is humoured. as little does he think how near together he and his antagonist have suffered in the fortunes of two sisters, and his antagonist, who knows it now, is not the man to tell him. so the quarrel goes on to the satisfaction of both. in one of the lodges of the park--that lodge within sight of the house where, once upon a time, when the waters were out down in lincolnshire, my lady used to see the keeper's child--the stalwart man, the trooper formerly, is housed. some relics of his old calling hang upon the walls, and these it is the chosen recreation of a little lame man about the stable-yard to keep gleaming bright. a busy little man he always is, in the polishing at harness-house doors, of stirrup-irons, bits, curb-chains, harness bosses, anything in the way of a stable-yard that will take a polish, leading a life of friction. a shaggy little damaged man, withal, not unlike an old dog of some mongrel breed, who has been considerably knocked about. he answers to the name of phil. a goodly sight it is to see the grand old housekeeper (harder of hearing now) going to church on the arm of her son and to observe--which few do, for the house is scant of company in these times--the relations of both towards sir leicester, and his towards them. they have visitors in the high summer weather, when a grey cloak and umbrella, unknown to chesney wold at other periods, are seen among the leaves; when two young ladies are occasionally found gambolling in sequestered saw-pits and such nooks of the park; and when the smoke of two pipes wreathes away into the fragrant evening air from the trooper's door. then is a fife heard trolling within the lodge on the inspiring topic of the "british grenadiers"; and as the evening closes in, a gruff inflexible voice is heard to say, while two men pace together up and down, "but i never own to it before the old girl. discipline must be maintained." the greater part of the house is shut up, and it is a show-house no longer; yet sir leicester holds his shrunken state in the long drawing-room for all that, and reposes in his old place before my lady's picture. closed in by night with broad screens, and illumined only in that part, the light of the drawing-room seems gradually contracting and dwindling until it shall be no more. a little more, in truth, and it will be all extinguished for sir leicester; and the damp door in the mausoleum which shuts so tight, and looks so obdurate, will have opened and received him. volumnia, growing with the flight of time pinker as to the red in her face, and yellower as to the white, reads to sir leicester in the long evenings and is driven to various artifices to conceal her yawns, of which the chief and most efficacious is the insertion of the pearl necklace between her rosy lips. long-winded treatises on the buffy and boodle question, showing how buffy is immaculate and boodle villainous, and how the country is lost by being all boodle and no buffy, or saved by being all buffy and no boodle (it must be one of the two, and cannot be anything else), are the staple of her reading. sir leicester is not particular what it is and does not appear to follow it very closely, further than that he always comes broad awake the moment volumnia ventures to leave off, and sonorously repeating her last words, begs with some displeasure to know if she finds herself fatigued. however, volumnia, in the course of her bird-like hopping about and pecking at papers, has alighted on a memorandum concerning herself in the event of "anything happening" to her kinsman, which is handsome compensation for an extensive course of reading and holds even the dragon boredom at bay. the cousins generally are rather shy of chesney wold in its dullness, but take to it a little in the shooting season, when guns are heard in the plantations, and a few scattered beaters and keepers wait at the old places of appointment for low-spirited twos and threes of cousins. the debilitated cousin, more debilitated by the dreariness of the place, gets into a fearful state of depression, groaning under penitential sofa-pillows in his gunless hours and protesting that such fernal old jail's--nough t'sew fler up--frever. the only great occasions for volumnia in this changed aspect of the place in lincolnshire are those occasions, rare and widely separated, when something is to be done for the county or the country in the way of gracing a public ball. then, indeed, does the tuckered sylph come out in fairy form and proceed with joy under cousinly escort to the exhausted old assembly-room, fourteen heavy miles off, which, during three hundred and sixty-four days and nights of every ordinary year, is a kind of antipodean lumber-room full of old chairs and tables upside down. then, indeed, does she captivate all hearts by her condescension, by her girlish vivacity, and by her skipping about as in the days when the hideous old general with the mouth too full of teeth had not cut one of them at two guineas each. then does she twirl and twine, a pastoral nymph of good family, through the mazes of the dance. then do the swains appear with tea, with lemonade, with sandwiches, with homage. then is she kind and cruel, stately and unassuming, various, beautifully wilful. then is there a singular kind of parallel between her and the little glass chandeliers of another age embellishing that assembly-room, which, with their meagre stems, their spare little drops, their disappointing knobs where no drops are, their bare little stalks from which knobs and drops have both departed, and their little feeble prismatic twinkling, all seem volumnias. for the rest, lincolnshire life to volumnia is a vast blank of overgrown house looking out upon trees, sighing, wringing their hands, bowing their heads, and casting their tears upon the window-panes in monotonous depressions. a labyrinth of grandeur, less the property of an old family of human beings and their ghostly likenesses than of an old family of echoings and thunderings which start out of their hundred graves at every sound and go resounding through the building. a waste of unused passages and staircases in which to drop a comb upon a bedroom floor at night is to send a stealthy footfall on an errand through the house. a place where few people care to go about alone, where a maid screams if an ash drops from the fire, takes to crying at all times and seasons, becomes the victim of a low disorder of the spirits, and gives warning and departs. thus chesney wold. with so much of itself abandoned to darkness and vacancy; with so little change under the summer shining or the wintry lowering; so sombre and motionless always--no flag flying now by day, no rows of lights sparkling by night; with no family to come and go, no visitors to be the souls of pale cold shapes of rooms, no stir of life about it--passion and pride, even to the stranger's eye, have died away from the place in lincolnshire and yielded it to dull repose. chapter lxvii the close of esther's narrative full seven happy years i have been the mistress of bleak house. the few words that i have to add to what i have written are soon penned; then i and the unknown friend to whom i write will part for ever. not without much dear remembrance on my side. not without some, i hope, on his or hers. they gave my darling into my arms, and through many weeks i never left her. the little child who was to have done so much was born before the turf was planted on its father's grave. it was a boy; and i, my husband, and my guardian gave him his father's name. the help that my dear counted on did come to her, though it came, in the eternal wisdom, for another purpose. though to bless and restore his mother, not his father, was the errand of this baby, its power was mighty to do it. when i saw the strength of the weak little hand and how its touch could heal my darling's heart and raised hope within her, i felt a new sense of the goodness and the tenderness of god. they throve, and by degrees i saw my dear girl pass into my country garden and walk there with her infant in her arms. i was married then. i was the happiest of the happy. it was at this time that my guardian joined us and asked ada when she would come home. "both houses are your home, my dear," said he, "but the older bleak house claims priority. when you and my boy are strong enough to do it, come and take possession of your home." ada called him "her dearest cousin, john." but he said, no, it must be guardian now. he was her guardian henceforth, and the boy's; and he had an old association with the name. so she called him guardian, and has called him guardian ever since. the children know him by no other name. i say the children; i have two little daughters. it is difficult to believe that charley (round-eyed still, and not at all grammatical) is married to a miller in our neighbourhood; yet so it is; and even now, looking up from my desk as i write early in the morning at my summer window, i see the very mill beginning to go round. i hope the miller will not spoil charley; but he is very fond of her, and charley is rather vain of such a match, for he is well to do and was in great request. so far as my small maid is concerned, i might suppose time to have stood for seven years as still as the mill did half an hour ago, since little emma, charley's sister, is exactly what charley used to be. as to tom, charley's brother, i am really afraid to say what he did at school in ciphering, but i think it was decimals. he is apprenticed to the miller, whatever it was, and is a good bashful fellow, always falling in love with somebody and being ashamed of it. caddy jellyby passed her very last holidays with us and was a dearer creature than ever, perpetually dancing in and out of the house with the children as if she had never given a dancing-lesson in her life. caddy keeps her own little carriage now instead of hiring one, and lives full two miles further westward than newman street. she works very hard, her husband (an excellent one) being lame and able to do very little. still, she is more than contented and does all she has to do with all her heart. mr. jellyby spends his evenings at her new house with his head against the wall as he used to do in her old one. i have heard that mrs. jellyby was understood to suffer great mortification from her daughter's ignoble marriage and pursuits, but i hope she got over it in time. she has been disappointed in borrioboola-gha, which turned out a failure in consequence of the king of borrioboola wanting to sell everybody--who survived the climate--for rum, but she has taken up with the rights of women to sit in parliament, and caddy tells me it is a mission involving more correspondence than the old one. i had almost forgotten caddy's poor little girl. she is not such a mite now, but she is deaf and dumb. i believe there never was a better mother than caddy, who learns, in her scanty intervals of leisure, innumerable deaf and dumb arts to soften the affliction of her child. as if i were never to have done with caddy, i am reminded here of peepy and old mr. turveydrop. peepy is in the custom house, and doing extremely well. old mr. turveydrop, very apoplectic, still exhibits his deportment about town, still enjoys himself in the old manner, is still believed in in the old way. he is constant in his patronage of peepy and is understood to have bequeathed him a favourite french clock in his dressing-room--which is not his property. with the first money we saved at home, we added to our pretty house by throwing out a little growlery expressly for my guardian, which we inaugurated with great splendour the next time he came down to see us. i try to write all this lightly, because my heart is full in drawing to an end, but when i write of him, my tears will have their way. i never look at him but i hear our poor dear richard calling him a good man. to ada and her pretty boy, he is the fondest father; to me he is what he has ever been, and what name can i give to that? he is my husband's best and dearest friend, he is our children's darling, he is the object of our deepest love and veneration. yet while i feel towards him as if he were a superior being, i am so familiar with him and so easy with him that i almost wonder at myself. i have never lost my old names, nor has he lost his; nor do i ever, when he is with us, sit in any other place than in my old chair at his side, dame trot, dame durden, little woman--all just the same as ever; and i answer, "yes, dear guardian!" just the same. i have never known the wind to be in the east for a single moment since the day when he took me to the porch to read the name. i remarked to him once that the wind seemed never in the east now, and he said, no, truly; it had finally departed from that quarter on that very day. i think my darling girl is more beautiful than ever. the sorrow that has been in her face--for it is not there now--seems to have purified even its innocent expression and to have given it a diviner quality. sometimes when i raise my eyes and see her in the black dress that she still wears, teaching my richard, i feel--it is difficult to express--as if it were so good to know that she remembers her dear esther in her prayers. i call him my richard! but he says that he has two mamas, and i am one. we are not rich in the bank, but we have always prospered, and we have quite enough. i never walk out with my husband but i hear the people bless him. i never go into a house of any degree but i hear his praises or see them in grateful eyes. i never lie down at night but i know that in the course of that day he has alleviated pain and soothed some fellow-creature in the time of need. i know that from the beds of those who were past recovery, thanks have often, often gone up, in the last hour, for his patient ministration. is not this to be rich? the people even praise me as the doctor's wife. the people even like me as i go about, and make so much of me that i am quite abashed. i owe it all to him, my love, my pride! they like me for his sake, as i do everything i do in life for his sake. a night or two ago, after bustling about preparing for my darling and my guardian and little richard, who are coming to-morrow, i was sitting out in the porch of all places, that dearly memorable porch, when allan came home. so he said, "my precious little woman, what are you doing here?" and i said, "the moon is shining so brightly, allan, and the night is so delicious, that i have been sitting here thinking." "what have you been thinking about, my dear?" said allan then. "how curious you are!" said i. "i am almost ashamed to tell you, but i will. i have been thinking about my old looks--such as they were." "and what have you been thinking about them, my busy bee?" said allan. "i have been thinking that i thought it was impossible that you could have loved me any better, even if i had retained them." "'such as they were'?" said allan, laughing. "such as they were, of course." "my dear dame durden," said allan, drawing my arm through his, "do you ever look in the glass?" "you know i do; you see me do it." "and don't you know that you are prettier than you ever were?" "i did not know that; i am not certain that i know it now. but i know that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that my darling is very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome, and that my guardian has the brightest and most benevolent face that ever was seen, and that they can very well do without much beauty in me--even supposing--." proofreaders tutt and mr. tutt by arthur train contents the human element mock hen and mock turtle samuel and delilah the dog andrew wile _versus_ guile hepplewhite tramp lallapaloosa limited the human element although men flatter themselves with their great actions, they are not so often the result of great design as of chance. --la rochefoucauld. "he says he killed him, and that's all there is about it!" said tutt to mr. tutt. "what are you going to do with a fellow like that?" the junior partner of the celebrated firm of tutt & tutt, attorneys and counselors at law, thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his yellow checked breeches and, balancing himself upon the heels of his patent-leather boots, gazed in a distressed, respectfully inquiring manner at his distinguished associate. "yes," he repeated plaintively. "he don't make any bones about it at all. 'sure, i killed him!' says he. 'and i'd kill him again, the ----!' i prefer not to quote his exact language. i've just come from the tombs and had quite a talk with serafino in the counsel room, with a gum-chewing keeper sitting in the corner watching me for fear i'd slip his prisoner a saw file or a shotgun or a barrel of poison. i'm all in! these murder cases drive me to drink, mr. tutt. i don't mind grand larceny, forgery, assault or even manslaughter--but murder gets my goat! and when you have a crazy italian for a client who says he's glad he did it and would like to do it again--please excuse me! it isn't law; it's suicide!" he drew out a silk handkerchief ornamented with the colors of the allies, and wiped his forehead despairingly. "oh," remarked mr. tutt with entire good nature. "he's glad he did it and he's quite willing to be hanged!" "that's it in a nutshell!" replied tutt. the senior partner of tutt & tutt ran his bony fingers through the lank gray locks over his left eye and tilted ceilingward the stogy between his thin lips. then he leaned back in his antique swivel chair, locked his hands behind his head, elevated his long legs luxuriously, and crossed his feet upon the fourth volume of the american and english encyclopedia of law, which lay open upon the desk at champerty and maintenance. even in this inelegant and relaxed posture he somehow managed to maintain the air of picturesque dignity which always made his tall, ungainly figure noticeable in any courtroom. indubitably mr. ephraim tutt suggested a past generation, the suggestion being accentuated by a slight pedantry of diction a trifle out of character with the rushing age in which he saw fit to practise his time-honored profession. "cheer up, tutt," said he, pushing a box of stogies toward his partner with the toe of his congress boot. "have a weed?" since in the office of tutt & tutt such an invitation like those of royalty, was equivalent to a command, tutt acquiesced. "thank you, mr. tutt," said tutt, looking about vaguely for a match. "that conscienceless brat of a willie steals 'em all," growled mr. tutt. "ring the bell." tutt obeyed. he was a short, brisk little man with a pronounced abdominal convexity, and he maintained toward his superior, though but a few years his junior, a mingled attitude of awe, admiration and affection such as a dickey bird might adopt toward a distinguished owl. this attitude was shared by the entire office force. inside the ground glass of the outer door ephraim tutt was king. to tutt the opinion of mr. tutt upon any subject whatsoever was law, even if the courts might have held to the contrary. to tutt he was the eternal fount of wisdom, culture and morality. yet until mr. tutt finally elucidated his views tutt did not hesitate to hold conditional if temporary opinions of his own. briefly their relations were symbolized by the circumstance that while tutt always addressed his senior partner as "mr. tutt," the latter accosted him simply as "tutt." in a word there was only one mr. tutt in the firm of tutt & tutt. but so far as that went there was only one tutt. on the theory that a lily cannot be painted, the estate of one seemingly was as dignified as that of the other. at any rate there never was and never had been any confusion or ambiguity arising out of the matter since the day, twenty years before, when tutt had visited mr. tutt's law office in search of employment. mr. tutt was just rising into fame as a police-court lawyer. tutt had only recently been admitted to the bar, having abandoned his native city of bangor, maine, for the metropolis. "and may i ask why you should come to me?" mr. tutt had demanded severely from behind the stogy, which even at that early date had been as much a part of his facial anatomy as his long ruminative nose. "why the devil should you come to me? i am nobody, sir--nobody! in this great city certainly there are thousands far more qualified than i to further your professional and financial advancement." "because," answered the inspired tutt with modesty, "i feel that with you i should be associated with a good name." that had settled the matter. they bore no relationship to one another, but they were the only tutts in the city and there seemed to be a certain propriety in their hanging together. neither had regretted it for a moment, and as the years passed they became indispensable to each other. they were the necessary component parts of a harmonious legal whole. mr. tutt was the brains and the voice, while tutt was the eyes and legs of a combination that at intervals--rare ones, it must be confessed--made the law tremble, sometimes in fear and more often with joy. at first, speaking figuratively, tutt merely carried mr. tutt's bag--rode on his coat tails, as it were; but as time went on his activity, ingenuity and industry made him indispensable and led to a junior partnership. tutt prepared the cases for mr. tutt to try. both were well versed in the law if they were not profound lawyers, but as the origin of the firm was humble, their practise was of a miscellaneous character. "never turn down a case," was tutt's motto. "our duty as sworn officers of the judicial branch of the government renders it incumbent upon us to perform whatever services our clients' exigencies demand," was mr. tutt's way of putting it. in the end it amounted to exactly the same thing. as a result, in addition to their own clientele, other members of the bar who found themselves encumbered with matters which for one reason or another they preferred not to handle formed the habit of turning them over to tutt & tutt. a never-ending stream of peculiar cases flowed through the office, each leaving behind it some residuum of golden dust, however small. the stately or, as an unkind observer might have put it, the ramshackly form of the senior partner was a constant figure in all the courts, from that of the coroner on the one hand to the appellate tribunals upon the other. it was immaterial to him what the case was about--whether it dealt with the "next eventual estate" or the damages for a dog bite--so long as he was paid and tutt prepared it. hence tutt & tutt prospered. and as the law, like any other profession requires jacks-of-all-trades, the firm acquired a certain peculiar professional standing of its own, and enjoyed the good will of the bar as a whole. they had the reputation of being sound lawyers if not overafflicted with a sense of professional dignity, whose word was better than their bond, yet who, faithful to their clients' interests knew no mercy and gave no quarter. they took and pressed cases which other lawyers dared not touch lest they should be defiled--and nobody seemed to think any the less of them for so doing. they raised points that made the refinements of the ancient schoolmen seem blunt in comparison. no respecters of persons, they harried the rich and taunted the powerful, and would have as soon jailed a bishop or a judge as a pickpocket if he deserved it. between them they knew more kinds of law than most of their professional brethren, and as mr. tutt was a bookworm and a seeker after legal and other lore their dusty old library was full of hidden treasures, which on frequent occasions were unearthed to entertain the jury or delight the bench. they were loyal friends, fearsome enemies, high chargers, and maintained their unique position in spite of the fact that at one time or another they had run close to the shadowy line which divides the ethical from that which is not. yet mr. tutt had brought disbarment proceedings against many lawyers in his time and--what is more--had them disbarred. "leave old tutt alone," was held sage advice, and when other lawyers desired to entertain the judiciary they were apt to invite mr. tutt to be of the party. and tutt gloried in the glories of mr. tutt. "that's it!" repeated tutt as he lit his stogy, which flared up like a burning bush, the cub of a willie having foraged successfully in the outer office for a match. "he's willing to be hanged or damned or anything else just for the sake of putting a bullet through the other fellow!" "what was the name of the unfortunate deceased?" "tomasso crocedoro--a barber." "that is almost a defense in itself," mused mr. tutt. "anyhow, if i've got to defend angelo for shooting tomasso you might as well give me a short scenario of the melodrama. by the way, are we retained or assigned by the court?" "assigned," chirped tutt. "so that all we'll get out of it is about enough to keep me in stogies for a couple of months!" "and--if he's convicted, as of course he will be--a good chance of losing our reputation as successful trial counsel. why not beg off?" "let me hear the story first," answered mr. tutt. "angelo sounds like a good sport. i have a mild affection for him already." he reached into the lower compartment of his desk and lifted out a tumbler and a bottle of malt extract, which he placed carefully at his elbow. then he leaned back again expectantly. "it is a simple and naive story," began tutt, seating himself in the chair reserved for paying clients--that is to say, one which did not have the two front legs sawed off an inch or so in order to make lingering uncomfortable. "a plain, unvarnished tale. our client is one who makes an honest living by blacking shoes near the entrance to the brooklyn bridge. he is one of several hundred original tonys who conduct shoe-shining emporiums." "emporia," corrected his partner, pouring out a tumbler of malt extract. "he formed an attachment for a certain young lady," went on tutt, undisturbed, "who had previously had some sort of love affair with crocedoro, as a result of which her social standing had become slightly impaired. in a word tomasso jilted her. angelo saw, pitied and loved her, took her for better or for worse, and married her." "for which," interjected mr. tutt, "he is entitled to everyone's respect." "quite so!" agreed tutt. "now tomasso, though not willing to marry the girl himself, seems to have resented the idea of having anyone else do so, and accordingly seized every opportunity which presented itself to twit angelo about the matter." "dog in the manger, so to speak," nodded mr. tutt. "he not only jeered at angelo for marrying rosalina but he began to hang about his discarded mistress again and scoff at her choice of a husband. but rosalina gave him the cold shoulder, with the result that he became more and more insulting to angelo. finally one day our client made up his mind not to stand it any longer, secured a revolver, sought out tomasso in his barber shop and put a bullet through his head. now however much you may sympathize with angelo as a man and a husband there isn't the slightest doubt that he killed tomasso with every kind of deliberation and premeditation." "if the case is as you say," replied mr. tutt, replacing the bottle and tumbler within the lower drawer and flicking a stogy ash from his waistcoat, "the honorable justice who handed it to us is no friend of ours." "he isn't," assented his partner. "it was babson and he hates italians. moreover, he stated in open court that he proposed to try the case himself next monday and that we must be ready without fail." "so babson did that to us!" growled mr. tutt. "just like him. he'll pack the jury and charge our innocent angelo into the middle of hades." "and o'brien is the assistant district attorney in charge of the prosecution," mildly added tutt. "but what can we do? we're assigned, we've got a guilty client, and we've got to defend him." "have you set bonnie doon looking up witnesses?" asked mr. tutt. "i thought i saw him outside during the forenoon." "yes," replied tutt. "but bonnie says it's the toughest case he ever had to handle in which to find any witnesses for the defense. there aren't any. besides, the girl bought the gun and gave it to angelo the same day." "how do you know that?" demanded mr. tutt, frowning. "because she told me so herself," said tutt. "she's outside if you want to see her." "i might as well give her what you call 'the once over,'" replied the senior partner. tutt retired and presently returned half leading, half pushing a shrinking young italian woman, shabbily dressed but with the features of one of raphael's madonnas. she wore no hat and her hands and finger nails were far from clean, but from the folds of her black shawl her neck rose like a column of slightly discolored carrara marble, upon which her head with its coils of heavy hair was poised with the grace of a sulky empress. "come in, my child, and sit down," said mr. tutt kindly. "no, not in that one; in that one." he indicated the chair previously occupied by his junior. "you can leave us, tutt. i want to talk to this young lady alone." the girl sat sullenly with averted face, showing in her attitude her instinctive feeling that all officers of the law, no matter upon which side they were supposed to be, were one and all engaged in a mysterious conspiracy of which she and her unfortunate angelo were the victims. a few words from the old lawyer and she began to feel more confidence, however. no one, in fact, could help but realize at first glance mr. tutt's warmth of heart. the lines of his sunken cheeks if left to themselves automatically tended to draw together into a whimsical smile, and it required a positive act of will upon his part to adopt the stern and relentless look with which he was wont to glower down upon some unfortunate witness in cross-examination. inside mr. tutt was a benign and rather mellow old fellow, with a dry sense of humor and a very keen knowledge of his fellow men. he made a good deal of money, but not having any wife or child upon which to lavish it he spent it all either on books or surreptitiously in quixotic gifts to friends or strangers whom he either secretly admired or whom he believed to be in need of money. there were vague traditions in the office of presents of bizarre and quite impossible clothes made to office boys and stenographers; of ex-convicts reoutfitted and sent rejoicing to foreign parts; of tramps gorged to repletion and then pumped dry of their adventures in mr. tutt's comfortable, dingy old library; of a fur coat suddenly clapped upon the rounded shoulders of old scraggs, the antiquated scrivener in the accountant's cage in the outer office, whose alcoholic career, his employer alleged, was marked by a trail of empty rum kegs, each one flying the white flag of surrender. and yet old ephraim tutt could on occasion be cold as chiseled steel, and as hard. any appeal from a child, a woman or an outcast always met with his ready response; but for the rich, successful and those in power he seemed to entertain a deep and enduring grudge. he would burn the midnight oil with equal zest to block a crooked deal on the part of a wealthy corporation or to devise a means to extricate some no less crooked rascal from the clutches of the law, provided that the rascal seemed the victim of hard luck, inheritance or environment. his weather-beaten conscience was as elastic as his heart. indeed when under the expansive influence of a sufficient quantity of malt extract or ancient brandy from the cellaret on his library desk he had sometimes been heard to enunciate the theory that there was very little difference between the people in jail and those who were not. he would work weeks without compensation to argue the case of some guilty rogue before the court of appeals, in order, as he said, to "settle the law," when his only real object was to get the miserable fellow out of jail and send him back to his wife and children. he went through life with a twinkling eye and a quizzical smile, and when he did wrong he did it--if such a thing is possible--in a way to make people better. he was a dangerous adversary and judges were afraid of him, not because he ever tricked or deceived them but because of the audacity and novelty of his arguments which left them speechless. he had the assurance that usually comes with age and with a lifelong knowledge of human nature, yet apparently he had always been possessed of it. once a judge having assigned him to look out for the interests of a lawyerless prisoner suggested that he take his new client into the adjoining jury room and give him the best advice he could. mr. tutt was gone so long that the judge became weary, and to find out what had become of him sent an officer, who found the lawyer reading a newspaper beside an open window, but no sign of the prisoner. in great excitement the officer reported the situation to the judge, who ordered mr. tutt to the bar. "what has become of the prisoner?" demanded his honor. "i do not know," replied the lawyer calmly. "the window was open and i suspect that he used it as a means of exit." "are you not aware that you are a party to an escape--a crime?" hotly challenged the judge. "i most respectfully deny the charge," returned mr. tutt. "i told you to take the prisoner into that room and give him the best advice you could." "i did!" interjected the lawyer. "ah!" exclaimed the judge. "you admit it! what advice did you give him?" "the law does not permit me to state that," answered mr. tutt in his most dignified tones. "that is a privileged communication from the inviolate obligation to preserve which only my client can release me--i cannot betray a sacred trust. yet i might quote cervantes and remind your honor that 'fortune leaves always some door open to come at a remedy!'" now as he gazed at the tear-stained cheeks of the girl-wife whose husband had committed murder in defense of her self-respect, he vowed that so far as he was able he would fight to save him. the more desperate the case the more desperate her need of him--the greater the duty and the greater his honor if successful. "believe that i am your friend, my dear!" he assured her. "you and i must work together to set angelo free." "it's no use," she returned less defiantly. "he done it. he won't deny it." "but he is entitled to his defense," urged mr. tutt quietly. "he won't make no defense." "we must make one for him." "there ain't none. he just went and killed him." mr. tutt shrugged his shoulders. "there is always a defense," he answered with conviction. "anyhow we can't let him be convicted without making an effort. will they be able to prove where he got the pistol?" "he didn't get the pistol," retorted the girl with a glint in her black eyes. "i got it. i'd ha' shot him myself if he hadn't. i said i was goin' to, but he wouldn't let me." "dear, dear!" sighed mr. tutt. "what a case! both of you trying to see which could get hanged first!" * * * * * the inevitable day of angelo's trial came. upon the bench the honorable mr. justice babson glowered down upon the cowering defendant flanked by his distinguished counsel, tutt & tutt, and upon the two hundred good and true talesmen who, "all other business laid aside," had been dragged from the comfort of their homes and the important affairs of their various livelihoods to pass upon the merits of the issue duly joined between the people of the state of new york and angelo serafino, charged with murder. one by one as his name was called each took his seat in the witness chair upon the _voir dire_ and perjured himself like a gentleman in order to escape from service, shyly confessing to an ineradicable prejudice against the entire italian race and this defendant in particular, and to an antipathy against capital punishment which, so each unhesitatingly averred, would render him utterly incapable of satisfactorily performing his functions if selected as a juryman. hardly one, however, but was routed by the machiavellian babson. hardly one, however ingenious his excuse--whether about to be married or immediately become a father, whether engaged in a business deal involving millions which required his instant and personal attention whether in the last stages of illness or obligated to be present at the bedside of a dying wife--but was browbeaten into helplessness and ordered back to take his place amidst the waiting throng of recalcitrant citizens so disinclined to do their part in elevating that system of trial by jury the failure of which at other times they so loudly condemned. this trifling preliminary having been concluded, the few jurymen who had managed to wriggle through the judicial sieve were allowed to withdraw, the balance of the calendar was adjourned, those spectators who were standing up were ordered to sit down and those already sitting down were ordered to sit somewhere else, the prisoners in the rear of the room were sent back to the tombs to await their fate upon some later day, the reporters gathered rapaciously about the table just behind the defendant, a corpulent ganymede in the person of an aged court officer bore tremblingly an opaque glass of yellow drinking water to the bench, o'brien the prosecutor blew his nose with a fanfare of trumpets, mr. tutt smiled an ingratiating smile which seemed to clasp the whole world to his bosom--and the real battle commenced; a game in which every card in the pack had been stacked against the prisoner by an unscrupulous pair of officials whose only aim was to maintain their record of convictions of "murder in the first" and who laid their plans with ingenuity and carried them out with skill and enthusiasm to habitual success. they were a grand little pair of convictors, were babson and o'brien, and woe unto that man who was brought before them. it was even alleged by the impious that when babson was in doubt what to do or what o'brien wanted him to do the latter communicated the information to his conspirator upon the bench by a system of preconcerted signals. but indeed no such system was necessary, for the judge's part in the drama was merely to sustain his colleague's objections and overrule those of his opponent, after which he himself delivered the _coup de grace_ with unerring insight and accuracy. when babson got through charging a jury the latter had always in fact been instructed in brutal and sneering tones to convict the defendant or forever after to regard themselves as disloyal citizens, oath violators and outcasts though the stenographic record of his remarks would have led the reader thereof to suppose that this same judge was a conscientious, tender-hearted merciful lover of humanity, whose sensitive soul quivered at the mere thought of a prison cell, and who meticulously sought to surround the defendant with every protection the law could interpose against the imputation of guilt. he was, as tutt put it, "a dangerous old cuss." o'brien was even worse. he was a bull-necked, bullet-headed, pugnosed young ruffian with beery eyes, who had an insatiable ambition and a still greater conceit, but who had devised a blundering, innocent, helpless way of conducting himself before a jury that deceived them into believing that his inexperience required their help and his disinterestedness their loyal support. both of them were apparently fair-minded, honest public servants; both in reality were subtly disingenuous to a degree beyond ordinary comprehension, for years of practise had made them sensitive to every whimsy of emotion and taught them how to play upon the psychology of the jury as the careless zephyr softly draws its melody from the aeolian harp. in a word they were a precious pair of crooks, who for their own petty selfish ends played fast and loose with liberty, life and death. both of them hated mr. tutt, who had more than once made them ridiculous before the jury and shown them up before the court of appeals, and the old lawyer recognized well the fact that these two legal wolves were in revenge planning to tear him and his helpless client to pieces, having first deliberately selected him as a victim and assigned him to officiate at a ceremony which, however just so far as its consummation might be concerned, was nothing less in its conduct than judicial murder. now they were laughing at him in their sleeves, for mr. tutt enjoyed the reputation of never having defended a client who had been convicted of murder, and that spotless reputation was about to be annihilated forever. though the defense had thirty peremptory challenges mr. tutt well knew that babson would sustain the prosecutor's objections for bias until the jury box would contain the twelve automata personally selected by o'brien in advance from what tutt called "the army of the gibbet." yet the old war horse outwardly maintained a calm and genial exterior, betraying none of the apprehension which in fact existed beneath his mask of professional composure. the court officer rapped sharply for silence. "are you quite ready to proceed with the case?" inquired the judge with a courtesy in which was ill concealed a leer of triumph. "yes, your honor," responded mr. tutt in velvet tones. "call the first talesman!" the fight was on, the professional duel between traditional enemies, in which the stake--a human life--was in truth the thing of least concern, had begun. yet no casual observer would have suspected the actual significance of what was going on or the part that envy, malice, uncharitableness, greed, selfishness and ambition were playing in it. he would have seen merely a partially filled courtroom flooded with sunshine from high windows, an attentive and dignified judge in a black silk robe sitting upon a dais below which a white-haired clerk drew little slips of paper from a wheel and summoned jurymen to a service which outwardly bore no suggestion of a tragedy. he would have seen a somewhat unprepossessing assistant district attorney lounging in front of the jury box, taking apparently no great interest in the proceedings, and a worried-looking young italian sitting at the prisoner's table between a rubicund little man with a round red face and a tall, grave, longish-haired lawyer with a frame not unlike that of abraham lincoln, over whose wrinkled face played from time to time the suggestion of a smile. behind a balustrade were the reporters, scribbling on rough sheets of yellow paper. then came rows of benches, upon the first of which, as near the jury box as possible, sat rosalina in a new bombazine dress and wearing a large imitation gold cross furnished for the occasion out of the legal property room of tutt & tutt. occasionally she sobbed softly. the bulk of the spectators consisted of rejected talesmen, witnesses, law clerks, professional court loafers and women seeking emotional sensations which they had not the courage or the means to satisfy otherwise. the courtroom was comparatively quiet, the silence broken only by the droning voice of the clerk and the lazy interplay of question and answer between talesman and lawyer. yet beneath the humdrum, casual, almost indifferent manner in which the proceedings seemed to be conducted each side was watching every move made by the other with the tension of a tiger ready to spring upon its prey. babson and o'brien were engaged in forcing upon the defense a jury composed entirely of case-hardened convictors, while tutt & tutt were fighting desperately to secure one so heterogeneous in character that they could hope for a disagreement. by recess thirty-seven talesmen had been examined without a foreman having been selected, and mr. tutt had exhausted twenty-nine of his thirty challenges, as against three for the prosecution. the court reconvened and a new talesman was called, resembling in appearance a professional hangman who for relaxation leaned toward the execution of italians. mr. tutt examined him for bias and every known form of incompetency, but in vain--then challenged peremptorily. thirty challenges! he looked on tutt with slightly raised eyebrows. "patrick henry walsh--to the witness chair, please, mr. walsh!" called the clerk, drawing another slip from the box. mr. walsh rose and came forward heavily, while tutt & tutt trembled. he was the one man they were afraid of--an old-timer celebrated as a bulwark of the prosecution, who could always be safely counted upon to uphold the arms of the law, who regarded with reverence all officials connected with the administration of justice, and from whose composition all human emotions had been carefully excluded by the creator. he was a square-jawed, severe, heavily built person, with a long relentless upper lip, cheeks ruddy from the open air; engaged in the contracting business; and he had a brogue that would have charmed a mavis off a tree. mr. tutt looked hopelessly at tutt. babson and o'brien had won. once more mr. tutt struggled against his fate. was mr. walsh sure he had no prejudices against italians or foreigners generally? quite. did he know anyone connected with the case? no. had he any objection to the infliction of capital punishment? none whatever. the defense had exhausted all its challenges. mr. tutt turned to the prospective foreman with an endearing smile. "mr. walsh," said he in caressing tones, "you are precisely the type of man in whom i feel the utmost confidence in submitting the fate of my client. i believe that you will make an ideal foreman i hardly need to ask you whether you will accord the defendant the benefit of every reasonable doubt, and if you have such a doubt will acquit him." mr. walsh gazed suspiciously at mr. tutt. "sure," he responded dryly, "oi'll give him the benefit o' the doubt, but if oi think he's guilty oi'll convict him." mr. tutt shivered. "of course! of course! that would be your duty! you are entirely satisfactory, mr. walsh!" "mr. walsh is more than satisfactory to the prosecution!" intoned o'brien. "be sworn, mr. walsh," directed the clerk; and the filling of the jury box in the memorable case of people versus serafino was begun. "that chap doesn't like us," whispered mr. tutt to tutt. "i laid it on a bit too thick." in fact, mr. walsh had already entered upon friendly relations with mr. o'brien, and as the latter helped him arrange a place for his hat and coat the foreman cast a look tinged with malevolence at the defendant and his counsel, as if to say "you can't fool me. i know the kind of tricks you fellows are all up to." o'brien could not repress a grin. the clerk drew forth another name. "mr. tompkins--will you take the chair?" swiftly the jury was impaneled. o'brien challenged everybody who did not suit his fancy, while tutt & tutt sat helpless. ten minutes and the clerk called the roll, beginning with mr. walsh, and they were solemnly sworn a true verdict to find, and settled themselves to the task. the mills of the gods had begun to grind, and angelo was being dragged to his fate as inexorably and as surely, with about as much chance of escape, as a log that is being drawn slowly toward a buzz saw. "you may open the case, mr. o'brien," announced judge babson, leaning back and wiping his glasses. then surreptitiously he began to read his mail as his fellow conspirator undertook to tell the jury what it was all about. one by one the witnesses were called--the coroner's physician, the policeman who had arrested angelo outside the barber shop with the smoking pistol in his hand, the assistant barber who had seen the shooting, the customer who was being shaved. each drove a spike into poor angelo's legal coffin. mr. tutt could not shake them. this evidence was plain. he had come into the shop, accused crocedoro of making his wife's life unbearable and--shot him. yet mr. tutt did not lose any of his equanimity. with the tips of his long fingers held lightly together in front of him, and swaying slightly backward and forward upon the balls of his feet, he smiled benignly down upon the customer and the barber's assistant as if these witnesses were merely unfortunate in not being able to disclose to the jury all the facts. his manner indicated that a mysterious and untold tragedy lay behind what they had heard, a tragedy pregnant with primordial vital passions, involving the most sacred of human relationships, which when known would rouse the spirit of chivalry of the entire panel. on cross-examination the barber testified that angelo had said: "you maka small of my wife long enough!" "ah!" murmured mr. tutt, waving an arm in the direction of rosalina. did the witness recognize the defendant's young wife? the jury showed interest and examined the sobbing rosalina with approval. yes, the witness recognized her. did the witness know to what incident or incidents the defendant had referred by his remark--what the deceased crocedoro had done to rosalina--if anything? no, the witness did not. mr. tutt looked significantly at the row of faces in the jury box. then leaning forward he asked significantly: "did you see crocedoro threaten the defendant with his razor?" "i object!" shouted o'brien, springing to his feet. "the question is improper. there is no suggestion that crocedoro did anything. the defendant can testify to that if he wants to!" "oh, let him answer!" drawled the judge. "no--" began the witness. "ah!" cried mr. tutt. "you did not see crocedoro threaten the defendant with his razor! that will do!" but forewarned by this trifling experience, mr. o'brien induced the customer, the next witness, to swear that crocedoro had not in fact made any move whatever with his razor toward angelo, who had deliberately raised his pistol and shot him. mr. tutt rose to the cross-examination with the same urbanity as before. where was the witness standing? the witness said he wasn't standing. well, where was he sitting, then? in the chair. "ah!" exclaimed mr. tutt triumphantly. "then you had your back to the shooting!" in a moment o'brien had the witness practically rescued by the explanation that he had seen the whole thing in the glass in front of him. the firm of tutt & tutt uttered in chorus a groan of outraged incredulity. several jurymen were seen to wrinkle their foreheads in meditation. mr. tutt had sown a tiny--infinitesimally tiny, to be sure--seed of doubt, not as to the killing at all but as to the complete veracity of the witness. and then o'brien made his coup. "rosalina serafino--take the witness stand!" he ordered. he would get from her own lips the admission that she bought the pistol and gave it to angelo! but with an outburst of indignation that would have done credit to the elder booth mr. tutt was immediately on his feet protesting against the outrage, the barbarity, the heartlessness, the illegality of making a wife testify against her husband! his eyes flashed, his disordered locks waved in picturesque synchronization with his impassioned gestures rosalina, her beautiful golden cross rising and falling hysterically upon her bosom, took her seat in the witness chair like a frightened, furtive creature of the woods, gazed for one brief instant upon the twelve men in the jury box with those great black eyes of hers, and then with burning cheeks buried her face in her handkerchief. "i protest against this piece of cruelty!" cried mr. tutt in a voice vibrating with indignation. "this is worthy of the inquisition. will not even the cross upon her breast protect her from being compelled to reveal those secrets that are sacred to wife and motherhood? can the law thus indirectly tear the seal of confidence from the confessional? mr. o'brien, you go too far! there are some things that even you--brilliant as you are--may not trifle with." a juryman nodded. the eleven others, being more intelligent, failed to understand what he was talking about. "mr. tutt's objection is sound--if he wishes to press it," remarked the judge satirically. "you may step down, madam. the law will not compel a wife to testify against her husband. have you any more witnesses, mister district attorney?" "the people rest," said mr. o'brien. "the case is with the defense." mr. tutt rose with solemnity. "the court will, i suppose, grant me a moment or two to confer with my client?" he inquired. babson bowed and the jury saw the lawyer lean across the defendant and engage his partner in what seemed to be a weighty deliberation. "i killa him! i say so!" muttered angelo feebly to mr. tutt. "shut up, you fool!" hissed tutt, grabbing him by the leg. "keep still or i'll wring your neck." "if i could reach that old crook up on the bench i would twist his nose," remarked mr. tutt to tutt with an air of consulting him about the year books. "and as for that criminal o'brien, i'll get him yet!" with great dignity mr. tutt then rose and again addressed the court: "we have decided under all the circumstances of this most extraordinary case, your honor, not to put in any defense. i shall not call the defendant--" "i killa him--" began angelo, breaking loose from tutt and struggling to his feet. it was a horrible movement. but tutt clapped his hand over angelo's mouth and forced him back into his seat. "the defense rests," said mr. tutt, ignoring the interruption. "so far as we are concerned the case is closed." "both sides rest!" snapped babson. "how long do you want to sum up?" mr. tutt looked at the clock, which pointed to three. the regular hour of adjournment was at four. delay was everything in a case like this. a juryman might die suddenly overnight or fall grievously ill; or some legal accident might occur which would necessitate declaring a mistrial. there is, always hope in a criminal case so long as the verdict has not actually been returned and the jury polled and discharged. if possible he must drag his summing up over until the following day. something might happen. "about two hours, your honor," he replied. the jury stirred impatiently. it was clear that they regarded a two-hour speech from him under the circumstances as an imposition. but babson wished to preserve the fiction of impartiality. "very well," said he. "you may sum up until four-thirty, and have half an hour more to-morrow morning. see that the doors are closed, captain phelan. we do not want any interruption while the summations are going on." "all out that's goin' out! everybody out that's got no business, with the court!" bellowed captain phelan. mr. tutt with an ominous heightening of the pulse realized that the real ordeal was at last at hand, for the closing of the case had wrought in the old lawyer an instant metamorphosis. with the words "the defense rests" every suggestion of the mountebank, the actor or the shyster had vanished. the awful responsibility under which he labored; the overwhelming and damning evidence against his client; the terrible consequences of the least mistake that he might make; the fact that only the sword of his ability, and his alone, stood between angelo and a hideous death by fire in the electric chair--sobered and chastened him. had he been a praying man in that moment he would have prayed--but he was not. for his client was foredoomed--foredoomed not only by justice but also by trickery and guile--and was being driven slowly but surely towards the judicial shambles. for what had he succeeded in adducing in his behalf? nothing but the purely apocryphal speculation that the dead barber might have threatened angelo with his razor and that the witnesses might possibly have drawn somewhat upon their imaginations in giving the details of their testimony. a sorry defense! indeed, no defense at all. all the sorrier in that he had not even been able to get before the jury the purely sentimental excuses for the homicide, for he could only do this by calling rosalina to the stand, which would have enabled the prosecution to cross-examine her in regard to the purchase of the pistol and the delivery of it to her husband--the strongest evidence of premeditation. yet he must find some argument, some plea, some thread of reason upon which the jury might hang a disagreement or a verdict in a lesser degree. with a shuffling of feet the last of the crowd pushed through the big oak doors and they were closed and locked. an officer brought a corroded tumbler of brackish water and placed it in front of mr. tutt. the judge leaned forward with malicious courtesy. the jury settled themselves and turned toward the lawyer attentively yet defiantly, hardening their hearts already against his expected appeals to sentiment. o'brien, ostentatiously producing a cigarette, lounged out through the side door leading to the jury room and prison cells. the clerk began copying his records. the clock ticked loudly. and mr. tutt rose and began going through the empty formality of attempting to discuss the evidence in such a way as to excuse or palliate angelo's crime. for angelo's guilt of murder in the first degree was so plain that it had never for one moment been in the slightest doubt. whatever might be said for his act from the point of view of human emotion only made his motive and responsibility under the statues all the clearer. there was not even the unwritten law to appeal to. yet there was fundamentally a genuine defense, a defense that could not be urged even by innuendo: the defense that no accused ought to be convicted upon any evidence whatever, no matter how conclusive in a trial conducted with essential though wholly concealed unfairness. such was the case of angelo. no one could demonstrate it, no one could with safety even hint at it; any charge that the court was anything but impartial would prove a boomerang to the defense; and yet the facts remained that the whole proceeding from start to finish had been conducted unfairly and with illegality, that the jury had been duped and deceived, and that the pretense that the guilty angelo had been given an impartial trial was a farce. every word of the court had been an accusation, a sneer, an acceptance of the defendant's guilt as a matter of course, an abuse far more subversive of our theory of government than the mere acquittal of a single criminal, for it struck at the very foundations of that liberty which the fathers had sought the shores of the unknown continent to gain. unmistakably the proceedings had been conducted throughout upon the theory that the defendant must prove his innocence and that presumably he was a guilty man; and this as well as his own impression that the evidence was conclusive the judge had subtly conveyed to the jury in his tone of speaking, his ironical manner and his facial expression. guilty or not angelo was being railroaded. that was the real defense--the defense that could never be established even in any higher court, except perhaps in the highest court of all, which is not of earth. and so mr. tutt, boiling with suppressed indignation weighed down with the sense of his responsibility, fully realizing his inability to say anything based on the evidence in behalf of his client, feeling twenty years older than he had during the verbal duel of the actual cross-examination, rose with a genial smile upon his puckered old face and with a careless air almost of gaiety, which seemed to indicate the utmost confidence and determination, and with a graceful compliment to his arch enemy upon the bench and the yellow dog who had hunted with him, assured the jury that the defendant had had the fairest of fair trials and that he, mr. tutt, would now proceed to demonstrate to their satisfaction his client's entire innocence; nay, would show them that he was a man not only guiltless of any wrong-doing but worthy of their hearty commendation. with jokes not too unseemly for the occasion he overcame their preliminary distrust and put them in a good humor. he gave a historical dissertation upon the law governing homicide, on the constitutional rights of american citizens, on the laws of naturalization, marriage, and the domestic relations; waxed eloquent over italy and the italian character, mentioned cavour, garibaldi and mazzini in a way to imply that angelo was their lineal descendant; and quoted from d'annunzio back to horace, cicero and plautus. "bunk! nothing but bunk!" muttered tutt, studying the twelve faces before him. "and they all know it!" but mr. tutt was nothing if not interesting. these prosaic citizens of new york county, these saloon and hotel keepers, these contractors, insurance agents and salesmen were learning something of history, of philosophy, of art and beauty. they liked it. they felt they were hearing something worth while, as indeed they were, and they forgot all about angelo and the unfortunate crocedoro in their admiration for mr. tutt, who had lifted them out of the dingy sordid courtroom into the sunlight of the golden age. and as he led them through greek and roman literature, through the early english poets, through shakespeare and the king james version, down to john galsworthy and rupert brooke, he brought something that was noble, fine and sweet into their grubby materialistic lives; and at the same time the hand of the clock crept steadily on until he and it reached château-thierry and half past four together. "bang!" went babson's gavel just as mr. tutt was leading mr. walsh, mr. tompkins and the others through the winding paths of the argonne forests with tin helmets on their heads in the struggle for liberty. "you may conclude your address in the morning, mr. tutt," said the judge with supreme unction. "adjourn court!" gray depression weighed down mr. tutt's soul as he trudged homeward. he had made a good speech, but it had had absolutely nothing to do with the case, which the jury would perceive as soon as they thought it over. it was a confession of defeat. angelo would be convicted of murder in the first degree and electrocuted, rosalina would be a widow, and somehow he would be in a measure responsible for it. the tragedy of human life appalled him. he felt very old, as old as the dead-and-gone authors from whom he had quoted with such remarkable facility. he belonged with them; he was too old to practise his profession. "law, mis' tutt," expostulated miranda, his ancient negro handmaiden, as he pushed away the chop and mashed potato, and even his glass of claret, untasted, in his old-fashioned dining room on west twenty-third street, "you ain't got no appetite at all! you's sick, mis' tutt." "no, no, miranda!" he replied weakly. "i'm just getting old." "you's mighty spry for an old man yit," she protested. "you kin make dem lawyer men hop mighty high when you tries. heh, heh! i reckon dey ain't got nuffin' on my mistah tutt!" upstairs in his library mr. tutt strode up and down before the empty grate, smoking stogy after stogy, trying to collect his thoughts and devise something to say upon the morrow, but all his ideas had flown. there wasn't anything to say. yet he swore angelo should not be offered up as a victim upon the altar of unscrupulous ambition. the hours passed and the old banjo clock above the mantel wheezed eleven, twelve; then one, two. still he paced up and down, up and down in a sort of trance. the air of the library, blue with the smoke of countless stogies, stifled and suffocated him. moreover he discovered that he was hungry. he descended to the pantry and salvaged a piece of pie, then unchained the front door and stepped forth into the soft october night. a full moon hung over the deserted streets of the sleeping city. in divers places, widely scattered, the twelve good and true men were snoring snugly in bed. to-morrow they would send angelo to his death without a quiver. he shuddered, striding on, he knew not whither, into the night. his brain no longer worked. he had become a peripatetic automaton self-dedicated to nocturnal perambulation. with his pockets bulging with stogies and one glowing like a headlight in advance of him he wandered in a sort of coma up tenth avenue, crossed to the riverside drive, mounted morningside heights, descended again through the rustling alleys of central park, and found himself at fifth avenue and fifty-ninth street just as the dawn was paling the electric lamps to a sickly yellow and the trees were casting strange unwonted shadows in the wrong direction. he was utterly exhausted. he looked eagerly for some place to sit down, but the doors of the hotels were dark and tightly closed and it was too cold to remain without moving in the open air. down fifth avenue he trudged, intending to go home and snatch a few hours' sleep before court should open, but each block seemed miles in length. presently he approached the cathedral, whose twin spires were tinted with reddish gold. the sky had become a bright blue. suddenly all the street lamps went out. he told himself that he had never realized before the beauty of those two towers reaching up toward eternity, typifying man's aspiration for the spiritual. he remembered having heard that a cathedral was never closed, and looking toward the door he perceived that it was open. with utmost difficulty he climbed the steps and entered its dark shadows. a faint light emanated from the tops of the stained-glass windows. down below a candle burned on either side of the altar while a flickering gleam shone from the red cup in the sanctuary lamp. worn out, drugged for lack of sleep, faint for want of food, old mr. tutt sank down upon one of the rear seats by the door, and resting his head upon his arms on the back of the bench in front of him fell fast asleep. he dreamed of a legal heaven, of a great wooden throne upon which sat babson in a black robe and below him twelve red-faced angels in a double row with harps in their hands, chanting: "guilty! guilty! guilty!" an organ was playing somewhere, and there was a great noise of footsteps. then a bell twinkled and he raised his head and saw that the chancel was full of lights and white-robed priests. it was broad daylight. horrified he looked at his watch, to find that it was ten minutes after ten. his joints creaked as he pulled himself to his feet and his eyes were half closed as he staggered down the steps and hailed a taxi. "criminal courts building--side door. and drive like hell!" he muttered to the driver. he reached it just as judge babson and his attendant were coming into the courtroom and the crowd were making obeisance. everybody else was in his proper place. "you may proceed, mr. tutt," said the judge after the roll of the jury had been called. but mr. tutt was in a daze, in no condition to think or speak. there was a curious rustling in his ears and his sight was somewhat blurred. the atmosphere of the courtroom seemed to him cold and hostile; the jury sat with averted faces. he rose feebly and cleared his throat. "gentlemen of the jury," he began, "i--i think i covered everything i had to say yesterday afternoon. i can only beseech you to realize the full extent of your great responsibility and remind you that if you entertain a reasonable doubt upon the evidence you are sworn to give the benefit of it to the defendant." he sank back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hands, while a murmur ran along the benches of the courtroom. the old man had collapsed--tough luck--the defendant was cooked! swiftly o'brien leaped to his feet. there had been no defense. the case was as plain as a pike-staff. there was only one thing for the jury to do--return a verdict of murder in the first. it would not be pleasant, but that made no difference! he read them the statute, applied it to the facts, and shook his fist in their faces. they must convict--and convict of only one thing--and nothing else--murder in the first degree. they gazed at him like silly sheep, nodding their heads, doing everything but bleat. then babson cleared his decks and rising in dignity expounded the law to the sheep in a rich mellow voice, in which he impressed upon them the necessity of preserving the integrity of the jury system and the sanctity of human life. he pronounced an obituary of great beauty upon the deceased barber--who could not, as he pointed out, speak for himself, owing to the fact that he was in his grave. he venomously excoriated the defendant who had deliberately planned to kill an unarmed man peacefully conducting himself in his place of business, and expressed the utmost confidence that he could rely upon the jury, whose character he well knew, to perform their full duty no matter how disagreeable that duty might be. the sheep nodded. "you may retire, gentlemen." babson looked down at mr. tutt with a significant gleam in his eye. he had driven in the knife to the hilt and twisted it round and round. angelo had almost as much chance as the proverbial celluloid cat. mr. tutt felt actually sick. he did not look at the jury as they went out. they would not be long--and he could hardly face the thought of their return. never in his long experience had he found himself in such a desperate situation. heretofore there had always been some argument, some construction of the facts upon which he could make an appeal, however fallacious or illogical. he leaned back and closed his eyes. the judge was chatting with o'brien, the court officers were betting with the reporters as to the length of time in which it would take the twelve to agree upon a verdict of murder in the first. the funeral rites were all concluded except for the final commitment of the corpse to mother earth. and then without warning angelo suddenly rose and addressed the court in a defiant shriek. "i killa that man!" he cried wildly. "he maka small of my wife! he no good! he bad egg! i killa him once--i killa him again!" "so!" exclaimed babson with biting sarcasm. "you want to make a confession? you hope for mercy, do you? well, mr. tutt, what do you wish to do under the circumstances? shall i recall the jury and reopen the case by consent?" mr. tutt rose trembling to his feet. "the case is closed, your honor," he replied. "i will consent to a mistrial and offer a plea of guilty of manslaughter. i cannot agree to reopen the case. i cannot let the defendant go upon the stand." the spectators and reporters were pressing forward to the bar, anxious lest they should lose a single word of the colloquy. angelo remained standing, looking eagerly at o'brien, who returned his gaze with a grin like that of a hyena. "i killa him!" angelo repeated. "you killa me if you want." "sit down!" thundered the judge. "enough of this! the law does not permit me to accept a plea to murder in the first degree, and my conscience and my sense of duty to the public will permit me to accept no other. i will go to my chambers to await the verdict of the jury. take the prisoner downstairs to the prison pen." he swept from the bench in his silken robes. angelo was led away. the crowd in the courtroom slowly dispersed. mr. tutt, escorted by tutt, went out in the corridor to smoke. "ye got a raw deal, counselor," remarked captain phelan, amiably accepting a stogy. "nothing but an act of providence c'd save that eyetalian from the chair. an' him guilty at that!" an hour passed; then another. at half after four a rumor flew along the corridors that the jury in the serafino case had reached a verdict and were coming in. a messenger scurried to the judge's chambers. phelan descended the iron stairs to bring up the prisoner, while tutt to prevent a scene invented an excuse by which he lured rosalina to the first floor of the building. the crowd suddenly reassembled out of nowhere and poured into the courtroom. the reporters gathered expectantly round their table. the judge entered, his robes, gathered in one hand. "bring in the jury," he said sharply. "arraign the prisoner at the bar." mr. tutt took his place beside his client at the railing, while the jury, carrying their coats and hats, filed slowly in. their faces were set and relentless. they looked neither to the right nor to the left. o'brien sauntered over and seated himself nonchalantly with his back to the court, studying their faces. yes, he told himself, they were a regular set of hangmen--he couldn't have picked a tougher bunch if he'd had his choice of the whole panel. the clerk called the roll, and messrs. walsh, tompkins, _et al._, stated that they were all present. "gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?" inquired the clerk. "we have!" replied mr. walsh sternly. "how say you? do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?" mr. tutt gripped the balustrade in front of him with one hand and put his other arm round angelo. he felt that now in truth murder was being done. "we find the defendant not guilty," said mr. walsh defiantly. there was a momentary silence of incredulity. then babson and o'brien shouted simultaneously: "what!" "we find the defendant not guilty," repeated mr. walsh stubbornly. "i demand that the jury be polled!" cried the crestfallen o'brien, his face crimson. and then the twelve reiterated severally that that was their verdict and that they hearkened unto it as it stood recorded and that they were entirely satisfied with it. "you are discharged!" said babson in icy tones. "strike the names of these men from the list of jurors--as incompetent. haven't you any other charge on which you can try this defendant?" "no, your honor," answered o'brien grimly. "he didn't take the stand, so we can't try him for perjury; and there isn't any other indictment against him." judge babson turned ferociously upon mr. tutt: "this acquittal is a blot upon the administration of criminal justice; a disgrace to the city! it is an unconscionable verdict; a reflection upon the intelligence of the jury! the defendant is discharged. this court is adjourned." the crowd surged round angelo and bore him away, bewildered. the judge and prosecutor hurried from the room. alone mr. tutt stood at the bar, trying to grasp the full meaning of what had occurred. he no longer felt tired; he experienced an exultation such as he had never known before. some miracle had happened! what was it? unexpectedly the lawyer felt a rough warm hand clasped over his own upon the rail and heard the voice of mr. walsh with its rich brogue saying: "at first we couldn't see that there was much to be said for your side of the case, mr. tutt; but when oi stepped into the cathedral on me way down to court this morning and spied you prayin' there for guidance i knew you wouldn't be defendin' him unless he was innocent, and so we decided to give him the benefit of the doubt." mock hen and mock turtle "oh, east is east and west is west, and never the twain shall meet." --ballad of east and west. "but the law of the jungle is jungle law only, and the law of the pack is only for the pack." --other sayings of shere khan. a half turn from the clattering hubbub of chatham square and you are in chinatown, slipping, within ten feet, through an invisible wall, from the glitter of the gin palace and the pawn-shop to the sinister shadows of irregular streets and blind alleys, where yellow men pad swiftly along greasy asphalt beneath windows glinting with ivory, bronze and lacquer; through which float the scents of aloes and of incense and all the subtle suggestion of the east. no one better than the chink himself realizes the commercial value of the taboo, the bizarre and the unclean. nightly the rubber-neck car swinging gayly with lanterns stops before the imitation joss house, the spurious opium joint and tortuous passage to the fake fan-tan and faro game, with a farewell call at hong joy fah's oriental restaurant and the well-stocked novelty store of wing, hen & co. the visitors see what they expect to see, for the chinaman always gives his public exactly what it wants. but a dollar does not show you chinatown. to some the ivories will always be but crudely carven bone, the jades the potter's sham, the musk and aloes the product of a soap factory, the joss but a cigar-store indian, and the oriental dainties of hong fah the scrappings of a yankee grocery store. yet behind the shoddy tinsel of doyers and pell streets, as behind alice's looking-glass, there is another chinatown--a strange, inhuman, oriental world, not necessarily of trapdoors and stifled screams, but one moved by influences undreamed of in our banal philosophies. hearken then to the story of the avenging of wah sing. _'tis a tale was undoubtedly true in the reign of the emperor hwang_. in the murky cellar of a pell street tenement seventeen chinamen sat cross-legged in a circle round an octagonal teakwood table. to an occidental they would have appeared to differ in no detail except that of a varying degree of fatness. an oil lamp flickered before a joss near by, and the place reeked with the odor of starch, sweat, tobacco, rice whisky and the incense that rose ceilingward in thin, shaking columns from two bowls of tibetan soapstone. an obese chinaman with a walnutlike countenance in which cunning and melancholy were equally commingled was speaking monotonously through long, rat-tailed mustaches, while the others listened with impassive decorum. it was a special meeting of the hip leong tong, held in their private clubrooms at the great shanghai tea company, and conducted according to rule. "therefore," said wong get, "as a matter of honor it is necessary that our brother be avenged and that no chances be taken. a much too long time has already elapsed. i have written the letter and will read it." he fumbled in his sleeve and drew forth a roll of brown paper covered with heavy chinese characters unwinding it from a strip of bamboo. _to the honorable members of the on gee tong:_ whereas it has pleased you to take the life of our beloved friend and relative wah sing, it is with greatest courtesy and the utmost regret that we inform you that it is necessary for us likewise to remove one of your esteemed society, and that we shall proceed thereto without delay. due warning being thus honorably given i subscribe myself with profound appreciation, for the hip leong tong, wong get. he ceased reading and there was a perfunctory grunt of approval from round the circle. then he turned to the official soothsayer and directed him to ascertain whether the time were propitious. the latter tossed into the air a handful of painted ivory sticks, carefully studied their arrangement when fallen, and nodded gravely. "the omens are favorable, o honorable one!" "then there is nothing left but the choice of our representatives," continued wong get. "pass the fateful box, o fong hen." fong hen, a slender young chinaman, the official slipper, or messenger, of the society, rose and, lifting a lacquered gold box from the table, passed it solemnly to each member. "this time there will be four," said wong get. each in turn averted his eyes and removed from the box a small sliver of ivory. at the conclusion of the ceremony the four who had drawn red tokens rose. wong get addressed them. "mock hen, mock ding, long get, sui sing--to you it is confided to avenge the murder of our brother wah sing. fail not in your purpose!" and the four answered unemotionally: "those to whom it is confided will not fail." then pivoting silently upon their heels they passed out of the cellar. wong get glanced round the table. "if there is no further business the society will disperse after the customary refreshment." fong hen placed thirteen tiny glasses upon the table and filled them with rice whisky scented with aniseed and a dash of powdered ginger. at a signal from wong get the thirteen chinamen lifted the glasses and drank. "the meeting is adjourned," said he. * * * * * eighty years before, in a cantonese rabbit warren two yellow men had fought over a white woman, and one had killed the other. they had belonged to different societies, or tongs. the associates of the murdered man had avenged his death by slitting the throat of one of the members of the other organization, and these in turn had retaliated thus establishing a vendetta which became part and parcel of the lives of certain families, as naturally and unavoidably as birth, love and death. as regularly as the solstice they alternated in picking each other off. branches of the hip leong and on gee tongs sprang up in san francisco and new york--and the feud was transferred with them to chatham square, a feud imposing a sacred obligation rooted in blood, honor and religion upon every member, who rather than fail to carry it out would have knotted a yellow silken cord under his left ear and swung himself gently off a table into eternal sleep. young mock hen, one of the four avengers, had created a distinct place for himself in chinatown by making a careful study of new york psychology. he was a good-looking chink, smooth-faced, tall and supple; he knew very well how to capitalize his attractiveness. by day he attended columbia university as a special student in applied electricity, keeping a convenient eye meanwhile on three coolies whom he employed to run the college laundry on morningside heights. by night he vicariously operated a chop-suey palace on seventh avenue, where congregated the worst elements of the tenderloin. but his heart was in the gambling den which he maintained in doyers street, and where anyone who knew the knock could have a shell of hop for the asking, once mock had given him the once-over through the little sliding panel. mock was a christian chinaman. that is to say, purely for business reasons--for what he got out of it and the standing that it gave him--he attended the rising star mission and also frequented hudson house, the social settlement where miss fanny duryea taught him to play ping-pong and other exciting parlor games, and read to him from books adapted to an american child of ten. he was a great favorite at both places, for he was sweet-tempered and wore an expression of heaven-born innocence. he had even been to church with miss duryea, temporarily absenting himself for that purpose of a sunday morning from the steam-heated flat where--unknown to her, of course--he lived with his white wife, emma pratt, a lady of highly miscellaneous antecedents. except when engaged in transacting legal or oilier business with the municipal, sociologic or religious world--at which times his vocabulary consisted only of the most rudimentary pidgin--mock spoke a fluent and even vernacular english learned at night school. incidentally he was the head of the syndicate which controlled and dispensed the loo, faro, fan-tan and other gambling privileges of chinatown. * * * * * detective mooney, of the second, detailed to make good district attorney peckham's boast that there had never been so little trouble with the foreign element since the administration--of which he was an ornament--came into office, saw quong lee emerge from his doorway in doyers street just before four o'clock the following thursday and slip silently along under the shadow of the eaves toward ah fong's grocery--and instantly sensed something peculiar in the chink's walk. "hello, quong!" he called, interposing himself. "where you goin'?" quong paused with a deprecating gesture of widely spread open palms. "'lo yourself!" replied blandly. "me go buy li'l' glocery." mooney ran his hands over the rotund body, frisking him for a possible forty-four. "for the love of mike!" he exclaimed, tearing open quong's blouse. "what sort of an undershirt is that?" quong grinned broadly as the detective lifted the suit of double-chain mail which swayed heavily under his blue blouse from his shoulders to his knees. "so-ho!" continued the plain-clothes man. "trouble brewin', eh?" he knew already that something was doing in the tongs from his lobby-gow, wing foo. "must weigh eighty pounds!" he whistled. "i'd like to see the pill that would go through that!" it was, in fact, a medieval corselet of finest steel mesh, capable of turning an elephant bullet. "go'long!" ordered mooney finally. "i guess you're safe!" he turned back in the direction of chatham square, while quong resumed his tortoiselike perambulation toward ah fong's. pell and doyers streets were deserted save for an italian woman carrying a baby, and were pervaded by an unnatural and suspicious silence. most of the shutters on the lower windows were down. ah fong's subsequent story of what happened was simple, and briefly to the effect that quong, having entered his shop and priced various litchi nuts and pickled starfruit, had purchased some powdered lizard and, with the package in his left hand, had opened the door to go out. as he stood there with his right hand upon the knob and facing the afternoon sun four shadows fell aslant the window and a man whom he positively identified as sui sing emptied a bag of powder--afterward proved to be red pepper--upon quong's face; then another, long get, made a thrust at him with a knife, the effect of which he did not observe, as almost at the same instant mock hen felled him with a blow upon the head with an iron bar, while a fourth, mock ding, fired four shots at his crumpling body with a revolver one of which glanced off and fractured a very costly chien lung vase and ruined four boxes of mandarin-blossom tea. in his excitement he ducked behind the counter, and when sufficiently revived he crawled forth to find what had once been quong lying across the threshold, the murderers gone, and the italian woman prostrate and shrieking with a hip splintered by a stray bullet. on the sidewalk outside the window lay the remnants of the bag of pepper, a knife broken short off at the handle, a heavy bar of soft iron slightly bent, and a partially emptied forty-four-caliber revolver. quong's suit of mail had effectually protected him from the knife thrust and the revolver shots, but his skull was crushed beyond repair. thus was the murder of wah sing avenged in due and proper form. detective mooney, distant not more than two hundred feet, rushed back to the corner at the sound of the first shot--just in time to catch a side glimpse of mock hen as he raced across pell street and disappeared into the cellar of the great shanghai tea company. the italian woman was filling the air with her outcries, but the detective did not pause in his hurtling pursuit. he was too late, however. the cellar door withstood all his efforts to break it open. bull neck burke, the wrestler, who tied zabisko once on the stage of the old grand opera house in , had been promenading with mollie malone, of the champagne girls and gay burlesquers company. both heard the fusillade and saw mock--a streak of flying blue--pass within a few feet of them. "god!" ejaculated mollie. "sure as shootin', that's mock hen--and he's murdered somebody!" "it's mock all right!" agreed bull neck. "that puts us in as witnesses or strike me!" and he looked at his watch--four one. "here, burke, put your shoulder to this!" shouted mooney from the cellar steps. "now then!" the two of them threw their combined weight against it, the lock flew open and they fell forward into the darkness. three doors leading in different directions met the glare of mooney's match. but the fugitive had a start of at least four minutes, which was three and a half more than he required. * * * * * mock hen took the left-hand of the three doors and crept along a passage opening into an empty opium parlor back of the hip leong clubroom. diving beneath one of the bunks he inserted his body between the lower planking at the back and the cellar wall, wormed his way some twelve feet, raised a trap and emerged into a tunnel by means of which and others he eventually reached the end of the block and the rooms of his friend hong sue. here he changed from the oriental costume according to chinese etiquette necessary to the homicide, into a nobby suit of american clothes, put on a false mustache, and walked boldly down park row, while just behind him doyers and pell streets swarmed with bluecoats and excited citizenry. hudson house, the social settlement presided over by miss fanny and affected for business reasons by mock hen, was a mile and a half away. but mock took his time. twenty-five full minutes elapsed before he leisurely climbed the steps and slipped into the big reading room. there was no one there and mock deftly turned back the hand of the automatic clock over the platform to three-fifty-five. then he began to whistle. presently miss fanny entered from the rear room, her face lighting with pleasure at the sight of her pet convert. "good afternoon, mock hen! you are early to-day." mock took her hand and stroked it affectionately. "i go fulton mark' buy li'l' terrapin. stop in on way to see dear miss fan'." they stood thus for a moment, and while they did so the clock struck four. "i go now!" said mock suddenly. "four o'clock already." "it's early," answered miss fanny. "won't you stay a little while?" "i go now," he repeated with resolution. "good-by li'l' teacher!" she watched until his lithe figure passed through the door, and presently returned to the back room. mock waited outside until she had disappeared. then he changed back the clock. * * * * * "we've got you, you blarsted heathen!" cried mooney hoarsely as he and two others from the central office threw themselves upon mock hen on the landing outside the door of his flat. "look out, murtha. pipe that thing under his arm!" "it's a bloody turtle!" gasped murtha, shuddering "what's the matter, boys?" inquired mock. "leggo my arm, can't yer? what'd yer want, anyway?" "we want you, you yellow skunk!" retorted mooney. "open that door! lively now!" "sure!" answered mock amiably. "come on in! what's bitin' yer?" he unlocked the door and threw it open. "take a chair," he invited them. "have a cigar? you there, emma?" emma pratt, clad in a wrapper and lying on the big double brass bedstead in the rear room, raised herself on one elbow. "yep!" she called through the passage. "got the bird?" mock looked at murtha, who was carrying the terrapin. "sure!" he called back. "sit down, boys. what'd yer want? can't yer tell a feller?" "we want you for croaking quong lee!" snapped mooney. "where have you been?" "fulton market--and hudson house. i left here quarter of four. i haven't seen quong lee. where was he killed?" mooney laughed sardonically. "that'll do for you, mock! your alibi ain't worth a damn this time. i saw you myself." "you saw someone else," mock assured him politely. "i haven't been in chinatown." "say, what yer doin' wit' my chink?" demanded emma, appearing in the doorway. "he was sittin' here wit' me all the afternoon, until about just before four i sent him over to fulton market to buy a bird. who's been croaked, eh?" "aw, cut it out, emma!" replied mooney. "that old stuff won't go here. your chink's goin' to the chair. murtha, look through the place while we put mock in the wagon. hell!" he added under his breath. "won't this make peckham sick!" * * * * * mr. ephraim tutt just finished his morning mail when he was informed that mr. wong get desired an interview. though the old lawyer did not formally represent the hip leong tong he was frequently retained by its individual members, who held him in high esteem, for they had always found him loyal to their interests and as much a stickler for honor as themselves. moreover, between him and wong get there existed a curious sympathy as if in some previous state of existence wong get might have been mr. tutt, and mr. tutt wong get. perhaps, however, it was merely because both were rather weary, sad and worldly wise. wong get did not come alone. he was accompanied by two other hip leongs, the three forming the law committee appointed to retain the best available counsel to defend mock hen. in his expansive frock coat and bowler hat wong might easily have excited mirth had it not been for the extreme dignity of his demeanor. they were there, he stated, to request mr. tutt to protect the interests of mock hen, and they were prepared to pay a cash retainer and sign a written contract binding themselves to a balance--so much if mock should be convicted; so much if acquitted; so much if he should die in the course of the trial without having been either convicted or acquitted. it was, said wong get gently, a matter of grave importance and they would be glad to give mr. tutt time to think it over and decide upon his terms. suppose, then, that they should return at noon? with this understanding, accordingly, they departed. "there's no point in skinning a chink just because he is a chink," said the junior tutt when his partner had explained the situation to him. "but it isn't the highest-class practise and they ought to pay well." "what do you call well?" inquired mr. tutt. "oh, a thousand dollars down, a couple more if he's convicted, and five altogether if he's acquitted." "do you think they can raise that amount of money?" "i think so," answered tutt. "it might be a good deal for an individual chink to cough up on his own account, but this is a coöperative affair. mock hen didn't kill quong lee to get anything out of it for himself, but to save the face of his society." "he didn't kill him at all!" declared mr. tutt, hardly moving a muscle of his face. "well, you know what i mean!" said tutt. "he wasn't there," insisted mr. tutt. "he was way over in fulton market buying a terrapin." "that is what, if i were district attorney, i should call a mock hen with a mockturtle defense!" grunted tutt. mr. tutt chuckled. "i shall have to get that off myself at the beginning of the case, or it might convict him," he remarked. "but he wasn't there--unless the jury find that he was." "in which case he will--or shall--have been there--whatever the verb is," agreed tutt. "anyhow they'll tax every laundry and chop-suey palace from the bronx to the battery to pay us." "i'd hate to take our fee in bird's-nest soup, shark's fin, bamboo-shoots salad and ya ko main," mused mr. tutt. "or in ivory chopsticks, oolong tea, imitation jade, litchi nuts and preserved leeches!" groaned tutt. "be sure and get the thousand down; it may be all the cash we'll ever see!" promptly at twelve the law committee of the hip leong tong returned to the office of tutt & tutt. with them came a venerable chinaman in native costume, his wrinkled face as inscrutable as that of a snapping turtle. the others took chairs, but this high dignitary preferred to sit upon his heels on the floor, creating something of the impression of an ancient slant-eyed buddha. wong get translated for his benefit the arrangement proposed by mr. tutt, after which there was a long pause while his eminence remained immovable, without even the flicker of an eyelid. then he delivered himself in an interminable series of gargles and gurgles, supplemented by a few cough-like hisses, while wong get translated with rapid dexterity, running verbally in and out among his words like a carriage dog between the wheels of a vehicle. it was, declared buddha, an affair of great moment touching upon and appertaining to the private honor of the duck, the wong, the fong, the long, the sui and various other families, both in america and china. the life of one of their members was at stake. their face required that the proceedings should be as dignified as possible. the price named by mr. tutt was quite inadequate. mr. tutt, repressing a smile, passed a box of stogies. what amount, he inquired through wong get, would satisfy the face of the duck family? a somewhat lengthy discussion ensued. then buddha rendered his decision. the honor of the ducks, longs and fongs would not be satisfied unless mr. tutt received five thousand dollars down, five more if mock hen was convicted, three more if he died before the conclusion of the trial, and twenty thousand if he was acquitted. mr. tutt, assuming an equal impassivity, pondered upon the matter for about an inch of stogy and then informed the committee that the terms were eminently satisfactory. buddha thereupon removed from the folds of his tunic a gigantic roll of soiled bills of all denominations and carefully counting out five thousand dollars placed it upon the table. "h'm!" remarked tutt when he learned of the proceeding. "_his_ face is _our_ fortune!" * * * * * "look here," expostulated district attorney peckham in his office to mr. tutt a month later. "what's the use of our both wasting a couple of weeks trying a chinaman who is bound to be convicted? your time's too valuable for that sort of thing, and so is mine. we've got three white witnesses that saw him do it, and a couple of dozen chinks besides. he doesn't stand a chance; but just because he is a chink, and to get the case out of the way, i'll let you plead him to murder in the second degree. what do you say?" he tried to conceal his anxiety by nervously lighting a cigar. he would have given a year's salary to have mock hen safely up the river, even on a conviction for manslaughter in the third, for the newspapers were making his life a burden with their constant references to the seeming inability of the police department and district attorney's office to prevent the recurrence of feud killings in the chinatown districts. what use was it, they demanded, to maintain the expensive machinery of criminal justice if the tongs went gayly on shooting each other up and incidentally taking the lives of innocent bystanders? wasn't the law intended to cover chinamen as much as italians, poles, greeks and niggers? and now that one of these murdering celestials had been caught red-handed it was up to the d.a. to go to it, convict him, and send him to the chair! they did not express themselves precisely that way, but that was the gist of it. but peckham knew that it was one thing to catch a chinaman, even red-handed, and another to convict him. and so did mr. tutt. the old lawyer smiled blandly--after the fashion of the hip leong tong. of course, he admitted, it would be much simpler to dispose of the case as mr. peckham suggested, but his client was insistent upon his innocence and seemed to have an excellent alibi. he regretted, therefore, that he had no choice except to go to trial. "then," groaned peckham, "we may as well take the winter for it. after this there's going to be a closed season on chinamen in new york city!" now though it was true that mock hen insisted upon his innocence, he had not insisted upon it to mr. tutt, for the latter had not seen him. in fact, the old lawyer, recognizing what the law did not, namely that a system devised for the trial and punishment of occidentals is totally inadequate to cope with the oriental, calmly went about his affairs, intrusting to mr. bonnie doon of his office the task of interviewing the witnesses furnished by wong get. there was but one issue for the jury to pass upon. quong lee was dead and his honorable soul was with his illustrious ancestors. he had died from a single blow upon the head, delivered with an iron bar, there present, to be in evidence, marked "exhibit a." mock hen was alleged to have done the deed. had he? there would be nothing for mr. tutt to do but to cross-examine the witnesses and then call such as could testify to mock's alibi. so he made no preparation at all and dismissed the case from his mind. he had hardly seen a dozen chinamen in his life--outside of a laundry. * * * * * on the morning set for the trial mr. tutt, having been delayed by an accident in the subway, entered the criminal courts building only a moment or two before the call of the calendar. somewhat preoccupied, he did not notice the numerous chinamen who dawdled about the entrance or the half dozen who crowded with him into the elevator, but when pat the elevator man called, "second floor!--part one to your right!--part two to the left!" and he stepped out into the marble-floored corridor that ran round the inside of the building, he was confronted with an unusual and somewhat ominous spectacle. the entire hallway on two sides of the building was lined with chinamen! they sat there motionless as blue-coated images, faces front, their hands in their laps, their legs crossed beneath them. if anyone appeared in the offing a couple of hundred pairs of glinting eyes shifted automatically and followed him until he disappeared, but otherwise no muscle quivered. "say," growled hogan, judge bender's private attendant, who was the first to run the gantlet, "those chinks are enough to give you the willies! their eyes scared me to death, sticking me through the back!" even dignified judge bender himself as he stalked along the hall, preceded by two police officers, was not immune from a slight feeling of uncanniness, and he instinctively drew his robe round his legs that it might not come into contact with those curious slippers with felt soles that protruded across the marble slabs. "eyes right!" they had picked him up the instant he stepped out of the private elevator--the four hundred of them. if he turned and looked they were seemingly not watching him, but if he dropped his glance they swung back in a single moment and focused themselves upon him. and every one of them probably had a gun hidden somewhere in his baggy pants! the judge confessed to not liking these foreign homicide cases. you never could tell what might happen or when somebody was going to get the death sign. there was judge deasy--he had the whole front of his house blown clean out by a bomb! that had been a close call! and these chinks--with their secret oaths and rituals--they'd think nothing at all of jabbing a knife into you. he didn't fancy it at all and, as he hurried along, supremely conscious of the deadly cumulative effect of those beady eyes, he fancied it less and less. what was there to prevent one of them from getting right up in court and putting a bullet through you? he shivered, recalling the recent assassination of a judge upon the bench by a hindu whom he had sentenced. when he reached his robing room he sent for captain phelan. "see here, captain," he directed sharply, "i want you to keep all those chinamen out in the corridor; understand?" "i've got to let some of 'em in, judge," urged phelan. "you've got to have an interpreter--and there's a chinese lawyer associated with tutt & tutt--and of course mr. o'brien has to have a couple of 'em so's he'll know what's going on. y' see, judge, the on gee tong is helping the prosecution against the hip leongs, so both sides has to be more or less represented." "well, make sure none of 'em is armed," ordered judge bender. "i don't like these cases." now the judge, being recently elected and unfamiliar with the situation, did not realize that nothing could have been farther from the oriental mind or intention than an attack upon the officers engaged in the administration of local justice, whom they regarded merely as nuisances. what these chinamen supremely desired was to be allowed to settle their own affairs in their own historic and traditional way--the way of the revolver, the silken cord, the knife and the iron bar. once enmeshed in anglo-saxon juridical procedure, to be sure, they were not averse to letting it run its course on the bare chance that it might automatically accomplish their revenge. but they distrusted it, being brought up according to a much more effective system--one which when it wanted to punish anybody simply reached out, grabbed him by the pigtail, yanked him to his knees and sliced off his head. this so-called american justice was all talk--words, words, words! from their point of view judges, jurymen and prosecutors were useless pawns in life's game of chess. perhaps they are! who knows! when judge bender entered the court room it was, in spite of his injunction, full of blue blouses. a special panel of two hundred talesmen filled the first half dozen rows of benches, the others being occupied by witnesses both chinese and white, policemen and the miscellaneous human flotsam and jetsam that always manages somehow or other to find its way to a murder trial. inside the rail o'brien, the assistant district attorney, was busy in conversation with three cueless chinamen in american clothes. at the bar sat mock hen with mr. tutt beside him, flanked by wong get, tutt, bonnie doon and buddha. the judge beckoned mr. tutt and o'brien to the front of the bench. "is there any chance of disposing of this case by a plea?" he inquired. o'brien looked expectantly at mr. tutt, who shook his head. the judge shrugged his shoulders. "well, how long is it going to take?" "about six weeks," answered the old lawyer quietly. "what!" ejaculated judge and prosecutor in unison. "a day or two less, perhaps," affirmed mr. tutt, "but, likely as not, considerably longer." "i shall cut it down as much as i can," announced the judge, appalled at the prospect. "i shall not permit this trial to be dragged out indefinitely." "nothing would please me better, your honor," said mr. tutt with the shadow of a smile. "shall we proceed to select the jury?" the accuracy of mr. tutt's prophecy as to the probable length of the trial was partially demonstrated when it developed that most of the talesmen had a pronounced antipathy to chinese murder cases, and a deep-rooted prejudice against the race as a whole. in fact, a certain subconscious influence affecting most of them was formulated by the thirty-ninth talesman to be rejected, who, in a moment of resentment, burst forth, "i don't mind trying decent american criminals, but i hold it isn't any part of a citizen's duty to try chinamen!" and was promptly struck off the jury list. "i say, chief," disgustedly declared o'brien to peckham at the noon recess as they clinked glasses over the bar at pont's, "you've handed me a ripe, juicy messina all right! i won't be able to get a jury. we've been at it since ten o'clock and we haven't lured a single sucker into the box!" "what's the matter?" inquired the d.a. apprehensively. "i can't quite make out," answered o'brien. "but most of 'em seem to have a sort of idea that to kill a chinaman ain't a crime but a virtue!" "well, don't tell anybody," whispered peckham, "but i'm somewhat of that way of thinking myself. set 'em up again, john!" however, by invoking the utmost celerity a jury was at last selected and sworn at the end of the nineteenth day of the trial. as a jury o'brien confidentially admitted to peckham it wasn't much! but what could you expect of a bunch who were willing to swear that they hadn't any prejudice against a chink and would as soon acquit him as a white man? the truth was that they were all gentlemen who, having lost their jobs, were willing to swear to anything that would bring them in two dollars a day. the more days the better! and it is historic fact that during the sixty-nine days of mock hen's prosecution not one of them protested at being kept away from his wife and children, his business or his pleasure. on the contrary they all slumbered peacefully from ten until four--and when the trial ended, on the whole they rather regretted that it was over, the only genuine opinion regarding the case being that the chinks were all as funny as hell and that mr. tutt was a bully old boy. the evidence respecting the death of the unfortunate quong lee made little impression upon them. seemingly they regarded the story much as they did that of elisha and the bears or bel and the dragon--as a sort of apocryphal narrative which they were required to listen to, but in no wise bound to believe. they were much interested in quong's suit of chain mail, however, and from time to time awoke to enjoy the various verbal encounters between the judge and mr. tutt. as factors in the proceedings they did not count, except to receive their two dollars per diem, board, lodging and hack fare. the trial of mock hen being conducted in a foreign language, the first judicial step was the swearing of an interpreter. the on gees had promptly produced one, whom o'brien told the court was a very learned man; a graduate of the imperial university at peking, and a son of the sacred dragon. be that as it may, he was not prepossessing in his appearance and mr. tutt assured judge bender that far from being what the district attorney pretended, the man was a well-known gambler, who made his living largely by blackmail. he might be a son of a dragon or he might not; anyway he was a son of belial. an interpreter was the conduit through which all the evidence must pass. if the official were biased or corrupt the testimony would be distorted, colored or suppressed. now he--mr. tutt--had an interpreter, the well-known dr. hong su, against whom nothing could be said, and upon whose fat head rested no imputation of partiality; a graduate of harvard, a writer of note, a-- o'brien sprang to his feet: "my interpreter says your interpreter is an opium smuggler, that he murdered his aunt in hong kong, that he isn't a doctor at all, and that he never graduated from anything except a chop-suey joint," he interjected. "this is outrageous!" cried mr. tutt, palpably shocked at such language. "gentlemen! gentlemen!" groaned judge bender. "what am i to do? i don't know anything about these men. one looks to me about the same as the other. the court has no time to inquire into their antecedents. they may both be learned scholars or they may each be what the other says he is--i don't know. but we've got to begin to try this case sometime." it was finally agreed that in order that there might be no possible question of partiality there should be two interpreters--one for the prosecution and one for the defense. both accordingly were sworn and the first witness, ah fong, was called. "ask him if he understands the nature of an oath," directed o'brien. the interpreter for the state turned to ah fong and said something sweetly to him in multitudinous words. instantly doctor su rose indignantly. the other interpreter was not putting the question at all, but telling the witness what to say. moreover, the other interpreter belonged to the on gee tong. he stood waving his arms and gobbling like an infuriated turkey while his adversary replied in similar fashion. "this won't do!" snapped the judge. "this trial will degenerate into nothing but a cat fight if we are not careful." then a bright idea suggested itself to his occidental mind. "suppose i appoint an official umpire to say which of the other two interpreters is correct--and let them decide who he shall be?" this proposition was received with grunts of satisfaction by the two antagonists, who conferred together with astonishing amiability and almost immediately conducted into the court room a tall, emaciated chinaman who they alleged was entirely satisfactory to both of them. he was accordingly sworn as a third interpreter, and the trial began again. it was observed that thereafter there was no dispute whatever regarding the accuracy of the testimony, and as each interpreter was paid for his services at the rate of ten dollars a day it was rumored that the whole affair had been arranged by agreement between the two societies, which divided the money, amounting to some eighteen hundred dollars, between them. but, as o'brien afterward asked peckham, "how in thunder could you tell?" the court's troubles had, however, only begun. ah fong was a whimsical-looking person, who gave an impression of desiring to make himself generally agreeable. he was, of course, the star witness--if a chinaman can ever be a star witness--and presumably had been carefully schooled as to the manner in which he should give his testimony. he and he alone had seen the whole tragedy from beginning to end. he it was, if anybody, who would tuck mock hen comfortably into his coffin. the problem of the interpreters having been solved fong settled himself comfortably in the witness chair, crossed his hands upon his stomach and looked complacently at mock hen. "well, now let's get along," adjured his honor. "swear the witness." mr. tutt immediately rose. "if the court please," said he, "i object to the swearing of the witness unless it is made to appear that he will regard himself as bound by the oath as administered. now this man is a chinaman. i should like to ask him a preliminary question or two." "that seems fair, mr. o'brien," agreed the court. "do you see any reason why mr. tutt shouldn't interrogate the witness?" "oh, let me qualify my own witness!" retorted o'brien fretfully. "ah fong, will you respect the oath to testify truthfully, about to be administered to you?" the interpreter delivered a broadside of chinese at ah fong, who listened attentively and replied at equal length. then the interpreter went at him again, and again ah fong affably responded. it was interminable. the two muttered and chortled at each other until o'brien, losing patience, jumped up and called out: "what's all this? can't you ask him a simple question and get a simple answer? this isn't a debating society." the interpreter held up his hand, indicating that the prosecutor should have patience. "_ah-ya-ya-oo-aroo-yung-ung-loy-a-a-ya oo-chu-a-oy-ah-ohay-tching_!" he concluded. "_a-yah-oy-a-yoo-oy-ah-chuck-uh-ung-loy-oo-ayah-a-yoo-chung-chung-szt- oo-aha-oy-ou-ungaroo--yah-yah-yah!_" replied ah fong. "thank heaven, that's over!" sighed o'brien. the interpreter drew himself up to his full height. "he says yes," he declared dramatically. "it's the longest yes i ever heard!" audibly remarked the foreman, who was feeling his oats. "does not that satisfy you?" inquired the court of mr. tutt. "i am sorry to say it does not!" replied the latter. "mr. o'brien has simply asked whether he will keep his oath. his reply sheds no light on whether his religious belief is such that it would obligate him to respect an oath." "well, ask him yourself!" snorted o'brien. "ah fong, do you believe in any god?" inquired mr. tutt. "he says yes," answered the interpreter after the usual interchange. "what god do you believe in?" persisted mr. tutt. suddenly ah fong made answer without the intervention of the interpreter. "when i in this country," he replied complacently in english, "i b'lieve gees clist; when i in china i b'lieve chinese god." "does your honor hold that an obliging acquiescence in local theology constitutes such a religious belief as to make this man's oath sacred?" inquired mr. tutt. the judge smiled. "i don't see why not!" he declared. "there isn't any precedent as far as i am aware. but he says he believes in the deity. isn't that enough?" "not unless he believes that the deity will punish him if he breaks his oath," answered mr. tutt. "let me try him on that?" "ah fong, do you think god will punish you if you tell a lie?" fong looked blank. the interpreter fired a few salvos. "he says it makes a difference the kind of oath." "suppose it is a promise to tell the truth?" "he says what kind of a promise?" "a promise on the bible," answered mr. tutt patiently. "he says what god you mean!" countered the interpreter. "oh, any god!" roared mr. tutt. the interpreter, after a long parley, made reply. "ah fong says there is no binding oath except on a chicken's head." judge bender, o'brien and mr. tutt gazed at one another helplessly. "well, there you are!" exclaimed the lawyer. "mr. o'brien's oath wasn't any oath at all! what kind of a chicken's head?" "a white rooster." "quite so!" nodded mr. tutt. "your honor, i object to this witness being sworn by any oath or in any form except on the head of a white rooster!" "well, i don't happen to have a white rooster about me!" remarked o'brien, while the jury rocked with glee. "ask him if something else won't do. a big book for instance?" the interpreter put the question and then shook his head. according to ah fong there was no virtue in books whatever, either large or small. on some occasions an oath could be properly taken on a broken plate--also white--but not in murder cases. it was chicken or nothing. "are you not willing to waive the formality of an oath, mr. tutt?" asked the judge in slight impatience. "and wave my client into the chair?" demanded the lawyer. "no, sir!" "i don't see what we can do except to adjourn court until you can procure the necessary poultry," announced judge bender. "even then we can't slaughter them in court. we'll have to find some suitable place!" "why not kill one rooster and swear all the witnesses at once?" suggested mr. tutt in a moment of inspiration. * * * * * "my god, chief!" exclaimed o'brien at four o'clock. "there ain't a white rooster to be had anywhere! hens, yes! by the hundred! but roosters are extinct! tomorrow will be the twenty-first day of this prosecution and not a witness sworn yet." however, a poultryman was presently discovered who agreed simply for what advertising there was in it to furnish a crate of white roosters, a hatchet and a headsman's block, and to have them in the basement of the building promptly at ten o'clock. accordingly, at that hour judge bender convened part ix of the general sessions in the court room and then adjourned downstairs, where all the prospective witnesses for the prosecution were lined up in a body and told to raise their right hands. meantime clerk mcguire was handed the hatchet, and approached the coop with obvious misgivings. ah fong had already given a dubious approval to the sex and quality of the fowls inside and naught remained but to submit the proper oath and remove the head of the unfortunate victim. a large crowd of policemen, witnesses, reporters, loafers, truckmen and others drawn by the unusual character of the proceedings had assembled and now proceeded without regard for the requirements of judicial dignity to encourage mcguire in his capacity of executioner, by profane shouts and jeers, to do his deadly deed. but the clerk had had no experience with chickens and in bashfully groping for the selected rooster allowed several other occupants of the crate to escape. instantly the air was filled with fluttering, squawking fowls while fifty frenzied police officers and chinamen attempted vainly to reduce them to captivity again. in the midst of the mêlée mcguire caught his rooster, and fearful lest it should escape him managed somehow to decapitate it. the body, however, had been flopping around spasmodically several seconds upon the floor before he realized that the oath had not been administered, and his voice suddenly rose above the pandemonium in an excited brogue. "hold up your hands, you! you do solemnly swear that in the case of the people against mock hen you will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you god!" but the interpreter was at that moment engaged in clasping to his bosom a struggling rooster and was totally unable to fulfill his functions. meantime the jury, highly edified at this illustration of the administration of justice, gazed down upon the spectacle from the stairs. "this farce has gone far enough!" declared judge bender disgustedly. "we will return to the court room. put those roosters back where they belong!" once more the participants ascended to part ix and ah fong took his seat in the witness chair. the interpreter's blouse was covered with pin-feathers and one of his thumbs was bleeding profusely. "ask the witness if the oath that he has now taken will bind his conscience?" directed the court. again the interpreter and ah fong held converse. "he says," translated that official calmly, "that the chicken oath is all right in china, but that it is no good in united states, and that anyway the proper form of words was not used." "good lord!" ejaculated o'brien. "where am i?" "me tell truth, all light," suddenly announced ah fong in english. "go ahead! shoot!" and he smiled an inscrutable age-long oriental smile. the jury burst into laughter. "he's stringing you!" the foreman kindly informed o'brien, who cursed silently. "go on, mister district attorney, examine the witness," directed the judge. "i shall permit no further variations upon the established forms of procedure." then at last and not until then--on the morning of the twenty-first day--did ah fong tell his simple story and the jury for the first time learn what it was all about. but by then they had entirely ceased to care, being engrossed in watching mr. tutt at his daily amusement of torturing o'brien into a state of helpless exasperation. ah fong gave his testimony with a clarity of detail that left nothing to be desired, and he was corroborated in most respects by the italian woman, who identified mock hen as the chinaman with the iron bar. their evidence was supplemented by that of bull neck burke and miss malone, who also were positive that they had seen mock running from the scene of the murder at exactly four-one o'clock. mr. tutt hardly cross-examined fong at all, but with mr. burke he pursued very different tactics, speedily rousing the wrestler to such a condition of fury that he was hardly articulate, for the old lawyer gently hinted that mr. burke was inventing the whole story for the purpose of assisting his friends in the on gee tong. "but i tell yer i don't know no chinks!" bellowed burke, looking more like a bull than ever. "this here mock hen run right by me. my goil saw him too. i looked at me ticker to get the time!" "ah! then you expected to be a witness for the on gee tong!" "naw! i tell yer i was walkin' wit' me goil!" "what is the lady's name?" "miss malone." "what is her occupation?" "she's a gay burlesquer." "a gay burlesquer?" "sure--champagne goil and gay burlesquer." "a champagne girl!" "dat's what i said." "you mean that she is upon the stage?" "sure--dat's it!" "oh!" mr. tutt looked relieved. "what had you and miss malone been doing that afternoon?" "i told yer--walkin'." mr. tutt coughed slightly. "is that all?" "say, watcha drivin' at?" mr. tutt elevated his bushy eyebrows. "how do you earn your living?" he demanded, changing his method of attack. bull neck allowed his head to sink still farther into the vast bulk of his immense torso, strangely resembling, in this position, the fabled anthropophagi whose heads are reputed thus to "grow beneath their shoulders." then throwing out his jaw he announced proudly between set teeth: "i'm a perfessor of physical sculture!" the jury sniggered. mr. tutt appeared politely puzzled. "a professor of what?" "a perfessor of physical sculture!" repeated bull neck with great satisfaction. "oh! a professor of physical sculpture!" exclaimed mr. tutt, light breaking over his wrinkled countenance. "and what may that be?" bull neck looked round disgustedly at the jury as if to say: "what ignorance!" "trainin' an' developin' prominent people!" he explained. "um!" remarked mr. tutt. "who invited you to testify in this case?" "mr. mooney." "oh, you're a friend of mooney's! that is all!" now it is apparent from these questions and answers that mr. burke had testified to nothing to his discredit and had conducted himself as a gentleman and a sportsman according to his best lights. yet owing to the subtle suggestions contained in mr. tutt's inflections and demeanor the jury leaped unhesitatingly to the conclusion that here was a man so ignorant and debased that if he were not deliberately lying he was being made a cat's-paw by the police in the interest of the on gee tong. miss malone fared even worse, for after a preliminary skirmish she flatly refused to give mr. tutt or the jury any information whatever regarding her past life, while mooney, of course, labored from the beginning to the end of his testimony under the curse of being a policeman, one of that class whom most jurymen take pride in saying they hold in natural distrust. in a word, the white witnesses to the dastardly murder of quong lee created a general impression of unreliability upon the minds of the jury, who wholly failed to realize the somewhat obvious truth that the witnesses to a crime in chinatown will naturally if not inevitably be persons who either reside in or frequent that locality. twenty-four days had now been consumed in the trial, and as yet no chinese witnesses except ah fong had been called. now, however, they appeared in cohorts. though mooney had sworn that the streets were practically empty at the time of the homicide forty-one chinese witnesses swore positively that they had been within easy view, claiming variously to have been behind doors, peeking through shutters, at upper windows and even on the roofs. all had identified mock hen as the murderer, and none of them had ever heard of either the on gee or the hip leong tong! mr. tutt could not shake them upon cross-examination, and o'brien began to show signs of renewed confidence. each testified to substantially the same story and they occupied seventeen full days in the telling, so that when the prosecution rested, forty-two days had been consumed since the first talesman had been called. the trial had sunk into a dull, unbroken monotony, as mr. tutt said, of the "vain repetitions of the heathen." yet the police and the district attorney had done all that could reasonably have been expected of them. they were simply confronted by the very obvious fact--a condition and not a theory--that the legal processes of anglo-saxon jurisprudence are of slight avail in dealing with people of another race. now it is possible that even had mr. tutt put in no defense whatever the jury might have refused to convict, for there was a curious air of unreality surrounding the whole affair. it all seemed somehow as if--assuming that it had ever taken place at all--it had occurred in some other world and in some other age. perhaps under what might have been practically a direction of the court a verdict of conviction might have been returned--but it is doubtful. the more witnesses testified to exactly the same thing in precisely the same words the less likely it appeared to be. but mr. tutt was taking no chances and, upon the forty-third day of the trial, at a nod from the bench, he opened his case. never had he been more serious; never more persuasive. abandoning every suggestion of frivolity, he weighed the testimony of each white witness and pointed out its obvious lack of probative value. not one, he said, except the italian woman, had had more than a fleeting glance of the face of the man now accused of the crime. such an identification was useless. the chinamen were patently lying. they had not been there at all! would any member of the jury hang a dog, even a yellow one, on such testimony? of course not! much less a human being. the people had called forty witnesses to prove that mock hen had killed quong lee. it made no difference. the on gee could have just as easily produced four hundred. moreover, mr. tutt did a very daring thing. he pronounced all chinese testimony in an american court of justice as absolutely valueless, and boasted that for every chinaman who swore mock hen was guilty he would bring forward two who would swear him innocent. the thing was, as he had carefully explained to bonnie doon, to prove that mock was a good chinaman and, if the jury did not believe that there was any such animal, to convince them that it was possible. his first task, however, was to polish off the chinese testimony by calling the witnesses who had been secured under the guidance of wong get. he admitted afterward that in view of the exclusion law he had not supposed there were so many chinamen in the united states, for they crowded the corridors and staircases of the criminal courts building, arriving in companies--the wong family, the mocks, the fongs, the lungs, the sues, and others of the sacred hip sing society from near at hand and from distant parts--from brooklyn and flatbush, from flushing and far rockaway, from hackensack and hoboken, from trenton and scranton, from buffalo and saratoga, from chicago and st. louis, and each and every one of them swore positively upon the severed neck of the whitest rooster--the broken fragments of the whitest of porcelain plates--the holiest of books--that he had been present in person at fulton market in new york city at precisely four-fifteen o'clock in the afternoon and assisted mock hen, the defendant, in selecting and purchasing a terrapin for stew. mr. tutt grinned at the jury and the jury grinned affectionately back at mr. tutt. indeed, after the length of time they had all been together they had almost as much respect for him as for the judge upon the bench. the whole court seemed to be a sort of tutt club, of which even o'brien was a member. "now," said mr. tutt, "i will call a few witnesses to show you what kind of a man this is whom these highbinders accuse of the crime of murder!" mock, rolling his eyes heavenward, assumed an expression of infantile helplessness and trust. "don't overdo it!" growled tutt. "just look kind of gentle." so mock looked as gentle as a suckling dove while two professors from columbia university, three of his landlords in his more reputable business enterprises, the superintendent of the rising sun mission, four ex-police officers, a fireman, and an investigator for the society for the suppression of sin swore upon holy writ and with all sincerity that mock hen was not only a person of the most excellent character and reputation but a christian and a gentleman. and then mr. tutt played his trump card. "i will call miss frances duryea, of hudson house," he announced. "miss duryea, will you kindly take the witness chair?" miss fanny modestly rose from her seat in the rear of the room and came forward. no one could for an instant doubt the honesty and impartiality of this devoted middle-aged woman, who, surrendering the comforts and luxuries of her home uptown, to which she was well entitled by reason of her age, was devoting herself to a life of service. if a woman like that, thought the jury, was ready to vouch for mock's good character, why waste any more time on the case? but miss fanny was to do much more. "miss duryea," began mr. tutt, "do you know the defendant?" "yes, sir; i do," she answered quietly. "how long have you known him?" "six years." "do you know his reputation for peace and quiet?" miss fanny half turned to the judge and then faced the jury. "he is one of the sweetest characters i have ever known," she replied, "and i have known many--" "oh, i object!" interrupted o'brien. "this lady can't be permitted to testify to anything like that. she must be limited by the rules of evidence!" with one movement the jury wheeled and glared at him. "i guess this lady can say anything she wants!" declared the foreman chivalrously. o'brien sank down in his seat. what was the use! "go on, please," gently directed mr. tutt. "as i was saying, mr. mock hen is a very remarkable character," responded miss fanny. "he is devoted to the mission and to us at the settlement. i would trust him absolutely in regard to anything." "thank you," said mr. tutt, smiling benignly. "now, miss duryea, did you see mock hen at any time on may sixth?" instantly the jury showed renewed signs of life. may sixth? that was the day of the murder. "i did," answered miss fanny with conviction. "he came to see me at hudson house in the afternoon and while we were talking the clock struck four." the jury looked at one another and nodded. "well, i guess that settles this case!" announced the foreman. "right!" echoed a talesman behind him. "i object!" wailed o'brien. "this is entirely improper!" "quite so!" ruled judge bender sternly. "the jurymen will not make any remarks!" "but, your honor--we all agreed at recess there was nothing in this case," announced the foreman. "and now this testimony simply clinches it. why go on with it!" "that's so!" ejaculated another. "let us go, judge." mr. tutt's weather-beaten face was wreathed in smiles. "easy, gentlemen!" he cautioned. the judge shrugged his shoulders, frowning. "this is very irregular!" he said. then he beckoned to o'brien, and the two whispered together for several minutes, while all over the court room on the part of those who had sat there so patiently for sixty-nine days there was a prolonged and ecstatic wriggling of arms and legs. instinctively they all knew that the farce was over. the assistant district attorney returned to his table but did not sit down. "if the court please," he said rather wearily, "the last witness, miss duryea, by her testimony, which i personally am quite ready to accept as truthful, has interjected a reasonable doubt of the defendant's guilt into what otherwise would in my opinion be a case for the jury. if mock hen was at hudson house, nearly two miles from pell and doyers streets, at four o'clock on the afternoon of the homicide, manifestly he could not have been one of the assailants of quong lee at one minute past four. i am satisfied that no jury would convict--" "not on your life!" snorted the foreman airily. "--and i therefore," went on o'brien, "ask the court to direct an acquittal." * * * * * in the grand banquet hall of the shanghai and hongkong american-chinese restaurant, ephraim tutt, draped in a blue mandarin coat with a tasseled pill box rakishly upon his old gray head, sat beside wong get and buddha at the head of a long table surrounded by three hundred chinamen in their richest robes of ceremony. lanterns of party-colored glass swaying from gilded rafters shed a strange light upon a silken cloth marvelously embroidered and laden with the choicest of oriental dishes, and upon the pale faces of the hip leong tong--the mocks, the wongs, the fongs and the rest--both those who had testified and also those who had merely been ready if duty called to do so, all of whom were now gathered together to pay honor where they felt honor to be due; namely, at the shrine of mr. tutt. deft chinese waiters slipped silently from guest to guest with bird's-nest soup, guy soo main, mon goo guy pan, shark's fin and lung har made of shreds of lobster, water chestnuts, rice and the succulent shoots of the young bamboo, while three musicians in a corner sang through their nose a syncopated dirge. "wang-ang-ang-ang!" it rose and fell as mr. tutt, his neck encircled by a wreath of lilies, essayed to manipulate a pair of long black chop-sticks. "wang-ang-ang-ang!" about him were golden limes, ginger in syrup, litchi nuts, pickled leeches. then he felt a touch upon his shoulder and turned to see fong hen, the slipper, standing beside him. it was the duty of fong hen to drink with each guest--more than that, to drink as much as each guest drank! he gravely offered mr. tutt a pony of rice brandy. it was not the fiery lava he had anticipated, but a soft, caressing nectar, fragrant as if distilled from celestial flowers of the time of confucius. the slipper swallowed the same quantity at a gulp, bowed and passed along. mr. tutt vainly tried to grasp the fact that he was in his own native city of new york. long sleeves covered with red and purple dragons hid his arms and hands, and below the collar a smooth tight surface of silk across his breast made access to his pockets quite impossible. in one of them reposed twenty one-thousand-dollar bills--his fee for securing the acquittal of mock hen. yes, he was in new york! the monotonous wail of the instruments, the pungency of the incense, the subdued light, the humid breath of the roses carried the thoughts of mr. tutt far away. before him, against the blue misty sunshine, rose the yellow temples of peking. he could hear the faint tintinnabulation of bells. he was wandering in a garden fragrant with jasmine blossoms and adorned with ancient graven stones and carved gilt statues. the air was sweet. mr. tutt was very tired.... "let him sleep!" nodded buddha, deftly conveying to his wrinkled lips a delicate morsel of guy yemg dun. "let him sleep! he has earned his sleep. he has saved our face!" it was after midnight when mr. tutt, heavily laden with princely gifts of ivory and jade and boxes of priceless teas, emerged from the side door of the shanghai and hongkong american-chinese restaurant. the sky was brilliant with stars and the sidewalks of doyers and pell streets were crowded with pedestrians. near by a lantern-bedecked rubber-neck wagon was in process of unloading its cargo of seekers after the curious and unwholesome. on either side of him walked wong get and buddha. they had hardly reached the corner when five shots echoed in quick succession above the noise of the traffic and the crowd turned with one accord and rushed in the direction from which he had just come. mr. tutt, startled, stopped and looked back. courteously also stopped wong get and buddha. a throng was fast gathering in front of the shanghai and hongkong restaurant. then murtha appeared, shouldering his way roughly through the mob. catching sight of mr. tutt, he paused long enough to whisper hoarsely in the lawyer's ear: "well, they got mock hen! five bullets in him! but if they were going to, why in hell couldn't they have done it three months ago?" samuel and delilah "and it came to pass, when she pressed him daily with her words, and urged him, so that his soul was vexed unto death; that he told her all his heart, and said unto her, there hath not come a razor upon mine head; ... if i be shaven, then my strength will go from me, and i shall become weak and be like any other man." --judges xvi, , . "have you seen ' fed.' anywhere, mr. tutt?" inquired tutt, appearing suddenly in the doorway of his partner's office. mr. tutt looked up from page of the opinion he was perusing in "the united states vs. one hundred and thirty-two packages of spirituous liquors and wines." "got it here in front of me," he answered shortly. "what do you want it for?" tutt looked over his shoulder. "that's a grand name for a case, isn't it? 'packages of wines!'" he chuckled. "i made a note once of a matter entitled 'united states vs. forty-three cases of frozen eggs'; and of another called 'united states vs. one feather mattress and one hundred and fifty pounds of butter'--along in federal reports, if i remember correctly. and you recall that accident case we had--bump against the railroad?" "you can't tell me anything about names," remarked mr. tutt. "i once tried a divorce action. fuss against fuss; and another, love against love. do you really want this book?" "not if you are using it," replied tutt. "i just wanted to show an authority to mr. sorg, the president of the fat and skinny club. you know our application for a certificate of incorporation was denied yesterday by justice mcalpin." "no, i didn't know it," returned mr. tutt. "why?" "here's his memorandum in the law journal," answered his partner. "read it for yourself": matter of fat and skinny club, inc. this is an application for approval of a certificate of incorporation as a membership corporation. the stated purposes are to promote and encourage social intercourse and good fellowship and to advance the interests of the community. the name selected is the fat and skinny club. if this be the most appropriate name descriptive of its membership it is better that it remain unincorporated. application denied. "now who says the law isn't the perfection of common sense?" ruminated mr. tutt. "its general principles are magnificent." "and yet," mused tutt, "only last week judge mcalpin granted the petition of one solomon swackhamer to change his name to phillips brooks vanderbilt. is that right? is that justice? is it equity? i ask you!--when he turns down the fat and skinnies?" "oh, yes it is," retorted mr. tutt. "when you consider that mr. swackhamer could have assumed the appellation of p.b. vanderbilt or any other name he chose without asking the court's permission at all." "what!" protested tutt incredulously. "that's the law," returned the senior partner. "a man can call himself what he chooses and change his name as often as he likes--so long, of course, as he doesn't do it to defraud. the mere fact that a statute likewise gives him the right to apply to the courts to accomplish the same result makes no difference." "of course it might make him feel a little more comfortable about it to do it that way," suggested tutt. "do you know, as long as i've practised law in this town i've always assumed that one had to get permission to change one's name." "you've learned something," said mr. tutt suavely. "i hope you will put it to good account. here's ' fed.' take it out and console the fat and skinny club with it if you can." mr. tutt surrendered the volume without apparent regret and tutt retired to his own office and to the task of soothing the injured feelings of mr. sorg. a simple-minded little man was tutt, for all his professional shrewdness and ingenuity. like many a hero of the battlefield and of the bar, once inside the palings of his own fence he became modest, gentle, even timorous. for abigail, his wife, had no illusions about him and did not affect to have any. to her neither tutt nor mr. tutt was any such great shakes. had tutt dared to let her know of many of the schemes which he devised for the profit or safety of his clients she would have thought less of him still; in fact, she might have parted with him forever. in a sense mrs. tutt was an exacting woman. though she somewhat reluctantly consented to view the hours from nine a.m. to five p.m. in her husband's day as belonging to the law, she emphatically regarded the rest of the twenty-four hours as belonging to her. the law may be, as judge holmes has called it, "a jealous mistress," but in the case of tutt it was not nearly so jealous as his wife. so tutt was compelled to walk the straight-and-narrow path whether he liked it or not. on the whole he liked it well enough, but there were times--usually in the spring--when without being conscious of what was the matter with him he mourned his lost youth. for tutt was only forty-eight and he had had a grandfather who had lived strenuously to upward of twice that age. he was vigorous, sprightly, bright-eyed and as hard as nails, even if somewhat resembling in his contours the late mr. pickwick. mrs. tutt was tall, spare, capable and sardonic. she made tutt comfortable, but she no longer appealed to his sense of romance. still she held him. as the playwright hath said "it isn't good looks they want, but good nature; if a warm welcome won't hold them, cold cream won't." however, tutt got neither looks nor cold cream. his welcome, in fact, was warm only if he stayed out too late, and then the later the warmer. his relationship to his wife was prosaic, respectful. in his heart of hearts he occasionally thought of her as exceedingly unattractive. in a word mrs. tutt performed her wifely functions in a purely matter-of-fact way. anything else would have seemed to her unseemly. she dressed in a manner that would have been regarded as conservative even on beacon hill. she had no intention of making an old fool of herself or of letting him be one either. when people had been married thirty years they could take some things for granted. few persons therefore had ever observed mr. tutt in the act of caressing mrs. tutt; and there were those who said that he never had. frankly, she was a trifle forbidding: superficially not the sort of person to excite a great deal of sentiment; and occasionally, as we have hinted, in the spring tutt yearned for a little sentiment. he did his yearning, however, entirely on the side and within those hours consecrated to the law. in his wife's society he yearned not at all. in her company he carefully kept his thoughts and his language inside the innermost circle of decorum. at home his talk was entirely "yea, yea," and "nay, nay," and dealt principally with politics and the feminist movement, in which abigail was deeply interested. and by this we do not mean to suggest that at other times or places tutt was anything but conventionally proper. he was not. he only yearned to be, well knowing that he was deficient in courage if not in everything else. but habit or no habit, likely or unlikely, mrs. tutt had no intention of taking any chances so far as tutt was concerned. if he did not reach home precisely at six explanations were in order, and if he came in half an hour later he had to demonstrate his integrity beyond a reasonable doubt according to the established rules of evidence. perhaps mrs. tutt did wisely to hold tutt thus in leash considering the character of many of the firm's clients. for it was quite impossible to conceal the nature of the practise of tutt & tutt; much of which figured flamboyantly in the newspapers. some women would have taken it for granted under like circumstances that their husbands had acquired a touch at least of the wisdom of the serpent even if they remained quite harmless. abigail countenanced no thought of any demoralization in her spouse. to her he was like the artist who smears himself and his smock with paint while in his studio, but appears at dinner in spotless linen without even a whiff of benzine about him to suggest his occupation. so tutt, though hand and glove in his office with the most notorious of the elite of longacre square, came home to supper with the naiveté and innocence of a theological student for whom an evening at a picture show is the height of dissipation. yet tutt was no more of a doctor jekyll and mr. hyde than most of us. merely, his daily transition was a little more abrupt. and when all is said and done most of the devices invented by his fertile little brain to further the interests of his clients were no more worthy of condemnation than those put forward by far higher-priced and much more celebrated attorneys. not that mrs. tutt was blind to the dangers to which her husband by virtue of his occupation was exposed. far from it. indeed she made it her business to pay periodical visits to the office, ostensibly to see whether or not it was properly cleaned and the windows washed, but in reality--or at least so tutt suspected--to find out whether the personnel was entirely suitable for a firm of their standing and particularly for a junior partner of his susceptibilities. but she never discovered anything to give her the slightest cause for alarm. the dramatis personae of the offices of tutt & tutt were characteristic of the firm, none of their employees--except miss sondheim, the tumultous-haired lady stenographer--and willie, the office boy, being under forty years of age. when not engaged in running errands or fussing over his postage-stamp album, willie spent most of his time teasing old scraggs, the scrivener, an unsuccessful teetotaler. a faint odor of alcohol emanated from the cage in which he performed his labors and lent an atmosphere of cheerfulness to what might otherwise have seemed to broadway clients an unsympathetic environment, though there were long annual periods during which he was as sober as a kansas judge. the winds of march were apt, however, to take hold of him. perhaps it was the spring in his case also. the backbone of the establishment was miss minerva wiggin. in every law office there is usually some one person who keeps the shop going. sometimes it is a man. if so, he is probably a sublimated stenographer or law clerk who, having worked for years to get himself admitted to the bar, finds, after achieving that ambition, that he has neither the ability nor the inclination to brave the struggle for a livelihood by himself. perchance as a youth he has had visions of himself arguing test cases before the court of appeals while the leaders of the bar hung upon his every word, of an office crowded with millionaire clients and servile employees, even as he is servile to the man for whom he labors for a miserly ten dollars a week. his ambition takes him by the hand and leads him to high places, from which he gazes down into the land of his future prosperity and greatness. the law seems a mysterious, alluring, fascinating profession, combining the romance of the drama with the gratifications of the intellect. he springs to answer his master's bell; he sits up until all hours running down citations and making extracts from opinions; he rushes to court and answers the calendar and sometimes carries the lawyer's brief case and attends him throughout a trial. three years go by--five--and he finds that he is still doing the same thing. he is now a member of the bar, he has become the managing clerk, he attends to fairly important matters, engages the office force, superintends transfer of title, occasionally argues a motion. five years more go by and perhaps his salary is raised a trifle more. then one day he awakes to the realization that his future is to be only that of a trusted servitor. perchance he is married and has a baby. the time has come for him to choose whether he will go forth and put his fortune to the test "to win or lose it all" or settle down into the position of faithful legal hired man. he is getting a bit bald, he has had one or two tussles with his bank about accidental overdrafts. the world looks pretty bleak outside and the big machine of the law goes grinding on heartless, inevitable. who is he to challenge the future? the old job is fairly easy; they can't get on without him, they say; here is where he belongs; he knows his business--give him his thirty-five hundred a year and let him stay! that is binks, or calkins, or shivers, or any one of those worried gray-haired men who sit in the outer office behind a desk strewn with papers and make sure that no mistakes have been made. to them every doubtful question of practise is referred and they answer instantly--sometimes wrongly, but always instantly. they know the last day for serving the demurrer in bilbank against terwilliger and whether or not you can tax a referee's fee as a disbursement in a bill of costs; they are experts on the precise form for orders in matrimonial actions and the rule in regard to filing a summons and complaint in oneida county; they stand between the members of the firm and disagreeable clients; they hire and discharge the office boys; they do everything from writing a brief for the supreme court of the united states down to making the contract with the window cleaners; they are the only lawyers who really know anything and they were once promising young men, who have found out at last that life and the sunday-school books are very far apart; but they run the works and make the law a gentleman's profession for the rest of us. they are always there. others come, grow older, go away, but they remain. many of them drink. all of which would be irrelevant, incompetent and immaterial if this were not a legal story. scraggs had been one of these, but he had also been one of those who drank, and now he was merely a bookkeeper. miss wiggin reigned in his stead. a woman and not a man kept tutt & tutt on the map. when this sort of thing occurs it is usually because the woman in question is the ablest and very likely also the best person in the outfit, and she assumes the control of affairs by a process of natural selection. miss wiggin was the conscience, if mr. tutt was the heart, of tutt & tutt. nobody, unless it was mr. tutt, knew where she had come from or why she was working if at all in only a semi-respectable law office. without her something dreadful would have happened to the general morale. everybody recognized that fact. her very appearance gave the place tone--neutralized the faint odor of alcohol from the cage. for in truth she was a fine-looking woman. had she been costumed by a fifth avenue dressmaker and done her coiffure differently she would have been pretty. because she drew her gray hair straight back from her low forehead and tied it in a knob on the back of her head, wore paper cuffs and a black dress, she looked nearer fifty than forty-one, which she was. two hundred dollars would have taken twenty years off her apparent age--a year for every ten dollars; but she would not have looked a particle less a lady. her duties were ambiguous. she was always the first to arrive at the office and was the only person permitted to open the firm mail outside of its members. she overlooked the books that scraggs kept and sent out the bills. she kept the key to the cash box and had charge of the safe. she made the entries in the docket and performed most of the duties of a regular managing clerk. she had been admitted to the bar. she checked up the charge accounts and on saturdays paid off the office force. in addition to all these things she occasionally took a hand at a brief, drew most of the pleadings, and kept track of everything that was done in the various cases. but her chief function, one which made her invaluable was that of receiving clients who came to the office, and in the first instance ascertaining just what their troubles were; and she was so sympathetic and at the same time so sensible that many a stranger who casually drifted in and would otherwise just as casually have drifted out again remained a permanent fixture in the firm's clientele. scraggs and william adored her in spite of her being an utter enigma to them. she was quiet but businesslike, of few words but with a latent sense of humor that not infrequently broke through the surface of her gravity, and she proceeded upon the excellent postulate that everyone with whom she came in contact was actuated by the highest sense of honor. she acted as a spiritual tonic to both mr. tutt and tutt--especially to the latter, who was the more in need of it. if they were ever tempted to stray across the line of professional rectitude her simple assumption that the thing couldn't be done usually settled the matter once and for all. on delicate questions mr. tutt frankly consulted her. without her, tutt & tutt would have been shysters; with her they were almost respectable. she received a salary of three thousand dollars a year and earned double that amount, for she served where she loved and her first thought was of tutt & tutt. if you can get a woman like that to run your law office do not waste any time or consideration upon a man. her price is indeed above rubies. yet even miss wiggin could not keep the shadow of the vernal equinox off the simple heart of the junior tutt. she had seen it coming for several weeks, had scented danger in the way tutt's childish eye had lingered upon miss sondheim's tumultous black hair and in the rather rakish, familiar way he had guided the ladies who came to get divorces out to the elevator. and then there swam into his life the beautiful mrs. allison, and for a time tutt became not only hysterically young again, but--well, you shall see. yet, curiously enough, though we are a long way from where this story opened, it all goes back to phillips brooks vanderbilt and the fat and skinny club and the right to call ourselves by what names we please. moreover, as must be apparent, all that happened occurred beyond miss wiggin's sphere of spiritual influence. yet, had it not, even she could not have harnessed leviathan or loosed the bands of orion--to say nothing of counteracting the effect of spring. when tutt returned with " fed." after the departure of mr. sorg he found his partner smoking the usual stogy and gazing pensively down upon the harbor. the immediate foreground was composed of rectangular roofs of divers colors, mostly reddish, ornamented with eccentrically shaped chimney pots, pent-houses, skylights and water tanks, in addition to various curious whistle-like protuberances from which white wraiths of steam whirled and danced in the gay breeze. beyond, in the middle distance, a great highway of sparkling jewels led across the waves to the distant faintly green hills of staten island. three tiny aeroplanes wove invisible threads against the blue woof of the sky above the new jersey shore. it was not a day to practise law at all. it was a day to lie on one's back in the grass and watch the clouds or throw one's weight against the tugging helm of a racing sloop and bite the spindrift blown across her bows--not a day for lawyers but for lovers! "here's ' fed.'," said tutt. "what's become of sorg?" "gone. mad. says the whole point of the fat and skinny club is in the name." "i fancy--from looking at mr. sorg--that that is quite true," remarked mr. tutt. he paused and reaching down into a lower compartment of his desk, lifted out a tumbler and his bottle of malt extract, which he placed carefully at his elbow and leaned back again contemplatively. "look here, tutt," he said. "i want to ask you something. is there anything the matter with you?" tutt regarded him with the air of a small boy caught peeking through a knot hole. "why,--no!" he protested lamely. "that is--nothing in particular. i do feel a bit restless--sort of vaguely dissatisfied." mr. tutt nodded sympathetically. "how old are you, tutt?" "forty-eight." "and you feel just at present as if life were 'flat, stale and unprofitable?'" "why--yes; you might put it that way. the fact is every day seems just like every other day. i don't even get any pleasure out of eating. the very sight of a boiled egg beside my plate at breakfast gives me the willies. i can't eat boiled eggs any more. they sicken me!" "exactly!" mr. tutt poured out a glass of the malt extract. "i feel the same way about a lot of things," tutt hurried on. "special demurrers, for instance. they bore me horribly. and supplementary proceedings get most frightfully upon my nerves." "exactly!" repeated mr. tutt. "what do you mean by 'exactly?'" snapped tutt. "you're bored," explained his partner. "rather!" agreed tutt. "bored to death. not with anything special, you understand; just everything. i feel as if i'd like to do something devilish." "when a man feels like that he better go to a doctor," declared mr. tutt. "a doctor!" exclaimed tutt derisively. "what good would a doctor do me?" "he might keep you from getting into trouble." "oh, you needn't be alarmed. i won't get into any trouble." "it's the dangerous age," said mr. tutt. "i've known a lot of respectable married men to do the most surprising things round fifty." tutt looked interested. "have you now?" he inquired. "well, i've no doubt it did some of 'em a world of good. tell you frankly sometimes i feel as if i'd rather like to take a bit of a fling myself!" "your professional experience ought to be enough to warn you of the dangers of that sort of experiment," answered mr. tutt gravely. "it's bad enough when it occurs inadvertently, so to speak, but when a man in your condition of life deliberately goes out to invite trouble it's a sad, sad spectacle." "do you mean to imply that i'm not able to take care of myself?" demanded tutt. "i mean to imply that no man is too wise to be made a fool of by some woman." "that every samson has his delilah?" "if you want to put it that way--yes." "and that in the end he'll get his hair cut?" mr. tutt took a sip from the tumbler of malt and relit his stogy. "what do you know about samson and delilah, tutt?" he challenged. "oh, about as much as you do, i guess, mr. tutt," answered his partner modestly. "well, who cut samson's hair?" demanded the senior member. he emptied the dregs of the malt-extract bottle into his glass and holding it to the light examined it critically. "delilah, of course!" ejaculated tutt. mr. tutt shook his head. "there you go off at half-cock again, tutt!" he retorted whimsically. "you wrong her. she did no such thing." "why, i'll bet you a hundred dollars on it!" cried tutt excitedly. "make it a simple dinner at the claridge grill and i'll go you." "done!" there were four books on the desk near mr. tutt's right hand--the new york code of civil procedure, an almanac, a shakesperean concordance and a bible. "look it up for yourself," said mr. tutt, waving his arm with a gesture of the utmost impartiality. "that is, if you happen to know in what part of holy writ said delilah is to be found." tutt followed the gesture and sat down at the opposite side of the desk. "there!" he exclaimed, after fumbling over the leaves for several minutes. "what did i tell you? listen, mr. tutt! it's in the sixteenth chapter of judges: 'and it came to pass, when she pressed him daily with her words, and urged him, so that his soul was vexed unto death; that he told her all his heart, and said unto her, there hath not come a razor upon mine head.' um--um." "read on, tutt!" ordered mr. tutt. "um. 'and when delilah saw that he had told her all his heart, she sent and called for the lords of the philistines, saying, come up this once.' um-um." "yes, go on!" "'and she made him sleep upon her knees; and she called for a man, and she caused him to shave off the seven locks of his head.' well, i'll be hanged!" exclaimed tutt. "now, i would have staked a thousand dollars on it. but look here, you don't win! delilah did cut samson's hair--through her agent. '_qui facit per alium facit per se!_'" "your point is overruled," said mr. tutt. "a barber cut samson's hair. let it be a lesson to you never to take anything on hearsay. always look up your authorities yourself. moreover"--and he looked severely at tutt--"the cerebral fluid--like malt extract--tends to become cloudy with age." "well, anyhow, i'm no samson," protested tutt. "and i haven't met anyone that looked like a delilah. i guess after the procession of adventuresses that have trailed through this office in the last twenty years i'm reasonably safe." "no man is safe," meditated mr. tutt. "for the reason that no man knows the power of expansion of his heart. he thinks it's reached its limit--and then he finds to his horror or his delight that it hasn't. to put it another way, a man's capacity to love may be likened to a thermometer. at twenty-five or thirty he meets some young person, falls in love with her, thinks his amatory thermometer has reached the boiling-point and accordingly marries her. in point of fact it hasn't--it's only marking summer heat--hasn't even registered the temperature of the blood. well, he goes merrily on life's way and some fine day another lady breezes by, and this safe and sane citizen, who supposes his capacity for affection was reached in early youth, suddenly discovers to his amazement that his mercury is on the jump and presently that his old thermometer has blown its top off." "very interesting, mr. tutt," observed tutt after a moment's silence. "you seem to have made something of a study of these things." "only in a business way--only in a business way!" mr. tutt assured him. "now, if you're feeling stale--and we all are apt to get that way this time of year--why don't you take a run down to atlantic city?" now tutt would have liked to go to atlantic city could he have gone by himself, but the idea of taking abigail along robbed the idea of its attraction. she had got more than ever on his nerves of late. but his reply, whatever it might have been, was interrupted by the announcement of miss wiggin, who entered at that moment, that a lady wished to see him. "she asked for mr. tutt," explained minerva. "but i think her case is more in your line," and she nodded to tutt. "good looking?" inquired tutt roguishly. "very," returned miss wiggin. "a blonde." "thanks," answered tutt, smoothing his hair; "i'm on my way." now this free, almost vulgar manner of speech was in reality foreign to both tutt and miss wiggin and it was born of the instant, due doubtless to some peculiar juxtaposition of astral bodies in cupid's horoscope unknown to them, but which none the less had its influence. strange things happen on the eve of st. agnes and on midsummer night--even in law offices. mrs. allison was sitting by the window in tutt's office when he came in, and for a full minute he paused upon the threshold while she pretended she did not know that he was there. the deluge of sunlight that fell upon her face betrayed no crack or wrinkle--no flaw of any kind--in the white marble of its perfection. it was indeed a lovely face, classic in the chiseling of its transparent alabaster; and when she turned, her eyes were like misty lakes of blue. bar none, she was the most beautiful creature--and there had been many--that had ever wandered into the offices of tutt & tutt. he sought for a word. "wonderful"; that was, it, she was "wonderful." his stale spirit soared in ecstasy, and left him tongue-tied. in vulgar parlance he was rattled to death, this commonplace little lawyer who for a score of years had dealt cynically with the loves and lives of the flock of female butterflies who fluttered annually in and out of the office. throughout that period he had sat unemotionally behind his desk and listened in an aloof, cold, professional manner to the stories of their wrongs as they sobbed or hissed them forth. wise little lawyer that he was, he had regarded them all as just what they were and nothing else--specimens of the cecropia. and he had not even patted them upon the shoulder or squeezed their hands when he had bade them good-by--maintaining always an impersonal and dignified demeanor. therefore he was surprised to hear himself say in soothing, almost cooing tones: "well, my dear, what can i do for you?" shades of abigail! "well, my dear!" tutt--tutt! tutt! "i am in great trouble," faltered mrs. allison, gazing in misty helplessness out of her blue grottoes at him while her beautiful red lips trembled. "i hope i can help you!" he breathed. "tell me all about it! take your time. may i relieve you of your wrap?" she wriggled out of it gratefully and he saw for the first time the round, slender pillar of her neck. what a head she had--in its nimbus of hazy gold. what a figure! his forty-eight-year-old lawyer's heart trembled under its heavy layer of half-calf dust. he found difficulty in articulating. he stammered, staring at her most shamelessly both of which symptoms she did not notice. she was used to them in the other sex. tutt did not know what was the matter with him. he had in fact entered upon that phase at which the wise man, be he old or young, turns and runs. but tutt did not run. in legal phrase he stopped, looked and listened, experiencing a curious feeling of expansion. this enchanting creature transmuted the dingy office lined with its rows of calfskin bindings into a golden grot in which he stood spellbound by the low murmur of her voice. a sense of infinite leisure emanated from her--a subtle denial of the ordinary responsibilities--very relaxing and delightful to tutt. but what twitched his very heartstrings was the dimple that came and went with that pathetic little twisted smile of hers. "i came to you," said mrs. allison, "because i knew you were both kind and clever." tutt smiled sweetly. "kind, perhaps--not clever!" he beamed. "why, everyone says you are one of the cleverest lawyers in new york," she protested. then, raising her innocent china-blue eyes to his she murmured, "and i so need kindness!" tutt's breast swelled with an emotion which he was forced to admit was not altogether avuncular--that curious sentimental mixture that middle-aged men feel of paternal pity, platonic tenderness and protectiveness, together with all those other euphemistic synonyms, that make them eager to assist the weak and fragile, to try to educate and elevate, and particularly to find out just how weak, fragile, uneducated and unelevated a helpless lady may be. but in spite of his half century of experience tutt's knowledge of these things was purely vicarious. he could have told another man when to run, but he didn't know when to run himself. he could have saved another, himself he could not save--at any rate from mrs. allison. he had never seen anyone like her. he pulled his chair a little nearer. she was so slender, so supple, so--what was it?--svelte! and she had an air of childish dignity that appealed to him tremendously. there was nothing, he assured himself, of the vamp about her at all. "i only want to get my rights," she said, tremulously. "i'm nearly out of my mind. i don't know what to do or where to turn!" "is there"--he forced himself to utter the word with difficulty--"a--a man involved?" she flushed and bowed her head sadly, and instantly a poignant rage possessed him. "a man i trusted absolutely," she replied in a low voice. "his name?" "winthrop oaklander." tutt gasped audibly, for the name was that of one of manhattan's most distinguished families, the founder of which had swapped glass beads and red-flannel shirts with the aborigines for what was now the most precious water frontage in the world--and moreover, mrs. allison informed tutt, he was a clergyman. "i don't wonder you're surprised!" agreed mrs. allison. "why--i--i'm--not surprised at all!" prevaricated tutt, at the same time groping for his silk handkerchief. "you don't mean to say you've got a case against this man oaklander!" "i have indeed!" she retorted with firmly compressed lips. "that is, if it is what you call a case for a man to promise to marry a woman and then in the end refuse to do so." "of course it is!" answered tutt. "but why on earth wouldn't he?" "he found out i had been divorced," she explained. "up to that time everything had been lovely. you see he thought i was a widow." "ah!" mr. tutt experienced another pang of resentment against mankind in general. "i had a leading part in one of the season's successes on broadway," she continued miserably. "but when mr. oaklander promised to marry me i left the stage; and now--i have nothing!" "poor child!" sighed tutt. he would have liked to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he always kept the door into the outer office open on principle. "you know, mr. oaklander is the pastor of st. lukes-over-the-way," said mrs. allison. "i thought that maybe rather than have any publicity he might do a little something for me." "i suppose you've got something in the way of evidence, haven't you? letters or photographs or something?" inquired tutt, reverting absent-mindedly to his more professional manner. "no," she answered. "we never wrote to one another. and when we went out it was usually in the evening. i don't suppose half a dozen people have ever seen us together." "that's awkward!" meditated tutt, "if he denies it." "of course he will deny it!" "you can't tell. he may not." "oh, yes, he will! why, he even refuses to admit that he ever met me!" declared mrs. allison indignantly. now, to tutt's credit be it said that neither at this point nor at any other did any suspicion of mrs. allison's sincerity enter his mind. for the first time in his professional existence he accepted what a lady client told him at its face value. indeed he felt that no one, not even a clergyman, could help loving so miraculous a woman, or that loving her one could refrain from marrying her save for some religious or other permanent obstacle he was sublimely, ecstatically happy in the mere thought that he, tutt, might be of help to such a celestial being, and he desired no reward other than the privilege of being her willing slave and of reading her gratitude in those melting, misty eyes. mrs. allison went away just before lunch time, leaving her telephone number, her handkerchief, a pungent odor of violet talc, and a disconsolate but highly excited tutt. never, at any rate within twenty years, had he felt so young. life seemed tinged with every color of the spectrum. the radiant fact was that he would--he simply had to--see her again. what he might do for her professionally--all that aspect of the affair was shoved far into the background of his mind. his only thought was how to get her back into his office at the earliest possible moment. "shall i enter the lady's name in the address book?" inquired miss wiggin coldly as he went out to get a bite of lunch. tutt hesitated. "mrs. georgie allison is her name," he said in a detached sort of way. "address?" tutt felt in his waistcoat pocket. "by george!" he muttered, "i didn't take it. but her telephone number is lincoln square ." to chronicle the details of tutt's second blooming would be needlessly to derogate from the dignity of the history of tutt & tutt. there is a silly season in the life of everyone--even of every lawyer--who can call himself a man, and out of such silliness comes the gravity of knowledge. tutt found it necessary for his new client to come to the office almost every day, and as she usually arrived about the noon hour what was more natural than that he should invite her out to lunch? twice he walked home with her. the telephone was busy constantly. and the only thorn in the rose of tutt's delirious happiness was the fear lest abigail might discover something. the thought gave him many an anxious hour, cost him several sleepless nights. at times this nervousness about his wife almost exceeded the delight of having mrs. allison for a friend. yet each day he became on more and more cordial terms with her, and the lunches became longer and more intimate. the reverend winthrop oaklander gave no sign of life, however. the customary barrage of legal letters had been laid down, but without eliciting any response. the reverend winthrop must be a wise one, opined tutt, and he began to have a hearty contempt as well as hatred for his quarry. the first letter had been the usual vague hint that the clergyman might and probably would find it to his advantage to call at the offices of tutt & tutt, and so on. the reverend winthrop, however did not seem to care to secure said advantage whatever it might be. the second epistle gave the name of the client and proposed a friendly discussion of her affairs. no reply. the third hinted at legal proceedings. total silence. the fourth demanded ten thousand dollars damages and threatened immediate suit. in answer to this last appeared the reverend winthrop himself. he was a fine-looking young chap with a clear eye--almost as blue as georgie's--and a skin even pinker than hers, and he stood six feet five in his oxfords and his fist looked to tutt as big as a coconut. "are you the blackmailer who's been writing me those letters?" he demanded, springing into tutt's office. "if you are, let me tell you something. you've got hold of the wrong monkey. i've been dealing with fellows of your variety ever since i got out of the seminary. i don't know the lady you pretend to represent, and i never heard of her. if i get any more letters from you i'll go down and lay the case before the district attorney; and if he doesn't put you in jail i'll come up here and knock your head off. understand? good day!" at any other period in his existence tutt could not have failed to be impressed with the honesty of this husky exponent of the church militant, but he was drugged as by the drowsy mandragora. the blatant defiance of this muscular preacher outraged him. this canting hypocrite, this wolf in priest's clothing must be brought to book. but how? mrs. allison had admitted the literal truth when she had told him that there were no letters, no photographs. there was no use commencing an action for breach of promise if there was no evidence to support it. and once the papers were filed their bolt would have been shot. some way must be devised whereby the reverend winthrop oaklander could be made to perceive that tutt & tutt meant business, and--equally imperative --whereby georgie would be impressed with the fact that not for nothing had she come to them--that is, to him--for help. the fact of the matter was that the whole thing had become rather hysterical. tutt, though having nothing seriously to reproach himself with, was constantly haunted by a sense of being rather ridiculous and doing something behind his wife's back. he told himself that his platonic regard for georgie was a noble thing and did him honor, but it was an honor which he preferred to wear as an entirely private decoration. he was conscious of being laughed at by willie and scraggs and disapproved of by miss wiggin, who was very snippy to him. and in addition there was the omnipresent horror of having abigail unearth his philandering. he now not only thought of mrs. allison as georgie but addressed her thus, and there was quite a tidy little bill at the florist's for flowers that he had sent her. in one respect only did he exhibit even the most elementary caution--he wrote and signed all his letters to her himself upon the typewriter, and filed copies in the safe. "so there we are!" he sighed as he gave to mrs. allison a somewhat expurgated, or rather emasculated version of the reverend winthrop's visit. "we have got to hand him something hot or make up our minds to surrender. in a word we have got to scare him--georgie." and then it was that, like the apocryphal mosquito, the fat and skinny club justified its attempted existence. for the indefatigable sorg made an unheralded reappearance in the outer office and insisted upon seeing tutt, loudly asserting that he had reason to believe that if a new application were now made to another judge--whom he knew--it would be more favorably received. tutt went to the doorway and stood there barring the entrance and expostulating with him. "all right!" shouted sorg. "all right! i hear you! but don't tell me that a man named solomon swackhamer can change his name to phillips brooks vanderbilt and in the same breath a reputable body of citizens be denied the right to call themselves what they please!" "he don't understand!" explained tutt to georgie, who had listened with wide, dreamy eyes. "he don't appreciate the difference between doing a thing as an individual and as a group." "what thing?" "why, taking a name." "i don't get you," said georgie. "sorg wanted to call his crowd the fat and skinny club, and the court wouldn't let him--thought it was silly." "well?" "but he could have called himself mr. fat or mr. skinny or mr. anything else without having to ask anybody--oh, i say!" tutt had stiffened into sculpture. "what is it?" demanded georgie fascinated. "i've got an idea," he cried. "you can call yourself anything you like. why not call yourself mrs. winthrop oaklander?" "but what good would that do?" she asked vaguely. "look here!" directed tutt. "this is the surest thing you know! just go up to the biltmore and register as mrs. winthrop oaklander. you have a perfect legal right to do it. you could call yourself mrs. julius caesar if you wanted to. take a room and stay there until our young christian soldier offers you a suitable inducement to move along. even if you're violating the law somehow his first attempt to make trouble for you will bring about the very publicity he is anxious to avoid. why, it's marvelous--and absolutely safe? they can't touch you. he'll come across inside of two hours. if he doesn't a word to the reporters will start things in the right direction." for a moment mrs. allison looked puzzled. then her beautiful face broke into an enthusiastic classic smile and she laid her little hand softly on his arm. "what a clever boy you are--sammy!" a subdued snigger came from the direction of the desk usually occupied by william. tutt flushed. it was one thing to call mrs. allison "georgie" in private and another to have her "sammy" him within hearing of the office force. and just then miss wiggin passed by with her nose slightly in the air. "what a perfectly wonderful idea!" went on mrs. allison rapturously. "a perfectly wonderful idea!" then she smiled a strange, mysterious, significant smile that almost tore tutt's heart out by the roots. "listen, sammy," she whispered, with a new light in those beautiful eyes. "i want five thousand dollars." "five?" repeated tutt simply. "i thought you wanted ten thousand!" "only five from you, sammy!" "me!" he gagged. "you--dearest!" tutt turned blazing hot; then cold, dizzy and sea-sick. his sight was slightly blurred. slowly he groped for the door and closed it cautiously. "what--are--you--talking about?" he choked, though he knew perfectly well. georgie had thrown herself back in the leather chair by his desk and had opened her gold mesh-bag. "about five thousand dollars," she replied with the careful enunciation of a new england school-mistress. "what five thousand dollars?" "the five you're going to hand me before i leave this office, sammy darling," she retorted dazzlingly. tutt's head swam and he sank weakly into his swivel chair. it was incredible that he, a veteran of the criminal bar, should have been so tricked. instantly, as when a reagent is injected into a retort of chemicals and a precipitate is formed leaving the previously cloudy liquid like crystal, tutt's addled brain cleared. he was caught! the victim of his own asininity. he dared not look at this woman who had wound him thus round her finger, innocent as he was of any wrongdoing; he was ashamed to think of his wife. "my lord!" he murmured, realizing for the first time the depth of his weakness. "oh, it isn't as bad as that!" she laughed. "remember you were going to charge oaklander ten thousand. this costs you only five. special rates for physicians and lawyers!" "and suppose i don't choose to give it to you?" he asked. "listen here, you funny little man!" she answered in caressing tones that made him writhe. "you'd stand for twenty if i insisted on it. oh, don't jump! i'm not going to. you're getting off easy--too easy. but i want to stay on good terms with you. i may need you sometime in my business. your certified check for five thousand dollars--and i leave you." she struck a match and started to light a tiny gold-tipped cigarette. "don't!" he gasped. "not in the office." "do i get the five thousand?" he ground his teeth, not yet willing to concede defeat. "you silly old bird!" she said. "do you know how many times you've had me down here in your office in the last three weeks? fifteen. how many times you've taken me out to lunch? ten. how often you've called me on the telephone? eighty-nine how many times you've sent me flowers? twelve. how many letters you've written me? eleven! oh, i realize they're typewritten, but a photograph enlargement would show they were typed in your office. every typewriter has its own individuality, you know. your clerks and office boy have heard me call you sammy. why, every time you've moved with me beside you someone has seen you. that's enough, isn't it? but now, on top of all that, you go and hand me exactly what i need on a gold plate." he gazed at her stupidly. "why, if now you don't give me that check i shall simply go up to the biltmore and register as mrs. samuel tutt. i shall take a room and stay there until you offer me a proper inducement to move on." she giggled delightedly. "it's marvelous--absolutely safe," she quoted. "they can't touch me. you'll come across inside of two hours. if you don't a word to the reporters will start things in the right direction." "don't!" he groaned. "i must have been crazy. that was simply blackmail!" "that's exactly what it was!" she agreed. "there aren't any letters except these typewritten ones, or photographs, or any evidence at all, but you're going to give me five thousand dollars just the same. just so that your wife won't know what a silly old fool you've been. where's your check book, sam?" tutt pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk and slowly removed his personal check book. with his fountain pen in his hand he paused and looked at her. "rather than give you another cent i'd stand the gaff," he remarked defiantly. "i know it," she answered. "i looked you up before i came here the first time. you are good for exactly five thousand dollars." tutt filled out the check to cash and sent willie across the street to the bank to have it certified. the sun was just sinking over the jersey shore beyond the statue of liberty and the surface of the harbor undulated like iridescent watered silk. the clouds were torn into golden-purple rents, and the air was so clear that one could look down the narrows far out to the open sea. standing there by the window mrs. allison looked as innocently beautiful as the day tutt had first beheld her. after all, he thought, perhaps the experience had been worth the money. something of the same thought may have occurred to the lady, for as she took the check and carefully examined the certification she remarked with a distinct access of cordiality: "really, sammy, you're quite a nice little man. i rather like you." tutt stood after she had gone watching the sunset until the west was only a mass of leaden shadows then, strangely relieved, he took his hat and started out of the office. somewhat to his surprise he found miss wiggin still at her desk. "by the way," she remarked casually as he passed her, "what shall i charge that check to? the one you just drew to cash for five thousand dollars?" "charge it to life insurance," he said shortly. he felt almost gay as he threaded his way through the crowds along broadway. somehow a tremendous load had been lifted from his shoulders he would no longer be obliged to lead a sneaking, surreptitious existence. he felt like shouting with joy now that he could look the world frankly in the face. the genuine agony he had endured during the past three weeks loomed like a sickness behind him. he had been a fool--and there was no fool like an old one. just let him get back to his old abigail and there'd be no more wandering-boy business for him! abigail might not have the figure or the complexion that georgie had, but she was a darn sight more reliable. henceforth she could have him from five p.m. to nine a.m. without reserve. as for kicking over the traces, sowing wild oats and that sort of thing, there was nothing in it for him. give him friend wife. he stopped at the florist's and, having paid a bill of thirty-six dollars for georgie's flowers, purchased a double bunch of violets and carried them home with him. abigail was watching for him out of the window. something warm rushed to his heart at the sight of her. through the lace curtains she looked quite trim. "hello, old girl!" he cried, as she opened the door. "waiting for me, eh? here's a bunch of posies for you." and he kissed her on the cheek. "that's more than i ever did to georgie," he said to himself. "why, samuel!" laughed abigail with a faded blush. "what's ever got into you?" "dunno!" he retorted gaily. "the spring, i guess. what do you say to a little dinner at a restaurant and then going to the play?" she bridled--being one of the generation who did such things--with pleasure. "seems to me you're getting rather extravagant." she objected. "still--" "oh, come along!" he bullied her. "one of my clients collected five thousand dollars this afternoon." tutt summoned a taxi and they drove to the brightest, most glittering of broadway hostelries. abigail had never been in such a chic place before. it half terrified and shocked her, all those women in dresses that hardly came up to their armpits. some of them were handsome though. that slim one at the table by the pillar, for instance. she was really quite lovely with that mass of yellow-golden hair, that startlingly white skin, and those misty china-blue eyes. and the gentleman with her, the tall man with the pink cheeks, was very handsome, too. "look, samuel," she said, touching his hand. "see that good-looking couple over there." but samuel was looking at them already--intently. and just then the beautiful woman turned and, catching sight of the tutts, smiled cordially if somewhat roguishly and raised her glass, as did her companion. mechanically tutt elevated his. the three drank to one another. "do you know those people, samuel?" inquired mrs. tutt somewhat stiffly. "who are they?" "oh, those over there?" he repeated absently. "i don't really know what the lady's name is, she's been down to our office a few times. but the man is winthrop oaklander--and the funny part of it is, i always thought he was a clergyman." later in the evening he turned to her between the acts and remarked inconsequently: "say, abbie, do i look as if i'd just had my hair cut?" the dog andrew "every dog is entitled to one bite."--unreported opinion of the appellate division of the new york supreme court. "now see here!" shouted mr. appleboy, coming out of the boathouse, where he was cleaning his morning's catch of perch, as his neighbor mr. tunnygate crashed through the hedge and cut across appleboy's parched lawn to the beach. "see here, tunnygate, i won't have you trespassing on my place! i've told you so at least a dozen times! look at the hole you've made in that hedge, now! why can't you stay in the path?" his ordinarily good-natured countenance was suffused with anger and perspiration. his irritation with mr. tunnygate had reached the point of explosion. tunnygate was a thankless friend and he was a great cross to mr. appleboy. aforetime the two had been intimate in the fraternal, taciturn intimacy characteristic of fat men, an attraction perhaps akin to that exerted for one another by celestial bodies of great mass, for it is a fact that stout people do gravitate toward one another--and hang or float in placid juxtaposition, perhaps merely as a physical result of their avoirdupois. so appleboy and tunnygate had swum into each other's spheres of influence, either blown by the dallying winds of chance or drawn by some mysterious animal magnetism, and, being both addicted to the delights of the soporific sport sanctified by izaak walton, had raised unto themselves portable temples upon the shores of long island sound in that part of the geographical limits of the greater city known as throggs neck. every morn during the heat of the summer months appleboy would rouse tunnygate or conversely tunnygate would rouse appleboy, and each in his own wobbly skiff would row out to the spot which seemed most propitious to the piscatorial art. there, under two green umbrellas, like two fat rajahs in their shaking howdahs upon the backs of two white elephants, the friends would sit in solemn equanimity awaiting the evasive cunner, the vagrant perch or cod or the occasional flirtatious eel. they rarely spoke and when they did the edifice of their conversation--their tower of babel, so to speak--was monosyllabic. thus: "huh! ain't had a bite!" "huh!" "huh!" silence for forty minutes. then: "huh! had a bite?" "nope!" "huh!" that was generally the sum total of their interchange yet it satisfied them, for their souls were in harmony. to them it was pregnant of unutterable meanings, of philosophic mysteries more subtle than those of the esoterics, of flowers and poetry, of bird-song and twilight, of all the nuances of softly whispered avowals, of the elusive harmonies of love's half-fainting ecstasy. "huh!" "huh!" and then into this eden--only not by virtue of the excision of any vertebra such as was originally necessary in the case of adam--burst woman. there was silence no longer. the air was rent with clamor; for both appleboy and tunnygate, within a month of one another, took unto themselves wives. wives after their own image! for a while things went well enough; it takes ladies a few weeks to find out each other's weak points. but then the new mrs. tunnygate unexpectedly yet undeniably began to exhibit the serpent's tooth, the adder's tongue or the cloven hoof--as the reader's literary traditions may lead him to prefer. for no obvious reason at all she conceived a violent hatred of mrs. appleboy, a hatred that waxed all the more virulent on account of its object's innocently obstinate refusal to comprehend or recognize it. indeed mrs. tunnygate found it so difficult to rouse mrs. appleboy into a state of belligerency sufficiently interesting that she soon transferred her energies to the more worthy task of making appleboy's life a burden to him. to this end she devoted herself with a truly machiavellian ingenuity, devising all sorts of insults irritations and annoyances, and adding to the venom of her tongue the inventive cunning of a malayan witch doctor. the appleboys' flower-pots mysteriously fell off the piazza, their thole-pins disappeared, their milk bottles vanished, mr. appleboy's fish lines acquired a habit of derangement equaled only by barbed-wire entanglements, and his clams went bad! but these things might have been borne had it not been for the crowning achievement of her malevolence, the invasion of the appleboys' cherished lawn, upon which they lavished all that anxious tenderness which otherwise they might have devoted to a child. it was only about twenty feet by twenty, and it was bordered by a hedge of moth-eaten privet, but anyone who has ever attempted to induce a blade of grass to grow upon a sand dune will fully appreciate the deviltry of mrs. tunnygate's malignant mind. already there was a horrid rent where tunnygate had floundered through at her suggestion in order to save going round the pathetic grass plot which the appleboys had struggled to create where nature had obviously intended a floral vacuum. undoubtedly it had been the sight of mrs. appleboy with her small watering pot patiently encouraging the recalcitrant blades that had suggested the malicious thought to mrs. tunnygate that maybe the appleboys didn't own that far up the beach. they didn't--that was the mockery of it. like many others they had built their porch on their boundary line, and, as mrs. tunnygate pointed out, they were claiming to own something that wasn't theirs. so tunnygate, in daily obedience to his spouse, forced his way through the hedge to the beach, and daily the wrath of the appleboys grew until they were driven almost to desperation. now when the two former friends sat fishing in their skiffs they either contemptuously ignored one another or, if they "huh-huhed!" at all the "huhs!" resembled the angry growls of infuriated beasts. the worst of it was that the appleboys couldn't properly do anything about it. tunnygate had, as mrs. tunnygate sneeringly pointed out, a perfect legal right to push his way through the hedge and tramp across the lawn, and she didn't propose to allow the appleboys to gain any rights by proscription, either. not much! therefore, when mr. appleboy addressed to mr. tunnygate the remarks with which this story opens, the latter insolently replied in words, form or substance that mr. appleboy could go to hell. moreover, as he went by mr. appleboy he took pains to kick over a clod of transplanted sea grass, nurtured by mrs. appleboy as the darling of her bosom, and designed to give an air of verisimilitude to an otherwise bare and unconvincing surface of sand. mr. appleboy almost cried with vexation. "oh!" he ejaculated, struggling for words to express the full content of his feeling. "gosh, but you're--mean!" he hit it! curiously enough, that was exactly the word! tunnygate was mean--and his meanness was second only to that of the fat hippopotama his wife. then, without knowing why, for he had no formulated ideas as to the future, and probably only intended to try to scare tunnygate with vague threats, appleboy added: "i warn you not to go through that hedge again! understand--i warn you! and if you do i won't be responsible for the consequences!" he really didn't mean a thing by the words, and tunnygate knew it. "huh!" retorted the latter contemptuously. "you!" mr. appleboy went inside the shack and banged the door. mrs. appleboy was peeling potatoes in the kitchen-living room. "i can't stand it!" he cried weakly. "he's driving me wild!" "poor lamb!" soothed mrs. appleboy, peeling an interminable rind. "ain't that just a sweetie? look! it's most as long as your arm!" she held it up dangling between her thumb and fore-finger. then, with a groan she dropped it at his feet. "i know it's a real burden to you, deary!" she sighed. suddenly they both bent forward with startled eyes, hypnotized by the peel upon the floor. unmistakably it spelt "dog"! they looked at one another significantly. "it is a symbol!" breathed mrs. appleboy in an awed whisper. "whatever it is, it's some grand idea!" exclaimed her husband. "do you know anybody who's got one? i mean a--a--" "i know just what you mean," she agreed. "i wonder we never thought of it before! but there wouldn't be any use in getting any dog!" "oh, no!" he concurred. "we want a real--dog!" "one you know about!" she commented. "the fact is," said he, rubbing his forehead, "if they know about 'em they do something to 'em. it ain't so easy to get the right kind." "oh, we'll get one!" she encouraged him. "now aunt eliza up to livornia used to have one. it made a lot of trouble and they ordered her--the selectmen did--to do away with it. but she only pretended she had--she didn't really--and i think she's got him yet." "gee!" said mr. appleboy tensely. "what sort was it?" "a bull!" she replied. "with a big white face." "that's the kind!" he agreed excitedly. "what was its name?" "andrew," she answered. "that's a queer name for a dog!" he commented "still, i don't care what his name is, so long as he's the right kind of dog! why don't you write to aunt eliza to-night?" "of course andrew may be dead," she hazarded. "dogs do die." "oh, i guess andrew isn't dead!" he said hopefully "that tough kind of dog lasts a long time. what will you say to aunt eliza?" mrs. appleboy went to the dresser and took a pad and pencil from one of the shelves. "oh, something like this," she answered, poising the pencil over the pad in her lap: "dear aunt eliza: i hope you are quite well. it is sort of lonely living down here on the beach and there are a good many rough characters, so we are looking for a dog for companionship and protection almost any kind of healthy dog would do and you may be sure he would have a good home. hoping to see you soon. your affectionate niece, bashemath." "i hope she'll send us andrew," said appleboy fervently. "i guess she will!" nodded bashemath. * * * * * "what on earth is that sign?" wrathfully demanded mrs. tunnygate one morning about a week later as she looked across the appleboys' lawn from her kitchen window. "can you read it, herman?" herman stopped trying to adjust his collar and went out on the piazza. "something about 'dog'," he declared finally. "dog!" she exclaimed. "they haven't got a dog!" "well," he remarked, "that's what the sign says: 'beware of the dog'! and there's something above it. oh! 'no crossing this property. trespassing forbidden.'" "what impudence!" avowed mrs. tunnygate. "did you ever know such people! first they try and take land that don't belong to them, and then they go and lie about having a dog. where are they, anyway?" "i haven't seen 'em this morning," he answered. "maybe they've gone away and put up the sign so we won't go over. think that'll stop us!" "in that case they've got another think comin'!" she retorted angrily. "i've a good mind to have you go over and tear up the whole place!" "'n pull up the hedge?" he concurred eagerly. "good chance!" indeed, to mr. tunnygate it seemed the supreme opportunity both to distinguish himself in the eyes of his blushing bride and to gratify that perverse instinct inherited from our cave-dwelling ancestors to destroy utterly--in order, perhaps, that they may never seek to avenge themselves upon us--those whom we have wronged. accordingly mr. tunnygate girded himself with his suspenders, and with a gleam of fiendish exultation in his eye stealthily descended from his porch and crossed to the hole in the hedge. no one was in sight except two barefooted searchers after clams a few hundred yards farther up the beach and a man working in a field half a mile away. the bay shimmered in the broiling august sun and from a distant grove came the rattle and wheeze of locusts. throggs neck blazed in silence, and utterly silent was the house of appleboy. with an air of bravado, but with a slightly accelerated heartbeat, tunnygate thrust himself through the hole in the hedge and looked scornfully about the appleboy lawn. a fierce rage worked through his veins. a lawn! what effrontery! what business had these condescending second-raters to presume to improve a perfectly good beach which was satisfactory to other folks? he'd show 'em! he took a step in the direction of the transplanted sea grass. unexpectedly the door of the appleboy kitchen opened. "i warned you!" enunciated mr. appleboy with unnatural calmness, which with another background might have struck almost anybody as suspicious. "huh!" returned the startled tunnygate, forced under the circumstances to assume a nonchalance that he did not altogether feel. "you!" "well," repeated mr. appleboy. "don't ever say i didn't!" "pshaw!" ejaculated mr. tunnygate disdainfully. with premeditation and deliberation, and with undeniable malice aforethought, he kicked the nearest bunch of sea grass several feet in the air. his violence carried his leg high in the air and he partially lost his equilibrium. simultaneously a white streak shot from beneath the porch and something like a red-hot poker thrust itself savagely into an extremely tender part of his anatomy. "ouch! o--o--oh!" he yelled in agony. "oh!" "come here, andrew!" said mr. appleboy mildly. "good doggy! come here!" but andrew paid no attention. he had firmly affixed himself to the base of mr. tunnygate's personality without any intention of being immediately detached. and he had selected that place, taken aim, and discharged himself with an air of confidence and skill begotten of lifelong experience. "oh! o--o--oh!" screamed tunnygate, turning wildly and clawing through the hedge, dragging andrew after him. "oh! o--oh!" mrs. tunnygate rushed to the door in time to see her spouse lumbering up the beach with a white object gyrating in the air behind him. "what's the matter?" she called out languidly. then perceiving the matter she hastily followed. the appleboys were standing on their lawn viewing the whole proceeding with ostentatious indifference. up the beach fled tunnygate, his cries becoming fainter and fainter. the two clam diggers watched him curiously, but made no attempt to go to his assistance. the man in the field leaned luxuriously upon his hoe and surrendered himself to unalloyed delight. tunnygate was now but a white flicker against the distant sand. his wails had a dying fall: "o--o--oh!" "well, we warned him!" remarked mr. appleboy to bashemath with a smile in which, however, lurked a slight trace of apprehension. "we certainly did!" she replied. then after a moment she added a trifle anxiously: "i wonder what will happen to andrew!" tunnygate did not return. neither did andrew. secluded in their kitchen living-room the appleboys heard a motor arrive and through a crack in the door saw it carry mrs. tunnygate away bedecked as for some momentous ceremonial. at four o'clock, while appleboy was digging bait, he observed another motor making its wriggly way along the dunes. it was fitted longitudinally with seats, had a wire grating and was marked "n.y.p.d." two policemen in uniform sat in front. instinctively appleboy realized that the gods had called him. his heart sank among the clams. slowly he made his way back to the lawn where the wagon had stopped outside the hedge. "hey there!" called out the driver. "is your name appleboy?" appleboy nodded. "put your coat on, then, and come along," directed the other. "i've got a warrant for you." "warrant?" stammered appleboy dizzily. "what's that?" cried bashemath, appearing at the door. "warrant for what?" the officer slowly descended and handed appleboy a paper. "for assault," he replied. "i guess you know what for, all right!" "we haven't assaulted anybody," protested mrs. appleboy heatedly. "andrew--" "you can explain all that to the judge," retorted the cop. "meantime put on your duds and climb in. if you don't expect to spend the night at the station you'd better bring along the deed of your house so you can give bail." "but who's the warrant for?" persisted mrs. appleboy. "for enoch appleboy," retorted the cop wearily. "can't you read?" "but enoch didn't do a thing!" she declared. "it was andrew!" "who's andrew?" inquired the officer of the law mistrustfully. "andrew's a dog," she explained. * * * * * "mr. tutt," announced tutt, leaning against his senior partner's door jamb with a formal-looking paper in his hand, "i have landed a case that will delight your legal soul." "indeed?" queried the elder lawyer. "i have never differentiated between my legal soul and any other i may possess. however, i assume from your remark that we have been retained in a matter presenting some peculiarly absurd, archaic or otherwise interesting doctrine of law?" "not directly," responded tutt. "though you will doubtless find it entertaining enough, but indirectly--atmospherically so to speak--it touches upon doctrines of jurisprudence, of religion and of philosophy, replete with historic fascination." "good!" exclaimed mr. tutt, laying down his stogy. "what kind of a case is it?" "it's a dog case!" said the junior partner, waving the paper. "the dog bit somebody." "ah!" exclaimed mr. tutt, perceptibly brightening. "doubtless we shall find a precedent in oliver goldsmith's famous elegy: "and in that town a dog was found, as many dogs there be, both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of low degree." "only," explained tutt, "in this case, though the man recovered of the bite, the dog refused to die!" "and so they want to prosecute the dog? it can't be done. an animal hasn't been brought to the bar of justice for several centuries." "no, no!" interrupted tutt. "they don't--" "there was a case," went on mr. tutt reminiscently "let me see--at sauvigny, i think it was--about , when they tried a sow and three pigs for killing a child. the court assigned a lawyer to defend her, but like many assigned counsel he couldn't think of anything to say in her behalf. as regards the little pigs he did enter the plea that no animus was shown, that they had merely followed the example of their mother, and that at worst they were under age and irresponsible. however, the court found them all guilty, and the sow was publicly hanged in the market place." "what did they do with the three little pigs?" inquired tutt with some interest. "they were pardoned on account of their extreme youth," said mr. tutt, "and turned loose again--with a warning." "i'm glad of that!" sighed tutt. "is that a real case?" "absolutely," replied his partner. "i've read it in the sauvigny records." "i'll be hanged!" exclaimed tutt. "i never knew that animals were ever held personally responsible." "why, of course they were!" said mr. tutt. "why shouldn't they be? if animals have souls why shouldn't they be responsible for their acts?" "but they haven't any souls!" protested tutt. "haven't they now?" remarked the elder lawyer. "i've seen many an old horse that had a great deal more conscience than his master. and on general principles wouldn't it be far more just and humane to have the law deal with a vicious animal that had injured somebody than to leave its punishment to an irresponsible and arbitrary owner who might be guilty of extreme brutality?" "if the punishment would do any good--yes!" agreed tutt. "well, who knows?" meditated mr. tutt. "i wonder if it ever does any good? but anybody would have to agree that responsibility for one's acts should depend upon the degree of one's intelligence--and from that point of view many of our friends are really much less responsible than sheep." "which, as you so sagely point out, would, however be a poor reason for letting their families punish them in case they did wrong. just think how such a privilege might be abused! if uncle john didn't behave himself as his nephews thought proper they could simply set upon him and briskly beat him up." "yes, of course, the law even to-day recognizes the right to exercise physical discipline within the family. even homicide is excusable, under section of our code, when committed in lawfully correcting a child or servant." "that's a fine relic of barbarism!" remarked tutt. "but the child soon passes through that dangerous zone and becomes entitled to be tried for his offenses by a jury of his peers; the animal never does." "well, an animal couldn't be tried by a jury of his peers, anyhow," said mr. tutt. "i've seen juries that were more like nanny goats than men!" commentated tutt. "i'd like to see some of our clients tried by juries of geese or woodchucks." "the field of criminal responsibility is the no man's land of the law," mused mr. tutt. "roughly, mental capacity to understand the nature of one's acts is the test, but it is applied arbitrarily in the case of human beings and a mere point of time is taken beyond which, irrespective of his actual intelligence, a man is held accountable for whatever he does. of course that is theoretically unsound. the more intelligent a person is the more responsible he should be held to be and the higher the quality of conduct demanded of him by his fellows. yet after twenty-one all are held equally responsible--unless they're actually insane. it isn't equity! in theory no man or animal should be subject to the power of discretionary punishment on the part of another--even his own father or master. i've often wondered what earthly right we have to make the animals work for us--to bind them to slavery when we denounce slavery as a crime. it would horrify us to see a human being put up and sold at auction. yet we tear the families of animals apart, subject them to lives of toil, and kill them whenever we see fit. we say we do this because their intelligence is limited and they cannot exercise any discrimination in their conduct, that they are always in the zone of irresponsibility and so have no rights. but i've seen animals that were shrewder than men, and men who were vastly less intelligent than animals." "right-o!" assented tutt. "take scraggs, for instance. he's no more responsible than a chipmunk." "nevertheless, the law has always been consistent," said mr. tutt, "and has never discriminated between animals any more than it has between men on the ground of varying degrees of intelligence. they used to try 'em all, big and little, wild and domesticated, mammals and invertebrates." "oh, come!" exclaimed tutt. "i may not know much law, but--" "between and they prosecuted in france alone no less than ninety-two animals. the last one was a cow." "a cow hasn't much intelligence," observed tutt. "and they tried fleas," added mr. tutt. "they have a lot!" commented his junior partner. "i knew a flea once, who--" "they had a regular form of procedure," continued mr. tutt, brushing the flea aside, "which was adhered to with the utmost technical accuracy. you could try an individual animal, either in person or by proxy, or you could try a whole family, swarm or herd. if a town was infested by rats, for example, they first assigned counsel--an advocate, he was called--and then the defendants were summoned three times publicly to appear. if they didn't show up on the third and last call they were tried _in absentia_, and if convicted were ordered out of the country before a certain date under penalty of being exorcised." "what happened if they were exorcised?" asked tutt curiously. "it depended a good deal on the local power of satan," answered the old lawyer dryly. "sometimes they became even more prolific and destructive than they were before, and sometimes they promptly died. all the leeches were prosecuted at lausanne in . a few selected representatives were brought into court, tried, convicted and ordered to depart within a fixed period. maybe they didn't fully grasp their obligations or perhaps were just acting contemptuously, but they didn't depart and so were promptly exorcised. immediately they began to die off and before long there were none left in the country." "i know some rats and mice i'd like to have exorcised," mused tutt. "at autun in the fifteenth century the rats won their case," said mr. tutt. "who got 'em off?" asked tutt. "m. chassensée, the advocate appointed to defend them. they had been a great nuisance and were ordered to appear in court. but none of them turned up. m. chassensée therefore argued that a default should not be taken because _all_ the rats had been summoned, and some were either so young or so old and decrepit that they needed more time. the court thereupon granted him an extension. however, they didn't arrive on the day set, and this time their lawyer claimed that they were under duress and restrained by bodily fear--of the townspeople's cats. that all these cats, therefore should first be bound over to keep the peace! the court admitted the reasonableness of this, but the townsfolk refused to be responsible for their cats and the judge dismissed the case!" "what did chassensée get out of it?" inquired tutt. "there is no record of who paid him or what was his fee." "he was a pretty slick lawyer," observed tutt. "did they ever try birds?" "oh, yes!" answered mr. tutt. "they tried a cock at basel in --for the crime of laying an egg." "why was that a crime?" asked tutt. "i should call it a _tour de force_." "be that as it may," said his partner, "from a cock's egg is hatched the cockatrice, or basilisk, the glance of whose eye turns the beholder to stone. therefore they tried the cock, found him guilty and burned him and his egg together at the stake. that is why cocks don't lay eggs now." "i'm glad to know that," said tutt. "when did they give up trying animals?" "nearly two hundred years ago," answered mr. tutt. "but for some time after that they continued to try inanimate objects for causing injury to people. i've heard they tried one of the first locomotives that ran over a man and declared it forfeit to the crown as a deodand." "i wonder if you couldn't get 'em to try andrew," hazarded tutt, "and maybe declare him forfeited to somebody as a deodand." "deodand means 'given to god,'" explained mr. tutt. "well, i'd give andrew to god--if god would take him," declared tutt devoutly. "but who is andrew?" asked mr. tutt. "andrew is a dog," said tutt, "who bit one tunnygate, and now the grand jury have indicted not the dog, as it is clear from your historical disquisition they should have done, but the dog's owner, mr. enoch appleboy." "what for?" "assault in the second degree with a dangerous weapon." "what was the weapon?" inquired mr. tutt simply. "the dog." "what are you talking about?" cried mr. tutt. "what nonsense!" "yes, it is nonsense!" agreed tutt. "but they've done it all the same. read it for yourself!" and he handed mr. tutt the indictment. * * * * * "the grand jury of the county of new york by this indictment accuse enoch appleboy of the crime of assault in the second degree, committed as follows: "said enoch appleboy, late of the borough of bronx, city and county aforesaid, on the st day of july, in the year of our lord one thousand nine hundred and fifteen, at the borough and county aforesaid, with force and arms in and upon one herman tunnygate, in the peace of the state and people then and there being, feloniously did willfully and wrongfully make an assault in and upon the legs and body of him the said herman tunnygate, by means of a certain dangerous weapon, to wit: one dog, of the form, style and breed known as 'bull,' being of the name of 'andrew,' then and there being within control of the said enoch appleboy, which said dog, being of the name of 'andrew,' the said enoch appleboy did then and there feloniously, willfully and wrongfully incite, provoke, and encourage, then and there being, to bite him, the said herman tunnygate, by means whereof said dog 'andrew' did then and there grievously bite the said herman tunnygate in and upon the legs and body of him, the said herman tunnygate, and the said enoch appleboy thus then and there feloniously did willfully and wrongfully cut, tear, lacerate and bruise, and did then and there by the means of the dog 'andrew' aforesaid feloniously, willfully and wrongfully inflict grievous bodily harm upon the said herman tunnygate, against the form of the statute in such case made and provided, and against the peace of the people of the state of new york and their dignity." "that," asserted mr. tutt, wiping his spectacles, "is a document worthy of preservation in the congressional library. who drew it?" "don't know," answered tutt, "but whoever he was he was a humorist!" "it's no good. there isn't any allegation of _scienter_ in it," affirmed mr. tutt. "what of it? it says he assaulted tunnygate with a dangerous weapon. you don't have to set forth that he knew it was a dangerous weapon if you assert that he did it willfully. you don't have to allege in an indictment charging an assault with a pistol that the defendant knew it was loaded." "but a dog is different!" reasoned mr. tutt. "a dog is not _per se_ a dangerous weapon. saying so doesn't make it so, and that part of the indictment is bad on its face--unless, to be sure, it means that he hit him with a dead dog, which it is clear from the context that he didn't. the other part--that he set the dog on him--lacks the allegation that the dog was vicious and that appleboy knew it; in other words an allegation of _scienter_. it ought to read that said enoch appleboy 'well knowing that said dog andrew was a dangerous and ferocious animal and would, if incited, provoked and encouraged, bite the legs and body of him the said herman--did then and there feloniously, willfully and wrongfully incite, provoke and encourage the said andrew, and so forth.'" "i get you!" exclaimed tutt enthusiastically. "of course an allegation of _scienter_ is necessary! in other words you could demur to the indictment for insufficiency?" mr. tutt nodded. "but in that case they'd merely go before the grand jury and find another--a good one. it's much better to try and knock the case out on the trial once and for all." "well, the appleboys are waiting to see you," said tutt. "they are in my office. bonnie doon got the case for us off his local district leader, who's a member of the same lodge of the abyssinian mysteries--bonnie's been supreme exalted ruler of the purple mountain for over a year--and he's pulled in quite a lot of good stuff, not all dog cases either! appleboy's an abyssinian too." "i'll see them," consented mr. tutt, "but i'm going to have you try the case. i shall insist upon acting solely in an advisory capacity. dog trials aren't in my line. there are some things which are _infra dig_--even for ephraim tutt." * * * * * mr. appleboy sat stolidly at the bar of justice, pale but resolute. beside him sat mrs. appleboy, also pale but even more resolute. a jury had been selected without much manifest attention by tutt, who had nevertheless managed to slip in an abyssinian brother on the back row, and an ex-dog fancier for number six. also among those present were a delicatessen man from east houston street, a dealer in rubber novelties, a plumber and the editor of baby's world. the foreman was almost as fat as mr. appleboy, but tutt regarded this as an even break on account of the size of tunnygate. as tutt confidently whispered to mrs. appleboy, it was as rotten a jury as he could get. mrs. appleboy didn't understand why tutt should want a rotten jury, but she nevertheless imbibed some vicarious confidence from this statement and squeezed appleboy's hand encouragingly. for appleboy, in spite of his apparent calm, was a very much frightened man, and under the creases of his floppy waistcoat his heart was beating like a tom-tom. the penalty for assault in the second degree was ten years in state's prison, and life with bashemath, even in the vicinity of the tunnygates, seemed sweet. the thought of breaking stones under the summer sun--it was a peculiarly hot summer--was awful. ten years! he could never live through it! and yet as his glance fell upon the tunnygates, arrayed in their best finery and sitting with an air of importance upon the front bench of the court room, he told himself that he would do the whole thing all over again--yes, he would! he had only stood up for his rights, and tunnygate's blood was upon his own head--or wherever it was. so he squeezed bashemath's hand tenderly in response. upon the bench judge witherspoon, assigned from somewhere upstate to help keep down the ever-lengthening criminal calendar of the metropolitan district, finished the letter he was writing to his wife in genesee county, sealed it and settled back in his chair. an old war horse of the country bar, he had in his time been mixed up in almost every kind of litigation, but as he looked over the indictment he with difficulty repressed a smile. thirty years ago he'd had a dog case himself; also of the form, style and breed known as bull. "you may proceed, mister district attorney!" he announced, and little pepperill, the youngest of the d.a.'s staff, just out of the law school, begoggled and with his hair plastered evenly down on either side of his small round head, rose with serious mien, and with a high piping voice opened the prosecution. it was, he told them, a most unusual and hence most important case. the defendant appleboy had maliciously procured a savage dog of the most vicious sort and loosed it upon the innocent complainant as he was on his way to work, with the result that the latter had nearly been torn to shreds. it was a horrible, dastardly, incredible, fiendish crime, he would expect them to do their full duty in the premises, and they should hear mr. tunnygate's story from his own lips. mr. tunnygate limped with difficulty to the stand, and having been sworn gingerly sat down--partially. then turning his broadside to the gaping jury he recounted his woes with indignant gasps. "have you the trousers which you wore upon that occasion?" inquired pepperill. mr. tunnygate bowed solemnly and lifted from the floor a paper parcel which he untied and from which he drew what remained of that now historic garment. "these are they," he announced dramatically. "i offer them in evidence," exclaimed pepperill, "and i ask the jury to examine them with great care." they did so. tutt waited until the trousers had been passed from hand to hand and returned to their owner; then, rotund, chipper and birdlike as ever, began his cross-examination much like a woodpecker attacking a stout stump. the witness had been an old friend of mr. appleboy's, had he not? tunnygate admitted it, and tutt pecked him again. never had done him any wrong, had he? nothing in particular. well, any wrong? tunnygate hesitated. why, yes, appleboy had tried to fence in the public beach that belonged to everybody. well, did that do the witness any harm? the witness declared that it did; compelled him to go round when he had a right to go across. oh! tutt put his head on one side and glanced at the jury. how many feet? about twenty feet. then tutt pecked a little harder. "didn't you tear a hole in the hedge and stamp down the grass when by taking a few extra steps you could have reached the beach without difficulty?" "i--i simply tried to remove an illegal obstruction," declared tunnygate indignantly. "didn't mr. appleboy ask you to keep off?" "sure--yes!" "didn't you obstinately refuse to do so?" mr. pepperill objected to "obstinately" and it was stricken out. "i wasn't going to stay off where i had a right to go," asserted the witness. "and didn't you have warning that the dog was there?" "look here!" suddenly burst out tunnygate. "you can't hector me into anything. appleboy never had a dog before. he got a dog just to sic him on me! he put up a sign 'beware of the dog,' but he knew that i'd think it was just a bluff. it was a plant, that's what it was! and just as soon as i got inside the hedge that dog went for me and nearly tore me to bits. it was a rotten thing to do and you know it!" he subsided, panting. tutt bowed complacently. "i move that the witness' remarks be stricken out on the grounds first, that they are unresponsive; second, that they are irrelevant, incompetent and immaterial; third, that they contain expressions of opinion and hearsay; and fourth, that they are abusive and generally improper." "strike them out!" directed judge witherspoon. then he turned to tunnygate. "the essence of your testimony is that the defendant set a dog on you, is it not? you had quarreled with the defendant, with whom you had formerly been on friendly terms. you entered on premises claimed to be owned by him, though a sign warned you to beware of a dog. the dog attacked and bit you? that's the case, isn't it?" "yes, your honor." "had you ever seen that dog before?" "no, sir." "do you know where he got it?" "my wife told me--" "never mind what your wife told you. do you--" "he don't know where the dog came from, judge!" suddenly called out mrs. tunnygate in strident tones from where she was sitting. "but i know!" she added venomously. "that woman of his got it from--" judge witherspoon fixed her coldly with an impassive and judicial eye. "will you kindly be silent, madam? you will no doubt be given an opportunity to testify as fully as you wish. that is all, sir, unless mr. tutt has some more questions." tutt waved the witness from the stand contemptuously. "well, i'd like a chance to testify!" shrilled mrs. tunnygate, rising in full panoply. "this way, madam," said the clerk, motioning her round the back of the jury box. and she swept ponderously into the offing like a full-rigged bark and came to anchor in the witness chair, her chin rising and falling upon her heaving bosom like the figurehead of a vessel upon a heavy harbor swell. now it has never been satisfactorily explained just why the character of an individual should be in any way deducible from such irrelevant attributes as facial anatomy, bodily structure or the shape of the cranium. perhaps it is not, and in reality we discern disposition from something far more subtle--the tone of the voice, the expression of the eyes, the lines of the face or even from an aura unperceived by the senses. however that may be, the wisdom of the constitutional safeguard guaranteeing that every person charged with crime shall be confronted by the witnesses against him was instantly made apparent when mrs. tunnygate took the stand, for without hearing a word from her firmly compressed lips the jury simultaneously swept her with one comprehensive glance and turned away. students of women, experienced adventurers in matrimony, these plumbers, bird merchants "delicatessens" and the rest looked, perceived and comprehended that here was the very devil of a woman--a virago, a shrew, a termagant, a natural-born trouble-maker; and they shivered and thanked god that she was tunnygate's and not theirs; their unformulated sentiment best expressed in pope's immortal couplet: oh woman, woman! when to ill thy mind is bent, all hell contains no fouler fiend. she had said no word. between the judge and jury nothing had passed, and yet through the alpha rays of that mysterious medium of communication by which all men as men are united where woman is concerned, the thought was directly transmitted and unanimously acknowledged that here for sure was a hell cat! it was as naught to them that she testified to the outrageous illegality of the appleboys' territorial ambitions, the irascibility of the wife, the violent threats of the husband; or that mrs. appleboy had been observed to mail a suspicious letter shortly before the date of the canine assault. they disregarded her. yet when tutt upon cross-examination sought to attack her credibility by asking her various pertinent questions they unhesitatingly accepted his implied accusations as true, though under the rules of evidence he was bound by her denials. peck : "did you not knock mrs. appleboy's flower pots off the piazza?" he demanded significantly. "never! i never did!" she declared passionately but they knew in their hearts that she had. peck : "didn't you steal her milk bottles?" "what a lie! it's absolutely false!" yet they knew that she did. peck : "didn't you tangle up their fish lines and take their thole-pins?" "well, i never! you ought to be ashamed to ask a lady such questions!" they found her guilty. "i move to dismiss, your honor," chirped tutt blithely at the conclusion of her testimony. judge witherspoon shook his head. "i want to hear the other side," he remarked. "the mere fact that the defendant put up a sign warning the public against the dog may be taken as some evidence that he had knowledge of the animal's vicious propensities. i shall let the case go to the jury unless this evidence is contradicted or explained. reserve your motion." "very well, your honor," agreed tutt, patting himself upon the abdomen. "i will follow your suggestion and call the defendant. mr. appleboy, take the stand." mr. appleboy heavily rose and the heart of every fat man upon the jury, and particularly that of the abyssinian brother upon the back row, went out to him. for just as they had known without being told that the new mrs. tunnygate was a vixen, they realized that appleboy was a kind, good-natured man--a little soft, perhaps, like his clams, but no more dangerous. moreover, it was plain that he had suffered and was, indeed, still suffering, and they had pity for him. appleboy's voice shook and so did the rest of his person as he recounted his ancient friendship for tunnygate and their piscatorial association, their common matrimonial experiences, the sudden change in the temperature of the society of throggs neck, the malicious destruction of their property and the unexplained aggressions of tunnygate upon the lawn. and the jury, believing, understood. then like the sword of damocles the bessemer voice of pepperill severed the general atmosphere of amiability: "where did you get that dog?" mr. appleboy looked round helplessly, distress pictured in every feature. "my wife's aunt lent it to us." "how did she come to lend it to you?" "bashemath wrote and asked for it." "oh! did you know anything about the dog before you sent for it?" "of your own knowledge?" interjected tutt sharply. "oh, no!" returned appleboy. "didn't you know it was a vicious beast?" sharply challenged pepperill. "of your own knowledge?" again warned tutt. "i'd never seen the dog." "didn't your wife tell you about it?" tutt sprang to his feet, wildly waving his arms: "i object; on the ground that what passed between husband and wife upon this subject must be regarded as confidential." "i will so rule," said judge witherspoon, smiling. "excluded." pepperill shrugged his shoulders. "i would like to ask a question," interpolated the editor of baby's world. "do!" exclaimed tutt eagerly. the editor, who was a fat editor, rose in an embarrassed manner. "mr. appleboy!" he began. "yes, sir!" responded appleboy. "i want to get this straight. you and your wife had a row with the tunnygates. he tried to tear up your front lawn. you warned him off. he kept on doing it. you got a dog and put up a sign and when he disregarded it you sicked the dog on him. is that right?" he was manifestly friendly, merely a bit cloudy in the cerebellum. the abyssinian brother pulled him sharply by the coat tails. "sit down," he whispered hoarsely. "you're gumming it all up." "i didn't sic andrew on him!" protested appleboy. "but i say, why shouldn't he have?" demanded the baby's editor. "that's what anybody would do!" pepperill sprang frantically to his feet. "oh, i object! this juryman is showing bias. this is entirely improper." "i am, am i?" sputtered the fat editor angrily. "i'll show you--" "you want to be fair, don't you?" whined pepperill. "i've proved that the appleboys had no right to hedge in the beach!" "oh, pooh!" sneered the abyssinian, now also getting to his feet. "supposing they hadn't? who cares a damn? this man tunnygate deserved all he's got!" "gentlemen! gentlemen!" expostulated the judge firmly. "take your seats or i shall declare a mistrial. go on, mr. tutt. call your next witness." "mrs. appleboy," called out tutt, "will you kindly take the chair?" and that good lady, looking as if all her adipose existence had been devoted to the production of the sort of pies that mother used to make, placidly made her way to the witness stand. "did you know that andrew was a vicious dog?" inquired tutt. "no!" answered mrs. appleboy firmly. "i didn't." o woman! "that is all," declared tutt with a triumphant smile. "then," snapped pepperill, "why did you send for him?" "i was lonely," answered bashemath unblushingly. "do you mean to tell this jury that you didn't know that that dog was one of the worst biters in livornia?" "i do!" she replied. "i only knew aunt eliza had a dog. i didn't know anything about the dog personally." "what did you say to your aunt in your letter?" "i said i was lonely and wanted protection." "didn't you hope the dog would bite mr. tunnygate?" "why, no!" she declared. "i didn't want him to bite anybody." at that the delicatessen man poked the plumber in the ribs and they both grinned happily at one another. pepperill gave her a last disgusted look and sank back in his seat. "that is all!" he ejaculated feebly. "one question, if you please, madam," said judge witherspoon. "may i be permitted to"--he coughed as a suppressed snicker ran round the court--"that is--may i not--er--oh, look here! how did you happen to have the idea of getting a dog?" mrs. appleboy turned the full moon of her homely countenance upon the court. "the potato peel came down that way!" she explained blandly. "what!" exploded the dealer in rubber novelties. "the potato peel--it spelled 'dog,'" she repeated artlessly. "lord!" deeply suspirated pepperill. "what a case! carry me out!" "well, mr. tutt," said the judge, "now i will hear what you may wish to say upon the question of whether this issue should be submitted to the jury. however, i shall rule that the indictment is sufficient." tutt elegantly rose. "having due respect to your honor's ruling as to the sufficiency of the indictment i shall address myself simply to the question of _scienter_. i might, of course, dwell upon the impropriety of charging the defendant with criminal responsibility for the act of another free agent even if that agent be an animal--but i will leave that, if necessary, for the court of appeals. if anybody were to be indicted in this case i hold it should have been the dog andrew. nay, i do not jest! but i can see by your honor's expression that any argument upon that score would be without avail." "entirely," remarked witherspoon. "kindly go on!" "well," continued tutt, "the law of this matter needs no elucidation. it has been settled since the time of moses." "of whom?" inquired witherspoon. "you don't need to go back farther than chief justice marshall so far as i am concerned." tutt bowed. "it is an established doctrine of the common law both of england and america that it is wholly proper for one to keep a domestic animal for his use, pleasure or protection, until, as dykeman, j., says in muller vs. mckesson, hun., , 'some vicious propensity is developed and brought out to the knowledge of the owner.' up to that time the man who keeps a dog or other animal cannot be charged with liability for his acts. this has always been the law. "in the twenty-first chapter of exodus at the twenty-eighth verse it is written: 'if an ox gore a man or a woman, that they die; then the ox shall be surely stoned, and his flesh shall not be eaten; but the owner of the ox shall be quit. but if the ox were wont to push with his horn in time past, and it hath been testified to his owner, and he hath not kept him in, but that he hath killed a man or a woman; the ox shall be stoned, and his owner also shall be put to death.' "in the old english case of smith vs. pehal, strange, , it was said by the court: 'if a dog has once bit a man, and the owner having notice thereof keeps the dog, and lets him go about or lie at his door, an action will lie against him at the suit of a person who is bit, though it happened by such person's treading on the dog's toes; for it was owing to his not hanging the dog on the first notice. and the safety of the king's subjects ought not afterwards to be endangered.' that is sound law; but it is equally good law that 'if a person with full knowledge of the evil propensities of an animal wantonly excites him or voluntarily and unnecessarily puts himself in the way of such an animal he would be adjudged to have brought the injury upon himself, and ought not to be entitled to recover. in such a case it cannot be said in a legal sense that the keeping of the animal, which is the gravamen of the offense, produced the injury.' "now in the case at bar, first there is clearly no evidence that this defendant knew or ever suspected that the dog andrew was otherwise than of a mild and gentle disposition. that is, there is no evidence whatever of _scienter_. in fact, except in this single instance there is no evidence that andrew ever bit anybody. thus, in the word of holy writ the defendant appleboy should be quit, and in the language of our own courts he must be held harmless. secondly, moreover, it appears that the complainant deliberately put himself in the way of the dog andrew, after full warning. i move that the jury be directed to return a verdict of not guilty." "motion granted," nodded judge witherspoon, burying his nose in his handkerchief. "i hold that every dog is entitled to one bite." "gentlemen of the jury," chanted the clerk: "how say you? do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?" "not guilty," returned the foreman eagerly, amid audible evidences of satisfaction from the abyssinian brother, the baby's world editor and the others. mr. appleboy clung to tutt's hand, overcome by emotion. "adjourn court!" ordered the judge. then he beckoned to mr. appleboy. "come up here!" he directed. timidly mr. appleboy approached the dais. "don't do it again!" remarked his honor shortly. "eh? beg pardon, your honor, i mean--" "i said: 'don't do it again!'" repeated the judge with a twinkle in his eye. then lowering his voice he whispered: "you see i come from livornia, and i've known andrew for a long time." as tutt guided the appleboys out into the corridor the party came face to face with mr. and mrs. tunnygate. "huh!" sneered tunnygate. "huh!" retorted appleboy. wile versus guile for 'tis the sport to have the engineer hoist with his own petar.--hamlet. it was a mouse by virtue of which ephraim tutt had leaped into fame. it is true that other characters famous in song and story--particularly in "mother goose"--have similarly owed their celebrity in whole or part to rodents, but there is, it is submitted, no other case of a mouse, as mouse _per se_, reported in the annals of the law, except tutt's mouse, from doomsday book down to the present time. yet it is doubtful whether without his mouse ephraim tutt would ever have been heard of at all, and same would equally have been true if when pursued by the chef's gray cat the mouse aforesaid had jumped in another direction. but as luck would have it, said mouse leaped foolishly into an open casserole upon a stove in the kitchen of the comers hotel, and mr. tutt became in his way a leader of the bar. it is quite true that the tragic end of the mouse in question has nothing to do with our present narrative except as a side light upon the vagaries of the legal career, but it illustrates how an attorney if he expects to succeed in his profession, must be ready for anything that comes along--even if it be a mouse. the two tutts composing the firm of tutt & tutt were both, at the time of the mouse case, comparatively young men. tutt was a native of bangor, maine, and numbered among his childhood friends one newbegin, a commercial wayfarer in the shingle and clapboard line; and as he hoped at some future time to draw newbegin's will or to incorporate for him some business venture tutt made a practise of entertaining his prospective client at dinner upon his various visits to the metropolis, first at one new york hostelry and then at another. chance led them one night to the comers, and there amid the imitation palms and imitation french waiters of the imitation french restaurant tutt invited his friend newbegin to select what dish he chose from those upon the bill of fare; and newbegin chose kidney stew. it was at about that moment that the adventure which has been referred to occurred in the hotel kitchen. the gray cat was cheated of its prey, and in due course the casserole containing the stew was borne into the dining room and the dish was served. suddenly mr. newbegin contorted his mouth and exclaimed: "heck! a mouse!" it was. the head waiter was summoned, the manager, the owner. guests and garçons crowded about tutt and mr. newbegin to inspect what had so unexpectedly been found. no one could deny that it was, mouse--cooked mouse; and newbegin had ordered kidney stew. then tutt had had his inspiration. "you shall pay well for this!" he cried, frowning at the distressed proprietor, while newbegin leaned piteously against a pâpier-maché pillar. "this is an outrage! you shall be held liable in heavy damages for my client's indigestion!" and thus tutt & tutt got their first case out of newbegin, for under the influence of the eloquence of mr. tutt a jury was induced to give him a verdict of one thousand dollars against the comers hotel, which the court of appeals sustained in the following words, quoting verbatim from the learned brief furnished by tutt & tutt, ephraim tutt of counsel: "the only legal question in the case, or so it appears to us, is whether there is such a sale of food to a guest on the part of the proprietor as will sustain a warranty. if we are not in error, however, the law is settled and has been since the reign of henry the sixth. in the ninth year book of that monarch's reign there is a case in which it was held that 'if i go to a tavern to eat, and the taverner gives and sells me meat and it corrupted, whereby i am made very sick, action lies against him without any express warranty, for there is a warranty in law'; and in the time of henry the seventh the learned justice keilway said, 'no man can justify selling corrupt victual, but an action on the case lies against the seller, whether the victual was warranted to be good or not.' now, certainly, whether mouse meat be or be not deleterious to health a guest at a hotel who orders a portion of kidney stew has the right to expect, and the hotel keeper impliedly warrants, that such dish will contain no ingredients beyond those ordinarily placed therein." * * * * * "a thousand dollars!" exulted tutt when the verdict was rendered. "why, anyone would eat mouse for a thousand dollars!" the comers hotel became in due course a client of tutt & tutt, and the mouse which made mr. tutt famous did not die in vain, for the case became celebrated throughout the length and breadth of the land, to the glory of the firm and a vast improvement in the culinary conditions existing in hotels. "come in, mr. barrows! come right in! i haven't seen you for--well, how long is it?" exclaimed mr. tutt, extending a long welcoming arm toward a human scarecrow upon the threshold. "five years," answered the visitor. "i only got out day before yesterday. fourteen months off for good behavior." he coughed and put down carefully beside him a large dress-suit case marked e.v.b., pottsville, n.y. "well, well!" sighed mr. tutt. "so it is. how time flies!" "not in sing sing!" replied mr. barrows ruefully. "i suppose not. still, it must feel good to be out!" mr. barrows made no reply but dusted off his felt hat. he was but the shadow of a man, an old man at that, as was attested by his long gray beard, his faded blue eyes, and the thin white hair about his fine domelike forehead. "i forget what your trouble was about," said mr. tutt gently. "won't you have a stogy?" mr. barrows shook his head. "i ain't used to it," he answered. "makes me cough." he gazed about him vaguely. "something about bonds, wasn't it?" asked mr. tutt. "yes," replied mr. barrows; "great lakes and canadian southern." "of course! of course!" "a wonderful property," murmured mr. barrows regretfully. "the bonds were perfectly good. there was a defect in the foreclosure proceedings which made them a permanent underlying security of the reorganized company--under the northern pacific r.r. co. vs. boyd; you know--but the court refused to hold that way. they never will hold the way you want, will they?" he looked innocently at mr. tutt. "no," agreed the latter with conviction, "they never will!" "now those bonds were as good as gold," went on the old man; "and yet they said i had to go to prison. you know all about it. you were my lawyer." "yes," assented mr. tutt, "i remember all about it now." indeed it had all come back to him with the vividness of a landscape seen during a lightning flash--the crowded court, old doc barrows upon the witness stand, charged with getting money on the strength of defaulted and outlawed bonds--picked up heaven knows where--pathetically trying to persuade an unsympathetic court that for some reason they were still worth their face value, though the mortgage securing the debt which they represented had long since been foreclosed and the money distributed. "i'd paid for 'em--actual cash," he rambled on. "not much, to be sure--but real money. if i got 'em cheap that was my good luck, wasn't it? it was because my brain was sharper than other folks'! i said they had value and i say so now--only nobody will believe it or take the trouble to find out. i learned a lot up there in sing sing too," he continued, warming to his subject. "do you know, sir, there are fortunes lying all about us? take gold, for instance! there's a fraction of a grain in every ton of sea water. but the big people don't want it taken out because it would depress the standard of exchange. i say it's a conspiracy--and yet they jailed a man for it! there's great mineral deposits all about just waiting for the right man to come along and develop 'em." his lifted eye rested upon the engraving of abraham lincoln over mr. tutt's desk. "there was a man!" he exclaimed inconsequently; then stopped and ran his transparent, heavily veined old hand over his forehead. "where was i? let me see. oh, yes--gold. all those great properties could be bought at one time or another for a song. it needed a pioneer! that's what i was--a pioneer to find the gold where other people couldn't find it. that's not any crime; it's a service to humanity! if only they'd have a little faith--instead of locking you up. the judge never looked up the law about those great lakes bonds! if he had he'd have found out i was right! i'd looked it up. i studied law once myself." "i know," said mr. tutt, almost moved to tears by the sight of the wreck before him. "you practised up state, didn't you?" "yes," responded doc barrows eagerly. "and in chicago too. i'm a member of the cook county bar. i'll tell you something! if the supreme court of illinois hadn't been wrong in its law i'd be the richest man in the world--in the whole world!" he grabbed mr. tutt by the arm and stared hard into his eyes. "didn't i show you my papers? i own seven feet of water front clean round lake michigan all through the city of chicago i got it for a song from the man who found out the flaw in the original title deed of ; he was dying. 'i'll sell my secret to you,' he says, 'because i'm passing on. may it bring you luck!' i looked it all up and it was just as he said. so i got up a corporation--the chicago water front and terminal company--and sold bonds to fight my claim in the courts. but all the people who had deeds to my land conspired against me and had me arrested! they sent me to the penitentiary. there's justice for you!" "that was too bad!" said mr. tutt in a soothing voice. "but after all what good would all that money have done you?" "i don't want money!" affirmed doc plaintively. "i've never needed money. i know enough secrets to make me rich a dozen times over. not money but justice is what i want--my legal rights. but i'm tired of fighting against 'em. they've beaten me! yes, they've beaten me! i'm going to retire. that's why i came in to see you, mr. tutt. i never paid you for your services as my attorney. i'm going away. you see my married daughter lost her husband the other day and she wants me to come up and live with her on the farm to keep her from being lonely. of course it won't be much like life in wall street--but i owe her some duty and i'm getting on--i am, mr. tutt, i really am!" he smiled. "and i haven't seen louisa for three years--my only daughter. i shall enjoy being with her. she was such a dear little girl! i'll tell you another secret"--his voice dropped to a whisper--"i've found out there's a gold mine on her farm, only she doesn't know it. a rich vein runs right through her cow pasture. we'll be rich! wouldn't it be fine, mr. tutt, to be rich? then i'm going to pay you in real money for all you've done for me--thousands! but until then i'm going to let you have these--all my securities; my own, you know, every one of them." he placed the suitcase in front of mr. tutt and opened the clasps with his shaking old fingers. it bulged with bonds, and he dumped them forth until they covered the top of the desk. "these are my jewels!" he said. "there's millions represented here!" he lifted one tenderly and held it to the light, fresh as it came from the engraver's press--a thousand dollar first-mortgage bond of the chicago water front and terminal company. "look at that! good as gold--if the courts only knew the law." he took up a yellow package of valueless obligations upon the top of which an old-fashioned locomotive from whose bell-shaped funnel the smoke poured in picturesque black clouds, dragging behind it a chain of funny little passenger coaches, drove furiously along beside a rushing river through fields rich with corn and wheat amid a border of dollar signs. "the great lakes and canadian southern," he crooned lovingly. "the child of my heart! the district attorney kept all the rest--as evidence, he claimed, but some day you'll see he'll bring an action against the lake shore or the new york central based on these bonds. yes, sir! they're all right!" he pawed them over, picking out favorites here and there and excitedly extolling the merits of the imaginary properties they represented. there were the repudiated bonds of southern states and municipalities of railroads upon whose tracks no wheel had ever turned; of factories never built except in doc barrows' addled brain; of companies which had defaulted and given stock for their worthless obligations; certificates of oil, mining and land companies; deeds to tracts now covered with sky scrapers in pittsburgh, st. louis and new york--each and every one of them not worth the paper they were printed on except to some crook who dealt in high finance. but they were exquisitely engraved, quite lovely to look at, and doc barrows gloated upon them with scintillating eyes. "ain't they beauties?" he sighed. "some day--yes sir!--some day they'll be worth real money. i paid it for some of 'em. but they're yours--all yours." he gathered them up with care and returned them to the suitcase, then fastened the clasps and patted the leather cover with his hand. "they are yours, sir!" he exclaimed dramatically. "as you say," agreed mr. tutt, "there's gold lying round everywhere if we only had sense enough to look for it. but i think you're wise to retire. after all, you have the satisfaction of knowing that your enterprises were sound even if other people disagreed with you." "if this was instead of i'd own chicago," began doc, a gleam appearing in his eye. "but they don't want to upset the status quo--that's why i haven't got a fair chance. but they needn't worry! i'd be generous with 'em--give 'em easy terms--long leases and nominal rents." "but you'll like living with your daughter, i'm sure," said mr. tutt. "it will make a new man of you in no time." "healthiest spot in northern new york," exclaimed doc. "within two miles of a lake--fishing, shooting, outdoor recreation of all kinds, an ideal site for a mammoth summer hotel." mr. tutt rose and laid his arms round old doc barrows' shoulders. "thank you a thousand times," he said gratefully, "for the securities. i'll be glad to keep them for you in my vault." his lips puckered in a stealthy smile which he tried hard to conceal. "louisa may want to repaper the farmhouse some time," he added to himself. "oh, they're all yours to keep!" insisted doc. "i want you to have them!" his voice trembled. "well, well!" answered mr. tutt. "leave it that way; but if you ever should want them they'll be here waiting for you." "i'm no indian giver!" replied doc with dignity. "give, give, give a thing--never take it back again." he laughed rather childishly. he was evidently embarrassed. "could--could you let me have the loan of seventy-five cents?" he asked shyly. * * * * * down below, inside a doorway upon the other side of the street, sergeant murtha of the detective bureau waited for doc barrows to come out and be arrested again. murtha had known doc for fifteen years as a harmless old nut who had rarely succeeded in cheating anybody, but who was regarded as generally undesirable by the authorities and sent away every few years in order to keep him out of mischief. there was no danger that the public would accept doc's version of the nature or value of his securities, but there was always the chance that some of his worthless bonds--those bastard offsprings of his cracked old brain--would find their way into less honest but saner hands. so doc rattled about from penitentiary to prison and from prison to madhouse and out again, constantly taking appeals and securing writs of habeas corpus, and feeling mildly resentful, but not particularly so, that people should be so interfering with his business. now as from force of long habit he peered out of the doorway before making his exit; he looked like one of the john sargent's prophets gone a little madder than usual--a jeremiah or a habakkuk. "hello, doc!" called murtha in hearty, friendly tones. "hie spy! come on out!" "oh, how d'ye do, captain!" responded doc. "how are you? i was just interviewing my solicitor." "sorry," said murtha. "the inspector wants to see you." doc flinched. "but they've just let me go!" he protested faintly. "it's one of those old indictments--chicago water front or something. anyhow--here! hold on to yourself!" he threw his arms around the old man, who seemed on the point of falling. "oh, captain! that's all over! i served time for that out in illinois!" for some strange reason all the insanity had gone out of his bearing. "not in this state," answered murtha. new pity for this poor old wastrel took hold upon him. "what were you going to do?" "i was going to retire, captain," said doc faintly. "my daughter's husband--he owned a farm up in cayuga county--well, he died and i was planning to go up there and live with her." "and sting all the boobs?" grinned murtha not unsympathetically. "how much money have you got?" "seventy-five cents." "how much is the ticket?" "about nine dollars," quavered doc. "but i know a man down on chatham square who might buy a block of stock in the last chance gold mining company; i could get the money that way." "what's the last chance gold mining company?" asked murtha sharply. "it's a company i'm going to organize. i'll tell you a secret, murtha. there's a vein of gold runs right through my daughter louisa's cow pasture--she doesn't know anything about it--" "oh, hell!" exclaimed murtha. "come along to the station. i'll let you have the nine bones. and you can put me down for half a million of the underwriting." * * * * * that same evening mr. tutt was toasting his carpet slippers before the sea-coal fire in his library, sipping a hot toddy and rereading for the eleventh time the "lives of the chancellors" when miranda, who had not yet finished washing the few dishes incident to her master's meager supper, pushed open the door and announced that a lady was calling. "she said you'd know her sho' enough, mis' tutt," grinned miranda, swinging her dishrag, "'case you and she used to live tergidder when you was a young man." this scandalous announcement did not have the startling effect upon the respectable mr. tutt which might naturally have been anticipated, since he was quite used to miranda's forms of expression. "it must be mrs. effingham," he remarked, closing the career of lord eldon and removing his feet from the fender. "dat's who it is!" answered miranda. "she's downstairs waitin' to come up." "well, let her come," directed mr. tutt, wondering what his old boarding-house keeper could want of him, for he had not seen mrs. effingham for more than fifteen years, at which time she was well provided with husband, three children and a going business. indeed, it required some mental adjustment on his part to recognize the withered little old lady in widow's weeds and rusty black with a gold star on her sleeve who so timidly, a moment later, followed miranda into the room. "i'm afraid you don't recognize me," she said with a pitiful attempt at faded coquetry. "i don't blame you, mr. tutt. you don't look a day older yourself. but a great deal has happened to me!" "i should have recognized you anywhere," he protested gallantly. "do sit down, mrs. effingham won't you? i am delighted to see you. how would you like a glass of toddy? just to show there's no ill-feeling!" he forced a glass into her hand and filled it from the teakettle standing on the hearth, while miranda brought a sofa cushion and tucked it behind the old lady's back. mrs. effingham sighed, tasted the toddy and leaned back deliciously. she was very wrinkled and her hair under the bonnet was startlingly white in contrast with the crepe of her veil, but there were still traces of beauty in her face. "i've come to you, mr. tutt," she explained apologetically, "because i always said that if i ever was in trouble you'd be the one to whom i should go to help me out." "what greater compliment could i receive?" "well, in those days i never thought that time would come," she went on. "you remember my husband--jim? jim died two years ago. and little jimmy--our eldest--he was only fourteen when you boarded with us--he was killed at the front last july." she paused and felt for her handkerchief, but could not find it. "i still keep the house; but do you know how old i am, mr. tutt? i'm seventy-one! and the two older girls got married long ago and i'm all alone except for jessie, the youngest--and i haven't told her anything about it." "yes?" said mr. tutt sympathetically. "what haven't you told her about?" "my trouble. you see, jessie's not a well girl--she really ought to live out west somewhere, the doctor says--and jim and i had saved up all these years so that after we were gone she would have something to live on. we saved twelve thousand dollars--and put it into government bonds." "you couldn't have anything safer, at any rate," remarked the lawyer. "i think you did exceedingly well." "now comes the awful part of it all!" exclaimed mrs. effingham, clasping her hands. "i'm afraid it's gone--gone forever. i should have consulted you first before i did it, but it all seemed so fair and above-board that i never thought." "have you got rid of your bonds?" "yes--no--that is, the bank has them. you see i borrowed ten thousand dollars on them and gave it to mr. badger to invest in his oil company for me." mr. tutt groaned inwardly. badger was the most celebrated of wall street's near-financiers. "where on earth did you meet badger?" he demanded. "why, he boarded with me--for a long time," she answered. "i've no complaint to make of mr. badger. he's a very handsome polite gentleman. and i don't feel altogether right about coming to you and saying anything that might be taken against him--but lately i've heard so many things--" "don't worry about badger!" growled mr. tutt. "how did you come to invest in his oil stock?" "i was there when he got the telegram telling how they had found oil on the property; it came one night at dinner. he was tickled to death. the stock had been selling at three cents a share, and, of course, after the oil was discovered he said it would go right up to ten dollars. but he was real nice about it--he said anybody who had been living there in the house could share his good fortune with him, come in on the ground floor, and have it just the same for three cents. a week later there came a photograph of the gusher and almost all of us decided to buy stock." at this point in the narrative mr. tutt kicked the coal hod violently and uttered a smothered ejaculation. "of course i didn't have any ready money," explained mrs. effingham, "but i had the bonds--they only paid two per cent and the oil stock was going to pay twenty--and so i took them down to the bank and borrowed ten thousand dollars on them. i had to sign a note and pay five per cent interest. i was making the difference--fifteen hundred dollars every year." "what has it paid?" demanded mr. tutt ironically. "twenty per cent," replied mrs. effingham. "i get mr. badger's check regularly every six months." "how many times have you got it?" "twice." "well, why don't you like your investment?" inquired mr. tutt blandly. "i'd like something that would pay me twenty per cent a year!" "because i'm afraid mr. badger isn't quite truthful, and one of the ladies--that old mrs. channing; you remember her, don't you--the one with the curls?--she tried to sell her stock and nobody would make a bid on it at all--and when she spoke to mr. badger about it he became very angry and swore right in front of her. then somebody told me that mr. badger had been arrested once for something--and--and--oh, i wish i hadn't given him the money, because if it's lost jessie won't have anything to live on after i'm dead--and she's too sick to work. what do you think, mr. tutt? do you suppose mr. badger would buy the stock back?" mr. tutt smiled grimly. "not if i know him! have you got your stock with you?" she nodded. fumbling in her black bag she pulled forth a flaring certificate--of the regulation kind, not even engraved--which evidenced that sarah maria ann effingham was the legal owner of three hundred and thirty thousand shares of the capital stock of the great geyser texan petroleum and llano estacado land company. mr. tutt took it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger. it was signed alfred haynes badger, pres., and he had an almost irresistible temptation to twist it into a spill and light a stogy with it. but he used a match instead, while mrs. effingham watched him apprehensively. then he handed the stock back to her and poured out another glass of toddy. "ever been in mr. badger's office?" "oh, yes!" she answered. "it's a lovely office. you can see 'way down the harbor--and over to new jersey. it's real elegant." "would you mind going there again? that is, are you on friendly terms with him?" already a strange, rather desperate plan was half formulated in his mind. "oh, we're perfectly friendly," she smiled. "i generally go down there to get my check." "whose check is it--his or the company's?" "i really don't know," she answered simply. "what difference would it make?" "oh, nothing--except that he might claim that he'd loaned you the money." "loaned it? to me?" "why, yes. one hears of such things." "but it is my money!" she cried, stiffening. "you paid that for the stock." she shook her head helplessly. "i don't understand these things," she murmured. "if jim had been alive it wouldn't have happened. he was so careful." "husbands have some uses occasionally." suddenly she put her hands to her face. "oh, mr. tutt! please get the money back from him. if you don't something terrible will happen to jessie!" "i'll do my best," he said gently, laying his hand on her fragile shoulder. "but i may not be able to do it--and anyhow i'll need your help." "what can i do?" "i want you to go down to mr. badger's office to-morrow morning and tell him that you are so much pleased with your investment that you would like to turn all your securities over to him to sell and put the money into the great geyser texan petroleum and llano estacado land company." he rolled out the words with unction. "but i don't!" "oh, yes, you do!" he assured her. "you want to do just what i tell you, don't you?" "of course," she answered. "but i thought you didn't like mr. badger's oil company." "whether i like it or not makes no difference. i want you to say just what i tell you." "oh, very well, mr. tutt." "then you must tell him about the note, and that first it will have to be paid off." "yes." "and then you must hand him a letter which i will dictate to you now." she flushed slightly, her eyes bright with excitement. "you're sure it's perfectly honest, mr. tutt? i wouldn't want to do anything unfair!" "would you be honest with a burglar?" "but mr. badger isn't a burglar!" "no--he's only about a thousand times worse. he's a robber of widows and orphans. he isn't man enough to take a chance at housebreaking." "i don't know what you mean," she sighed. "where shall i write?" mr. tutt cleared a space upon his desk, handed her a pad and dipped a pen in the ink while she took off her gloves. "address the note to the bank," he directed. she did so. "now say: 'kindly deliver to mr. badger all the securities i have on deposit with you, whenever he pays my note. very truly yours, sarah maria ann effingham.'" "but i don't want him to have my securities!" she retorted. "oh, you won't mind! you'll be lucky to get mr. badger to take back your oil stock on any terms. leave the certificate with me," laughed mr. tutt, rubbing his long thin hands together almost gleefully. "and now as it is getting rather late perhaps you will do me the honor of letting me escort you home." it was midnight before mr. tutt went to bed. in the first place he had felt himself so neglectful of mrs. effingham that after he had taken her home he had sat there a long time talking over the old lady's affairs and making the acquaintance of the phthisical jessie, who turned out to be a wistful little creature with great liquid eyes and a delicate transparent skin that foretold only too clearly what was to be her future. there was only one place for her, mr. tutt told himself--arizona; and by the grace of god she should go there, badger or no badger! as the old lawyer walked slowly home with his hands clasped behind his back he pondered upon the seeming mockery and injustice of the law that forced a lonely, half-demented old fellow with the fixed delusion that he was a financier behind prison bars and left free the sharp slick crook who had no bowels or mercies and would snatch away the widow's mite and leave her and her consumptive daughter to die in the poorhouse. yet such was the case, and there they all were! could you blame people for being bolsheviks? and yet old doc barrows was as far from a bolshevik as anyone could well be. mr. tutt passed a restless night, dreaming, when he slept at all, of mines from which poured myriads of pieces of yellow gold, of gushers spouting columns of blood-red oil hundreds of feet into the air, and of old-fashioned locomotives dragging picturesque trains of cars across bright green prairies studded with cacti in the shape of dollar signs. old doc barrows was with him, and from time to time he would lean toward him and whisper "listen, mr. tutt, i'll tell you a secret! there's a vein of gold runs right through my daughter's cow pasture!" when willie next morning at half past eight reached the office he found the door already unlocked and mr. tutt busy at his desk, up to his elbows in a great mass of bonds and stock certificates. "gee!" he exclaimed to miss sondheim, the stenographer, when she made her appearance at a quarter past nine. "just peek in the old man's door if you want to feel rich! say, he must ha' struck pay dirt! i wonder if we'll all get a raise?" but all the securities on mr. tutt's desk would not have justified even the modest advance of five dollars in miss sondheim's salary, and their employer was merely sorting out and making an inventory of doc barrows' imaginary wealth. by the time mrs. effingham arrived by appointment at ten o'clock he had them all arranged and labeled; and in a special bundle neatly tied with a piece of red tape were what on their face were securities worth upward of seventy thousand dollars. there were ten of the beautiful bonds of the great lakes and canadian southern railroad company with their miniature locomotives and fields of wheat, and ten equally lovely bits of engraving belonging to the long-since defunct bluff creek and iowa central, ten more superb lithographs issued by the mohawk and housatonic in and paid off in , and a variety of gorgeous chromos of indians and buffaloes, and of factories and steamships spouting clouds of soft-coal smoke; and on the top of all was a pile of the first mortgage gold six per cent obligations of the chicago water front and terminal company--all of them fresh and crisp, with that faintly acrid smell which though not agreeable to the nostrils nevertheless delights the banker's soul. "ah! good morning to you, mrs. effingham!" mr. tutt cried, waving her in when that lady was announced. "you are not the only millionaire, you see! in fact, i've stumbled into a few barrels of securities myself--only i didn't pay anything for them." "gracious!" cried mrs. effingham, her eyes lighting with astonishment. "wherever did you get them? and such exquisite pictures! look at that lamb!" "it ought to have been a wolf!" muttered mr. tutt. "well, mrs. effingham, i've decided to make you a present--just a few pounds of chicago water front and canadian southern--those over there in that pile; and now if you say so we'll just go along to your bank." "give them to me!" she protested. "what on earth for? you're joking, mr. tutt." "not a bit of it!" he retorted. "i don't make any pretensions as to the value of my gift, but they're yours for whatever they're worth." he wrapped them carefully in a piece of paper and returned the balance to doc barrows' dress-suit case. "aren't you afraid to leave them that way?" she asked, surprised. "not at all! not at all!" he laughed. "you see there are fortunes lying all about us everywhere if we only know where to look. now the first thing to do is to get your bonds back from the bank." mr. thomas mckeever, the popular loan clerk of the mustardseed national, was just getting ready for the annual visit of the state bank examiner when mr. tutt, followed by mrs. effingham, entered the exquisitely furnished boudoir where lady clients were induced by all modern conveniences except manicures and shower baths to become depositors. mr. tutt and mr. mckeever belonged to the same saturday evening poker game at the colophon club, familiarly known as the bible class. "morning, tom," said mr. tutt. "this is my client, mrs. effingham. you hold her note, i believe, for ten thousand dollars secured by some government bonds. she has a use for those bonds and i thought that you might be willing to take my indorsement instead. you know i'm good for the money." "why, i guess we can accommodate her, mr. tutt!" answered the chesterfieldian mr. mckeever. "certainly we can. sit down, mrs. effingham, while i send for your bonds. see the morning paper?" mrs. effingham blushingly acknowledged that she had not seen the paper. in fact, she was much too excited to see anything. "sign here!" said the loan clerk, placing the note before the lawyer. mr. tutt indorsed it in his strange, humpbacked chirography. "here are your bonds," said mr. mckeever, handing mrs. effingham a small package in a manila envelope. she took them in a half-frightened way, as if she thought she was doing something wrong. "and now," said mr. tutt, "the lady would like a box in your safe-deposit vaults; a small one--about five dollars a year--will do. she has quite a bundle of securities with her, which i am looking into. most if not all of them are of little or no value, but i have told her she might just as well leave them as security for what they are worth, in addition to my indorsement. really it's just a slick game of ours to get the bank to look after them for nothing. isn't it, mrs. effingham?" "ye-es!" stammered mrs. effingham, not understanding what he was talking about. "well," answered mr. mckeever, "we never refuse collateral. i'll put the bonds with the note--" his eye caught the edges of the bundle. "great scott, tutt! what are you leaving all these bonds here for against that note? there must be nearly a hundred thousand dol--" "i thought you never refused collateral, mr. mckeever!" challenged mr. tutt sternly. twenty minutes later the exquisite blonde that acted as mr. badger's financial accomplice learned from mrs. effingham's faltering lips that the widow would like to see the great man in regard to further investments. "how does it look, mabel?" inquired the financier from behind his massive mahogany desk covered with a six by five sheet of plate glass. "is it a squeal or a fall?" "easy money," answered mabel with confidence. "she wants to put a mortgage on the farm." "keep her about fourteen minutes, tell her the story of my philanthropies, and then shoot her in," directed badger. so mrs. effingham listened politely while mabel showed her the photographs of mr. badger's home for consumptives out in tyrone, new mexico, and of his wife and children, taken on the porch of his summer home at seabright, new jersey; and then, exactly fourteen minutes having elapsed, she was shot in. "ah! mrs. effingham! delighted! do be seated!" mr. badger's smile was like that of the boa constrictor about to swallow the rabbit. "about my oil stock," hesitated mrs. effingham. "well, what about it?" demanded badger sharply. "are you dissatisfied with your twenty per cent?" "oh, no!" stammered the old lady. "not at all! i just thought if i could only get the note paid off at the mustardseed bank i might ask you to sell the collateral and invest the proceeds in your gusher." "oh!" mr. badger beamed with pleasure. "do you really wish to have me dispose of your securities for you?" he did not regard it as necessary to inquire into the nature of the collateral. if it was satisfactory to the mustardseed national it must of course exceed considerably the amount of the note. "yes," answered mrs. effingham timidly; and she handed him the letter dictated by mr. tutt. "well," replied mr. badger thoughtfully, after reading it, "what you ask is rather unusual--quite unusual, i may say, but i think i may be able to attend to the matter for you. leave it in my hands and think no more about it. how have you been, my dear mrs. effingham? you're looking extraordinarily well!" mr. mckeever had about concluded his arrangements for welcoming the state bank examiner when the telephone on his desk buzzed, and on taking up the receiver he heard the ingratiating voice of alfred haynes badger. "is this the loan department of the mustardseed national?" "it is," he answered shortly. "i understand you hold a note of a certain mrs. effingham for ten thousand dollars. may i ask if it is secured?" "who is this?" snapped mckeever. "one of her friends," replied mr. badger amicably. "well, we don't discuss our clients' affairs over the telephone. you had better come in here if you have any inquiries to make." "but i want to pay the note," expostulated mr. badger. "oh! well, anybody can pay the note who wants to." "and of course in that case you would turn over whatever collateral is on deposit to secure the note?" "if we were so directed." "may i ask what collateral there is?" "i don't know." "there is some collateral, i suppose?" "yes." "well, i have an order from mrs. effingham directing the bank to turn over whatever securities she has on deposit as collateral, on my payment of the note." "in that case you'll get 'em," said mr. mckeever gruffly. "i'll get them out and have 'em ready for you." * * * * * "here is my certified check for ten thousand; dollars," announced alfred haynes badger a few minutes later. "and here is the order from mrs. effingham. now will you kindly turn over to me all the securities?" mr. mckeever, knowing something of the reputation of mr. badger, first called up the bank which had certified the latter's check, and having ascertained that the certification was genuine he marked mrs. effingham's note as paid and then took down from the top of his roll-top desk the bundle of beautifully engraved securities given him by mr. tutt. badger watched him greedily. "thank you," he gurgled, stuffing them into his pocket. "much obliged for your courtesy. perhaps you would like me to open an account here?" "oh, anybody can open an account who wants to," remarked mr. mckeever dryly, turning away from him to something else. mr. badger fairly flew back to his office. the exquisite blonde had hardly ever before seen him exhibit so much agitation. "what have you pulled this time?" she inquired dreamily. "father's daguerreotype and the bracelet of mother's hair?" "i've grabbed off the whole bag of tricks!" he cried. "look at 'em! we've not seen so much of the real stuff in six months. "ten--twenty--thirty--forty--fifty--by gad!--sixty--seventy!" "what are they?" asked mabel curiously. "some bonds--what?" "i should say so!" he retorted gaily. "say, girlie, i'll give you the swellest meal of your young life to-night! chicago water front and terminal, great lakes and canadian southern, mohawk and housatonic, bluff creek and iowa central. '_oh, mabel_!'" it was at just about this period of the celebration that mr. tutt entered the outer office and sent in his name; and as mr. badger was at the height of his good humor he condescended to see him. "i have called," said mr. tutt, "in regard to the bonds belonging to my client, mrs. effingham. i see you have them on the desk there in front of you. unfortunately she has changed her mind. she has decided not to have you dispose of her securities." mr. badger's expression instantly became hostile and defiant. "it's too late!" he replied. "i have paid off her note and i am going to carry out the rest of the arrangement." "oh," said mr. tutt, "so you are going to sell all her securities and put the proceeds into your bogus oil company--whether she wishes it or not? if you do the district attorney will get after you." "i stand on my rights," snarled badger. "anyhow i can sell enough of the securities to pay myself back my ten thousand dollars." "and then you'll steal the rest?" inquired mr. tutt. "be careful, my dear sir! remember there is such a thing as equity, and such a place as sing sing." badger gave a cynical laugh. "you're too late, my friend! i've got a written order--_a written order_--from your client, as you call her. she can't go back on it now. i've got the bonds and i'm going to dispose of them." "very well," said mr. tutt tolerantly. "you can do as you see fit. but"--and he produced ten genuine one-thousand-dollar bills and exhibited them to mr. badger at a safe distance--"i now on behalf of mrs. effingham make you a legal tender of the ten thousand dollars you have just paid out to cancel her note, and i demand the return of the securities. incidentally i beg to inform you that they are not worth the paper they are printed on." "indeed!" sneered badger. "well, my dear! old friend, you might have saved yourself the trouble of coming round here. you and your client can go straight to hell. _you_ can keep the money; _i'll_ keep the bonds. see?" mr. tutt sighed and shook his head hopelessly. then he put the bills back into his pocket and started slowly for the door. "you absolutely and finally decline to give up the securities?" he asked plaintively. "absolutely and finally?" mocked mr. badger with a sweeping bow. "dear! dear!" almost moaned mr. tutt. "i'd heard of you a great many times but i never realized before what an unscrupulous man you were! anyhow, i'm glad to have had a look at you. by the way, if you take the trouble to dig through all that junk you'll find the certificate of stock in the great jehoshaphat oil company you used to flim flam mrs. effingham with out of her ten thousand dollars. maybe you can use it on someone else! anyhow, she's about two thousand dollars to the good. it isn't every widow who can get twenty per cent and then get her money back in full." the hepplewhite tramp "no freeman shall be taken, or imprisoned, or disseized or outlawed, or exiled, or in any way harmed--nor will we go upon or send upon him--save by the lawful judgment of his peers or by the law of the land." --magna charta, sec. . "'somebody has been lying in my bed--and here she is,' cried the little, small, wee bear, in his little, small, wee voice." --the three bears. one of the nicest men in new york was mr. john de puyster hepplewhite. the chief reason for his niceness was his entire satisfaction with himself and the padded world in which he dwelt, where he was as protected from all shocking, rough or otherwise unpleasant things as a shrinking débutante from the coarse universe of fact. being thus shielded from every annoyance and irritation by a host of sycophants he lived serenely in an atmosphere of unruffled calm, gazing down benignly and with a certain condescension from the rarefied altitude of his fifth avenue windows, pleased with the prospect of life as it appeared to him to be and only slightly conscious of the vileness of his fellow man. certainly he was not conscious at all of the existence of the celebrated law firm of tutt & tutt. such vulgar persons were not of his sphere. his own lawyers were gray-headed, dignified, rather smart attorneys who moved only in the best social circles and practised their profession with an air of elegance. when mr. hepplewhite needed advice he sent for them and they came, chatted a while in subdued easy accents, and went away--like cheerful undertakers. nobody ever spoke in loud tones near mr. hepplewhite because mr. hepplewhite did not like anything loud--not even clothes. he was, as we have said, quite one of the nicest men in new york. at the moment when mrs. witherspoon made her appearance he was sitting in his library reading a copy of "sainte-beuve" and waiting for bibby, the butler, to announce tea. it was eight minutes to five and there was still eight minutes to wait; so mr. hepplewhite went on reading "sainte-beuve." then "mrs. witherspoon!" intoned bibby, and mr. hepplewhite rose quickly, adjusted his eye-glass and came punctiliously forward. "my dear mrs. witherspoon!" he exclaimed crisply. "i am really delighted to see you. it was quite charming of you to give me this week-end." "adorable of you to ask me mr. hepplewhite!" returned the lady. "i've been looking forward to this visit for weeks. what a sweet room? is that a corot?" "yes--yes!" murmured her host modestly. "rather nice, i think, eh? i'll show you my few belongings after tea. now will you go upstairs first or have tea first?" "just as you say," beamed mrs. witherspoon. "perhaps i had better run up and take off my veil." "whichever you prefer," he replied chivalrously. "do exactly as you like. tea will be ready in a couple of minutes." "then i think i'll run up." "very well. bibby, show mrs. witherspoon--" "very good, sir. this way, please, madam. stockin', fetch mrs. witherspoon's bag from the hall." mr. hepplewhite stood rubbing his delicate hands in front of the fire, telling himself what a really great pleasure it was to have mrs. witherspoon staying with him over the week-end. he was having a dinner party for her that evening--of forty-eight. all that it had been necessary for him to do to have the party was to tell mr. sadducee, his secretary, that he wished to have it and direct him to send the invitations from list number one and then to tell bibby the same thing and to order the chef to serve dinner number four--only to have johannisberger cabinet instead of niersteiner. all these things were highly important to mr. hepplewhite, for upon the absolute smoothness with which tea and dinner were served and the accuracy with which his valet selected socks to match his tie his entire happiness, to say nothing of his peace of mind, depended. his daily life consisted of a series of subdued and nicely adjusted social events. they were forecast for months ahead. nothing was ever done on the spur of the moment at mr. hepplewhite's. he could tell to within a couple of seconds just exactly what was going to occur during the balance of the day, the remainder of mrs. witherspoon's stay and the rest of the month. it would have upset him very much not to know exactly what was going to happen, for he was a meticulously careful host and being a creature of habit the unexpected was apt to agitate him extremely. so now as he stood rubbing his hands it was in the absolute certainty that in just a few more seconds one of the footmen would appear between the tapestry portières bearing aloft a silver tray with the tea things, and then bibby would come in with the paper, and presently mrs. witherspoon would come down and she would make tea for him and they would talk about tea, and aiken, and whether the abner fullertons were going to get a domestic or foreign divorce, and how his bridge was these days. it would be very nice, and he rubbed his hands very gently and waited for the dresden clock to strike five in the subdued and decorous way that it had. but he did not hear it strike. instead a shriek rang out from the hall above, followed by yells and feet pounding down the stairs. mr. hepplewhite turned cold and something hard rose up in his throat. his sight dimmed. and then bibby burst in, pale and with protruding eyes. "there was a man in the guest room!" he gasped. "stockin's got him. what shall we do?" at that moment mrs. witherspoon followed. "oh, mr. hepplewhite! oh, mr. hepplewhite!" she gasped, staggering toward him. mr. hepplewhite would have taken her in his arms and attempted to comfort her only it was not done in mr. hepplewhite's set unless under extreme provocation. so he pressed an armchair upon her; or, rather, pressed her into an armchair; and leaned against the bookcase feeling very faint. he was extremely agitated. "s-send for the police! s-s-send for b-burk!" he stuttered. burk was a husky watchman who also acted as a personal guard for mr. hepplewhite. an alarm began to beat a deafening staccato in the hall outside the library. bibby rushed gurgling from the room. several tall men in knee breeches and silk stockings dashed excitedly up and down stairs using expressions such as had never before been heard by mr. hepplewhite, and the clanging gong of a police wagon was audible as it clattered up the avenue. "oh, mr. hepplewhite," whispered mrs. witherspoon, unconsciously seeking his hand. "i never was so frightened in my life!" then the gong stopped and the police poured into the house and up the stairs. there were muffled noises and suppressed ejaculations of "aw, come on there, now! i've got him, mike! no funny business now, you! come along quiet!" the whole house seemed blue with policemen, and mr. hepplewhite became aware of a very fat man in a blue cap marked captain, who removed the cap deferentially and otherwise indicated that he was making obeisance. behind the fat man stood three other equally fat men, who held between them with grim firmness, by arm, neck and shoulder, a much smaller--in fact, quite a small--man shabby, unkempt, and with a desperate look upon his unshaven face. "we've got him, all right, mr. hepplewhite!" exulted the captain, obviously grateful that god had vouchsafed to deliver the criminal into his and not into other hands. "shall i take him to the house--or do you want to examine him?" "i?" ejaculated mr. hepplewhite. "mercy, no! take him away as quickly as possible!" "as you say, sir," wheezed the captain. "come along, boys! take him over to court and arraign him!" "yes, do!" urged mrs. witherspoon. "and arraign him as hard as you can; for he really frightened me nearly to death, the terrible man!" "leave him to me, ma'am!" adjured the captain "will you have your butler act as complainant sir?" he asked. "why--yes--bibby will do whatever is proper," agreed mr. hepplewhite. "it will not be necessary for me to go to court, will it?" "oh, no!" answered the captain. "mr. bibby will do all right. i suppose we had better make the charge burglary, sir?" "i suppose so," replied mr. hepplewhite vaguely. "get on, boys," ordered the captain. "good evening, sir. good evening, ma'am. step lively, you!" the blue cloud faded away, bearing with it both bibby and the burglar. then the third footman brought the belated tea. "what a frightful thing to have happen!" grieved mrs. witherspoon as she poured out the tea for mr. hepplewhite. "you don't take cream, do you?" "no, thanks," he answered. "i find too much cream hard to digest. i have to be rather careful, you know. by the way, you haven't told me where the burglar was or what he was doing when you went into the room." "he was in the bed," said mrs. witherspoon. * * * * * "in the 'decay of lying,' mr. tutt," said tutt thoughtfully, as he dropped in for a moment's chat after lunch, "oscar wilde says, 'there is no essential incongruity between crime and culture.'" the senior partner removed his horn-rimmed spectacles and carefully polished the lenses with a bit of chamois, which he produced from his watch pocket, meanwhile resting the muscles of his forehead by elevating his eyebrows until he somewhat resembled an inquiring but good-natured owl. "that's plain enough," he replied. "the most highly cultivated people are often the most unscrupulous. i go oscar one better and declare that there is a distinct relationship between crime and progress!" "you don't say, now!" ejaculated tutt. "how do you make that out?" mr. tutt readjusted his spectacles and slowly selected a stogy from the bundle in the dusty old cigar box. "crime," he announced, "is the violation of the will of the majority as expressed in the statutes. the law is wholly arbitrary and depends upon public opinion. acts which are crimes in one century or country become virtues in another, and vice versa. moreover, there is no difference, except one of degree, between infractions of etiquette and of law, each of which expresses the feelings and ideas of society at a given moment. violations of good taste, manners, morals, illegalities, wrongs, crimes--they are all fundamentally the same thing, the insistence on one's own will in defiance of society as a whole. the man who keeps his hat on in a drawing-room is essentially a criminal because he prefers his own way of doing things to that adopted by his fellows." "that's all right," answered tutt. "but how about progress?" "why, that is simple," replied his partner. "the man who refuses to bow to habit, tradition, law--who thinks for himself and acts for himself, who evolves new theories, who has the courage of his convictions and stakes his life and liberty upon them--that man is either a statesman, a prophet or a criminal. and in the end he is either hailed as a hero and a liberator or is burned, cast into prison or crucified." tutt looked interested. "well, now," he returned, helping himself from the box, "i never thought of it, but, of course, it's true. your proposition is that progress depends on development and development depends on new ideas. if the new idea is contrary to those of society it is probably criminal. if its inventor puts it across, gets away with it, and persuades society that he is right he is a leader in the march of progress. if he fails he goes to jail. hence the relationship between crime and progress. why not say that crime is progress?" "if successful it is," answered mr. tutt. "but the moment it is successful it ceases to be crime." "i get you," nodded tutt. "here to-day it is a crime to kill one's grandmother; but i recall reading that among certain savage tribes to do so is regarded as a highly virtuous act. now if i convince society that to kill one's grandmother is a good thing it ceases to be a crime. society has progressed. i am a public benefactor." "and if you don't persuade society you go to the chair," remarked mr. tutt laconically. "to use another illustration," exclaimed tutt, warming to the subject, "the private ownership of property at the present time is recognized and protected by the law, but if we had a bolshevik government it might be a crime to refuse to share one's property with others." "in that case if you took your share of another's property by force, instead of being a thief you would be a progressive," smiled his partner. tutt robbed his forehead. "looking at it that way, you know," said he, "makes it seem as if criminals were rather to be admired." "well, some of them are, and a great multitude of them certainly were," answered mr. tutt. "all the early christian martyrs were criminals in the sense that they were law-breakers." "and martin luther," suggested tutt. "and garibaldi," added mr. tutt. "and george washington--maybe?" hazarded the junior partner. mr. tutt shrugged his high shoulders. "you press the analogy a long way, but--in a sense every successful revolutionist was in the beginning a criminal--as every rebel is and perforce must be," he replied. "so," said tutt, "if you're a big enough criminal you cease to be a criminal at all. if you're going to be a crook, don't be a piker--it's too risky. grab everything in sight. exterminate a whole nation, if possible. don't be a common garden highwayman or pirate; be a napoleon or a willy hohenzollern." "you have the idea," replied mr. tutt. "crime is unsuccessful defiance of the existing order of things. once rebellion rises to the dignity of revolution murder becomes execution and the murderers become belligerents. therefore, as all real progress involves a change in or defiance of existing law, those who advocate progress are essentially criminally minded, and if they attempt to secure progress by openly refusing to obey the law they are actual criminals. then if they prevail, and from being in the minority come into power, they are taken out of jail, banquets are given in their honor, and they are called patriots and heroes. hence the close connection between crime and progress." tutt scratched his chin doubtfully. "that sounds pretty good," he admitted, "but"--and he shook his head--"there's something the matter with it. it doesn't work except in the case of crimes involving personal rights and liberties. i see your point that all progressives are criminals in the sense that they are 'agin the law' as it is, but--i also see the hole in your argument, which is that the fact that all progressives are criminals doesn't make all criminals progressive. your proposition is only a half truth." "you're quite wrong about my theory being a half truth," retorted mr. tutt. "it is fundamentally sound. the fellow who steals a razor or a few dollars is regarded as a mean thief, but if he loots a trust company or takes a million he's a financier. the criminal law, i maintain, is administered for the purpose of protecting the strong from the weak, the successful from the unsuccessful the rich from the poor. and, sir"--mr. tutt here shook his fist at an imaginary jury--"the man who wears a red necktie in violation of the taste of his community or eats peas with his knife is just as much a criminal as a man who spits on the floor when there's a law against it. don't you agree with me?" "i do not!" replied tutt. "but that makes no difference. nevertheless what you say about the criminal law being devised to protect the rich from the poor interests me very much--very much indeed but i think there's a flaw in that argument too, isn't there? your proposition is true only to the extent that the criminal law is invoked to protect property rights--and not life and liberty. naturally the laws that protect property are chiefly of benefit to those who have it--the rich." "however that may be," declared mr. tutt fiercely, "i claim that the criminal laws are administered, interpreted and construed in favor of the rich as against the liberties of the poor, for the simple reason that the administrators of the criminal law desire to curry favor with the powers that be." "the moral of which all is," retorted the other, "that the law ought to be very careful about locking up people." "at any rate those who have violated laws upon which there can be a legitimate difference of opinion," agreed mr. tutt. "that's where we come in," said tutt. "we make the difference--even if there never was any before." mr. tutt chuckled. "we perform a dual service to society," he declared. "we prevent the law from making mistakes and so keep it from falling into disrepute, and we show up its weak points and thus enable it to be improved." "and incidentally we keep many a future statesman and prophet from going to prison," said tutt. "the name of the last one was solomon rabinovitch--and he was charged with stealing a second-hand razor from a colored person described in the papers as one morris cohen." how long this specious philosophic discussion would have continued is problematical had it not been interrupted by the entry of a young gentleman dressed with a somewhat ostentatious elegance, whose wizened face bore an expression at once of vast good nature and of a deep and subtle wisdom. it was clear that he held an intimate relationship to tutt & tutt from the familiar way in which he returned their cordial, if casual, salutations. "well, here we are again," remarked mr. doon pleasantly, seating himself upon the corner of mr. tutt's desk and spinning his bowler hat upon the forefinger of his left hand. "the hospitals are empty. the tombs is as dry as a bone. everybody's good and every day'll be sunday by and by." "how about that man who stole a razor?" asked tutt. "discharged on the ground that the fact that he had a full beard created a reasonable doubt," replied doon. "honestly there's nothing doing in my line--unless you want a tramp case." "a tramp case!" exclaimed tutt & tutt. "i suppose you'd call it that," he answered blandly. "i don't think he was a burglar. anyhow he's in the tombs now, shouting for a lawyer. i listened to him and made a note of the case." mr. tutt pushed over the box of stogies and leaned back attentively. "you know the hepplewhite house up on fifth avenue--that great stone one with the driveway?" the tutts nodded. "well, it appears that the prisoner--our prospective client--was snooping round looking for something to eat and found that the butler had left the front door slightly ajar. filled with a natural curiosity to observe how the other half lived, he thrust his way cautiously in and found himself in the main hall--hung with tapestry and lined with stands of armor. no one was to be seen. can't you imagine him standing there in his rags--the weary willy of the comic supplements--gazing about him at the _objets d'art_, the old masters, the onyx tables, the statuary--wondering where the pantry was and whether the housekeeper would be more likely to feed him or kick him out?" "weren't any of the domestics about?" inquired tutt. "not one. they were all taking an afternoon off, except the third assistant second man who was reading 'the pilgrim's progress' in the servants' hall. to resume, our friend was not only very hungry, but very tired. he had walked all the way from yonkers, and he needed everything from a turkish bath to a manicuring. he had not been shaved for weeks. his feet sank almost out of sight in the thick nap of the carpets. it was quiet, warm, peaceful in there. a sense of relaxation stole over him. he hated to go away, he says, and he meditated no wrong. but he wanted to see what it was like upstairs. "so up he went. it was like the palace of 'the sleeping beauty.' everywhere his eyes were soothed by the sight of hothouse plants, marble floors, priceless rugs, luxurious divans--" "stop!" cried tutt. "you are making me sleepy!" "well, that's what it did to him. he wandered along the upper hall, peeking into the different rooms, until finally he came to a beautiful chamber finished entirely in pink silk. it had a pink rug--of silk; the furniture was upholstered in pink silk, the walls were lined with pink silk and in the middle of the room was a great big bed with a pink silk coverlid and a canopy of the same. it seemed to him that that bed must have been predestined for him. without a thought for the morrow he jumped into it, pulled the coverlid over his head and went fast asleep. "meanwhile, at tea time mrs. de lancy witherspoon arrived for the week-end. bibby, the butler, followed by stocking, the second man, bearing the hand luggage, escorted the guest to the bouguereau room, as the pink-silk chamber is called." mr. bonnie doon, carried away by his own powers of description, waved his hand dramatically at the old leather couch against the side wall, in which weary willy was supposed to be reclining. "can't you see 'em?" he declaimed. "the haughty bibby with nose in air, preceding the great dame of fashion, enters the pink room and comes to attention, 'this way, madam!' he declaims, and mrs. witherspoon sweeps across the threshold." bonnie doon, picking up an imaginary skirt, waddled round mr. tutt and approached the couch. suddenly he started back. "oh, la, la!" he half shrieked, dancing about. "there is a man in the bed!" both tutts stared hard at the couch as if fully expecting to see the form of weary willy thereon. bonnie doon had a way of making things appear very vivid. "and sure enough," he concluded, "there underneath the coverlid in the middle of the bed was a huddled heap with a stubby beard projecting like excalibur from a pink silk lake!" "excuse me," interrupted tutt. "but may i ask what this is all about?" "why, your new case, to be sure," grinned bonnie, who, had he been employed by any other firm, might have run the risk of being regarded as an ambulance chaser. "to make a long and tragic story short, they sent for the watchman, whistled for a policeman, telephoned for the hurry-up wagon, and haled the sleeper away to prison--where he is now, waiting to be tried." "tried!" ejaculated mr. tutt. "what for?" "for crime, to be sure," answered mr. doon. "what crime?" "i don't know. they'll find one, of course." mr. tutt swiftly lowered his legs from the desk and brought his fist down upon it with a bang. "outrageous! what was i just telling you, tutt!" he cried, a flush coming into his wrinkled face. "this poor man is a victim of the overzealousness which the officers of the law exhibit in protecting the privileges and property of the rich. if john de puyster hepplewhite fell asleep in somebody's vestibule the policeman on post would send him home in a cab; but if a hungry tramp does the same thing he runs him in. if john de puyster hepplewhite should be arrested for some crime they would let him out on bail; while the tramp is imprisoned for weeks awaiting trial, though under the law he is presumed to be innocent. is he presumed to be innocent? not much! he is presumed to be guilty, otherwise he would not be there. but what is he presumed to be guilty of? that's what i want to know! just because this poor man--hungry, thirsty and weary--happened to select a bed belonging to john de puyster hepplewhite to lie on he is thrown into prison, indicted by a grand jury, and tried for felony! ye gods! 'sweet land of liberty!'" "well, he hasn't been tried yet," replied bonnie doon. "if you feel that way about it why don't you defend him?" "i will!" shouted mr. tutt, springing to his feet. "i'll defend him and acquit him!" he seized his tall hat, placed it upon his head and strode rapidly through the door. "he will too!" remarked bonnie, winking at tutt. "he thinks that tramp is either a statesman or a prophet!" mused tutt, his mind reverting to his partner's earlier remarks. "he won't think so after he's seen him," replied mr. doon. it sometimes happens that those who seek to establish great principles and redress social evils involve others in an involuntary martyrdom far from their desires. mr. tutt would have gone to the electric chair rather than see the hepplewhite tramp, as he was popularly called by the newspapers convicted of a crime, but the very fact that he had become his legal champion interjected a new element into the situation, particularly as o'brien, mr. tutt's arch enemy in the district attorney's office, had been placed in charge of the case. it would have been one thing to let hans schmidt--that was the tramp's name--go, if after remaining in the tombs until he had been forgotten by the press he could have been unobtrusively hustled over the bridge of sighs to freedom. then there would have been no comeback. but with ephraim tutt breathing fire and slaughter, accusing the police and district attorney of being trucklers to the rich and great, and oppressors of the poor--law breakers, in fact--o'brien found himself in the position of one having an elephant by the tail and unable to let go. in fact, it looked as if the case of the hepplewhite tramp might become a political issue. that there was something of a comic side to it made it all the worse. "holy cats, boys!" snorted district attorney peckham to the circle of disgruntled police officers and assistants gathered about him on the occasion described by the reporters as his making a personal investigation of the case, "why in the name of common sense didn't you simply boot the fellow into the street?" "i wish we had, counselor!" assented the captain of the hepplewhite precinct mournfully. "but we thought he was a burglar. i guess he was, at that--and it was mr. hepplewhite's house." "i've heard that until i'm sick of it!" retorted peckham. "one thing is sure--if we turn him out now tutt will sue us all for false arrest and put the whole administration on the bum," snarled o'brien. "but i didn't know the tramp would get mr. tutt to defend him," expostulated the captain. "anyhow, ain't it a crime to go to sleep in another man's bed?" "if it ain't it ought to be!" declared his plain-clothes man sententiously. "can't you indict him for burglary?" "you can indict all day; the thing is to convict!" snapped peckham. "it's up to you, o'brien, to square this business so that the law is vindicated--somehow it must be a crime to go into a house on fifth avenue and use it as a hotel. why, you can't cross the street faster than a walk these days without committing a crime. everything's a crime." "sure thing," agreed the captain. "i never yet had any trouble finding a crime to charge a man with, once i got the nippers on him." "that's so," interjected the plain-clothes man. "did you ever know it was a crime to mismanage a steam boiler? well, it is." "quite right," agreed mr. magnus, the indictment clerk. "the great difficulty for the perfectly honest man nowadays is to avoid some act or omission which the legislature has seen fit to make a crime without his knowledge. refilling a sarsaparilla bottle, for instance, or getting up a masquerade ball or going fishing or playing on sunday or loitering about a building to overhear what people are talking about inside--" "that's no crime," protested the captain scornfully. "yes, it is too!" retorted mr. magnus, otherwise known to his fellows as caput, because of his supposed cerebral inflation. "just like it is a crime to have any kind of a show or procession on sunday except a funeral, in which case it's a crime to make a disbursing noise at it." "what's a disbursing noise?" demanded o'brien. "i don't know," admitted magnus. "but that's the law anyway. you can't make a disbursing noise at a funeral on sunday." "oh, hell!" ejaculated the captain. "come to think of it, it's a crime to spit. what man is safe?" "it occurs to me," continued mr. magnus thoughtfully, "that it is a crime under the law to build a house on another man's land; now i should say that there was a close analogy between doing that and sleeping in his bed." "hear! hear!" commented o'brien. "caput magnus, otherwise known as big head, there is no doubt but that your fertile brain can easily devise a way out of our present difficulty." "well, i've no time to waste on tramp cases," remarked district attorney peckham. "i've something more important to attend to. indict this fellow and send him up quick. charge him with everything in sight and trust in the lord. that's the only thing to be done. don't bother me about it, that's all!" meantime mr. hepplewhite became more and more agitated. entirely against his will and, so far as he could see, without any fault of his own, he suddenly found himself the center of a violent and acrimonious controversy respecting the fundamental and sacred rights of freemen which threatened to disrupt society and extinguish the supremacy of the dominant local political organization. on the one hand he was acclaimed by the conservative pulpit and press as a public-spirited citizen who had done exactly the right thing--disinterestedly enforced the law regardless of his own convenience and safety as a matter of principle and for the sake of the community--a moral hero; on the other, though he was president of several charitable organizations and at least one orphan asylum he was execrated as a heartless brute, an oppressor of the poor, an octopus, a soulless capitalist who fattened on the innocent and helpless and who--mr. hepplewhite was a bachelor--probably if the truth could be known lived a life of horrid depravity and crime. indeed there was a man named tutt, of whom mr. hepplewhite had never before heard, who publicly declared that he, tutt, would show him, hepplewhite, up for what he was and make him pay with his body and his blood, to say nothing of his money, for what he had done and caused to be done. and so mr. hepplewhite became even more agitated, until he dreamed of this tutt as an enormous bird like the fabled roc, with a malignant face and a huge hooked beak that some day would nip him in the abdomen and fly, croaking, away with him. mrs. witherspoon had returned to aiken, and after the first flood of commiserations from his friends on lists numbers one, two, three and four he felt neglected, lonely and rather fearful. and then one morning something happened that upset his equanimity entirely. he had just started out for a walk in the park when a flashy person who looked like an actor walked impudently up to him and handed him a piece of paper in which was wrapped a silver half dollar. in a word mr. hepplewhite was subpoenaed and the nervous excitement attendant upon that operation nearly caused his collapse. for he was thereby commanded to appear before the court of general sessions of the peace upon the following monday at ten a.m. as a witness in a criminal action prosecuted by the people of the state of new york against hans schmidt. moreover, the paper was a dirty-brown color and bore the awful name of tutt. he returned immediately to the house and telephoned for mr. edgerton, his lawyer, who at once jumped into a taxi on the corner of wall and broad streets and hurried uptown. "edgerton," said hepplewhite faintly as the lawyer entered his library, "this whole unfortunate affair has almost made me sick. i had nothing to do with the arrest of this man schmidt. the police did everything. and now i'm ordered to appear as a witness! why, i hardly looked at the man. i shouldn't know him if i saw him. do i have to go to court?" mr. edgerton smiled genially in a manner which he thought would encourage mr. hepplewhite. "i suppose you'll have to go to court. you can't help that, you know, if you've been subpoenaed. but you can't testify to anything that i can see. it's just a formality." "formality!" groaned his client. "well, i supposed the arrest was just a formality." mr. edgerton smiled again rather unconvincingly. "well, you see, you can't always tell what will happen when you once start something," he began. "but i didn't start anything," answered mr. hepplewhite. "i had nothing to say about it." at that moment bibby appeared in the doorway. "excuse me, sir," he said. "there is a young man outside who asked me to tell you that he has a paper he wishes to serve on you--and would you mind saving him the trouble of waiting for you to go out?" "another!" gagged mr. hepplewhite. "yes, sir! thank you, sir," stammered bibby. mr. hepplewhite looked inquiringly at mr. edgerton and rose feebly. "he'll get you sooner or later," declared the lawyer. "a man as well known as you can't avoid process." mr. hepplewhite bit his lips and went out into the hall. presently he returned carrying a legal-looking bunch of papers. "well, what is it this time?" asked edgerton jocosely. "it's a suit for false imprisonment for one hundred thousand dollars!" choked mr. hepplewhite. mr. edgerton looked shocked. "well, now you've got to convict him!" he declared. "convict him?" retorted mr. hepplewhite. "i don't want to convict him. i'd gladly give a hundred thousand dollars to get out of the--the--darn thing!" which was as near profanity as he had ever permitted himself to go. * * * * * upon the following monday mr. hepplewhite proceeded to court--flanked by his distinguished counsel in frock coats and tall hats--simply because he had been served with a dirty-brown subpoena by tutt & tutt; and his distress was not lessened by the crowd of reporters who joined him at the entrance of the criminal courts building; or by the flashlight bomb that was exploded in the corridor in order that the evening papers might reproduce his picture on the front page. he had never been so much in the public eye before, and he felt slightly defiled. for some curious reason he had the feeling that he and not schmidt was the actual defendant charged with being guilty of something; nor was this impression dispelled even by listening to the indictment by which the grand jury charged schmidt in eleven counts with burglary in the first, second and third degrees and with the crime of entering his, hepplewhite's, house under circumstances not amounting to a burglary but with intent to commit a felony, as follows: "therefore, to wit, on the eleventh day of january in the year of our lord one thousand nine hundred and nineteen in the night-time of the said day at the ward, city and county aforesaid the dwelling house of one john de puyster hepplewhite there situate, feloniously and burglariously did break into and enter there being then and there a human being in said dwelling house, with intent to commit some crime therein, to wit, the goods, chattels, and personal property of the said john de puyster hepplewhite, then and there being found, then and there feloniously and burglariously to steal, take and carry away one silver tea service of the value of five hundred dollars and one pair of opera glasses of the value of five dollars each with force and arms----" "but that silver tea service cost fifteen thousand dollars and weighs eight hundred pounds!" whispered mr. hepplewhite. "order in the court!" shouted captain phelan, pounding upon the oak rail of the bar, and mr. hepplewhite subsided. yet as he sat there between his lawyers listening to all the extraordinary things that the grand jury evidently had believed schmidt intended to do, the suspicion began gradually to steal over him that something was not entirely right somewhere. why, it was ridiculous to charge the man with trying to carry off a silver service weighing nearly half a ton when he simply had gone to bed and fallen asleep. still, perhaps that was the law. however, when the assistant district attorney opened the people's case to the jury mr. hepplewhite began to feel much more at ease. indeed o'brien made it very plain that the defendant had been guilty of a very grievous--he pronounced it "gree-vious"--offense in forcing his way into another man's private house. it might or might not be burglary--that would depend upon the testimony--but in any event it was a criminal, illegal entry and he should ask for a conviction. a man's house was his castle and--to quote from that most famous of orators and statesmen--edmund burke--"the wind might enter, the rain might enter, but the king of england might not enter!" thus schmidt could not enter the house of hepplewhite without making himself amenable to the law. hepplewhite was filled with admiration for mr. o'brien, and his drooping spirits reared their wilted heads as the prosecutor called bibby to the stand and elicited from him the salient features of the case. the jury was vastly interested in the butler personally, as well as his account rendered in the choicest cockney of how he had discovered schmidt in his master's bed. o'brien bowed to mr. tutt and told him that he might cross-examine. and then it was that mr. hepplewhite discovered why he had been haunted by that mysterious feeling of guilt; for by some occult and subtle method of suggestion on the part of mr. tutt, the case, instead of being a trial of schmidt, resolved itself into an attack upon mr. hepplewhite and his retainers and upon the corrupt minions of the law who had violated every principle of justice, decency and morality in order to accomplish the unscrupulous purposes of a merciless aristocrat--meaning him. with biting sarcasm, mr. tutt forced from the writhing bibby the admission that the prisoner was sound asleep in the pink silk fastnesses of the bouguereau room when he was discovered that he made no attempt to escape, that he did not assault anybody and that he had appeared comatose from exhaustion; that there was no sign of a break anywhere, and that the pair of opera glasses "worth five dollars _apiece_"--tutt invited the court's attention to this ingenuous phraseology of mr. caput magnus, as a literary curiosity--were a figment of the imagination. in a word mr. tutt rolled bibby up and threw him away, while his master shuddered at the open disclosure of his trusted major-domo's vulgarity, mendacity and general lack of sportsmanship. somehow all at once the case began to break up and go all to pot. the jury got laughing at bibby, the footmen and the cops as mr. tutt painted for their edification the scene following the arrival of mrs. witherspoon, when schmidt was discovered asleep, as mr. tutt put it, like goldilocks in the little, small, wee bear's bed. stocking was the next witness, and he fared no better than had bibby. o'brien, catching the judge's eye, made a wry face and imperceptibly lowered his left lid--on the side away from the jury, thus officially indicating that, of course, the case was a lemon but that there was nothing that could be done except to try it out to the bitter end. then he rose and called out unexpectedly: "mr. john de puyster hepplewhite--take the stand!" it was entirely unexpected. no one had suggested that he would be called for the prosecution. possibly o'brien was actuated by a slight touch of malice; possibly he wanted to be able, if the case was lost, to accuse hepplewhite of losing it on his own testimony. but at any rate he certainly had no anticipation of what the ultimate consequence of his act would be. mr. hepplewhite suddenly felt as though his entire intestinal mechanism had been removed. but he had no time to take counsel of his fears. everybody in the courtroom turned with one accord and looked at him. he rose, feeling as one who dreams; that he is naked in the midst of a multitude. he shrank back hesitating, but hostile hands reached out and pushed him forward. cringing, he slunk to the witness chair, and for the first time faced the sardonic eyes of the terrible tutt, his adversary who looked scornfully from hepplewhite to the jury and then from the jury back to hepplewhite as if to say: "look at him! call you this a man?" "you are the mr. hepplewhite who has been referred to in the testimony as the owner of the house in which the defendant was found?" inquired o'brien. "yes--yes," answered mr. hepplewhite deprecatingly. "the first witness--bibby--is in your employ?" "yes--yes." "did you have a silver tea set of the value of--er--at least five hundred dollars in the house?" "it was worth fifteen thousand," corrected mr. hepplewhite. "oh! now, have you been served by the defendant's attorneys with a summons and complaint in an action for false arrest in which damages are claimed in the sum of one hundred thousand dollars?" "i object!" shouted mr. tutt. "it is wholly irrelevant." "i think it shows the importance of the result of this trial to the witness," argued o'brien perfunctorily. "it shows this case isn't any joke--even if some people seem to think it is." "objection sustained," ruled the court. "the question is irrelevant. the jury is supposed to know that every case is important to those concerned--to the defendant as well as to those who charge him with crime." o'brien bowed. "that's all. you may examine, mr. tutt." the old lawyer slowly unfolded his tall frame and gazed quizzically down upon the shivering hepplewhite. "you have been sued by my client for one hundred thousand dollars, haven't you?" he demanded. "object!" shot out o'brien. "overruled," snapped the court. "it is a proper question for cross-examination. it may show motive." mr. hepplewhite sat helplessly until the shooting was over. "answer the question!" suddenly shouted mr. tutt. "but i thought--" he began. "don't think!" retorted the court sarcastically. "the time to think has gone by. answer!" "i don't know what the question is," stammered mr. hepplewhite, thoroughly frightened. "lord! lord!" groaned o'brien in plain hearing of the jury. mr. tutt sighed sympathetically in mock resignation. "my dear sir," he began in icy tones, "when you had my client arrested and charged with being a burglar, had you made any personal inquiry as to the facts?" "i didn't have him arrested!" protested the witness. "you deny that you ordered bibby to charge the defendant with burglary?" roared mr. tutt. "take care! you know there is such a crime as perjury, do you not?" "no--i mean yes," stuttered mr. hepplewhite abjectly. "that is, i've heard about perjury--but the police attended to everything for me." "aha!" cried mr. tutt, snorting angrily like the war horse depicted in the book of job. "the police 'attended' to my client for you, did they? what do you mean--for you? did you pay them for their little attention?" "i always send them something on christmas," said mr. hepplewhite. "just like the postmen." mr. tutt looked significantly at the jury, while a titter ran round the court room. "well," he continued with patient irony, "what we wish to know is whether these friends of yours whom you so kindly remember at christmas dragged the helpless man away from your house, threw him into jail and charged him with burglary by your authority?" "i didn't think anything about it," asserted hepplewhite "really i didn't. i assumed that they knew what to do under such circumstances. i didn't suppose they needed any authority from me." mr. tutt eyed sideways the twelve jurymen. "trying to get out of it, are you? attempting to avoid responsibility? are you thinking of what your position will be if the defendant is acquitted--with an action against you for one hundred thousand dollars?" ashamed, terrified, humiliated, mr. hepplewhite almost burst into tears. he had suffered a complete moral disintegration--did not know where to turn for help or sympathy. the whole world seemed to have risen against him. he opened his mouth to reply, but the words would not come. he looked appealingly at the judge, but the judge coldly ignored him. the whole room seemed crowded with a multitude of leering eyes. why had god made him a rich man? why was he compelled to suffer those terrible indignities? he was not responsible for what had been done--why then, was he being treated so abominably? "i don't want this man punished!" he suddenly broke out in fervent expostulation. "i have nothing against him. i don't believe he intended to do any wrong. and i hope the jury will acquit him!" "oho!" whistled mr. tutt exultantly, while o'brien gazed at hepplewhite in stupefaction. _was_ this a man? "so you admit that the charge against my client is without foundation?" insisted mr. tutt. hepplewhite nodded weakly. "i don't know rightly what the charge is--but i don't think he meant any harm," he faltered. "then why did you have the police put him under arrest and hale him away?" challenged mr. tutt ferociously. "i supposed they had to--if he came into my house," said mr. hepplewhite. then he added shamefacedly: "i know it sounds silly--but frankly i did not know that i had anything to say in the matter. if your client has been injured by my fault or mistake i will gladly reimburse him as handsomely as you wish." o'brien gasped. then he made a funnel of his hands and whispered toward the bench: "take it away, for heaven's sake!" "that is all!" remarked mr. tutt with deep sarcasm, making an elaborate bow in the direction of mr. hepplewhite. "thank you for your excellent intentions!" a snicker followed mr. hepplewhite as he dragged himself back to his seat among the spectators. he felt as though he had passed through a clothes wringer. dimly he heard mr. tutt addressing the court. "and i move, your honor," the lawyer was paying, "that you take the counts for burglary in the first, second and third degrees away from the jury on the ground that there has been a complete failure of proof that my client broke into the house of this man hepplewhite either by night or by day, or that he assaulted anybody or stole anything there, or ever intended to." "motion granted," agreed the judge. "i quite agree with you, mr. tutt. there is no evidence here of any breaking. in fact, the inferences are all the other way." "i further move that you take from the consideration of the jury the remaining count of illegally entering the house with intent to commit a crime and direct the jury to acquit the defendant for lack of evidence," continued mr. tutt. "but what was your client doing in the house?" inquired the judge. "he had no particular business in it, had he?" "that does not make his presence a crime, your honor," retorted the lawyer. "a man is not guilty of a felony who falls asleep on my haycock. why should he be if he falls asleep in my bed?" the judge smiled. "we have no illegal entry statute with respect to fields or meadows, mr. tutt," he remarked good-naturedly. "no, i shall be obliged to let the jury decide whether this defendant went into that house for an honest or dishonest purpose. it is clearly a proper question for them to pass upon. proceed with your case." now when, as in the case of the hepplewhite tramp, the chief witness for the prosecution throws up his hands and offers to repay the defendant for the wrong he has done him, naturally it is all over but the shouting. "there is no need for me to call the defendant," mr. tutt told the court, "in view of the admissions made by the last witness. i am ready to proceed with the summing up." "as you deem wise," answered the judge. "proceed then." through a blur of sight and sound mr. hepplewhite dimly heard mr. tutt addressing the jury and saw them lean forward to catch his every word. beside him mr. edgerton was saying protestingly: "may i ask why you made those fool statements on the witness stand?" "because i didn't want an innocent man convicted," returned mr. hepplewhite tartly. "well, you'll get your wish!" sniffed his lawyer. "and you'll get soaked for about twenty thousand dollars for false arrest!" "i don't care," retorted the client. "and what's more i hope mr. tutt gets a substantial fee out of it. he strikes me as a lawyer who knows his business!" the oldest and fattest court officers, men so old and fat that they remembered the trial of boss tweed and the days when delancey nicoll was the white hope of the brownstone court house--declared mr. tutt's summation was the greatest that ever they heard. for the shrewd old lawyer had an artist's hand with which he played upon the keyboard of the jury and knew just when to pull out the stops of the _vox humana_ of pathos and the grand diapason of indignation and defiance. so he began by tickling their sense of humor with an ironic description of afternoon tea at mr. hepplewhite's, with bibby and stocking as chief actors, until all twelve shook with suppressed laughter and the judge was forced to hide his face behind the _law journal_; ridiculed the idea of a criminal who wanted to commit a crime calmly going to sleep in a pink silk bed in broad daylight; and then brought tears to their eyes as he pictured the wretched homeless tramp, sick, footsore and starving, who, drawn by the need of food and warmth to this silk nest of luxury, was clubbed, arrested and jailed simply because he had violated the supposed sanctity of a rich man's home. the jury watched him as intently as a dog watches a piece of meat held over its nose. they smiled with him, they wept with him, they glared at mr. hepplewhite and they gazed in a friendly way at schmidt, whom mr. tutt had bailed out just before the trial. the very stars in their courses seemed warring for tutt & tutt. in the words of phelan: "there was nothing to it!" "thank god," concluded mr. tutt eloquently, "that in this land of liberty in which we are privileged to dwell no man can be convicted of a crime except by a jury of his peers--a right sacred under our constitution and inherited from magna charta, that foundation stone of english liberty, in which the barons forced king john to declare that 'no freeman shall be taken, or imprisoned, or disseized, or outlawed, or exiled, or in any way harmed ... save by the lawful judgment of his peers or by the law of the land.' "had i the time i would demonstrate to you the arbitrary character of our laws and the inequality with which they are administered. "but in this case the chief witness has already admitted the innocence of the defendant. there is nothing more to be said. the prosecution has cried '_peccavi!_' i leave my client in your hands." he resumed his seat contentedly and wiped his forehead with his silk handkerchief. the judge looked down at o'brien with raised eyebrows. "i will leave the case to the jury on your honor's charge," remarked the latter carelessly. "gentlemen of the jury," began the judge, "the defendant is accused of entering the house of mr. hepplewhite with the intent to commit a crime therein--" mr. hepplewhite sat, his head upon his breast, for what seemed to him several hours. he had but one thought--to escape. his ordeal had been far worse than he had anticipated. but he had made a discovery. he had suddenly realized that one cannot avoid one's duties to one's fellows by leaving one's affairs to others--not even to the police. he perceived that he had lived with his head stuck in the sand. he had tried to escape from his responsibilities as a citizen by hiding behind the thick walls of his stone mansion on fifth avenue. he made up his mind that he would do differently if he ever had the chance. meanwhile, was not the jury ever going to set the poor man free? they had indeed remained out a surprisingly long time in order merely to reach a verdict which was a mere formality. ah! there they were! mr. hepplewhite watched with palpitating heart while they straggled slowly in. the clerk made the ordinary perfunctory inquiry as to what their verdict was. mr. hepplewhite did not hear what the foreman said in reply, but he saw both the tutts and o'brien start from their seats and heard a loud murmur rise throughout the court room. "what's that!" cried the clerk in astonished tones. "what did you say, mister foreman?" "i said that we find the defendant guilty," replied the foreman calmly. mr. tutt stared incredulously at the twelve traitors who had betrayed him. "never mind, mr. tutt," whispered number six confidentially. "you did the best you could. your argument was fine--grand--but nobody could ever make us believe that your client went into that house for any purpose except to steal whatever he could lay his hands on. besides, it wasn't mr. hepplewhite's fault. he means well. and anyhow a nut like that has got to be protected against himself." he might have enlightened mr. tutt further upon the psychology of the situation had not the judge at that moment ordered the prisoner arraigned at the bar. "have you ever been convicted before?" asked his honor sharply. "sure," replied the hepplewhite tramp carelessly. "i've done three or four bits, i'm a burglar. but you can't give me more than a year for illegal entry." "that is quite true," admitted his honor stiffly. "and it isn't half enough!" he hesitated. "perhaps under the circumstances you'll tell us what you were doing in mr. hepplewhite's bed?" "oh, i don't mind," returned the defendant with the superior air of one who has put something over. "when i heard the guy in the knee breeches coming up the stairs i just dove for the slats and played i was asleep." leaving the courthouse mr. tutt encountered bonnie doon. "young man," he remarked severely, "you assured me that fellow was only a harmless tramp!" "well," answered bonnie, "that's what he said." "he says now he's a burglar," retorted mr. tutt wrathfully. "i don't believe he knows what he is. did you ever hear of such an outrageous verdict? with not a scrap of evidence to support it?" bonnie lit a cigarette doubtfully. "oh, i don't know," he muttered. "the jury seems to have sized him up rather better than we did." "jury!" growled mr. tutt, rolling his eyes heavenward. "'sweet land of liberty!'" lallapaloosa limited "ethics: the doctrine of man's duty in respect to himself and the rights of others." --century dictionary. "i don't say that all these people couldn't be squared; but it is right to tell you that i shouldn't be sufficiently degraded in my own estimation unless i was insulted with a very considerable bribe." --pooh-bah. "i've been all over those securities," miss wiggin informed mr. tutt as he entered the office one morning, "and not a single one of them is listed on the stock exchange." "what securities are those?" asked her employer, hanging his tall hat on the antiquated mahogany coat tree in the corner opposite the screen that ambushed the washing apparatus. "i don't remember any securities," he remarked as he applied a match to the off end of a particularly green and vicious-looking stogy. "why, of course you do, mr. tutt!" insisted miss wiggin. "don't you remember those great piles of bonds and stocks that doctor barrows left here with you to keep for him?" "oh, those!" mr. tutt smiled inscrutably. "mr. barrows is not a physician," he corrected her, running his eye over the general sessions calendar. "he's only a 'doc'--that is to say, one who doctors. you know you can doctor a lot of things besides the human anatomy. no, i guess they're not listed on the stock exchange or anywhere else." "well, here's a schedule i made of them--miss sondheim typed it--and their total face value is seventeen million eight hundred thousand dollars. i tried to find out all i could, but none of the firms on wall street had ever heard of any of them--excepting of one that was traded in on the curb up to within a few weeks. there's great lakes and canadian southern railway company," she went on, "chicago water front and terminal company, great geyser texan petroleum and llano estacado land company--dozens and dozens of them, and not one has an office or, so far as i can find out, any tangible existence--but the one i spoke of." "which is this great exception?" queried mr. tutt absently as he searched through the _law journal_ for the case he was going to try that afternoon. "you said one of them had been dealt in on the curb? you astonish me!" "it's got a funny name," she answered. "it almost sounds as if they meant it for a joke--horse's neck extension." "i guess they meant it for a joke all right--on the public," chuckled her employer. "how many shares are there?" "a hundred thousand," she answered. "jumping jehoshaphat!" ejaculated mr. tutt. "how on earth did old doc manage to get hold of them?" "it sold for only ten cents a share!" replied miss wiggin. "that would mean ten thousand dollars--" "if doc paid for it," supplemented mr. tutt. "which he probably didn't. what's it selling for now?" "it isn't selling at all." mr. tutt pressed the button that summoned willie. "when you haven't anything better to do," he said to her, "why don't you go round and see what has become of--of--horse's neck extension?" "i will," assented miss wiggin. "it makes me feel rich just to talk about such things. i just love it." "many a slick crook has taken advantage of just that kind of feeling," mused mr. tutt. "there are two things that women--particularly trained nurses--seem to like better than anything else in the world--babies and stock certificates." then upon the arrival of the recalcitrant william he gathered up his papers and took down his hat from the tree. "i wish you'd let me get your hat ironed, mr. tutt," remarked miss wiggin. "it would cost you only fifty cents." "that's all you know about it, my dear," he answered. "more likely it would cost me a hundred thousand dollars." * * * * * mr. tobias greenbaum, of scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck, carefully placed his cigar where it would not char his italian renaissance desk and smoothed out the list which mr. elderberry, the secretary of the horse's neck extension copper mining company, handed to him. the list was typed on thin sheets; of foolscap and contained the names of stockholders, but as it had lain rolled up in the bottom of mr. elderberry's desk for five years without being disturbed it was inclined to resist the gentle pressure of mr. greenbaum's fingers. mr. greenbaum glanced sharply round the plate-glass lake that separated him from the other directors of horse's neck, rather as if he had detected his associates in a crime. "isaacs says," he announced in an arrogant, almost insulting tone, though below the surface he was an entirely genial person, "that the new vein in the amphalula runs into the west drift of horse's neck almost to where we quit work in number nine five years ago." "if it does it will make it a bonanza property," emphatically declared his partner, mr. scherer, a dolichocephalous person with very black hair and thin bluish cheeks. "it's a pity we didn't buy it all in at ten cents a share." "we did!" retorted greenbaum. "all that could be shaken out. we've got all the stock that hasn't gravitated to the cemeteries." "even if the amphalula vein doesn't run into it it will come near enough to make horse's neck worth dollars per share. it's a heads-i-win-tails-you-lose proposition," commented mr. hunn dryly. "who controls amphalula?" "we do," snapped greenbaum. "then it's a cinch," returned hunn mildly. "shake out the sleepers, reorganize, and sell or hold as seems most advisable later on." mr. elderberry cleared his throat tentatively. "if you gentlemen will pardon me--i have been considering this matter for some little time," he hazarded. mr. elderberry was not only the professional salaried secretary of horse's neck but was also treasurer of the amphalula, and general factotum, representative and interlocking director for scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck in their various mining enterprises, combining in his person almost as many offices as, pooh-bah in "the mikado." though he could not have claimed to serve as "first lord of the treasury, lord chief justice, commander-in-chief, lord high admiral, master of the buck hounds, groom of the back stairs, archbishop of titipu and lord mayor, both acting and elect, all rolled into one," he could with entire modesty have admitted the soft impeachment of being simultaneously treasurer of amphalula, vice-president of hooligan gulch and red water, secretary of horse's neck, holy jo, gargoyle extension, cowhide number five, consolidated bimetallic, nevada mastodon, leaping frog, orelady mine, why marry and sol's cliff buttress, and president of blimp consolidated. all these various properties were either owned or controlled by scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck and had been acquired with the use of the same original capital in various entirely legal ways, which at the present moment are irrelevant. the firm was a strictly honorable business house, from both their own point of view and that of the street. everything they did was with and by the advice of counsel. yet not one of these active-minded gentlemen, including mr. greenbaum, the dolichocephalous scherer and the acephalous hunn, had ever done a stroke of productive work or contributed anything toward the common weal. in fact, distress to somebody in some form, and usually to a large number of persons, inevitably followed whatever deal they undertook, since their business was speculating in mining properties and unloading the bad ones upon an unsuspecting public which scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck had permitted to deceive itself. thus, when greenbaum called upon mr. elderberry for advice, it savored strongly of koko's consulting pooh-bah and was sometimes almost as confusing, for just as pooh-bah on these occasions was won't to reply, "certainly. in which of my capacities? as first lord of the treasury, lord chamberlain, attorney-general, chancellor of the exchequer, privy purse or private secretary?" so the financial and corporate elderberry might equally well ask: "exactly. but are you seeking my advice as secretary of horse's neck, of holy jo, of cowhide number five, or as vice-president of hooligan gulch and red water, treasurer of amphalula or president of blimp consolidated?" just now it was, of course, obvious that he was addressing the company in his capacity of secretary of horse's neck. "it goes without saying, gentlemen, that this property is pretty nearly down and out. you will recall that most of the insiders sold out on the tail of the goldfield boom and waited for the market to sag until we could buy in again. the mines are full of water, work was abandoned over four years ago, and the property is practically defunct. the original capitalization was ten million shares at one dollar a share. we own or control at least four million shares, for which we paid ten to fifteen cents, while we had sold our original holdings for one dollar sixty to one dollar ninety-five a share. while horse's neck represents a handsome profit--in my opinion"--he cleared his throat again as if deprecating the vulgarity of his phrase--"it is good for another whirl." "you say it's full of water?" inquired hunn. "it will cost about fifty thousand dollars to pump out the mines and a hundred thousand to repair the machinery. then there's quite an indebtedness--about seventy-five thousand; and tax liens--another fifty. half a million dollars would put horse's neck on the map, and if the amphalula vein crosses the property it will be worth ten millions. if it doesn't, the chance that it is going to will make a market for the stock." mr. elderberry swept with a bland inquiring eye the shore of the glassy sea about which his associates were gathered. "i've been over the ground," announced greenbaum "and it's a good gamble. we want horse's neck for ourselves--at any rate until we are confident that it's a real lemon. half a million will do it. i'll personally put up a hundred thousand." "how are you going to get rid of the fifty thousand other stockholders?" asked mr. beck dubiously "we don't want them trailing along with us." "i propose," answered mr. elderberry brightly, in his capacity as chief conspirator for scherer, hunn, _et al._, "that we organize a new corporation to be called 'lallapaloosa limited' and capitalize it at a million dollars--one million shares at a dollar a share. then we will execute a contract between horse's neck and lallapaloosa by the terms of which the old bankrupt corporation will sell to the new corporation all its assets for one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. we underwrite the stock of lallapaloosa at fifty cents a share, thus supplying the new corporation with the funds with which to purchase the properties of the old. in a word we shall get horse's neck for a hundred and twenty-five thousand and have three hundred and seventy-five thousand left out of what we subscribe to underwrite the stock to put it on its feet." "that's all right," debated hunn. "but how about the other stockholders in horse's neck that beck referred to? where do they come in?" "i've thought of that," returned elderberry. "of course you can't just squeeze 'em out entirely. that wouldn't be legal. they must be given the chance to subscribe at par to the stock of the new corporation on the basis of one share in the new for every ten they hold in the old; or, as horse's neck is a delaware corporation, to have their old stock appraised under the laws of delaware. in point of fact, they've all written off their holdings in horse's neck as a total loss years ago and you couldn't drag 'em into putting in any new money. they'll simply let it go--forfeit their stock in horse's neck and be wiped out because they were not willing to go in and reorganize the property with us." "they would if they knew about amphalula," remarked beck. "well, they don't!" snapped greenbaum, "and we're under no obligations to tell 'em. they can infer what they like from the fact that horse's neck has been selling for ten cents a share for the last three years." "is that right, chippingham?" inquired beck of the attorney who was in attendance. "i mean--is it legal?" "perfectly legal," replied mr. chippingham conclusively. "a corporation has a perfect right to dispose of its entire assets for a proper consideration and if any minority stockholder feels aggrieved he can take the matter to the delaware courts and get his equity assessed. besides, everybody is treated alike--all the stockholders in horse's neck can subscribe pro rata for lallapaloosa." "only they won't," grinned scherer. "and so, as they are wiped out--the new corporation--that is us--in fact gets their equity, just as much as if they had deeded it to us." "that is, we get for nothing about one-half the value of the property," agreed elderberry. "now, i've been over the list and i don't think you'll hear a peep from any of them." "he's got 'em on the list--he's got 'em on the list; and they'll none of 'em be missed--they'll none of 'em be missed!" hummed mr. beck. "it looks good to me! i'll take a hundred thousand." "mr. chippingham has the papers drawn already," continued elderberry. "of course you've got to give the old stockholders notice, but we can rush the thing through and before anybody wakes up the thing will be done. then they can holler all they want." "well, i'll come in," announced hunn complacently. "so will i," echoed scherer. "and the firm can underwrite the last hundred thousand, and that will clean it up." "is it all right for us to underwrite the stock ourselves at half price?" inquired mr. beck. "i mean--is it legal?" "sure!" reiterated mr. chippingham. "somebody's got to underwrite it; why not us?" "move we adjourn," said mr. greenbaum. "elderberry--the usual." mr. elderberry removed from his change pocket five glittering gold pieces and slid one across the glass sheet to each director. "second motion. carried! all up--seventh inning!" smiled mr. scherer; and the directors, pocketing their gold pieces, arose. if, as it has been defined, ethics consists of a "system of principles and rules concerning moral obligations and regard for the rights of others," it may be interesting to speculate as to whether or not these gentlemen had any or not, and, if so, what it may have been. but in considering this somewhat nice question it should be borne in mind that messrs. scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck were bankers of standing, and were advised by a firm of attorneys of the highest reputation. on its face, and as it was about to be represented to the stockholders of horse's neck, the proposition appeared fair enough. the circular, shortly after sent out to all the names upon the list, stated succinctly that financial and labor conditions had been such that it had been found impossible to operate the mine profitably for several years, that it had depreciated greatly in value owing to the water which had accumulated in its lower levels, that it had exhausted its surplus, that a heavy indebtedness had accumulated, that the corporation's outstanding notes had been protested and that the property would be sold under foreclosure unless money was immediately raised to pay them, the interest due and taxes; that half a million dollars was needed to put the property in operation and that there was no way to secure it, as nobody was willing to loan money to a bankrupt mining concern. that under these circumstances no practical method had been proposed except to organize a new corporation capitalized at one million instead of ten, to the stock of which each shareholder in horse's neck might subscribe in proportion to his holdings, at par, and to which the assets of the old corporation should be transferred practically for its debts. that this, in a word, was the only way to save the situation and possibly make a go of a bad business, and that it was a gamble in which the old stockholders had a right, up to a certain date, to participate if they saw fit. those that did not would find their stock in horse's neck entirely valueless as it would have no assets left which had not been transferred to lallapaloosa. stockholders who were dissatisfied could protest against the enabling resolution to be offered at the annual meeting of the stockholders of horse's neck to be held the following week at wilmington, delaware, and could avail themselves of the right to have their equity assessed under the laws of delaware, but as the liabilities practically equaled the present value of the property that equity would naturally be highly problematical. now, as a matter of morals or of law the only thing that made the proposed reorganization unethical or inequitable was the single trifling fact that those responsible for it were the only ones who knew of the existence and proximity of the amphalula vein. when a mining company, a railroad, an oil well or any other enterprise is down and out it is only fair that the majority stockholders, who are obliged to protect their investment, should have the right to call upon the rest to come forward and do their share or else drop out. a minority stockholder cannot appeal to any canon of fair play whereby he should be entitled to sit back and let the majority take all the risks and then claim his share of the profits. the imponderable element of injustice in the situation consisted in the suppression of a fact which the directors concealed but concerning which, however, they made no representation, false or otherwise. they were going to risk half a million dollars of their own money and they wanted the whole gamble for themselves. they sincerely felt that nobody else was entitled to take that risk with them. once they had floated horse's neck they had come to look upon it as their own private affair. the minority had no rights which they, the majority, were bound to respect. the minority were nothing but a lot of piking gamblers, anyway, who bought or sold for a rise or fall of a few cents. they knew nothing of the property and cared less for its real value. they were merely traders and if they lost they forgot it or tried to. on the other hand scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck were promoters, who contributed something to the economic advancement of the nation. * * * * * "regarding my hat, which you suggested this morning should be pressed at a cost of fifty cents," remarked mr. tutt to miss wiggin when he returned to the office upon the adjournment of court in the afternoon and replaced that ancient object in its accustomed resting-place --"regarding that precious hat of mine"--he eyed it affectionately --"i can only say that i would as soon send myself to a dry-cleaning establishment as to permit its profanation by the iron of a haberdasher." miss wiggin laughed lightly. "that doesn't explain your cryptic statement that it would probably cost you a hundred thousand dollars," she replied. "still--" mr. tutt turned suddenly upon his heel and held her with an upraised hand, the bony wrist of which was encircled, after an intervening space of some five inches, by a frayed cuff confined with a black onyx button the size of a quarter. "behold," he cried in the deep resonant voice that he used in addressing juries at the climax of a peroration, "the integuments of my personality--the ancient habiliments of an honorable profession--the panoply of the legal warrior. here, my corslet"--he touched his dingy waistcoat with his left hand; "my greaves"--he brushed the baggy legs of his pantaloons; "my halberd"--he raised his old mahogany cane with its knot of yellow ivory; "my casque"--he indicated his ruffled stove-pipe "arrayed in these i am mr. ephraim tutt, attorney and counselor at law--the senior partner in tutt & tutt--a respected member of the bar duly accredited and authorized to practise before the supreme court of the state of new york, the court of appeals, the district court of the united states, the circuit court of appeals, the supreme court of the united states, the court of claims--" "--the police court and the coroner's court," concluded miss wiggin, making him a mock curtsy. "without these indicia of my profession and my individuality i should be like david without his sling or samson without his hair. i should be merely tutt, a criminal lawyer--one of a multitude--regarded perhaps as a shyster. but in these robes of my high office i am a high priest of the law; just as you, my dear girl, are one of its many devoted and worthy priestesses. can you imagine me going to court in a bowler hat or arguing to the jury in a cutaway coat or bobtail business suit? can you picture ephraim tutt with his hair cut short or in an ascot tie, any more than you can envisage him in riding breeches or wearing lilacs? no! there is but one mr. tutt, and these are his only garments. he who steals my hat may steal trash, but without it i should be like a disembodied spirit unable to return to my earthly dwelling-place. "a paltry hundred thousand? "nay, without my hat--my helmet!--i should be valueless to myself and everybody else; so estimate my worth and you can assay the value of my hat. what am i worth in your opinion?" and then miss wiggin, having glanced cautiously if quickly round, made a most astonishing declaration. "just about a million times more than anybody else in the whole world, you old dear!" she whispered and rising upon her toes she kissed his wrinkled cheek. "dear me! you really mustn't do that!" gasped mr. tutt. "well," she retorted, "you can discharge me if you like. but first sit down, light a cigar and let me tell you something." mr. tutt did as he was bid, chuckling. "well," said miss wiggin, "there is such a thing as horse's neck extension after all!" "um--you don't say?" he answered, struggling to make his stogy draw. "and it has an office with about a hundred other corporations of various kinds--most of them with names that sound like the zoo--yellow wildcat, jumping leapfrog, and that sort of thing. it seems horse's neck is played out and they are going to reorganize it--" "who are?" demanded her employer, suddenly sitting erect. "scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck." "the dickens they are!" he ejaculated. "that bunch of pirates? not if i know it!" "why not?" "reorganize! reorganize? reorganization is my middle name!" cried mr. tutt. "so scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck are going to reorganize something, are they? let 'em try! not so long as i've got my hat!" "this is all very enigmatical to me," replied miss wiggin. "but then, i'm only a woman. aren't they all right? why shouldn't they reorganize a mine if it's exhausted?" "if it's exhausted why do they want to reorganize it?" he demanded, climbing to his feet. "let me tell you something, minerva! all my life i've been fighting against tyranny--the tyranny of the law, the tyranny of power, the tyranny of money." he drew fiercely on his stogy, which being desiccated flared like a roman candle. "you don't need to tell me what this plan of reorganization is; because they wouldn't propose one unless it was going to benefit them in some way, and the only way it can be made to benefit them is at the expense of the other stockholders. _quod erat demonstrandum_." mr. tutt seemed to have become distended somehow and to have spread over the entire wall surface of his office like the genie which the fisherman innocently permitted to escape from the bottle. "there isn't one reorganization scheme in a hundred that isn't crooked somewhere." "according to that, if a business is unsuccessful it ought to be allowed to go to pot for fear that somebody might make a profit in putting it on its feet," she countered. "i think you're a violent, irascible, prejudiced old man!" "all the same," he retorted, "show me a reorganization scheme and i'll show you a flimflam! what's this one? bet you anything you like it's as crooked as a ram's horn. i don't have to hear about it. don't want to read the plan. but i'll bust it--higher than hades. see if i don't!" he spat the remaining filaments of his stogy from the window and fished out another. "how do we come into it, anyhow?" he demanded. "doctor--i mean mister barrows," replied miss wiggin. "oh, yes. of course. well, you send for him to come down here and sign the papers." "what papers?" "the complaint and order to show cause." "but there isn't any." "there will be, all right, by the time he gets here." miss wiggin looked first puzzled and then pained. "i don't understand," she said rather stiffly. "do you mean that the firm of tutt & tutt is going to engage in the enterprise of trying to break up a plan of reorganization without knowing what it is? won't you lay us all open to the accusation of being strikers?" mr. tutt's ordinarily brown complexion became slightly tinged with purple. "let the court decide!" he cried hotly. "you say scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck are proposing to reorganize a mining company? you admit we hold some of the stock? well--as the natural-born and perennial champion of the outraged minority--i'm going to attack it, and bust it, and raise heck with it--on general principles. i'm going to throw that damned old hat of mine into the ring, my child, and play hell with everything." and with a cluck mr. tutt leaned over, produced a dingy bottle wrapped in a coat of many colors and poured himself out a glass of malt extract. * * * * * when mr. greenbaum was summoned to the telephone and informed by mr. elderberry in disgruntled tones that somebody had just served upon him an order to show cause why the proposed reorganization of horse's neck should not be set aside and enjoined, he not only became instantly annoyed but highly excited. "what!" he almost screamed. "i'll read it to you, if you don't believe it!" said mr. elderberry. "'united states district court, southern district of new york, edward v. barrows, complainant against horse's neck extension mining company, defendant. "'upon the subpoena herein and the complaint duly verified the nineteenth day of february, , and the affidavit of ephraim tutt and--'" "who in hell is tutt?" shouted greenbaum, interrupting. "i don't know," retorted elderberry; "or barrows either." "well, skip all the legal rot and get to the point," directed greenbaum. "'ordered--ordered, that the defendant, horse's neck extension mining company, show cause at a stated term to be held in and for--'" "i said to cut the legal rot!" "um--um--'why an injunction order should not be issued herein pending the trial of this action and enjoining the defendant from disposing of its assets and for the appointment of a receiver of the assets of the defendant corporation; and why the complainant should not have such other, further and different relief as may be equitable.'" there was a long pause during which mr. elderberry was under a convincing delusion that he could actually hear the thoughts that were rattling round in mr. greenbaum's brain. "you there?" he inquired presently. "oh, yes, i'm here!" retorted greenbaum. "this is the devil of a note! have you spoken to chippingham?" "yes." "what does he say?" "he says it's awkward. they have got hold somewhere of one of our old circulars of in which the property is described as worth about ten million dollars--that was during the boom, you remember--and they claim we are selling it to ourselves for less than one million and that on its face it's a fraud on the minority stockholders who can't afford to buy stock in the new corporation--as of course it would be if the mine was really worth ten million or anything like it." "did we really ever get out any circular like that?" demanded greenbaum in a protesting voice. "i don't recall any." "that was when we were making a market for the stock," elderberry reminded him. "we couldn't say enough. honestly, to look at the thing now is enough to make you sick!" "well, it's just a hold-up--that's what it is. some crook like this tutt or this barrows has found out about amphalula and is bringing a strike suit. you'll have to call a meeting right away. i'd like to strangle all these shyster lawyers!" and it never occurred to mr. greenbaum that the possible existence of the amphalula vein was what in fact made the order to show cause justifiable--his actual ground of complaint being that anybody should, as he assumed, have found out about it in defiance of his plans. * * * * * "yeronner," said attendant mike horan as he helped judge pollak into his black bombazine gown in his chambers in the old post-office building on the morning of the return day, "there's a great bunch out there in the court room waitin' for ye, an' no mistake!" "indeed!" remarked his honor. "and who are they? what is the case?" "hanged if i know," answered mike, snipping a piece of fluff off his judgeship's shoulder. "there's a white-bearded old guy, two or three swell gents with tall hats, counselor tutt and an attorney named chippingham, besides that pretty miss wiggin; and they ain't speakin' none to one another, neither." "it must be that mining-reorganization case," answered the judge. "well, it's time to go in." they walked down the dirty marble corridor and entered the court room, while the clerk rapped on the railing. "hear ye! hear ye! hear ye! all persons having any business to do with the district court of the united states draw near, give your attention and you will be heard," he intoned with unctuous authority. the "bunch" rose and made obeisance. "good morning," said the judge pleasantly, sitting down with a side switch of the bombazine. "barrows against the--er--er--horse's neck mining company. do you represent the complainant, mr. tutt?" "i do," answered mr. tutt with great dignity. "your honor, this is a motion for an order to show cause why an injunction _pendente lite_ should not issue restraining the sale of the assets, of this corporation to another in fraud of its minority stockholders--and for a receiver. my client, an aged man living upon his farm in the northern part of the state, is the owner of one hundred thousand shares in the horse's neck mining company of the par value of one hundred thousand dollars. he has owned these securities for many years. they represent his entire capital. he is a bona fide stockholder--" "may i be pardoned for interrupting?" sneered chippingham, springing to his feet. "i think the court should be informed at the outset that this man, barrows, is a notorious ex-convict." judge pollak raised his eyebrows. "this is an outrage!" thundered mr. tutt, his form rising ceilingward. "my client--like all of us--has had his misfortunes, but they are happily a thing of the past; he has the same rights as if he were an archbishop, the president of a university or--a judge of this honorable court." "we are sitting in equity," remarked his honor. "the question of _bona fides_ is a vital one. _is_ the complainant an ex-convict?" "this is the complainant, sir," cried mr. tutt, indicating old doc, now for the first time in his life smartly arrayed in a new checked suit, red tie, patent-leather shoes and suède gloves, and with his beard neatly trimmed. "this is the unfortunate man whose honest savings of a lifetime are being wrested from him by an unscrupulous group of manipulators who--in my opinion--are more deserving of confinement behind prison walls than he ever was." the gentlemen with the tall hats bit their lips and showed signs of poorly suppressed agitation. "but _is_ your client an ex-convict, mr. tutt?" repeated the judge quietly. "yes, your honor, he is." "when and how did he become possessed of his stock?" mr. tutt turned to doc with an air of ineffectually striving to master his righteous indignation. "tell the court, mr. barrows," he cried, "in your own words." doc barrows wonderingly rose. "if you please, sir," he began, "it's quite a long story. you see, i was the owner of all the stock of the chicago water front and terminal company--there was a flaw in the title deed which i can explain to you privately if you wish--and when i was--er--visiting--up on the hudson--i met a man there who was the owner of a hundred thousand shares of horse's neck, and we agreed to exchange." the judge tried to hide a slight smile. "i see," he replied pleasantly. "and what was the man's name?" "oscar bloom, sir." the gentlemen with the tall hats exchanged agitated glances. "do you know how he got his stock?" "no, sir." "that is all. go on, mr. tutt." doc sat down while mr. tutt again unhooked his lank form. "to resume where i was interrupted, your honor, the directors controlling a majority of the stock of this corporation, the capital of which is ten millions of dollars, have made a contract to sell all of its properties to another corporation, organized by themselves and capitalized for one million, for the sum of one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars! "it is true that in their plan of reorganization they offer to permit any stockholder in the old corporation to subscribe for stock in the new at par--thus at first glance placing all upon what seems to be an equality; but any stockholder who does not see fit to subscribe or cannot afford to do so is wiped out, for there will be nothing left in the way of assets in horse's neck after the transfer is completed. "now these gentlemen have underwritten the stock in the new lallapaloosa company at fifty cents upon the dollar, and if this nefarious deal is permitted to go through they will thus acquire a property worth ten millions for five hundred thousand dollars, of which they will use only one hundred and twenty-five thousand in payment of old indebtedness. in effect, they confiscate the equity of all the minority stockholders in horse's neck who cannot afford to subscribe for stock in lallapaloosa." he turned upon the uncomfortable tall hats with an arraigning eye. "in the criminal courts, your honor, such a conspiracy would be properly described as grand larceny; in wall street perchance it may be viewed as high finance. but so long as there are courts of equity such a wrong upon a helpless stockholder will not go unrebuked. have i made myself clear to your honor?" judge pollak looked interested. he was a man famous for his protection of helpless minorities and his court had been selected by mr. tutt on this account. "if the facts are as you state them, mr. tutt," he answered seriously, "the plan on its face would seem to be inequitable. if the property is worth ten million the consideration is palpably inadequate. your client's equity, worth on that basis at least one hundred thousand dollars, would be entirely destroyed without any redress." "your honor," burst out mr. chippingham, whose bald head had been bobbing about in excited contiguity with the tall hats, "this is a most misleading statement. the assets of horse's neck aren't worth a hundred thousand dollars. and if any of the minority don't want to come into the reorganization--and i assure your honor that we would welcome their participation--they can have their equity appraised under the laws of delaware and the finding becomes a lien on the assets even after they have been transferred." "what relief does that give a man like mr. barrows?" shouted mr. tutt. "he can't afford to go down to wilmington with a carload of books and a corps of experts to prove the value of horse's neck. it would cost him more than his stock is worth!" "that remedy is not exclusive, in any event," declared the judge. "if this complainant is going to be defrauded i will enjoin this contract _pendente lite_ and appoint a receiver." "your honor!" protested chippingham in great agony. "it is not the fact that this mine is worth ten million. it isn't worth at the most more than one hundred thousand. it is, full of water, the machinery is rusted and falling to pieces and the workings are practically exhausted. the only way to rehabilitate this property is for everybody to come in and put up enough money by subscribing to the stock of the new corporation to pump it out, buy new engines and start producing again. is it fair to the majority, who are willing to go on, put up more money, and make an attempt to save the property, to have this complainant--an ex-convict who never paid a cent for his stock, dug up from heaven knows where--enjoin their contract and throw the corporation into the hands of a receiver? this is nothing but a strike suit. i repeat--a strike suit!" he glowered breathless at his adversary. "oh! oh!" groaned mr. tutt in horrified tones. "gentlemen! gentlemen!" expostulated the court. "this will not do!" "i beg pardon--of the court," stammered mr. chippingham. "your honor," mourned mr. tutt, "i have practised here for thirty years and this is the first time i have ever been insulted in open court. a strike suit? i hold in my hand"--he waved it threateningly at the tall hats--"a circular issued by these directors less than five years ago, in which they give the itemized value of this property as ten million dollars. shortly after that circular was issued the stock sold in the open market at one dollar and ninety cents a share. in two years it sank to ten cents a share. will a little water, a little rust, a little trouble with labor reduce the value of a great property like this from ten millions of dollars to one hundred thousand--one per cent of its appraised value? either"--he fixed chippingham with an exultant and terrifying glance--"they were lying then or they are lying now!" "let me look at that circular," directed judge pollak. he took it from mr. tutt's eager hand, glanced through it and turned sharply upon the quaking chippingham. "how long have you been attorney for scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck?" "twelve years, your honor." "who is wilson w. elderberry?" "he is the secretary of the horse's neck extension, your honor." "is he in court?" from a distant corner mr. elderberry bashfully rose. "come here!" ordered the court. and the pooh-bah of the scherer-hunn-greenbaum-beck enterprises came cringing to the bar. "did you sign this circular in ?" demanded judge pollak. "yes, your honor." "were the statements contained in it true?" elderberry squirmed. "ye-es, your honor. that is--they were to the best of my knowledge and belief. i was, of course, obliged to take what information was at hand--and--er--and--" "did you sign the other circular, issued last month, to the effect that the mine was practically valueless?" "yes, sir." elderberry studiously examined the moldings on the cornice of the judge's canopy. "um!" remarked the court significantly. there was a flurry among the tall hats. then mr. greenbaum sprang to his feet. "if you please, your honor," he announced, staccato, "we entirely disavow mr. elderberry's circular of . it was issued without our knowledge or authority. it is no evidence that the mine was worth ten millions or any other amount at that time." "oh! oh!" choked mr. tutt, while miss wiggin giggled delightedly into her brief case. judge pollak bent upon mr. greenbaum a withering glance. "did your firm sell any of its holdings in horse's neck after the issuance of that circular?" greenbaum hesitated. he would have liked to wring that judge's neck. "why--how do i know? we may have." "_did_ you?" "say 'yes,' for god's sake," hissed chippingham "or you'll land in the pen!" "i am informed that we did," answered greenbaum defiantly. "that is, i don't _say_ we did. very likely we did. our books would show. but i repeat--we disavow this circular and we deny any responsibility for this man, elderberry." this man, elderberry, who for twelve long years had writhed under the biting lash of his employer's tongue, hating him with a hatred known only to those in subordinate positions who are bribed to suffer the "whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely," quivered and saw red. he was going to be made the goat! they expected him to take all the responsibility and give them a clean slate! the nerve of it! to hell with them! suddenly he began to cry, shockingly, with deep stertorous suspirations. "no--you won't!" he hiccuped. "you shan't lay the blame on me! i'll tell the truth, i will! i won't stand for it! your honor, they want to reorganize horse's neck because they think there's a vein in amphalula that crosses one of the old workings and that it'll make the property worth millions and millions." utter silence descended upon the court room--silence broken only by the slow ticktack of the self-winding clock on the rear wall and the whine of the electric cars on park row. one of the tall hats crept quietly to the door and vanished. the others sat like images. then the court said very quietly: "i will adjourn this matter for one week. i need not point out that what has occurred has a very grave interpretation. adjourn court!" * * * * * old doc barrows, the two tutts and miss wiggin were sitting in mr. tutt's office an hour later when willie announced that mr. tobias greenbaum was outside and would like an interview. "send him in!" directed mr. tutt, winking at miss wiggin. mr. greenbaum entered, frowning and without salutation, while doc partially rose, moved by the acquired instinct of disciplinary politeness, then changed his mind and sat down again. "see here," snarled greenbaum. "you sure have made a most awful hash of this business. i don't want to argue about it. we could go ahead and beat you, but pollak is prejudiced and will probably give you your injunction and appoint a receiver. if he does, that will knock the whole property higher than a kite. nobody would ever buy stock in it or even finance it. now how much do you want to call off your suit?" "have a stogy?" asked mr. tutt politely. "nope." "we want exactly one hundred thousand dollars." greenbaum laughed derisively. "a hundred thousand fiddlesticks! this old jailbird swindled another crook, bloom--" "oh, bloom was a crook too, was he?" chuckled mr. tutt. "he worked for your firm, didn't he?" "that's nothing to do with it!" retorted greenbaum angrily. "your swindling client traded some bum stock in a fake corporation for bloom's stock, which he received for bona fide services--" "like elderberry's?" inquired tutt innocently. "your man never paid a cent for his holdings. that alone would throw him out of court. the mine isn't worth a cent without the amphalula vein. we're taking a big chance. you've got us down and we've got to pay; but we'll pay only ten thousand dollars--that's final." "i ain't any more of a swindler than you be!" said doc with plaintive indignation. "what do you wish to do, mr. barrows?" asked mr. tutt, turning to him deferentially. "i leave it entirely to you, mr. tutt. it's your stock; i gave it all to you months ago." "then," answered mr. tutt with fine scorn, "i shall tell this miserable cheating rogue and rascal either to pay you a hundred thousand dollars or go to hell." mr. tobias greenbaum clenched his fists and cast a black glance upon the group. "you can wreck this corporation if you choose, you bunch of dirty blackmailers, but you'll get not a cent more than ten thousand. for the last time, will you take it or not?" mr. tutt rose and pointed toward the door. "kindly remove yourself before i call the police," he said coldly. "i advise the firm of scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck to retain criminal counsel. your ten thousand may come in handy for that purpose." mr. tobias greenbaum went. "and now, miss wiggin, how about a cup of tea?" said mr. tutt. the firm of tutt & tutt claimed to be the only law firm in the city of new york which still maintained the historic english custom of having tea at five o'clock. whether the claim had any foundation or not the tea was none the less an institution, undoubtedly generating a friendly, sociable atmosphere throughout the office; and now willie pulled aside the screen in the corner and disclosed the gate-leg table over which miss wiggin exercised her daily prerogative. soon the room was filled with the comfortable odor of pekoe, of muffins toasted upon an electric heater, of cigarettes and stogies. yet there was, and had been ever since their conversation about the hat, a certain restraint between miss wiggin and mr. tutt, rising presumably out of her suggestion that his course savored of blackmail, however justified it had afterward turned out to be. "my, isn't this nice!" murmured doc, trying unsuccessfully to eat a muffin, drink his tea and do justice to a stogy at the same time. "it's so homy now, isn't it?" "doc," answered mr. tutt, "did you really want that ten thousand?" "me?" repeated doc vaguely. "why, i told you i gave that stock to you long ago. it isn't mine any longer. besides, i don't want any money. i'm perfectly happy as i am." mr. tutt laughed genially. "oh, well," he said, "it's no matter who owns it. elderberry just telephoned me that he had received a telegram from the amphalula that the vein had definitely run out. it's all over--including the shouting." "elderberry telephone you?" queried miss wiggin in astonishment. "yes, elderberry. you see, he's done, he says, with scherer, hunn, greenbaum & beck. wants to turn state's evidence and put 'em all in jail. i've said i'd help him." "then why didn't you take the ten thousand and call it quits while the getting was good?" demanded his partner icily. "because i knew i'd never get the ten anyway," replied mr. tutt. "greenbaum would have learned about the vein on his return to the office." "well, i must be getting along back to pottsville!" mumbled doc. "this has been a very pleasant trip--very pleasant; and quite--quite--exciting. i--" "what i'd like to know, mr. tutt," interrupted miss wiggin, "is how you justify your course in this matter. when you attempted to block this proposed reorganization you knew nothing about the elderberry circular of valuing the property at ten million, or of the amphalula vein. on its face you were attempting to wreck a perfectly honest piece of financiering, and unless it was a strike suit--which i hope and pray it wasn't--" "strike suit!" protested mr. tutt with a slight twinkle in his eye. "how can you suggest such a thing! didn't the events demonstrate the wisdom of my judgment?" "but you didn't know what was going to happen when you began your suit!" she argued firmly. "i hate to say it, but i should think that if everything had not come out just as it has your motives might easily have been misconstrued." "it was a matter of principle with me, my dear," declared mr. tutt solemnly. "just to show there's no ill feeling, won't you give me another cup of tea?" proofreading team. the witness for the defence by a.e.w. mason contents chapter i. henry thresk ii. on bignor hill iii. in bombay iv. jane repton v. the quest vi. in the tent at chitipur vii. the photograph viii. and the rifle ix. an episode in ballantyne's life x. news from chitipur xi. thresk intervenes xii. thresk gives evidence xiii. little beeding again xiv. the hazlewoods xv. the great crusade xvi. consequences xvii. trouble for mr. hazlewood xviii. mr. hazlewood seeks advice xix. pettifer's plan xx. on the downs xxi. the letter is written xxii. a way out of the trap xxiii. methods from france xxiv. the witness xxv. in the library xxvi. two strangers xxvii. the verdict the witness for the defence chapter i henry thresk the beginning of all this difficult business was a little speech which mrs. thresk fell into a habit of making to her son. she spoke it the first time on the spur of the moment without thought or intention. but she saw that it hurt. so she used it again--to keep henry in his proper place. "you have no right to talk, henry," she would say in the hard practical voice which so completed her self-sufficiency. "you are not earning your living. you are still dependent upon us;" and she would add with a note of triumph: "remember, if anything were to happen to your dear father you would have to shift for yourself, for everything has been left to me." mrs. thresk meant no harm. she was utterly without imagination and had no special delicacy of taste to supply its place--that was all. people and words--she was at pains to interpret neither the one nor the other and she used both at random. she no more contemplated anything happening to her husband, to quote her phrase, than she understood the effect her barbarous little speech would have on a rather reserved schoolboy. nor did henry himself help to enlighten her. he was shrewd enough to recognise the futility of any attempt. no! he just looked at her curiously and held his tongue. but the words were not forgotten. they roused in him a sense of injustice. for in the ordinary well-to-do circle, in which the thresks lived, boys were expected to be an expense to their parents; and after all, as he argued, he had not asked to be born. and so after much brooding, there sprang up in him an antagonism to his family and a fierce determination to owe to it as little as he could. there was a full share of vanity no doubt in the boy's resolve, but the antagonism had struck roots deeper than his vanity; and at an age when other lads were vaguely dreaming themselves into admirals and field-marshals and prime-ministers henry thresk, content with lower ground, was mapping out the stages of a good but perfectly feasible career. when he reached the age of thirty he must be beginning to make money; at thirty-five he must be on the way to distinction--his name must be known beyond the immediate circle of his profession; at forty-five he must be holding public office. nor was his profession in any doubt. there was but one which offered these rewards to a man starting in life without money to put down--the bar. so to the bar in due time henry thresk was called; and when something did happen to his father he was trained for the battle. a bank failed and the failure ruined and killed old mr. thresk. from the ruins just enough was scraped to keep his widow, and one or two offers of employment were made to henry thresk. but he was tenacious as he was secret. he refused them, and with the help of pupils, journalism and an occasional spell as an election agent, he managed to keep his head above water until briefs began slowly to come in. so far then mrs. thresk's stinging speeches seemed to have been justified. but at the age of twenty-eight he took a holiday. he went down for a month into sussex, and there the ordered scheme of his life was threatened. it stood the attack; and again it is possible to plead in its favour with a good show of argument. but the attack, nevertheless, brings into light another point of view. prudence, for instance, the disputant might urge, is all very well in the ordinary run of life, but when the great moments come conduct wants another inspiration. such an one would consider that holiday with a thought to spare for stella derrick, who during its passage saw much of henry thresk. the actual hour when the test came happened on one of the last days of august. chapter ii on bignor hill they were riding along the top of the south downs between singleton and arundel, and when they came to where the old roman road from chichester climbs over bignor hill, stella derrick raised her hand and halted. she was then nineteen and accounted lovely by others besides henry thresk, who on this morning rode at her side. she was delicately yet healthfully fashioned, with blue eyes under broad brows, raven hair and a face pale and crystal-clear. but her lips were red and the colour came easily into her cheeks. she pointed downwards to the track slanting across the turf from the brow of the hill. "that's stane street. i promised to show it you." "yes," answered thresk, taking his eyes slowly from her face. it was a morning rich with sunlight, noisy with blackbirds, and she seemed to him a necessary part of it. she was alive with it and gave rather than took of its gold. for not even that finely chiselled nose of hers could impart to her anything of the look of a statue. "yes. they went straight, didn't they, those old centurions?" he said. he moved his horse and stood in the middle of the track looking across a valley of forest and meadow to halnaker down, six miles away in the southwest. straight in the line of his eyes over a shoulder of the down rose a tall fine spire--the spire of chichester cathedral, and farther on he could see the water in bosham creek like a silver mirror, and the channel rippling silver beyond. he turned round. beneath him lay the blue dark weald of sussex, and through it he imagined the hidden line of the road driving straight as a ruler to london. "no going about!" he said. "if a hill was in the way the road climbed over it; if a marsh it was built through it." they rode on slowly along the great whaleback of grass, winding in and out amongst brambles and patches of yellow-flaming gorse. the day was still even at this height; and when, far away, a field of long grass under a stray wind bent from edge to edge with the swift motion of running water, it took them both by surprise. and they met no one. they seemed to ride in the morning of a new clean world. they rose higher on to duncton down, and then the girl spoke. "so this is your last day here." he gazed about him out towards the sea, eastwards down the slope to the dark trees of arundel, backwards over the weald to the high ridge of blackdown. "i shall look back upon it." "yes," she said. "it's a day to look back upon." she ran over in her mind the days of this last month since he had come to the inn at great beeding and friends of her family had written to her parents of his coming. "it's the most perfect of all your days here. i am glad. i want you to carry back with you good memories of our sussex." "i shall do that," said he, "but for another reason." stella pushed on a foot or two ahead of him. "well," she said, "no doubt the temple will be stuffy." "nor was i thinking of the temple." "no?" "no." she rode on a little way whilst he followed. a great bee buzzed past their heads and settled in the cup of a wild rose. in a copse beside them a thrush shot into the air a quiverful of clear melody. stella spoke again, not looking at her companion, and in a low voice and bravely with a sweet confusion of her blood. "i am very glad to hear you say that, for i was afraid that i had let you see more than i should have cared for you to see--unless you had been anxious to see it too." she waited for an answer, still keeping her distance just a foot or two ahead, and the answer did not come. a vague terror began to possess her that things which could never possibly be were actually happening to her. she spoke again with a tremor in her voice and all the confidence gone out of it. almost it appealed that she should not be put to shame before herself. "it would have been a little humiliating to remember, if that had been true." then upon the ground she saw the shadow of thresk's horse creep up until the two rode side by side. she looked at him quickly with a doubtful wavering smile and looked down again. what did all the trouble in his face portend? her heart thumped and she heard him say: "stella, i have something very difficult to say to you." he laid a hand gently upon her arm, but she wrenched herself free. shame was upon her--shame unendurable. she tingled with it from head to foot. she turned to him suddenly a face grown crimson and eyes which brimmed with tears. "oh," she cried aloud, "that i should have been such a fool!" and she swayed forward in her saddle. but before he could reach out an arm to hold her she was upright again, and with a cut of her whip she was off at a gallop. "stella," he cried, but she only used her whip the more. she galloped madly and blindly over the grass, not knowing whither, not caring, loathing herself. thresk galloped after her, but her horse, maddened by her whip and the thud of the hoofs behind, held its advantage. he settled down to the pursuit with a jumble of thoughts in his brain. "if to-day were only ten years on ... as it is it would be madness ... madness and squalor and the end of everything ... between us we haven't a couple of pennies to rub together ... how she rides! ... she was never meant for brixton ... no, nor i ... why didn't i hold my tongue? ... oh what a fool, what a fool! thank heaven the horses come out of a livery stable ... they can't go on for ever and--oh, my god! there are rabbit-holes on the downs." and his voice rose to a shout: "stella! stella!" but she never looked over her shoulder. she fled the more desperately, shamed through and through! along the high ridge, between the bushes and the beech-trees, their shadows flitted over the turf, to a jingle of bits and the thunder of hoofs. duncton beacon rose far behind them; they had crossed the road and charlton forest was slipping past like dark water before the mad race came to an end. stella became aware that escape was impossible. her horse was spent, she herself reeling. she let her reins drop loose and the gallop changed to a trot, the trot to a walk. she noticed with gratitude that thresk was giving her time. he too had fallen to a walk behind her, and quite slowly he came to her side. she turned to him at once. "this is good country for a gallop, isn't it?" "rabbit-holes though," said he. "you were lucky." he answered absently. there was something which had got to be said now. he could not let this girl to whom he owed--well, the only holiday that he had ever taken, go home shamed by a mistake, which after all she had not made. he was very near indeed to saying yet more. the inclination was strong in him, but not so strong as the methods of his life. marriage now--that meant to his view the closing of all the avenues of advancement, and a life for both below both their needs. "stella, just listen to me. i want you to know that had things been different i should have rejoiced beyond words." "oh, don't!" she cried. "i must," he answered and she was silent. "i want you to know," he repeated, stammering and stumbling, afraid lest each word meant to heal should only pierce the deeper. "before i came here there was no one. since i came here there has been--you. oh, my dear, i would have been very glad. but i am obscure--without means. there are years in front of me before i shall be anything else. i couldn't ask you to share them--or i should have done so before now." in her mind ran the thought: what queer unimportant things men think about! the early years! wouldn't their difficulties, their sorrows be the real savour of life and make it worth remembrance, worth treasuring? but men had the right of speech. not again would she forget that. she bowed her head and he blundered on. "for you there'll be a better destiny. there's that great house in the park with its burnt walls. i should like to see that rebuilt and you in your right place, its mistress." and his words ceased as stella abruptly turned to him. she was breathing quickly and she looked at him with a wonder in her trouble. "and it hurts you to say this!" she said. "yes, it actually hurts you." "what else could i say?" her face softened as she looked and heard. it was not that he was cold of blood or did not care. there was more than discomfort in his voice, there was a very real distress. and in his eyes his heart ached for her to see. something of her pride was restored to her. she fell at once to his tune, but she was conscious that both of them talked treacheries. "yes, you are right. it wouldn't have been possible. you have your name and your fortune to make. i too--i shall marry, i suppose, some one"--and she suddenly smiled rather bitterly--"who will give me a rolls-royce motor-car." and so they rode on very reasonably. noon had passed. a hush had fallen upon that high world of grass and sunlight. the birds were still. they talked of this and that, the latest crisis in europe and the growth of socialism, all very wisely and with great indifference like well-bred people at a dinner-party. not thus had stella thought to ride home when the message had come that morning that the horses would be at her door before ten. she had ridden out clothed on with dreams of gold. she rode back with her dreams in tatters and a sort of incredulity that to her too, as to other girls, all this pain had come. they came to a bridle-path which led downwards through a thicket of trees to the weald and so descended upon great beeding. they rode through the little town, past the inn where thresk was staying and the iron gates of a park where, amidst elm-trees, the blackened ruins of a great house gaped to the sky. "some day you will live there again," said thresk, and stella's lips twitched with a smile of humour. "i shall be very glad after to-day to leave the house i am living in," she said quietly, and the words struck him dumb. he had subtlety enough to understand her. the rooms would mock her with memories of vain dreams. yet he kept silence. it was too late in any case to take back what he had said; and even if she would listen to him marriage wouldn't be fair. he would be hampered, and that, just at this time in his life, would mean failure--failure for her no less than for him. they must be prudent--prudent and methodical, and so the great prizes would be theirs. a mile beyond, a mile of yellow lanes between high hedges, they came to the village of little beeding, one big house and a few thatched cottages clustered amongst roses and great trees on the bank of a small river. thither old mr. derrick and his wife and his daughter had gone after the fire at hinksey park had completed the ruin which disastrous speculations had begun; and at the gate of one of the cottages the riders stopped and dismounted. "i shall not see you again after to-day," said stella. "will you come in for a moment?" thresk gave the horses to a passing labourer to hold and opened the gate. "i shall be disturbing your people at their luncheon," he said. "i don't want you to go in to them," said the girl. "i will say goodbye to them for you." thresk followed her up the garden-path, wondering what it was that she had still to say to him. she led him into a small room at the back of the house, looking out upon the lawn. then she stood in front of him. "will you kiss me once, please," she said simply, and she stood with her arms hanging at her side, whilst he kissed her on the lips. "thank you," she said. "now will you go?" he left her standing in the little room and led the horses back to the inn. that afternoon he took the train to london. chapter iii in bombay it was not until a day late in january eight years afterwards that thresk saw the face of stella derrick again; and then it was only in a portrait. he came upon it too in a most unlikely place. about five o'clock upon that afternoon he drove out of the town of bombay up to one of the great houses on malabar hill and asked for mrs. carruthers. he was shown into a drawing-room which looked over back bay to the great buildings of the city, and in a moment mrs. carruthers came to him with her hands outstretched. "so you've won. my husband telephoned to me. we do thank you! victory means so much to us." the carruthers were a young couple who, the moment after they had inherited the larger share in the great firm of templeton & carruthers, bombay merchants, had found themselves involved in a partnership suit due to one or two careless phrases in a solicitor's letter. the case had been the great case of the year in bombay. the issue had been doubtful, the stake enormous and thresk, who three years before had taken silk, had been fetched by young carruthers from england to fight it. "yes, we've won," he said. "judgment was given in our favor this afternoon." "you are dining with us to-night, aren't you." "thank you, yes," said thresk. "at half-past eight." "yes." mrs. carruthers gave him some tea and chattered pleasantly while he drank it. she was fair-haired and pretty, a lady of enthusiasms and uplifted hands, quite without observation or knowledge, yet with power to astonish. for every now and then some little shrewd wise saying would gleam out of the placid flow of her trivialities and make whoever heard it wonder for a moment whether it was her own or whether she had heard it from another. but it was her own. for she gave no special importance to it as she would have done had it been a remark she had thought worth remembering. she just uttered it and slipped on, noticing no difference in value between what she now said and what she had said a second ago. to her the whole world was a marvel and all things in it equally amazing. besides she had no memory. "i suppose that now you are free," she said, "you will go up into the central provinces and see something of india." "but i am not free," replied thresk. "i must get immediately back to england." "so soon!" exclaimed mrs. carruthers. "now isn't that a pity! you ought to see the taj--oh, you really ought!--by moonlight or in the morning. i don't know which is best, and the ridge too!--the ridge at delhi. you really mustn't leave india without seeing the ridge. can't things wait in london?" "yes, things can, but people won't," answered thresk, and mrs. carruthers was genuinely distressed that he should depart from india without a single journey in a train. "i can't help it," he said, smiling back into her mournful eyes. "apart from my work, parliament meets early in february." "oh, to be sure, you are in parliament," she exclaimed. "i had forgotten." she shook her fair head in wonder at the industry of her visitor. "i can't think how you manage it all. oh, you must need a holiday." thresk laughed. "i am thirty-six, so i have a year or two still in front of me before i have the right to break down. i'll save up my holidays for my old age." "but you are not married," cried mrs. carruthers. "you can't do that. you can't grow comfortably old unless you're married. you will want to work then to get through the time. you had better take your holidays now." "very well. i shall have twelve days upon the steamer. when does it go?" asked thresk as he rose from his chair. "on friday, and this is monday," said mrs. carruthers. "you certainly haven't much time to go anywhere, have you?" "no," replied thresk, and mrs. carruthers saw his face quicken suddenly to surprise. he actually caught his breath; he stared, no longer aware of her presence in the room. he was looking over her head towards the grand piano which stood behind her chair; and she began to run over in her mind the various ornaments which encumbered it. a piece of indian drapery covered the top and on the drapery stood a little group of dresden china figures, a crystal cigarette-box, some knick-knacks and half-a-dozen photographs in silver frames. it must be one of those photographs, she decided, which had caught his eye, which had done more than catch his eye. for she was looking up at thresk's face all this while, and the surprise had gone from it. it seemed to her that he was moved. "you have the portrait of a friend of mine there," he said, and he crossed the room to the piano. mrs. carruthers turned round. "oh, stella ballantyne!" she cried. "do you know her, mr. thresk?" "ballantyne?" said thresk. for a moment or two he was silent. then he asked: "she is married then?" "yes, didn't you know? she has been married for a long time." "it's a long time since i have heard of her," said thresk. he looked again at the photograph. "when was this taken?" "a few months ago. she sent it to me in october. she is beautiful, don't you think?" "yes." but it was not the beauty of the girl who had ridden along the south downs with him eight years ago. there was more of character in the face now, less, much less, of youth and none of the old gaiety. the open frankness had gone. the big dark eyes which looked out straight at thresk as he stood before them had, even in that likeness, something of aloofness and reserve. and underneath, in a contrast which seemed to him startling, there was her name signed in the firm running hand in which she had written the few notes which passed between them during that month in sussex. thresk looked back again at the photograph and then resumed his seat. "tell me about her, mrs. carruthers," he said. "you hear from her often?" "oh no! stella doesn't write many letters, and i don't know her very well." "but you have her photograph," said thresk, "and signed by her." "oh yes. she stayed with me last christmas, and i simply made her get her portrait taken. just think! she hadn't been taken for years. can you understand it? she declared she was bored with it. isn't that curious? however, i persuaded her and she gave me one. but i had to force her to write on it." "then she was in bombay last winter?" said thresk slowly. "yes." and then mrs. carruthers had an idea. "oh," she exclaimed, "if you are really interested in stella i'll put mrs. repton next to you to-night." "thank you very much," said thresk. "but who is mrs. repton?" mrs. carruthers sat forward in her chair. "well, she's stella's great friend--very likely her only real friend in india. stella's so reserved. i simply adore her, but she quite prettily and politely keeps me always at arm's length. if she has ever opened out to anybody it's to jane repton. you see charlie repton was collector at agra before he came into the bombay presidency, and so they went up to mussoorie for the hot weather. the ballantynes happened actually to have the very next bungalow--now wasn't that strange?--so naturally they became acquainted. i mean the ballantynes and the reptons did..." "but one moment, mrs. carruthers," said thresk, breaking in upon the torrent of words. "am i right in guessing that mrs. ballantyne lives in india?" "but of course!" cried mrs. carruthers. "she is actually in india now?" "to be sure she is!" thresk was quite taken aback by the news. "i had no idea of it," he said slowly, and mrs. carruthers replied sweetly: "but lots of people live in india, mr. thresk. didn't you know that? we are not the uttermost ends of the earth." thresk set to work to make his peace. he had not heard of mrs. ballantyne for so long. it seemed strange to him to find himself suddenly near to her now--that is if he was near. he just avoided that other exasperating trick of treating india as if it was a provincial town and all its inhabitants neighbours. but he only just avoided it. mrs. carruthers, however, was easily appeased. "yes," she said. "stella has lived in india for the best part of eight years. she came out with some friends in the winter, made captain ballantyne's acquaintance and married him almost at once--in january, i think it was. of course i only know from what i've been told. i was a schoolgirl in england at the time." "of course," thresk agreed. he was conscious of a sharp little stab of resentment. so very quickly stella had forgotten that morning on the downs! it must have been in the autumn of that same year that she had gone out to india, and by february she was married. the resentment was quite unjustified, as no one knew better than himself. but he was a man; and men cannot easily endure so swift an obliteration of their images from the thoughts and the hearts of the ladies who have admitted that they loved them. none the less he pressed for details. who was ballantyne? what was his position? after all he was obviously not the millionaire to whom in a more generous moment he had given stella. he caught himself on a descent to the meanness of rejoicing upon that. meanwhile mrs. carruthers rippled on. "captain ballantyne? oh, he's a most remarkable man! older than stella, certainly, but a man of great knowledge and insight. people think most highly of him. languages come as easily to him as crochet-work to a woman." this paragon had been resident in the principality of bakuta to the north of bombay when stella had first arrived. but he had been moved now to chitipur in rajputana. it was supposed that he was writing in his leisure moments a work which would be the very last word upon the native principalities of central india. oh, stella was to be congratulated! and mrs. carruthers, in her fine mansion on malabar hill, breathed a sigh of envy at the position of the wife of a high official of the british _raj_. thresk looked over again to the portrait on the piano. "i am very glad," he said cordially as once more he rose. "but you shall sit next to mrs. repton to-night," said mrs. carruthers. "and she will tell you more." "thank you," answered thresk. "i only wished to know that things are going well with mrs. ballantyne--that was all." chapter iv jane repton mrs. carruthers kept her promise. she went in herself with henry thresk, as she had always meant to do, but she placed mrs. repton upon his left just round the bend of the table. thresk stole a glance at her now and then as he listened to the rippling laughter of his hostess during the first courses. she was a tall woman and rather stout, with a pleasant face and a direct gaze. thresk gave her the age of thirty-five and put her down as a cheery soul. whether she was more he had to wait to learn with what patience he could. he was free to turn to her at last and he began without any preliminaries. "you know a friend of mine," he said. "i do?" "yes." "who is it?" "mrs. ballantyne." he noticed at once a change in mrs. repton. the frankness disappeared from her face; her eyes grew wary. "i see," she said slowly. "i was wondering why i was placed next to you, for you are the lion of the evening and there are people here of more importance than myself. i knew it wasn't for my _beaux yeux_." she turned again to thresk. "so you know my stella?" "yes. i knew her in england before she came out here and married. i have not, of course, seen her since. i want you to tell me about her." mrs. repton looked him over with a careful scrutiny. "mrs. carruthers has no doubt told you that she married very well." "yes; and that ballantyne is a remarkable man," said thresk. mrs. repton nodded. "very well then?" she said, and her voice was a challenge. "i am not contented," thresk replied. mrs. repton turned her eyes to her plate and said demurely: "there might be more than one reason for that." thresk abandoned all attempt to fence with her. mrs. repton was not of those women who would lightly give their women-friends away. her phrase "my stella" had, besides, revealed a world of love and championship. thresk warmed to her because of it. he threw reticence to the winds. "i am going to give you the real reason, mrs. repton. i saw her photograph this afternoon on mrs. carruthers' piano, and it left me wondering whether happiness could set so much character in a woman's face." mrs. repton shrugged her shoulders. "some of us age quickly here." "age was not the new thing which i read in that photograph." mrs. repton did not answer. only her eyes sounded him. she seemed to be judging the stuff of which he was made. "and if i doubted her happiness this afternoon i must doubt it still more now," he continued. "why?" exclaimed mrs. repton. "because of your reticence, mrs. repton," he answered. "for you have been reticent. you have been on guard. i like you for it," he added with a smile of genuine friendliness. "may i say that? but from the first moment when i mentioned stella ballantyne's name you shouldered your musket." mrs. repton neither denied nor accepted his statement. she kept looking at him and away from him as though she were still not sure of him, and at times she drew in her breath sharply, as though she had already taken upon herself some great responsibility and now regretted it. in the end she turned to him abruptly. "i am puzzled," she cried. "i think it's strange that since you are stella's friend i knew nothing of that friendship--nothing whatever." thresk shrugged his shoulders. "it is years since we met, as i told you. she has new interests." "they have not destroyed the old ones. we remember home things out here, all of us. stella like the rest. why, i thought that i knew her whole life in england, and here's a definite part of it--perhaps a very important part--of which i am utterly ignorant. she has spoken of many friends to me; of you never. i am wondering why." she spoke obviously without any wish to hurt. yet the words did hurt. she saw thresk redden as she uttered them, and a swift wild hope flamed like a rose in her heart: if this man with the brains and the money and the perseverance sitting at her side should turn out to be the perseus for her beautiful chained andromeda, far away there in the state of chitipur! the lines of a poem came into her thoughts. "i know; the world proscribes not love, allows my finger to caress your lips' contour and downiness provided it supplies the glove." suppose that here at her side was the man who would dispense with the glove! she looked again at thresk. the lean strong face suggested that he might, if he wanted hard enough. all her life had been passed in the support of authority and law. authority--that was her husband's profession. but just for this hour, as she thought of stella ballantyne, lawlessness shone out to her desirable as a star. "no, she has never once mentioned your name, mr. thresk." again thresk was conscious of the little pulse of resentment beating at his heart. "she has no doubt forgotten me." mrs. repton shook her head. "that's one explanation. there might be another." "what is it?" "that she remembers you too much." mrs. repton was a little startled by her own audacity, but it provoked nothing but an incredulous laugh from her companion. "i am afraid that's not very likely," he said. there was no hint of elation in his voice nor any annoyance. if he felt either, why, he was on guard no less than she. mrs. repton was inclined to throw up her hands in despair. she was baffled and she was little likely, as she knew, to get any light. "if you take the man you know best of all," she used to say, "you still know nothing at all of what he's like when he's alone with a woman, especially if it's a woman for whom he cares--unless the woman talks." very often the woman does talk and the most intimate and private facts come in a little while to be shouted from the housetops. but stella ballantyne did not talk. she had talked once, and once only, under a great stress to jane repton; but even then thresk had nothing to do with her story at all. thresk turned quickly towards her. "in a moment mrs. carruthers will get up. her eyes are collecting the women and the women are collecting their shoes. what have you to tell me?" mrs. repton wanted to speak. thresk gave her confidence. he seemed to be a man without many illusions, he was no romantic sentimentalist. she went back to the poem of which the lines had been chasing one another through her head all through this dinner, as a sort of accompaniment to their conversation. had he found it out? she asked herself-- "the world and what it fears." thus she hung hesitating while mrs. carruthers gathered in her hands her gloves and her fan. there was a woman at the other end of the table however who would not stop talking. she was in the midst of some story and heeded not the signals of her hostess. jane repton wished she would go on talking for the rest of the evening, and recognised that the wish was a waste of time and grew flurried. she had to make up her mind to say something which should be true or to lie. yet she was too staunch to betray the confidence of her friend unless the betrayal meant her friend's salvation. but just as the woman at the end of the table ceased to talk an inspiration came to her. she would say nothing to thresk, but if he had eyes to see she would place him where the view was good. "i have this to say," she answered in a low quick voice. "go yourself to chitipur. you sail on friday, i think? and to-day is monday. you can make the journey there and back quite easily in the time." "i can?" asked thresk. "yes. travel by the night-mail up to ajmere tomorrow night. you will be in chitipur on wednesday afternoon. that gives you twenty-four hours there, and you can still catch the steamer here on friday." "you advise that?" "yes, i do," said mrs. repton. mrs. carruthers rose from the table and jane repton had no further word with thresk that night. in the drawing-room mrs. carruthers led him from woman to woman, allowing him ten minutes for each one. "he might be royalty or her pet pekingese," cried mrs. repton in exasperation. for now that her blood had cooled she was not so sure that her advice had been good. the habit of respect for authority resumed its ancient place in her. she might be planting that night the seed of a very evil flower. "respectability" had seemed to her a magnificent poem as she sat at the dinner-table. here in the drawing-room she began to think that it was not for every-day use. she wished a word now with thresk, so that she might make light of the advice which she had given. "i had no business to interfere," she kept repeating to herself whilst she talked with her host. "people get what they want if they want it enough, but they can't control the price they have to pay. therefore it was no business of mine to interfere." but thresk took his leave and gave her no chance for a private word. she drove homewards a few minutes later with her husband; and as they descended the hill to the shore of back bay he said: "i had a moment's conversation with thresk after you had left the dining-room, and what do you think?" "tell me!" "he asked me for a letter of introduction to ballantyne at chitipur." "but he knows stella!" exclaimed jane repton. "does he? he didn't tell me that! he simply said that he had time to see chitipur before he sailed and asked for a line to the resident." "and you promised to give him one?" "of course. i am to send it to the taj mahal hotel to-morrow morning." mrs. repton was a little startled. she did not understand at all why thresk asked for the letter and, not understanding, was the more alarmed. the request seemed to imply not merely that he had decided to make the journey but that during the hour or so since they had sat at the dinner-table he had formed some definite and serious plan. "did you tell him anything?" she asked rather timidly. "not a word," replied repton. "not even about--what happened in the hills at mussoorie?" "of course not." "no, of course not," jane repton agreed. she leaned back against the cushions of the victoria. a clear dark sky of stars wonderfully bright stretched above her head. after the hot day a cool wind blew pleasantly on the hill, and between the trees of the gardens she could see the lights of the city and of a ship here and there in the bay at their feet. "but it's not very likely that thresk will find them at chitipur," said repton. "they will probably be in camp." mrs. repton sat forward. "yes, that's true. this is the time they go on their tour of inspection. he will miss them." and at once disappointment laid hold of her. mrs. repton was not in the mood for logic that evening. she had been afraid a moment since that the train she had laid would bring about a conflagration. now that she knew it would not even catch fire she passed at once to a passionate regret. thresk had inspired her with a great confidence. he was the man, she believed, for her stella. but he was going up to chitipur! anything might happen! she leaned back again in the carriage and cried defiantly to the stars. "i am glad that he's going. i am very glad." and in spite of her conscience her heart leaped joyously in her bosom. chapter v the quest the next night henry thresk left bombay and on the wednesday afternoon he was travelling in a little white narrow-gauge train across a flat yellow desert which baked and sparkled in the sun. here and there a patch of green and a few huts marked a railway station and at each gaily-robed natives sprung apparently from nowhere and going no-whither thronged the platform and climbed into the carriages. thresk looked impatiently through the clouded windows, wondering what he should find in chitipur if ever he got there. the capital of that state lies aloof from the trunk roads and is reached by a branch railway sixty miles long, which is the private possession of the maharajah and takes four hours to traverse. for in chitipur the ancient ways are devoutly followed. modern ideas of speed and progress may whirl up the big central railroad from bombay to ajmere. but they stop at the junction. they do not travel along the maharajah's private lines to chitipur, where he, directly descended from an important and most authentic goddess, dispenses life and justice to his subjects without even the assistance of the press. there is little criticism in the city and less work. a patriarchal calm sleeps in all its streets. in chitipur it is always sunday afternoon. even down by the lake, where the huge white many-storeyed palace contemplates its dark-latticed windows and high balconies mirrored in still water unimaginably blue nothing which could be described as energy is visible. you may see an elephant kneeling placidly in the lake while an attendant polishes up his trunk and his forehead with a brickbat. but the elephant will be too well-mannered to trumpet his enjoyment. or you may notice a fisherman drowsing in a boat heavy enough to cope with the surf of the atlantic. but the fisherman will not notice you--not even though you call to him with dulcet promises of rupees. you will, if you wait long enough, see a woman coming down the steps with a pitcher balanced on her head; and indeed perhaps two women. but when your eyes have dwelt upon these wonders you will have seen what there is of movement and life about the shores of those sleeping waters. it was in accordance with the fitness of things that the city and its lake should be three miles from the railway station and quite invisible to the traveller. the hotel however and the residency were near to the station, and it was the residency which had brought thresk out of the crowds and tumult of bombay. he put up at the hotel and enclosing repton's introduction in a covering letter sent it by his bearer down the road. then he waited; and no answer came. finally he asked if his bearer had returned. quite half an hour he was told, and the man was sent for. "well? you delivered my letter?" said thresk. "yes, sahib." "and there was no answer?" "no. no answer, sahib," replied the man cheerfully. "very well." he waited yet another hour, and since still no acknowledgment had come he strolled along the road himself. he came to a large white house. a flagpost tapered from its roof but no flag blew out its folds. there was a garden about the house, the trim well-ordered garden of the english folk with a lawn and banks of flowers, and a gardener with a hose was busy watering it. thresk stopped before the hedge. the windows were all shuttered, the big door closed: there was nowhere any sign of the inhabitants. thresk turned and walked back to the hotel. he found the bearer laying out a change of clothes for him upon his bed. "his excellency is away," he said. "yes, sahib," replied the bearer promptly. "his excellency gone on inspection tour." "then why in heaven's name didn't you tell me?" cried thresk. the bearer's face lost all its cheerfulness in a second and became a mask. he was a madrassee and black as coal. to thresk it seemed that the man had suddenly withdrawn himself altogether and left merely an image with living eyes. he shrugged his shoulders. he knew that change in his servant. it came at the first note of reproach in his voice and with such completeness that it gave him the shock of a conjurer's trick. one moment the bearer was before him, the next he had disappeared. "what did you do with the letter?" thresk asked and was careful that there should be no exasperation in his voice. the bearer came to life again, his white teeth gleamed in smiles. "i leave the letter. i give it to the gardener. all letters are sent to his excellency." "when?" "perhaps this week, perhaps next." "i see," said thresk. he stood for a moment or two with his eyes upon the window. then he moved abruptly. "we go back to bombay to-morrow afternoon." "the sahib will see chitipur to-morrow. there are beautiful palaces on the lake." thresk laughed, but the laugh was short and bitter. "oh yes, we'll do the whole thing in style to-morrow." he had the tone of a man who has caught himself out in some childish act of folly. he seemed at once angry and ashamed. none the less he was the next morning the complete tourist doing india at express speed during a cold weather. he visited the museum, he walked through the elephant gate into the bazaar, he was rowed over the lake to the island palaces; he admired their marble steps and columns and floors and was confounded by their tinkling blue glass chandeliers. he did the correct thing all through that morning and early in the afternoon climbed into the little train which was to carry him back to jarwhal junction and the night mail to bombay. "you will have five hours to wait at the junction, mr. thresk," said the manager of the hotel, who had come to see him off. "i have put up some dinner for you and there is a dâk-bungalow where you can eat it." "thank you," said thresk, and the train moved off. the sun had set before he reached the junction. when he stepped out on to the platform twilight had come--the swift twilight of the east. before he had reached the dâk-bungalow the twilight had changed to the splendour of an indian night. the bungalow was empty of visitors. thresk's bearer lit a fire and prepared dinner while thresk wandered outside the door and smoked. he looked across a plain to a long high ridge, where once a city had struggled. its deserted towers and crumbling walls still crowned the height and made a habitation for beasts and birds. but they were quite hidden now and the sharp line of the ridge was softened. halfway between the old city and the bungalow a cluster of bright lights shone upon the plain and the red tongues of a fire flickered in the open. thresk was in no hurry to go back to the bungalow. the first chill of the darkness had gone. the night was cool but not cold; a moon had risen, and that dusty plain had become a place of glamour. from somewhere far away came the sound of a single drum. thresk garnered up in his thoughts the beauty of that night. it was to be his last night in india. by this time to-morrow bombay would have sunk below the rim of the sea. he thought of it with regret. he had come up into rajputana on a definite quest and on the advice of a woman whose judgment he was inclined to trust. and his quest had failed. he was to see for himself. he would see nothing. and still far away the beating of that drum went on--monotonous, mournful, significant--the real call of the east made audible. thresk leaned forward on his seat, listening, treasuring the sound. he rose reluctantly when his bearer came to tell him that dinner was ready. thresk took a look round. he pointed to the cluster of lights on the plain. "is that a village?" he asked. "no, sahib," replied the bearer. "that's his excellency's camp." "what!" cried thresk, swinging round upon his heel. his bearer smiled cheerfully. "yes. his excellency to whom i carried the sahib's letter. that's his camp for to-night. the keeper of the bungalow told me so. his excellency camped here yesterday and goes on to-morrow." "and you never told me!" exclaimed thresk, and he checked himself. he stood wondering what he should do, when there came suddenly out of the darkness a queer soft scuffling sound, the like of which he had never heard. he heard a heavy breathing and a bubbling noise and then into the fan of light which spread from the window of the bungalow a man in a scarlet livery rode on a camel. the camel knelt; its rider dismounted, and as he dismounted he talked to thresk's bearer. something passed from hand to hand and the bearer came back to thresk with a letter in his hand. "a chit from his excellency." thresk tore open the envelope and found within it an invitation to dinner, signed "stephen ballantyne." "your letter has reached me this moment," the note ran. "it came by your train. i am glad not to have missed you altogether and i hope that you will come to-night. the camel will bring you to the camp and take you back in plenty of time for the mail." after all then the quest had not failed. after all he was to see for himself--what a man could see within two hours, of the inner life of a married couple. not very much certainly, but a hint perhaps, some token which would reveal to him what it was that had written so much character into stella ballantyne's face and driven jane repton into warnings and reserve. "i will go at once," said thresk and his bearer translated the words to the camel-driver. but even so thresk stayed to look again at the letter. its handwriting at the first glance, when the unexpected words were dancing before his eyes, had arrested his attention; it was so small, so delicately clear. thresk's experience had made him quick to notice details and slow to infer from them. yet this handwriting set him wondering. it might have been the work of some fastidious woman or of some leisured scholar; so much pride of penmanship was there. it certainly agreed with no picture of stephen ballantyne which his imagination had drawn. he mounted the camel behind the driver, and for the next few minutes all his questions and perplexities vanished from his mind. he simply clung to the waist of the driver. for the camel bumped down into steep ditches and scuffled up out of them, climbed over mounds and slid down the further side of them, and all the while thresk had the sensation of being poised uncertainly in the air as high as a church-steeple. suddenly however the lights of the camp grew large and the camel padded silently in between the tents. it was halted some twenty yards from a great marquee. another servant robed in white with a scarlet sash about his waist received thresk from the camel-driver. he spoke a few words in hindustani, but thresk shook his head. then the man moved towards the marquee and thresk followed him. he was conscious of a curious excitement, and only when he caught his breath was he aware that his heart was beating fast. as they neared the tent he heard voices within. they grew louder as he reached it--one was a man's, loud, wrathful, the other was a woman's. it was not raised but it had a ring in it of defiance. the words thresk could not hear, but he knew the woman's voice. the servant raised the flap of the tent. "huzoor, the sahib is here," he said, and at once both the voices were stilled. as thresk stood in the doorway both the man and the woman turned. the man, with a little confusion in his manner, came quickly towards him. over his shoulder thresk saw stella ballantyne staring at him, as if he had risen from the grave. then, as he took ballantyne's extended hand, stella swiftly raised her hand to her throat with a curious gesture and turned away. it seemed as if now that she was sure that thresk stood there before her, a living presence, she had something to hide from him. chapter vi in the tent at chitiptur the marquee was large and high. it had a thick lining of a dull red colour and a carpet covered the floor; cushioned basket chairs and a few small tables stood here and there; against one wall rose an open escritoire with a box of cheroots upon it; the two passages to the sleeping-tents and the kitchen were hidden by grass-screens and between them stood a great chesterfield sofa. it was, in a word, the tent of people who were accustomed to make their home in it for weeks at a time. even the latest books were to be seen. but it was dark. a single lamp swinging above the round dinner-table from the cross-pole of the roof burnt in the very centre of the tent; and that was all. the corners were shadowy; the lining merely absorbed the rays and gave none back. the round pool of light which spread out beneath the lamp was behind ballantyne when he turned to the doorway, so thresk for a moment was only aware of him as a big heavily-built man in a smoking-jacket and a starched white shirt; and it was to that starched white shirt that he spoke, making his apologies. he was glad too to delay for a second or two the moment when he must speak to stella. in her presence this eight long years of effort and work had become a very little space. "i had to come as i was, captain ballantyne," he said, "for i have only with me what i want for the night in the train." "of course. that's all right," ballantyne replied with a great cordiality. he turned towards stella. "mr. thresk, this is my wife." now she had to turn. she held out her right hand but she still covered her throat with her left. she gave no sign of recognition and she did not look at her visitor. "how do you do, mr. thresk?" she said, and went on quickly, allowing him no time for a reply. "we are in camp, you see. you must just take us as we are. stephen did not tell me till a minute ago that he expected a visitor. you have not too much time. i will see that dinner is served at once." she went quickly to one of the grass-screens and lifting it vanished from his view. it seemed to thresk that she had just seized upon an excuse to get away. why? he asked himself. she was nervous and distressed, and in her distress she had accepted without surprise thresk's introduction to her as a stranger. to that relationship then he and she were bound for the rest of his stay in the resident's camp. mrs. repton had been wrong when she had attributed thresk's request for a formal introduction to ballantyne to a plan already matured in his mind. he had no plan, although he formed one before that dinner was at an end. he had asked for the letter because he wished faithfully to follow her advice and see for himself. if he called upon stella he would find her alone; the mere sending in of his name would put her on her guard; he would see nothing. she would take care of that. he had no wish to make ballantyne's acquaintance as mrs. ballantyne's friend. he could claim that friendship afterwards. now however stella herself in her confusion had made the claim impossible. she had fled--there was no other word which could truthfully describe her swift movement to the screen. ballantyne however had clearly not been surprised by it. "it was a piece of luck for me that i camped here yesterday and telegraphed for my letters," he said. "you mentioned in your note that you had only twenty-four hours to give to chitipur, didn't you? so i was sure that you would be upon this train." he spoke with a slow precision in a voice which he was careful--or so it struck thresk--to keep suave and low; and as he spoke he moved towards the dinner-table and came within the round pool of light. thresk had a clear view of him. he was a man of a gross and powerful face, with a blue heavy chin and thick eyelids over bloodshot eyes. "will you have a cocktail?" he asked, and he called aloud, going to the second passage from the tent: "quai hai! baram singh, cocktails!" the servant who had met thresk at the door came in upon the instant with a couple of cocktails on a tray. "ah, you have them," he said. "good!" but he refused the glass when the tray was held out to him, refused it after a long look and with a certain violence. "for me? certainly not! never in this world." he looked up at thresk with a laugh. "cocktails are all very well for you, mr. thresk, who are here during a cold weather, but we who make our homes here--we have to be careful." "yes, so i suppose," said thresk. but just behind ballantyne, on a sideboard against the wall of the tent opposite to that wall where the writing-table stood, he noticed a syphon of soda, a decanter of whisky and a long glass which was not quite empty. he looked at ballantyne curiously and as he looked he saw him start and stare with wide-opened eyes into the dim corners of the tent. ballantyne had forgotten thresk's presence. he stood there, his body rigid, his mouth half-open and fear looking out from his eyes and every line in his face--stark paralysing fear. then he saw thresk staring at him, but he was too sunk in terror to resent the stare. "did you hear anything?" he said in a whisper. "no." "i did," and he leaned his head on one side. for a moment the two men stood holding their breath; and then thresk did hear something. it was the rustle of a dress in the corridor beyond the mat-screen. "it's mrs. ballantyne," he said, and she lifted the screen and came in. thresk just noticed a sharp movement of revulsion in ballantyne, but he paid no heed to him. his eyes were riveted on stella ballantyne. she was wearing about her throat now a turquoise necklace. it was a heavy necklace of indian make, rather barbaric and not at all beautiful, but it had many rows of stones and it hid her throat--just as surely as her hand had hidden it when she first saw thresk. it was to hide her throat that she had fled. he saw ballantyne go up to his wife, he heard his voice and noticed that her face grew grave and hard. "so you have come to your senses," he said in a low tone. stella passed him and did not answer. it was, then, upon the question of that necklace that their voices had been raised when he reached the camp. he had heard ballantyne's, loud and dominant, the voice of a bully. he had been ordering her to cover her throat. stella, on the other hand, had been quiet but defiant. she had refused. now she had changed her mind. baram singh brought in the soup-tureen a second afterwards and ballantyne raised his hands in a simulation of the profoundest astonishment. "why, dinner's actually punctual! what a miracle! upon my word, stella, i shan't know what to expect next if you spoil me in this way." "it's usually punctual, stephen," stella replied with a smile of anxiety and appeal. "is it, my dear? i hadn't noticed it. let us sit down at once." upon this tone of banter the dinner began; and no doubt in another man's mouth it might have sounded good-humoured enough. there was certainly no word as yet which, it could be definitely said, was meant to wound, but underneath the raillery thresk was conscious of a rasp, a bitterness just held in check through the presence of a stranger. not that thresk was spared his share of it. at the very outset he, the guest whom it was such a rare piece of good fortune for ballantyne to meet, came in for a taste of the whip. "so you could actually give four-and-twenty hours to chitipur, mr. thresk. that was most kind and considerate of you. chitipur is grateful. let us drink to it! by the way what will you drink? our cellar is rather limited in camp. there's some claret and some whisky-and-soda." "whisky-and-soda for me, please," said thresk. "and for me too. you take claret, don't you, stella dear?" and he lingered upon the "dear" as though he anticipated getting a great deal of amusement out of her later on. and so she understood him, for there came a look of trouble into her face and she made a little gesture of helplessness. thresk watched and said nothing. "the decanter's in front of you, stella," continued ballantyne. he turned his attention to his own tumbler, into which baram singh had already poured the whisky; and at once he exclaimed indignantly: "there's much too much here for me! good heavens, what next!" and in hindustani he ordered baram singh to add to the soda-water. then he turned again to thresk. "but i've no doubt you exhausted chitipur in your twenty-four hours, didn't you? of course you are going to write a book." "write a book!" cried thresk. he was surprised into a laugh. "not i." ballantyne leaned forward with a most serious and puzzled face. "you're not writing a book about india? god bless my soul! d'you hear that, stella? he's actually twenty-four hours in chitipur and he's not going to write a book about it." "six weeks from door to door: or how i made an ass of myself in india," said thresk. "no thank you!" ballantyne laughed, took a gulp of his whisky-and-soda and put the glass down again with a wry face. "this is too strong for me," he said, and he rose from his chair and crossed over to the tantalus upon the sideboard. he gave a cautious look towards the table, but thresk had bent forward towards stella. she was saying in a low voice: "you don't mind a little chaff, do you?" and with an appeal so wistful that it touched thresk to the heart. "of course not," he answered, and he looked up towards ballantyne. stella noticed a change come over his face. it was not surprise so much which showed there as interest and a confirmation of some suspicion which he already had. he saw that ballantyne was secretly pouring into his glass not soda-water at all but whisky from the tantalus. he came back with the tumbler charged to the brim and drank deeply from it with relish. "that's better," he said, and with a grin he turned his attention to his wife, fixing her with his eyes, gloating over her like some great snake over a bird trembling on the floor of its cage. the courses followed one upon the other and while he ate he baited her for his amusement. she took refuge in silence but he forced her to talk and then shivered with ridicule everything she said. stella was cowed by him. if she answered it was probably some small commonplace which with an exaggerated politeness he would nag at her to repeat. in the end, with her cheeks on fire, she would repeat it and bend her head under the brutal sarcasm with which it was torn to rags. once or twice thresk was on the point of springing up in her defence, but she looked at him with so much terror in her eyes that he did not interfere. he sat and watched and meanwhile his plan began to take shape in his mind. there came an interval of silence during which ballantyne leaned back in his chair in a sort of stupor; and in the midst of that silence stella suddenly exclaimed with a world of longing in her voice: "and you'll be in england in thirteen days! to think of it!" she glanced round the tent. it seemed incredible that any one could be so fortunate. "you go straight from jarwhal junction here at our tent door to bombay. to-morrow you go on board your ship and in twelve days afterwards you'll be in england." thresk leaned forward across the table. "when did you go home last?" he asked. "i have never been home since i married." "never!" exclaimed thresk. stella shook her head. "never." she was looking down at the tablecloth while she spoke, but as she finished she raised her head. "yes, i have been eight years in india," she added, and thresk saw the tears suddenly glisten in her eyes. he had come up to chitipur reproaching himself for that morning on the south downs, a morning so distant, so aloof from all the surroundings in which he found himself that it seemed to belong to an earlier life. but his reproaches became doubly poignant now. she had been eight years in india, tied to this brute! but stella ballantyne mastered herself with a laugh. "however i am not alone in that," she said lightly. "and how's london?" it was unfortunate that just at this moment captain ballantyne woke up. "eh what!" he exclaimed in a mock surprise. "you were talking, stella, were you? it must have been something extraordinarily interesting that you were saying. do let me hear it." at once stella shrank. her spirit was so cowed that she almost had the look of a stupid person; she became stupid in sheer terror of her husband's railleries. "it wasn't of any importance." "oh, my dear," said ballantyne with a sneer, "you do yourself an injustice," and then his voice grew harsh, his face brutal. "what was it?" he demanded. stella looked this way and that, like an animal in a trap. then she caught sight of thresk's face over against her. her eyes appealed to him for silence; she turned quickly to her husband. "i only said how's london?" a smile spread over ballantyne's face. "now did you say that? how's london! now why did you ask how london was? how should london be? what sort of an answer did you expect?" "i didn't expect any answer," replied stella. "of course the question sounds stupid if you drag it out and worry it." ballantyne snorted contemptuously. "how's london? try again, stella!" thresk had come to the limit of his patience. in spite of stella's appeal he interrupted and interrupted sharply. "it doesn't seem to me an unnatural question for any woman to ask who has not seen london for eight years. after all, say what you like, for women india means exile--real exile." ballantyne turned upon his visitor with some rejoinder on his tongue. but he thought better of it. he looked away and contented himself with a laugh. "yes," said stella, "we need next-door neighbours." the restraint which ballantyne showed towards thresk only served to inflame him against his wife. "so that you may pull their gowns to pieces and unpick their characters," he said. "never mind, stella! the time'll come when we shall settle down to domestic bliss at camberley on twopence-halfpenny a year. that'll be jolly, won't it? long walks over the heather and quiet evenings--alone with me. you must look forward to that, my dear." his voice rose to a veritable menace as he sketched the future which awaited them and then sank again. "how's london!" he growled, harping scornfully on the unfortunate phrase. ballantyne had had luck that night. he had chanced upon two of the banalities of ordinary talk which give an easy occasion for the bully. thresk's twenty-four hours to give to chitipur provided the best opening. only thresk was a guest--not that that in ballantyne's present mood would have mattered a great deal, but he was a guest whom ballantyne had it in his mind to use. all the more keenly therefore he pounced upon stella. but in pouncing he gave thresk a glimpse into the real man that he was, a glimpse which the barrister was quick to appreciate. "how's london? a lot of london we shall be able to afford! god! what a life there's in store for us! breakfast, lunch and dinner, dinner, breakfast, lunch--all among the next-door neighbours." and upon that he flung himself back in his chair and reached out his arms. "give me rajputana!" he cried, and even through the thickness of his utterance his sincerity rang clear as a bell. "you can stretch yourself here. the cities! live in the cities and you can only wear yourself out hankering to do what you like. here you can do it. do you see that, mr. thresk? you can do it." and he thumped the table with his hand. "i like getting away into camp for two months, three months at a time--on the plain, in the jungle, alone. that's the point--alone. you've got it all then. you're a king without a press. no one to spy on you--no one to carry tales--no next-door neighbours. how's london?" and with a sneer he turned back to his wife. "oh, i know it doesn't suit stella. stella's so sociable. stella wants parties. stella likes frocks. stella loves to hang herself about with beads, don't you, my darling?" but ballantyne had overtried her to-night. her face suddenly flushed and with a swift and violent gesture she tore at the necklace round her throat. the clasp broke, the beads fell with a clatter upon her plate, leaving her throat bare. for a moment ballantyne stared at her, unable to believe his eyes. so many times he had made her the butt of his savage humour and she had offered no reply. now she actually dared him! "why did you do that?" he asked, pushing his face close to hers. but he could not stare her down. she looked him in the face steadily. even her lips did not tremble. "you told me to wear them. i wore them. you jeer at me for wearing them. i take them off." and as she sat there with her head erect thresk knew why he had bidden her to wear them. there were bruises upon her throat--upon each side of her throat--the sort of bruises which would be made by the grip of a man's fingers. "good god!" he cried, and before he could speak another word stella's moment of defiance passed. she suddenly covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. ballantyne pushed back his chair sulkily. thresk sprang to his feet. but stella held him off with a gesture of her hand. "it's nothing," she said between her sobs. "i am foolish. these last few days have been hot, haven't they?" she smiled wanly, checking her tears. "there's no reason at all," and she got up from her chair. "i think i'll leave you for a little while. my head aches and--and--i've no doubt i have got a red nose now." she took a step or two towards the passage into her private tent but stopped. "i _can_ leave you to get along together alone, can't i?" she said with her eyes on thresk. "you know what women are, don't you? stephen will tell you interesting things about rajputana if you can get him to talk. i shall see you before you go," and she lifted the screen and went out of the room. in the darkness of the passage she stood silent for a moment to steady herself and while she stood there, in spite of her efforts, her tears burst forth again uncontrollably. she clasped her hands tightly over her mouth so that the sound of her sobbing might not reach to the table in the centre of the big marquee; and with her lips whispering in all sincerity the vain wish that she were dead she stumbled along the corridor. but the sound had reached into the big marquee and coming after the silence it wrung thresk's heart. he knew this of her at all events--that she did not easily cry. ballantyne touched him on the arm. "you blame me for this." "i don't know that i do," answered thresk slowly. he was wondering how much share in the blame he had himself, he who had ridden with her on the downs eight years ago and had let her speak and had not answered. he sat in this tent to-night with shame burning at his heart. "it wasn't as if i had no confidence in myself," he argued, unable quite to cast back to the thresk of those early days. "i had--heaps of it." ballantyne lifted himself out of his chair and lurched over to the sideboard. thresk, watching him, fell to wondering why in the world stella had married him or he her. he knew that a blind man may see such mysteries on any day and that a wise one will not try to explain them. still he wondered. had the man's reputation dazzled her?--for undoubtedly he had one; or was it that intellect which suffered an eclipse when ballantyne went into camp with nobody to carry tales? he was still pondering on that problem when ballantyne swung back to the table and set himself to prove, drunk though he was, that his reputation was not ill-founded. "i am afraid stella's not very well," he said, sitting heavily down. "but she asked me to tell you things, didn't she? well, her wishes are my law. so here goes." his manner altogether changed now that they were alone. he became confidential, intimate, friendly. he was drunk. he was a coarse heavy-featured man with bloodshot eyes; he interrupted his conversation with uneasy glances into the corners of the tent, such glances as thresk had noticed when he was alone with him before they sat down to dinner; but he managed none the less to talk of rajputana with a knowledge which amazed thresk now and would have enthralled him at another time. a visitor may see the surface of rajputana much as thresk had done, may admire its marble palaces, its blue lakes and the great yellow stretches of its desert, but to know anything of the life underneath in that strange secret country is given to few even of those who for long years fly the british flag over the agencies. nevertheless ballantyne knew--very little as he acknowledged but more than his fellows. and groping drunkenly in his mind he drew out now this queer intrigue, now that fateful piece of history, now the story of some savage punishment wreaked behind the latticed windows, and laid them one after another before thresk's eyes--his peace-offerings. and thresk listened. but before his eyes stood the picture of stella ballantyne standing alone in the dark corridor beyond the grass-screen whispering with wild lips her wish that she was dead; and in his ears was the sound of her sobbing. here, it seemed, was another story to add to the annals of rajputana. then ballantyne tapped him on the arm. "you're not listening," he said with a leer. "and i'm telling you good things--things that people don't know and that i wouldn't tell them--the swine. you're not listening. you're thinking i'm a brute to my wife, eh?" and thresk was startled by the shrewdness of his host's guess. "well, i'll tell you the truth. i am not master of myself," ballantyne continued. his voice sank and his eyes narrowed to two little bright slits. "i am afraid. yes, that's the explanation. i am so afraid that when i am not alone i seek relief any way, any how. i can't help it." and even as he spoke his eyes opened wide and he sat staring intently at a dim corner of the tent, moving his head with little jerks from one side to the other that he might see the better. "there's no one over there, eh?" he asked. "no one." ballantyne nodded as he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "they make these tents too large," he said in a whisper. "one great blot of light in the middle and all around in the corners--shadows. we sit here in the blot of light--a fair mark. but what's going on in the shadows, mr.--what's your name? eh? what's going on in the shadows?" thresk had no doubt that ballantyne's fear was genuine. he was not putting forward merely an excuse for the scene which his guest had witnessed and might spread abroad on his return to bombay. no, he was really terrified. he interspersed his words with sudden unexpected silences, during which he sat all ears and his face strained to listen, as though he expected to surprise some stealthy movement. but thresk accounted for it by that decanter on the sideboard, in which the level of the whisky had been so noticeably lowered that evening. he was wrong however, for ballantyne sprang to his feet. "you are going away to-night. you can do me a service." "can i?" asked thresk. he understood at last why ballantyne had been at such pains to interest and amuse him. "yes. and in return," cried ballantyne, "i'll give you another glimpse into the india you don't know." he walked up to the door of the tent and drew it aside. "look!" thresk, leaning forward in his chair, looked out through the opening. he saw the moonlit plain in a soft haze, in the middle of it the green lamp of a railway signal and beyond the distant ridge, on which straggled the ruins of old chitipur. "look!" cried ballantyne. "there's tourist india all in one: a desert, a railway and a deserted city, hovels and temples, deep sacred pools and forgotten palaces--the whole bag of tricks crumbling slowly to ruin through centuries on the top of a hill. that's what the good people come out for to see in the cold weather--jarwhal junction and old chitipur." he dropped the curtain contemptuously and it swung back, shutting out the desert. he took a step or two back into the tent and flung out his arms wide on each side of him. "but bless your soul," he cried vigorously, "here's the real india." thresk looked about the tent and understood. "i see," he answered--"a place very badly lit, a great blot of light in the centre and all around it dark corners and grim shadows." ballantyne nodded his head with a grim smile upon his lips. "oh, you have learnt that! well, you shall do me a service and in return you shall look into the shadows. but we will have the table cleared first." and he called aloud for baram singh. chapter vii the photograph while baram singh was clearing the table ballantyne lifted the box of cheroots from the top of the bureau and held it out to thresk. "will you smoke?" thresk, however, though he smoked had not during his stay in india acquired the taste for the cheroot; and it interested him in later times to reflect how largely he owed his entanglement in the tragic events which were to follow to that accidental distaste. for conscious of it he had brought his pipe with him, and he now fetched it out of his pocket. "this, if i may," he said. "of course." thresk filled his pipe and lighted it, ballantyne for his part lit a cheroot and replaced the box upon the top, close to a heavy riding-crop with a bone handle, which thresk happened now to notice for the first time. "be quick!" he cried impatiently to baram singh, and seated himself in the swing-chair in front of the bureau, turning it so as not to have his back to thresk at the table. baram singh hurriedly finished his work and left the marquee by the passage leading to the kitchen. ballantyne waited with his eyes upon that passage until the grass-mat screen had ceased to move. then taking a bunch of keys from his pocket he stooped under the open writing-flap of the bureau and unlocked the lowest of the three drawers. from this drawer he lifted a scarlet despatch-box, and was just going to bring it to the table when baram singh silently appeared once more. at once ballantyne dropped the box on the floor, covering it as well as he could with his legs. "what the devil do you want?" he cried, speaking of course in hindustani, and with a violence which seemed to be half made up of anger and half of fear. baram singh replied that he had brought an ash-tray for the sahib, and he placed it on the round table by thresk's side. "well, get out and don't come back until you are called," cried ballantyne roughly, and in evident relief as baram singh once more retired he took a long draught from a fresh tumbler of whisky-and-soda which stood on the flap of the bureau beside him. he then stooped once more to lift the red despatch-box from the floor, but to thresk's amazement in the very act of stooping he stopped. he remained with his hands open to seize the box and his body bent over his knees, quite motionless. his mouth was open, his eyes staring, and upon his face such a look of sheer terror was stamped as thresk could never find words to describe. for the first moment he imagined that the man had had a stroke. his habits, his heavy build all pointed that way. the act of stooping would quite naturally be the breaking pressure upon that overcharged brain. but before thresk had risen to make sure ballantyne moved an arm. he moved it upwards without changing his attitude in any other way, or even the direction of his eyes, and he groped along the flap of the bureau very cautiously and secretly and up again to the top ledge. all the while his eyes were staring intently, but with the intentness of extreme fear, not at the despatch-box but at the space of carpet--a couple of feet at the most--between the despatch-box and the tent-wall. his fingers felt along the ledge of the bureau and closed with a silent grip upon the handle of the riding-crop. thresk jumped to the natural conclusion: a snake had crept in under the tent-wall and ballantyne dared not move lest the snake should strike. neither did he dare to move himself. ballantyne was clearly within reach of its fangs. but he looked and--there was nothing. the light was not good certainly, and down by the tent-wall there close to the floor it was shadowy and dim. but thresk's eyes were keen. the space between the despatch-box and the wall was empty. nothing crawled there, nothing was coiled. thresk looked at ballantyne with amazement; and as he looked ballantyne sprang from his chair with a scream of terror--the scream of a panic-stricken child. he sprang with an agility which thresk would never have believed possible in a man of so gross a build. he leapt into the air and with his crop he struck savagely once, twice and thrice at the floor between the wall and the box. then he turned to thresk with every muscle working in his face. "did you see?" he cried. "did you see?" "what? there was nothing to see!" "nothing!" screamed ballantyne. he picked up the box and placed it on the table, thrusting it under thresk's hand. "hold that! don't let go! stay here and don't let go," he said, and running up the tent raised his voice to a shout. "baram singh!" and lifting the tent-door he called to others of his servants by name. without waiting for them he ran out himself and in a second thresk heard him cursing thickly and calling in panic-stricken tones just close to that point of the wall against which the bureau stood. the camp woke to clamour. thresk stood by the table gripping the handle of the despatch-box as he had been bidden to do. the tent-door was left open. he could see lights flashing, he heard ballantyne shouting orders, and his voice dwindled and grew loud as he moved from spot to spot in the encampment. and in the midst of the noise the white frightened face of stella ballantyne appeared at the opening of her corridor. "what has happened?" she asked in a whisper. "oh, i was afraid that you and he had quarrelled," and she stood with her hand pressed over her heart. "no, no indeed," thresk replied, and captain ballantyne stumbled back into the tent. his face was livid, and yet the sweat stood upon his forehead. stella ballantyne drew back, but ballantyne saw her as she moved and drove her to her own quarters. "i have a private message for mr. thresk's ears," he said, and when she had gone he took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "now you must help me," he said in a low voice. but his voice shook and his eyes strayed again to the ground by the wall of the tent. "it was just there the arm came through," he said. "yes, just there," and he pointed a trembling finger. "arm?" cried thresk. "what are you talking about?" ballantyne looked away from the wall to thresk, his eyes incredulous. "but you saw!" he insisted, leaning forward over the table. "what?" "an arm, a hand thrust in under the tent there, along the ground reaching out for my box." "no. there was nothing to see." "a lean brown arm, i tell you, a hand thin and delicate as a woman's." "no. you are dreaming," exclaimed thresk; but dreaming was a euphemism for the word he meant. "dreaming!" repeated ballantyne with a harsh laugh. "good god! i wish i was. come. sit down here! we have not too much time." he seated himself opposite to thresk and drew the despatch-box towards him. he had regained enough mastery over himself now to be able to speak in a level voice. no doubt too his fright had sobered him. but it had him still in its grip, for when he opened the despatch-box his hand so shook that he could hardly insert the key in the lock. it was done at last however, and feeling beneath the loose papers on the surface he drew out from the very bottom a large sealed envelope. he examined the seals to make sure they had not been tampered with. then he tore open the envelope and took out a photograph, somewhat larger than cabinet size. "you have heard of bahadur salak?" he said. thresk started. "the affair at umballa, the riots at benares, the murder in madras?" "exactly." ballantyne pushed the photograph into thresk's hand. "that's the fellow--the middle one of the group." thresk held up the photograph to the light. it represented a group of nine hindus seated upon chairs in a garden and arranged in a row facing the camera. thresk looked at, the central figure with a keen and professional interest. salak was a notorious figure in the indian politics of the day--the politics of the subterranean kind. for some years he had preached and practised sedition with so much subtlety and skill that though all men were aware that his hand worked the strings of disorder there was never any convicting evidence against him. in all the three cases which thresk had quoted and in many others less well-known those responsible for order were sure that he had devised the crime, chosen the moment for its commission and given the order. but up till a month ago he had slipped through the meshes. a month ago, however, he had made his mistake. "yes. it's a clever face," said thresk. ballantyne nodded his head. "he's a mahratta brahmin from poona. they are the fellows for brains, and salak's about the cleverest of them." thresk looked again at the photograph. "i see the picture was taken at poona." "yes, and isn't it an extraordinary thing!" cried ballantyne, his face flashing suddenly into interest and enjoyment. the enthusiasm of the administrator in his work got the better of his fear now, just as a little earlier it had got the better of his drunkenness. thresk was looking now into the face of a quite different man, the man of the intimate knowledge and the high ability for whom fine rewards were prophesied in bombay. "the very cleverest of them can't resist the temptation of being photographed in group. crime after crime has been brought home to the indian criminal both here and in london because they will sit in garden-chairs and let a man take their portraits. nothing will stop them. they won't learn. they are like the ladies of the light opera stage. well, let 'em go on i say. here's an instance." "is it?" asked thresk. "surely that photograph was taken a long time ago." "nine years. but he was at the same game. you have got the proof in your hands. there's a group of nine men--salak and his eight friends. well, of his eight friends every man jack is now doing time for burglary, in some cases with violence--that second ruffian, for instance, he's in for life--in some cases without, but in each case the crime was burglary. and why? because salak in the centre there set them on to it. because salak nine years ago wasn't the big swell he is now. because salak wanted money to start his intrigues. that's the way he got it--burglaries all round bombay." "i see," said thresk. "salak's in prison now?" "he's in prison in calcutta, yes. but he's awaiting his trial. he's not convicted yet." "exactly," thresk answered. "this photograph is a valuable thing to have just now." ballantyne threw up his arms in despair at the obtuseness of his companion. "valuable!" he cried in derision. "valuable!" and he leaned forward on his elbows and began to talk to thresk with an ironic gentleness as if he were a child. "you don't quite understand me, do you? but a little effort and all will be plain." he got no farther however upon this line of attack, for thresk interrupted him sharply. "here! say what you have got to say if you want me to help you. oh, you needn't scowl! you are not going to bait me for your amusement. i am not your wife." and ballantyne after a vain effort to stare thresk down changed to a more cordial tone. "well, you say it's a valuable thing to have just now. i say it's an infernally dangerous thing. on the one side there's salak the great national leader, salak the deliverer, salak professing from his prison in calcutta that he has never used any but the most legitimate constitutional means to forward his propaganda. and here on the other is salak in his garden-chair amongst the burglars. not a good thing to possess--this photograph, mr. thresk. especially because it's the only one in existence and the negative has been destroyed. so salak's friends are naturally anxious to get it back." "do they know you have it?" thresk asked. "of course they do. you had proof that they knew five minutes ago when that brown arm wriggled in under the tent-wall." ballantyne's fear returned upon him as he spoke. he sat shivering; his eyes wandered furtively from corner to corner of the great tent and came always back as though drawn by a serpent to the floor by the wall of the tent. thresk shrugged his shoulders. to dispute with ballantyne once more upon his delusion would be the merest waste of time. he took up the photograph again. "how do you come to possess it?" he asked. if he was to serve his host in the way he suspected he would be asked to, he must know its history. "i was agent in a state not far from poona before i came here." thresk agreed. "i know. bakuta." "oh?" said ballantyne with a sharp look. "how did you know that?" he was always in alarm lest somewhere in the world gossip was whispering his secret. "a mrs. carruthers at bombay." "did she tell you anything else?" "yes. she told me that you were a great man." ballantyne grinned suddenly. "isn't she a fool?" then the grin left his face. "but how did you come to discuss me with her at all?" that was a question which thresk had not the slightest intention to answer. he evaded it altogether. "wasn't it natural since i was going to chitipur?" he asked, and ballantyne was appeased. "well, the rajah of bakutu had that photograph and he gave it to me when i left the state. he came down to the station to see me off. he was too near poona to be comfortable with that in his pocket. he gave it to me on the platform in full view, the damned coward. he wanted to show that he had given it to me. he said that i should be safe with it in chitipur." "chitipur's a long way from poona," thresk agreed. "but don't you see, this trial that's coming along in calcutta makes all the difference. it's known i have got it. it's not safe here now and no more am i so long as i've got it." one question had been puzzling thresk ever since he had seen the look of terror reappear in ballantyne's face. it was clear that he lived in a very real fear. he believed that he was watched, and he believed that he was in danger; and very probably he actually was. there had, to be sure, been no attempt that night to rob him of it as he imagined. but none the less salak and his friends could not like the prospect of the production of that photograph in calcutta, and would hardly be scrupulous what means they took to prevent it. then why had not ballantyne destroyed it? thresk asked the question and was fairly startled by the answer. for it presented to him in the most unexpected manner another and a new side of the strange and complex character of stephen ballantyne. "yes, why don't i destroy it?" ballantyne repeated. "i ask myself that," and he took the photograph out of thresk's hands and sat in a sort of muse, staring at it. then he turned it over and took the edge between his forefinger and his thumb, hesitating whether he would not even at this moment tear it into strips and have done with it. but in the end he cast it upon the table as he had done many a time before and cried in a voice of violence: "no, i can't. that's to own these fellows my masters and i won't. by god i won't! i may be every kind of brute, but i have been bred up in this service. for twenty years i have lived in it and by it. and the service is too strong for me. no, i can't destroy that photograph. there's the truth. i should hate myself to my dying day if i did." he rose abruptly as if half ashamed of his outburst and crossing to his bureau lighted another cheroot. "then what do you want me to do with it?" asked thresk. "i want you to take it away." ballantyne was taking a casuistical way of satisfying his conscience, and he was aware of it. he would not destroy the portrait--no! but he wouldn't keep it either. "you are going straight back to england," he said. "take it with you. when you get home you can hand it to one of the big-wigs at the india office, and he'll put it in a pigeon-hole, and some day an old charwoman cleaning the office will find it, and she'll take it home to her grandchildren to play with and one of them'll drop it on the fire, and there'll be an end of it." "yes," replied thresk slowly. "but if i do that, it won't be useful at calcutta, will it?" "oh," said ballantyne with a sneer. "you've got a conscience too, eh? well, i'll tell you. i don't think that photograph will be needed at calcutta." "are you sure of that?" "yes. salak's friends don't know it, but i do." thresk sat still in doubt. was ballantyne speaking the truth or did he speak in fear? he was still standing by the bureau looking down upon thresk and behind him, so that thresk had not the expression of his face to help him to decide. but he did not turn in his chair to look. for as he sat there it dawned upon him that the photograph was the very thing which he himself needed. the scheme which had been growing in his mind all through this evening, which had begun to grow from the very moment when he had entered the tent, was now complete in every detail except one. he wanted an excuse, a good excuse which should explain why he missed his boat, and here it was on the table in front of him. almost he had refused it! now it seemed to him a godsend. "i'll take it," he cried, and baram singh silently appeared at the outer doorway of the tent. "huzoor," he said. "railgharri hai." ballantyne turned to thresk. "your train is signalled," and as thresk started up he reassured him. "there's no hurry. i have sent word that it is not to start without you." and while baram singh still stood waiting for orders in the doorway of the tent ballantyne walked round the table, took up the portrait very deliberately and handed it to thresk. "thank you," he said. "button it in your coat pocket." he waited while thresk obeyed. "thus," said thresk with a laugh, "did the rajah of bakutu," and ballantyne replied with a grin. "thank you for mentioning that name." he turned to baram singh. "the camel, quick!" baram singh went out to the enclosure within the little village of tents and thresk asked curiously: "do you distrust him?" ballantyne looked steadily at his visitor and said: "i don't answer such questions. but i'll tell you something. if that man were dying he would ask for leave. and if he would ask for leave because he would not die with my scarlet livery on his back. are you answered?" "yes," said thresk. "very well." and with a brisk change of tone ballantyne added: "i'll see that your camel is ready." he called aloud to his wife: "stella! stella! mr. thresk is going," and he went out through the doorway into the moonlight. chapter viii and the rifle thresk, alone in the tent, looked impatiently towards the grass-screen. he wanted half-a-dozen words with stella alone. here was the opportunity, the unhoped-for opportunity, and it was slipping away. through the open doorway of the tent he saw ballantyne standing by a big fire and men moving quickly in obedience to his voice. then he heard the rustle of a dress in the corridor, and she was in the room. he moved quickly towards her, but she held up her hand and stopped him. "oh, why did you come?" she said, and the pallor of her face reproached him no less than the regret in her voice. "i heard of you in bombay," he replied. "i am glad that i did come." "and i am sorry." "why?" she looked about the tent as though he might find his answer there. thresk did not move. he stood near to her, watching her face intently with his jaw rather set. "oh, i didn't say that to wound you," said stella, and she sat down on one of the cushioned basket-chairs. "you mustn't think i wasn't glad to see you. i was--at the first moment i was very glad;" and she saw his face lighten as she spoke. "i couldn't help it. all the years rolled away. i remembered the sussex downs and--and--days when we rode there high up above the weald. do you remember?" "yes." "how long was that ago?" "eight years." stella laughed wistfully. "to me it seems a century." she was silent for a moment, and though he spoke to her urgently she did not answer. she was carried back to the high broad hills of grass with the curious clumps of big beech-trees upon their crests. "do you remember halnaker gallop?" she asked with a laugh. "we found it when the chains weren't up and had the whole two miles free. was there ever such grass?" she was looking straight at the bureau, but she was seeing that green lane of shaven turf in the haze of an august morning. she saw it rise and dip in the open between long brown grass. there was a tree on the left-hand side just where the ride dipped for the first time. then it ran straight to the big beech-trees and passed between them, a wide glade of sunlight, and curved out at the upper end by the road and dipped down again to the two lodges. "and the ridge at the back of charlton forest, all the weald to leith hill in view?" she rose suddenly from her chair. "oh, i am sorry that you came." "and i am glad," repeated thresk. the stubbornness with which he repeated his words arrested her. she looked at him--was it with distrust, he asked himself? he could not be sure. but certainly there was a little hard note in her voice which had not been there before, when in her turn she asked: "why?" "because i shouldn't have known," he said in a quick whisper. "i should have gone back. i should have left you here. i shouldn't have known." stella recoiled. "there is nothing to know," she said sharply, and thresk pointed at her throat. "nothing?" stella ballantyne raised her hand to cover the blue marks. "i--i fell and hurt myself," she stammered. "it was he--ballantyne." "no," she cried and she drew herself erect. but thresk would not accept the denial. "he ill-treats you," he insisted. "he drinks and ill-treats you." stella shook her head. "you asked questions in bombay where we are known. you were not told that," she said confidently. there was only one person in bombay who knew the truth and jane repton, she was very sure, would never have betrayed her. "that's true," thresk conceded. "but why? because it's only here in camp that he lets himself go. he told us as much to-night. you were here at the table. you heard. he let his secret slip: no one to carry tales, no one to spy. in the towns he sets a guard upon himself. yes, but he looks forward to the months of camp when there are no next-door neighbours." "no, that's not true," she protested and cast about for explanations. "he--he has had a long day and to-night he was tired--and when you are tired--oh, as a rule he's different." and to her relief she heard ballantyne's voice outside the tent. "thresk! thresk!" she came forward and held out her hand. "there! your camel's ready," she said. "you must go! goodbye," and as he took it the old friendliness transfigured her face. "you are a great man now. i read of you. you always meant to be, didn't you? hard work?" "very," said thresk. "four o'clock in the morning till midnight;" and she suddenly caught him by the arm. "but it's worth it." she let him go and clasped her hands together. "oh, you have got everything!" she cried in envy. "no," he answered. but she would not listen. "everything you asked for," she said and she added hurriedly, "do you still collect miniatures? no time for that now i suppose." once more ballantyne's voice called to them from the camp-fire. "you must go." thresk looked through the opening of the tent. ballantyne had turned and was coming back towards them. "i'll write to you from bombay," he said, and utter disbelief showed in her face and sounded in her laugh. "that letter will never reach me," she said lightly, and she went up to the door of the tent. thresk had a moment whilst her back was turned and he used it. he took his pipe out of his pocket and placed it silently and quickly on the table. he wanted a word with her when ballantyne was out of the way and she was not upon her guard to fence him off. the pipe might be his friend and give it him. he went up to stella at the tent-door and ballantyne, who was half-way between the camp-fire and the tent, stopped when he caught sight of him. "that's right," he said. "you ought to be going;" and he turned again towards the camel. thus for another moment they were alone together, but it was stella who seized it. "there go!" she said. "you must go," and in the same breath she added: "married yet?" "no," answered thresk. "still too busy getting on?" "that's not the reason"--and he lowered his voice to a whisper--"stella." again she laughed in frank and utter disbelief. "nor is stella. that's mere politeness and good manners. we must show the dear creatures the great part they play in our lives." and upon that all her fortitude suddenly deserted her. she had played her part so far, she could play it no longer. an extraordinary change came over her face. the smiles, the laughter slipped from it like a loosened mask. thresk saw such an agony of weariness and hopeless longing in her eyes as he had never seen even with his experience in the courts of law. she drew back into the shadow of the tent. "in thirteen days you'll be steaming up the channel," she whispered, and with a sob she covered her face with her hands. thresk saw the tears trickle between her fingers. ballantyne at the fire was looking back towards the tent. thresk hurried out to him. the camel was crouching close to the fire saddled and ready. "you have time," said ballantyne. "the train's not in yet," and thresk walked to the side of the camel, where a couple of steps had been placed for him to mount. he had a foot on the step when he suddenly clapped his hand to his pocket. "i've left my pipe," he cried, "and i've a night's journey in front of me. i won't be a second." he ran back with all his speed to the tent. the hangings at the door were closed. he tore them aside and rushed in. "stella!" he said in a whisper, and then he stopped in amazement. he had left her on the very extremity of distress. he found her, though to be sure the stains of her tears were still visible upon her face, busy with one of the evening preparations natural in a camp-life--quietly, energetically busy. she looked up once when he raised the hanging over the door, but she dropped her eyes the next instant to her work. she was standing by the table with a small rook-rifle in her hands. the breech was open. she looked down the barrel, holding up the weapon so that the light might shine into the breech. "yes?" she said, and with so much indifference that she did not lift her eyes from her work. "i thought you had gone." "i left my pipe behind me," said thresk. "there it is, on the table." "thank you." he put it in his pocket. of the two he was disconcerted and at a loss, she was entirely at her ease. chapter ix an episode in ballantyne's life the reptons lived upon the khamballa hill and the bow-window of their drawing-room looked down upon the arabian sea and southwards along the coast towards malabar point. in this embrasure mrs. repton sat through a morning, denying herself to her friends. a book lay open on her lap but her eyes were upon the sea. a few minutes after the clock upon her mantelpiece had struck twelve she saw that for which she watched: the bowsprit and the black bows of a big ship pushing out from under the hill and the water boiling under its stem. the whole ship came into view with its awnings and its saffron funnels and headed to the north-west for aden. jane repton rose up from her chair and watched it go. in the sunlight its black hull was so sharply outlined on the sea, its lines and spars were so trim that it looked a miniature ship which she could reach out her hand and snatch. but her eyes grew dim as she watched, so that it became shapeless and blurred, and long before the liner was out of sight it was quite lost to her. "i am foolish," she said as she turned away, and she bit her handkerchief hard. this was midday of the friday and ever since that dinner-party at the carruthers' on the monday night she had been alternating between wild hopes and arguments of prudence. but until this moment of disappointment she had not realised how completely the hopes had gained the upper hand with her and how extravagantly she had built upon thresk's urgent questioning of her at the dinner-table. "very likely he never found the ballantynes at all," she argued. but he might have sent her word. all that morning she had been expecting a telephone message or a telegram or a note scribbled on board the steamer and sent up the khamballa hill by a messenger. but not a token had come from him and now of the boat which was carrying him to england there was nothing left but the stain of its smoke upon the sky. mrs. repton put her handkerchief in her pocket and was going about the business of her house when the butler opened the door. "i am not in--" mrs. repton began and cut short the sentence with a cry of welcome and surprise, for close upon the heels of the servant thresk was standing. "you!" she cried. "oh!" she felt her legs weakening under her and she sat down abruptly on a chair. "thank heaven it was there," she said. "i should have sat on the floor if it hadn't been." she dismissed the butler and held out her hand to thresk. "oh, my friend," she said, "there's your steamer on its way to aden." her voice rang with enthusiasm and admiration. thresk only nodded his head gloomily. "i have missed it," he replied. "it's very unfortunate. i have clients waiting for me in london." "you missed it on purpose," she declared and thresk's face relaxed into a smile. he turned away from the window to her. he seemed suddenly to wear the look of a boy. "i have the best of excuses," he replied, "the perfect excuse." but even he could not foresee how completely that excuse was to serve him. "sit down," said jane repton, "and tell me. you went to chitipur, i know. from your presence here i know too that you found--them--there." "no," said thresk, "i didn't." he sat down and looked straight into jane repton's eyes. "i had a stroke of luck. i found them--in camp." jane repton understood all that the last two words implied. "i should have wished that," she answered, "if i had dared to think it possible. you talked with stella?" "hardly a word alone. but i saw." "what did you see?" "i am here to tell you." and he told her the story of his night at the camp so far as it concerned stella ballantyne, and indeed not quite all of that. for instance he omitted altogether to relate how he had left his pipe behind in the tent and had returned for it. that seemed to him unimportant. nor did he tell her of his conversation with ballantyne about the photograph. "he was in a panic. he had delusions," he said and left the matter there. thresk had the lawyer's mind or rather the mind of a lawyer in big practice. he had the instinct for the essential fact and the knowledge that it was most lucid when presented in a naked simplicity. he was at pains to set before jane repton what he had seen of the life which stella lived with stephen ballantyne and nothing else. "now," he said when he had finished, "you sent me to chitipur. i must know why." and when she hesitated he overbore her. "you can be guilty of no disloyalty to your friend," he insisted, "by being frank with me. after all i have given guarantees. i went to chitipur upon your word. i have missed my boat. you bade me go to chitipur. that told me too little or too much. i say too little. i have got to know all now." and he rose up and stood before her. "what do you know about stephen ballantyne?" "i'll tell you," said jane repton. she looked at the clock. "you had better stay and lunch with us if you will. we shall be alone. i'll tell you afterwards. meanwhile--" and in her turn she stood up. the sense of responsibility was heavy upon her. she had sent this man upon his errand of knowledge. he had done, in consequence of it, a stronger, a wilder thing than she had thought, than she had hoped for. she had a panicky feeling that she had set great forces at work. "meanwhile--" asked thresk; and she drew a breath of relief. the steadiness of his eyes and voice comforted her. his quiet insistence gave her courage. none of her troubles and doubts had any place apparently in his mind. a nervous horse in the hands of a real horseman--thus she thought of herself in thresk's presence. "meanwhile i'll give you one reason why i wanted you to go. my husband's time in india is up. we are leaving for england altogether in a month's time. we shall not come back at all. and when we have gone stella will be left without one intimate friend in the whole country." "yes," said thresk. "that wouldn't do, would it?" and they went in to their luncheon. all through that meal, before the servants, they talked what is written in the newspapers. and of the two she who had fears and hesitations was still the most impatient to get it done. she had her curiosity and it was beginning to consume her. what had thresk known of stella and she of him before she had come out to india and become stella ballantyne? had they been in love? if not why had thresk gone to chitipur? why had he missed his boat and left all his clients over there in england in the lurch? if so, why hadn't they married--the idiots? oh, how she wanted to know all the answers to all these questions! and what he proposed to do now! and she would know nothing unless she was frank herself. she had read his ultimatum in his face. "we'll have coffee in my sitting-room. you can smoke there," she said and led the way to it. "a cheroot?" thresk smiled with amusement. but the amusement annoyed her for she did not understand it. "i have got a havana cigar here," he said. "may i?" "of course." he lit it and listened. but it was not long before it went out and he did not stir to light it again. the incident of which mrs. repton had been the witness, and which she related now, invested ballantyne with horror. thresk had left the camp at chitipur with an angry contempt for him. the contempt passed out of his feelings altogether as he sat in mrs. repton's drawing-room. "i am not telling you what stella has confided to me," said mrs. repton. "stella's loyal even when there's no cause for loyalty; and if loyalty didn't keep her mouth closed, self-respect would. i tell you what i saw. we were at agra at the time. my husband was collector there. there was a durbar held there and the rajah of chitipur came to it with his elephants and his soldiers, and naturally captain ballantyne and his wife came too. they stayed with us. you are to understand that i knew nothing--absolutely nothing--up to that time. i hadn't a suspicion--until the afternoon of the finals in the polo tournament. stella and i went together alone and we came home about six. stella went upstairs and i--i walked into the library." she had found ballantyne sitting in a high arm-chair, his eyes glittering under his black thick eyebrows and his face livid. he looked at her as she entered, but he neither moved nor spoke, and she thought that he was ill. but the decanter of whisky stood empty on a little table at his side and she noticed it. "we have some people coming to dinner to-night, captain ballantyne," she said. "we shall dine at eight, so there's an hour and a half still." she went over to a book-case and took out a book. when she turned back into the room a change had taken place in her visitor. life had flickered into his face. his eyes were wary and cunning. "and why do you tell me that?" he asked in a voice which was thick and formidable. she had a notion that he did not know who she was and then suddenly she became afraid. she had discovered a secret--his secret. for once in the towns he had let himself go. she had a hope now that he could not move and that he knew it; he sat as still as his arm-chair. "i had forgotten to tell you," she replied. "i thought you might like to know beforehand." "why should i like to know beforehand?" she had his secret, he plied her with questions to know if she had it. she must hide her knowledge. every instinct warned her to hide it. "the people who are coming are strangers to india," she said, "but i have told them of you and they will come expectant." "you are very kind." she had spoken lightly and with a laugh. ballantyne replied without irony or amusement and with his eyes fixed upon her face. mrs. repton could not account for the panic which seized hold upon her. she had dined in captain ballantyne's company before often enough; he had now been for three days in her house; she had recognised his ability and had neither particularly liked nor disliked him. her main impression had been that he was not good enough for stella, and it was an impression purely feminine and instinctive. now suddenly he had imposed himself upon her as a creature dangerous, beastlike. she wanted to get out of the room but she dared not, for she was sure that her careful steps would, despite herself, change into a run. she sat down, meaning to read for a few moments, compose herself and then go. but no sooner had she taken her seat than her terror increased tenfold, for ballantyne rose swiftly from his chair and walking in a circle round the room with an extraordinarily light and noiseless step disappeared behind her. then he sat down. mrs. repton heard the slight grating of the legs of a chair upon the floor. it was a chair at a writing-table close by the window and exactly at her back. he could see every movement which she made, and she could see nothing, not so much as the tip of one of his fingers. and of his fingers she was now afraid. he was watching her from his point of vantage; she seemed to feel his eyes burning upon the nape of her neck. and he said nothing; and he did not stir. it was broad daylight, she assured herself. she had but to cross the room to the bell beside the fireplace. nay, she had only to scream--and she was very near to screaming--to bring the servants to her rescue. but she dared not do it. before she was half-way to the bell, before the cry was out of her mouth she would feel his fingers close about her throat. * * * * * mrs. repton had begun to tell her story with reluctance, dreading lest thresk should attribute it to a woman's nerves and laugh. but he did not. he listened gravely, seriously; and, as she continued, that nightmare of an evening so lived again in her recollections that she could not but make it vivid in her words. "i had more than a mere sense of danger," she said. "i felt besides a sort of hideous discomfort, almost physical discomfort, which made me believe that there was something evil in that room beyond the power of language to describe." she felt her self-control leaving her. if she stayed she must betray her alarm. even now she had swallowed again and again, and she wondered that he had not detected the working of her throat. she summoned what was left of her courage and tossing her book aside rose slowly and deliberately. "i think i shall copy stella's example and lie down for an hour," she said without turning her head towards ballantyne, and even while she spoke she knew that she had made a mistake in mentioning stella. he would follow her to discover whether she went to stella's room and told what she had seen to her. but he did not move. she reached the door, turned the handle, went out and closed the door behind her. for a moment then her strength failed her; she leaned against the wall by the side of the door, her heart racing. but the fear that he would follow urged her on. she crossed the hall and stopped deliberately before a cabinet of china at the foot of the stairs, which stood against the wall in which the library door was placed. while she stood there she saw the door open very slowly and ballantyne's livid face appear at the opening. she turned towards the stairs and mounted them without looking back. halfway up a turn hid the hall from her, and the moment after she had passed the turn she heard him crossing the hall after her, again with a lightness of step which seemed to be uncanny and inhuman in so heavy and gross a creature. "i was appalled," she said to thresk frankly. "he had the step of an animal. i felt that some great baboon was tracking me stealthily." mrs. repton came to stella ballantyne's door and was careful not to stop. she reached her own room, and once in shot the bolt; and in a moment or two she heard him breathing just outside the panels. "and to think that stella is alone with him in the jungle months at a time!" she cried, actually wringing her hands. "that thought was in my mind all the time--a horror of a thought. oh, i could understand now the loss of her spirits, her colour, her youth." pictures of lonely camps and empty rest-houses, far removed from any habitation in the silence of indian nights, rose before her eyes. she imagined stella propped up on her elbow in bed, wide-eyed with terror, listening and listening to the light footsteps of the drunken brute beyond the partition-wall, shivering when they approached, dropping back with the dew of her sweat upon her forehead when they retired; and these pictures she translated in words for thresk in her house on the khamballa hill. thresk was moved and showed that he was moved. he rose and walked to the window, turning his back to her. "why did she marry him?" he exclaimed. "she was poor, but she had a little money. why did she marry him?" and he turned back to mrs. repton for an answer. she gave him one quick look and said: "that is one of the things she has never told me and i didn't meet her until after she had married him." "and why doesn't she leave him?" mrs. repton held up her hands. "oh, the easy questions, mr. thresk! how many women endure the thing that is because it is? even to leave your husband you want a trifle of spirit. and what if your spirit's broken? what if you are cowed? what if you live in terror day and night?" "yes. i am a fool," said thresk, and he sat down again. "there are two more questions i want to ask. did you ever talk to stella"--the christian name slipped naturally from him and only jane repton of the two remarked that he had used it--"of that incident in the library at agra?" "yes." "and did she in consequence of what you told her give you any account of her life with her husband?" mrs. repton hesitated not because she was any longer in doubt as to whether she would speak the whole truth or not--she had committed herself already too far--but because the form of the question nettled her. it was a little too forensic for her taste. she was anxious to know the man; she could dispense with the barrister altogether. "yes, she did," she replied, "and don't cross-examine me, please." "i beg your pardon," said thresk with a laugh which made him human on the instant. "well, it's true," said jane repton in a rush. "she told me the truth--what you know and more. he stripped when he was drunk, stripped to the skin. think of it! stella told me that and broke down. oh, if you had seen her! for stella to give way--that alone must alarm her friends. oh, but the look of her! she sat by my side on the sofa, wringing her hands, with the tears pouring down her face ..." thresk rose quickly from his chair. "thank you," he said, cutting her short. he wanted to hear no more. he held out his hand to her with a certain abruptness. mrs. repton rose too. "what are you going to do?" she asked breathlessly. "i must know i have a right to, i think. i have told you so much. i was in great doubt whether i should tell you anything. but--" her voice broke and she ended her plea lamely enough: "i am very fond of stella." "i know that," said thresk, and his voice was grateful and his face most friendly. "well, what are you going to do?" "i am going to write to her to ask her to join me in bombay," he replied. chapter x news from chitipur a long silence followed upon his words. jane repton turned to the mantelshelf and moved an ornament here and another one there. she had contemplated this very consequence of thresk's journey to chitipur. she had actually worked for it herself. she was frank enough to acknowledge that. none the less his announcement, quietly as he had made it, was a shock to her. she did not, however, go back upon her work; and when she spoke it was rather to make sure that he was not going to act upon an unconsidered impulse. "it will damage your career," she said. "of course you have thought of that." "it will alter it," he answered, "if she comes to me. i shall go out of parliament, of course." "and your practice?" "that will suffer too for a while no doubt. but even if i lost it altogether i should not be a poor man." "you have saved money?" "no. there has not been much time for that, but for a good many years now i have collected silver and miniatures. i know something about them and the collection is of value." "i see." mrs. repton looked at him now. oh, yes, he had thought his proposal out during the night journey to bombay--not a doubt of it. "stella, too, will suffer," she said. "worse than she does now?" asked thresk. "no. but her position will be difficult for awhile at least," and she came towards thresk and pleaded. "you will be thoughtful of her, for her? oh, if you should play her false--how i should hate you!" and her eyes flashed fire at him. "i don't think that you need fear that." but he was too calm for her, too quiet. she was in the mood to want heroics. she clamoured for protestations as a drug for her uneasy mind. and thresk stood before her without one. she searched his face with doubtful eyes. oh, there seemed to her no tenderness in it. "she will need--love," said mrs. repton. "there--that's the word. can you give it her?" "if she comes to me--yes. i have wanted her for eight years," and then suddenly she got, not heroics, but a glimpse of a real passion. a spasm of pain convulsed his face. he sat down and beat with his fist upon the table. "it was horrible to me to ride away from that camp and leave her there--miles away from any friend. i would have torn her from him by force if there had been a single hope that way. but his levies would have barred the road. no, this was the only chance: to come away to bombay, to write to her that the first day, the first night she is able to slip out and travel here she will find me waiting." mrs. repton was satisfied. but while he had been speaking a new fear had entered into her. "there's something i should have thought of," she exclaimed. "yes?" "captain ballantyne is not generous. he is just the sort of man not to divorce his wife." thresk raised his head. clearly that possibility had no more occurred to him than it had to jane repton. he thought it over now. "just the sort of man," he agreed. "but we must take that risk--if she comes." "the letter's not yet written," mrs. repton suggested. "but it will be," he replied, and then he stood and confronted her. "do you wish me not to write it?" she avoided his eyes, she looked upon the floor, she began more than one sentence of evasion; but in the end she took both his hands in hers and said stoutly: "no, i don't! write! write!" "thank you!" he went to the door, and when he had reached it she called to him in a low voice. "mr. thresk, what did you mean when you repeated and repeated if she comes?" thresk came slowly back into the room. "i meant that eight years ago i gave her a very good reason why she should put no faith in me." he told her that quite frankly and simply, but he told her no more than that, and she let him go. he went back to the great hotel on the apollo bund and sent off a number of cablegrams to london saying that he had missed his steamer and that the work waiting for him must go to other hands. the letter to stella ballantyne he kept to the last. it could not reach her immediately in any case since she was in camp. for all he knew it might be weeks before she read it; and he had need to go warily in the writing of it. certain words she had used to him were an encouragement; but there were others which made him doubt whether she would have any faith in him. every now and then there had been a savour of bitterness. once she had been shamed because of him, on bignor hill where stane street runs to chichester, and a second time in front of him in the tent at chitipur. no, it was not an easy letter which he had to write, and he took the night and the greater part of the next day to decide upon its wording. it could not in any case go until the night-mail. he had finished it and directed it by six o'clock in the evening and he went down with the letter in his hand into the big lounge to post it in the box there. but it never was posted. close to the foot of the staircase stood a tape machine, and as thresk descended he heard the clicking of the instrument and saw the usual small group of visitors about it. they were mostly americans, and they were reading out to one another the latest prices of the stock-markets. some of the chatter reached to thresk's inattentive ears, and when he was only two steps from the floor one carelessly-spoken phrase interjected between the values of two securities brought him to a stop. the speaker was a young man with a squarish face and thick hair parted accurately in the middle. he was dressed in a thin grey suit and he was passing the tape between his fingers as it ran out. the picture of him was impressed during that instant upon thresk's mind, so that he could never afterwards forget it. "copper's up one point," he was saying, "that's fine. who's captain ballantyne, i wonder? united steel has dropped seven-eighths. well, that doesn't affect me," and so he ran on. thresk heard no more of what he said. he stood wondering what news could have come up on the tape of captain ballantyne who was out in camp in the state of chitipur, or if there was another captain ballantyne. he joined the little group in front of the machine, and picking up the ribbon from the floor ran his eyes backwards along it until he came to "united steel." the sentence in front of that ran as follows: "captain ballantyne was found dead early yesterday morning outside his tent close to jarwhal junction." thresk read the sentence twice and then walked away. the news might be false, of course, but if it were true here was a revolution in his life. there was no need for this letter which he held in his hand. the way was smoothed out for stella, for him. not for a moment could he pretend to do anything but welcome the news, to wish with all his heart that it was true. and it seemed probable news. there was the matter of that photograph. thresk had carried it out to the governor's house on malabar point on the very morning of his arrival in bombay. he had driven on to mrs. repton's house after he had left it there. but he had taken it away from chitipur at too late a day to save ballantyne. ballantyne had, after all, had good cause to be afraid while he possessed it, and the news had not yet got to salak's friends that it had left his possession. thus he made out the history of captain ballantyne's death. the tape machine, however, might have ticked out a mere rumour with no truth in it at all. he went to the office and obtained a copy of _the advocate of india_,--the evening newspaper of the city. he looked at the stop-press telegrams. there was no mention of ballantyne's death. nor on glancing down the columns could he find in any paragraph a statement that any mishap had befallen him. but on the other hand he read that he himself, henry thresk, having brought his case to a successful conclusion, had left india yesterday by the mail-steamer madras, bound for marseilles. he threw down the paper and went to the telephone-box. if the news were true the one person likely to know of it was mrs. repton. thresk rang up the house on the khamballa hill and asked to speak to her. an answer was returned to him at once that mrs. repton had given orders that she was not to be disturbed. thresk however insisted: "will you please give my name to her--henry thresk," and he waited with his ear to the receiver for a century. at last a voice spoke to him, but it was again the voice of the servant. "the memsahib very sorry, sir, but cannot speak to any one just now;" and he heard the jar of the instrument as the receiver at the other end was sharply hung up and the connection broken. thresk came out from the telephone-box with a face puzzled and very grave. mrs. repton refused to speak to him! it was a fact, an inexplicable fact, and it alarmed him. it was impossible to believe that mere reflection during the last twenty-four hours had brought about so complete a revolution in her feelings. he to whom she had passionately cried "write! write!" only yesterday could hardly be barred out from mere speech with her to-day for any fault of his. he had done nothing, had seen no one. thresk was certain now that the news upon the tape was true. but it could not be all the truth. there was something behind it--something rather grim and terrible. thresk walked to the door of the hotel and called up a motor-car. "tell him to drive to the khamballa hill," he said to the porter. "i'll let him know when to stop." the porter translated the order and thresk stopped him at mrs. repton's door. "the memsahib does not receive any one to-day," said the butler. "i know," replied thresk. he scribbled on a card and sent it in. there was a long delay. thresk stood in the hall looking out through the open door. night had come. there were lights upon the roadway, lights a long way below at the water's edge on breach candy, and there was a light twinkling far out on the arabian sea. but in the house behind him all was dark. he had come to an abode of desolation and mourning; and his heart sank and he was attacked with forebodings. at last in the passage behind him there was a shuffling of feet and a gleam of white. the memsahib would receive him. thresk was shown into the drawing-room. that room too was unlit. but the blinds had not been lowered and light from a street lamp outside turned the darkness into twilight. no one came forward to greet him, but the room was not empty. he saw repton and his wife huddled close together on a sofa in a recess by the fireplace. "i thought that i had better come up from bombay," said thresk, as he stood in the middle of the room. no answer was returned to him for a few moments and then it was repton himself who spoke. "yes, yes," he said, and he got up from the sofa. "i think we had better have some light," he added in a strange indifferent voice. he turned the light on in the central chandelier, leaving the corners of the room in shadow, like--the parallel forced its way into thresk's mind--like the tent in chitipur. then very methodically he pulled down the blinds. he did not look at thresk and jane repton on the couch never stirred. thresk's forebodings became a dreadful certainty. some evil thing had happened. he might have been in a house of death. he knew that he was not wanted there, that husband and wife wished to be alone and silently resented his presence. but he could not go without more knowledge than he had. "a message came up on the tape half an hour ago," he said in a low voice. "it reported that ballantyne was dead." "yes," replied repton. he was leaning forward over a table and looking up to the chandelier as if he fancied that its light burnt more dimly than was usual. "that's true," and he spoke in the same strange mechanical voice he had used before. "that he was found dead outside his tent," thresk added. "it's quite true," repton agreed. "we are very sorry." "sorry!" the exclamation burst from thresk's lips. "yes." repton moved away from the chandelier. he had not looked at thresk once since he had entered the room; nor did he look towards his wife. his face was very pale and he was busy now setting a chair in place, moving a photograph, doing any one of the little unnecessary things people restlessly do when there is an importunate visitor in the room who will not go. "you see, there's terribly bad news," he added. "what news?" "he was shot, you know. that wasn't in the telegram on the tape, of course. yes, he was shot--on the same night you dined there--after you had gone." "shot!" thresk's voice dropped to a whisper. "yes," and the dull quiet voice went on, speaking apparently of some trivial affair in which none of them could have any interest. "he was shot by a bullet from a little rook-rifle which belonged to stella, and which she was in the habit of using." thresk's heart stood still. a picture flashed before his eyes. he saw the inside of that dimly lit tent with its red lining and stella standing by the table. he could hear her voice: "this is my little rook-rifle. i was seeing that it was clean for to-morrow." she had spoken so carelessly, so indifferently that it wasn't conceivable that what was in all their minds could be true. yet she had spoken, after all, no more indifferently than repton was speaking now; and he was in a great stress of grief. then thresk's mind leaped to the weak point in all this chain of presumption. "but ballantyne was found outside the tent," he cried with a little note of triumph. but it had no echo in repton's reply. "i know. that makes everything so much worse." "what do you mean?" "ballantyne was found in the morning outside the tent stone-cold. but no one had heard the shot, and there were sentries on the edge of the encampment. he had been dragged outside after he was dead or when he was dying." a low cry broke from thresk. the weak point became of a sudden the most deadly, the most terrible element in the whole case. he could hear the prosecuting counsel making play with it. he stood for a moment lost in horror. repton had no further word to say to him. mrs. repton had never once spoken. they wanted him away, out of the room, out of the house. some insight let him into the meaning of her silence. in the presence of this tragedy remorse had gripped her. she was looking upon herself as one who had plotted harm for stella. she would never forgive thresk for his share in the plot. thresk went out of the room without a word more to either repton or his wife. whatever he did now he must do by himself. he would not be admitted into that house again. he closed the door of the room behind him, and hardly had he closed it when he heard the snap of a switch and the line of light under the door vanished. once more there was darkness in the drawing-room. repton no doubt had returned to his wife's side and they were huddled again side by side on the sofa. thresk walked down the hill with a horrible feeling of isolation and loneliness. but he shook it off as he neared the lights of bombay. chapter xi thresk intervenes thresk reached his hotel with some words ringing in his head which jane repton had spoken to him at mrs. carruthers' dinner-party: "you can get any single thing in life you want if you want it enough, but you cannot control the price you will have to pay for it. that you will only learn afterwards and gradually." he had got what he had wanted--the career of distinction, and he wondered whether he was to begin now to learn its price. he mounted to his sitting-room on the second floor, avoiding the lounge and the lift and using a small side staircase instead of the great central one. he had passed no one on the way. in his room he looked upon the mantelshelf and on the table. no visitor had called on him that day; no letter awaited him. for the first time since he had landed in india a day had passed without some resident leaving on him a card or a note of invitation. the newspapers gave him the reason. he was supposed to have left on the _madras_ for england. to make sure he rang for his waiter; no message of any kind had come. "shall i ask at the office?" the waiter asked. "by no means," answered thresk, and he added: "i will have dinner served up here to-night." there was just a possibility, he thought, that he might after all escape this particular payment. he took from his pocket his unposted letter to stella ballantyne. there was no longer any use for it and even its existence was now dangerous to stella. for let it be discovered, however she might plead that she knew nothing of its contents, a motive for the death of ballantyne might be inferred from it. it would be a false motive, but just the sort of motive which the man in the street would immediately accept. thresk burnt the letter carefully in a plate and pounded up each black flake of paper until nothing was left but ashes. then for the moment his work was done. he had only to wait and he did not wait long. on the very next morning his newspaper informed him that inspector coulson of the bombay police had left for chitipur. the inspector was a young man devoted to his work, but he travelled now upon a duty which he would gladly have handed to any other of his colleagues. he had met stella ballantyne in bombay upon one of her rare visits to jane repton. he had sat at the same dinner-table with her, and he did not find it pleasant to reflect on the tragic destiny which she must now fulfil. for the facts were fatal. at daybreak on the morning of the friday a sentry on the outer edge of the camp at jarwhal junction had noticed something black lying upon the ground in the open just outside the door of the agent's big marquee. he ran across the ground and discovered captain ballantyne sprawling, face downwards, in the smoking-suit which he had worn at dinner the night before. the sentry shook him gently by the shoulder, but the limpness of the body frightened him. then he noticed that there was blood upon the ground, and calling loudly for help he ran to the guard-room tent. he returned with others of the native levies and they lifted ballantyne up. he was dead and the body was cold. the levies carried him into the tent and opened his shirt. he had been shot through the heart. they then roused mrs. ballantyne's ayah and bade her wake her mistress. the ayah went into mrs. ballantyne's room and found her mistress sound asleep. she waked her up and told her what had happened. stella ballantyne said not a word. she got out of bed, and flinging on some clothes went into the outer tent, where the servants were standing about the body. stella ballantyne went quite close to it and looked down upon the dead man's face for a long time. she was pale, but there was no shrinking in her attitude--no apprehension in her eyes. "he has been killed," she said at length; "telegrams must be sent at once: to ajmere for a doctor, to bombay, and to his highness the maharajah." baram singh salaamed. "it is as your excellency wills," he said. "i will write them," said stella quietly. and she sat down at her own writing-table there and then. the doctor from ajmere arrived during the day, made an examination and telegraphed a report to the chief commissioner at ajmere. that report contained the three significant points which repton had enumerated to thresk, but with some still more significant details. the bullet which pierced captain ballantyne's heart had been fired from mrs. ballantyne's small rook-rifle, and the exploded cartridge was still in the breech. the rifle was standing up against mrs. ballantyne's writing-table in a corner of the tent, when the doctor from ajmere discovered it. in the second place, although ballantyne was found in the open, there was a patch of blood upon the carpet within the tent and a trail of blood from that spot to the door. there could be no doubt that ballantyne was killed inside. there was the third point to establish that theory. neither the sentry on guard nor any one of the servants sleeping in the adjacent tents had heard the crack of the rifle. it would not be loud in any case, but if the weapon had been fired in the open it would have been sufficiently sharp and clear to attract the attention of the men on guard. the heavy double lining of the tent however was thick enough so to muffle and deaden the sound that it would pass unnoticed. the report was considered at ajmere and forwarded. it now brought inspector coluson of the police up the railway from bombay. he found mrs. ballantyne waiting for him at the residency of chitipur. "i must tell you who i am," he said awkwardly. "there is no need to," she answered, "i know." he then cautioned her in the usual way, and producing his pocket-book asked her whether she wished to throw any light upon her husband's death. "no," she said. "i have nothing to say. i was asleep and in bed when my ayah came into my room with the news of his death." "yes," said the inspector uncomfortably. that detail, next to the dragging of the body out of the tent, seemed to him the grimmest part of the whole tragedy. he shut up his book. "i am afraid it is all very unsatisfactory," he said. "i think we must go back to bombay." "it is as your excellency wills," said stella in hindustani, and the inspector was startled by the bad taste of the joke. he had not the knowledge of her life with ballantyne, which alone would have given him the key to understand her. but he was not a fool, and a second glance at her showed to him that she was not speaking in joke at all. he had an impression that she was so tired that she did not at the moment care what happened to her at all. the fatigue would wear off, no doubt, when she realised that she must fight for her life, but now she stood in front of him indifferent and docile--much as one of the native levies was wont to stand before her husband. the words which the levies used and the language in which they spoke them rose naturally to her lips, as the only words and language suitable to the occasion. "you see, mrs. ballantyne," he said gently, "there is no reason to suspect a single one of your servants or of your escort." "and there is reason to suspect me," she added, looking at him quietly and steadily. the inspector for his part looked away. he was a young man--no more than a year or two older than stella ballantyne herself. they both came from the same kind of stock. her people and his people might have been friends in some pleasant country village in one of the english counties. she was pretty, too, disconcertingly pretty, in spite of the dark circles under her eyes and the pallor of her face. there was a delicacy in her looks and in her dress which appealed to him for tenderness. the appeal was all the stronger because it was only in that way and unconsciously that she appealed. in her voice, in her bearing, in her eyes there was no request, no prayer. "i have been to the palace," he said, "i have had an audience with the maharajah." "of course," she answered. "i shall put no difficulties in your way." he was standing in her own drawing-room, noticing with what skill comfort had been combined with daintiness, and how she had followed the usual instinct of her kind in trying to create here in this room a piece of england. through the window he looked out upon a lawn which was being watered by a garden-sprinkler, and where a gardener was at work attending to a bed of bright flowers. there, too, she had been making the usual pathetic attempt to convert a half-acre of this country of yellow desert into a green garden of england. coulson had not a shadow of doubt in his mind stella ballantyne would exchange this room with its restful colours and its outlook on a green lawn for--at the best--many years of solitary imprisonment in poona gaol. he shut up his book with a snap. "will you be ready to go in an hour?" he asked roughly. "yes," said she. "if i leave you unwatched during that hour you will promise to me that you will be ready to go in an hour?" stella ballantyne nodded her head. "i shall not kill myself now," she said, and he looked at her quickly, but she did not trouble to explain her words. she merely added: "i may take some clothes, i suppose?" "whatever you need," said the inspector. and he took her down to bombay. she was formally charged next morning before the stipendiary for the murder of her husband and remanded for a week. she was remanded at eleven o'clock in the morning, and five minutes later the news was ticked off on the tape at the taj mahal hotel. within another five minutes the news was brought upstairs to thresk. he had been fortunate. he was in a huge hotel, where people flit through its rooms for a day and are gone the next, and no one is concerned with the doings of his neighbour, a place of arrival and departure like the platform of a great railway station. there was no place in all bombay where thresk could so easily pass unnoticed. and he had passed unnoticed. a single inquiry at the office, it is true, would have revealed his presence, but no one had inquired, since by this time he should be nearing aden. he had kept to his rooms during the day and had only taken the air after it was dark. this was in the early stages of wireless telegraphy, and the _madras_ had no installation. it might be that inquiries would be made for him at aden. he could only wait with jane repton's words ringing in his ears: "you cannot control the price you will have to pay." stella ballantyne was brought up again in a week's time and the case then proceeded from day to day. the character of ballantyne was revealed, his brutalities, his cunning. detail by detail he was built up into a gross sinister figure secret and violent which lived again in that crowded court and turned the eyes of the spectators with a shiver of discomfort upon the young and quiet woman in the dock. and in that character the prosecution found the motive of the crime. sympathy at times ran high for stella ballantyne, but there were always the two grim details to keep it in check: she had been found asleep by her ayah, quietly restfully asleep within a few hours of ballantyne's death; and she had, according to the theory of the crown, found in some violence of passion the strength to drag the dying man from the tent and to leave him to gasp out his life under the stars. thresk watched the case from his rooms at the taj mahal hotel. every fact which was calculated to arouse sympathy for her was also helping to condemn her. no one doubted that she had shot stephen ballantyne. he deserved shooting--very well. but that did not give her the right to be his executioner. what was her defence to be? a sudden intolerable provocation? how would that square with the dragging of his body across the carpet to the door? there was the fatal insuperable act. thresk read again and again the reports of the proceedings for a hint as to the line of the defence. he got it the day when repton appeared in the witness-box on a subpoena from the crown to bear testimony to the violence of stephen ballantyne. he had seen stella with her wrist bruised so that in public she could not remove her gloves. "what kind of bruises?" asked the counsel. "such bruises as might be made by some one twisting her arms," he answered, and then mr. travers, a young barrister who was enjoying his first leap into the public eye, rose to cross-examine. thresk read through that cross-examination and rose to his feet. "you cannot control the price you will have to pay," he said to himself. that day, when mrs. ballantyne's solicitor returned to his office after the rising of the court, he found thresk waiting for him. "i wish to give evidence for mrs. ballantyne," said thresk--"evidence which will acquit her." he spoke with so much certainty that the solicitor was fairly startled. "and with evidence so positive in your possession it is only this afternoon that you come here with it! why?" thresk was prepared for the question. "i have a great deal of work waiting for me in london," he returned. "i hoped that it might not be necessary for me to appear at all. now i see that it is." the solicitor looked straight at thresk. "i knew from mrs. repton that you dined with the ballantynes that night, but she was sure that you knew nothing of the affair. you had left the tent before it happened." "that is true," answered thresk. "yet you have evidence which will acquit mrs. ballantyne?" "i think so." "how is it, then," the lawyer asked, "that we have heard nothing of this evidence at all from mrs. ballantyne herself?" "because she knows nothing of it," replied thresk. the lawyer pointed to a chair. the two men sat down together in the office and it was long before they parted. within an hour of thresk's return from the solicitor's office an inspector of police waited on him at his hotel and was instantly shown up. "we did not know until to-day," he said, "that you were still in bombay, mr. thresk. we believed you to be on the madras, which reached marseilles early this morning." "i missed it," replied thresk. "had you wanted me you could have inquired at port said five days ago." "five days ago we had no information." the native servants of ballantyne had from the first shrouded themselves in ignorance. they would answer what questions were put to them; they would not go one inch beyond. the crime was an affair of the sahibs and the less they had to do with it the better, until at all events they were sure which way the wind was setting from government house. of their own initiative they knew nothing. it was thus only by the discovery of thresk's letter to captain ballantyne, which was found crumpled up in a waste-paper basket, that his presence that night in the tent was suspected. "it is strange," the inspector grumbled, "that you did not come to us of your own accord when you had missed your boat and tell us what you knew." "i don't think it is strange at all," answered thresk, "for i am a witness for the defence. i shall give my evidence when the case for the defence opens." the inspector was disconcerted and went away. thresk's policy had so far succeeded. but he had taken a great risk and now that it was past he realised with an intense relief how serious the risk had been. if the inspector had called upon him before he had made known his presence to mrs. ballantyne's solicitor and offered his evidence, his position would have been difficult. he would have had to discover some other good reason why he had lain quietly at his hotel during these last days. but fortune had favoured him. he had to thank, above all, the secrecy of the native servants. chapter xii thresk gives evidence thresk's fears were justified. sympathy for stella ballantyne had already begun to wane. the fact that ballantyne had been found outside the door of the tent was already assuming a sinister importance. mrs. ballantyne's counsel slid discreetly over that awkward incident. very fortunately, as it was now to prove, he did not cross-examine the doctor from ajmere at all. but there are always the few who oppose the general opinion--the men and women who are in the minority because it is the minority; those whom the hysterical glorification made of stella ballantyne had offended; the austere, the pedantic, the just, the jealous, all were quick to seize upon this disconcerting fact: stella ballantyne had dragged her dying husband from the tent. it was either sheer callousness or blind fury--you might take your choice. in either case it dulled the glow of martyrdom which for a week or two had been so radiant upon stella ballantyne's forehead; and the few who argued thus attracted adherents daily. and with the sympathy for stella ballantyne interest in the case began to wane too. the magisterial inquiry threatened to become tedious. the pictures of the witnesses and the principals occupied less and less space in the newspapers. in another week the case would be coldly left with a shrug of the shoulders to the law courts. but unexpectedly curiosity was stirred again, for the day after thresk had called upon the lawyer, when the case for the crown was at an end, mrs. ballantyne's counsel, mr. travers, asked permission to recall baram singh. permission was granted, and baram singh once more took his place in the witness-box. mr. travers leant against the desk behind him and put his questions with the most significant slowness. "i wish to ask you, baram singh," he said, "about the dinner-table on the thursday night. you laid it?" "yes," replied baram singh. "for how many?" "for three." there was a movement through the whole court. "yes," said mr. travers, "captain ballantyne had a visitor that night." baram singh agreed. "look round the court and tell the magistrate if you can see here the man who dined with captain ballantyne and his wife that night." for a moment the court was filled with the noise of murmuring. the usher cried "silence!" and the murmuring ceased. a hush of expectation filled that crowded room as baram singh's eyes travelled slowly round the walls. he dropped them to the well of the court, and even his unexpressive face flashed with a look of recognition. "there," he cried, "there!" and he pointed to a man who was sitting just underneath the counsel's bench. mr. travers leant forward and in a quiet but particularly clear voice said: "will you kindly stand up, mr. thresk?" thresk stood up. to many of those present--the idlers, the people of fashion, the seekers after a thrill of excitement who fill the public galleries and law-courts--his long conduct of the great carruthers trial had made him a familiar figure. to the others his name, at all events, was known, and as he stood up on the floor of the court a swift and regular movement like a ripple of water passed through the throng. they leant forward to get a clearer view of him and for a moment there was a hiss of excited whispering. "that is the man who dined with captain and mrs. ballantyne on the night when captain ballantyne was killed?" said mr. travers. "yes," replied baram singh. no one understood what was coming. people began to ask themselves whether thresk was concerned in the murder. word had been published that he had already left for england. how was it he was here now? mr. travers, for his part, was enjoying to the full the suspense which his question had aroused. not by any intonation did he allow a hint to escape him whether he looked upon thresk as an enemy or friend. "you may sit down, sir, now," he said, and thresk resumed his seat. "will you tell us what you know of mr. thresk's visit to the captain?" travers resumed, and baram singh told how a camel had been sent to the dâk-house by the station of jarwhal junction. "yes," said mr. travers, "and he dined in the tent. how long did he stay?" "he left the camp at eleven o'clock on the camel to catch the night train to bombay. the captain-sahib saw him off from the edge of the camp." "ah," said mr. travers, "captain ballantyne saw him off?" "yes--from the edge of the camp." "and then went back to the tent?" "yes." "now i want to take you to another point. you waited at dinner?" "yes." "and towards the close of dinner mrs. ballantyne left the room?" "yes." "she did not come back again?" "no." "no. the two men were then left alone?" "yes." "after dinner was the table cleared?" "yes," said baram singh, "the captain-sahib called to me to clear the table quickly." "yes," said travers. "now, will you tell me what the captain-sahib was doing while you were clearing the table?" baram singh reflected. "first of all the captain-sahib offered a box of cheroots to his visitor, and his visitor refused and took a pipe from his pocket. the captain-sahib then lit a cheroot for himself and replaced the box on the top of the bureau." "and after that?" asked travers. "after that," said baram singh, "he stooped down, unlocked the bottom drawer of his bureau and then turned sharply to me and told me to hurry and get out." "and that order you obeyed?" "yes." "now, baram singh, did you enter the room again?" baram singh explained that after he had gone out with the table-cloth he returned in a few moments with an ash-tray, which he placed beside the visitor-sahib. "yes," said travers. "had captain ballantyne altered his position?" baram singh then related that captain ballantyne was still sitting in his chair by the bureau, but that the drawer of the bureau was now open, and that on the ground close to captain ballantyne's feet there was a red despatch-box. "the captain-sahib," he continued, "turned to me with great anger, and drove me again out of the room." "thank you," said mr. travers, and he sat down. the prosecuting counsel rose at once. "now, baram singh," he said with severity, "why did you not mention when you were first put in the witness-box that this gentleman was present in the camp that night?" "i was not asked." "no, that is quite true," he continued, "you were not asked specifically, but you were asked to tell all that you knew." "i did not interfere," replied baram singh. "i answered what questions were asked. besides, when the sahib left the camp the captain-sahib was alive." at this moment mr. travers leaned across to the prosecuting counsel and said: "it will all be made clear when mr. thresk goes into the box." and once more, as mr. travers spoke these words, a rustle of expectancy ran round the court. travers opened the case for the defence on the following morning. he had been originally instructed, he declared, to reserve the defence for the actual trial before the jury, but upon his own urgent advice that plan was not to be followed. the case which he had to put before the stipendiary must so infallibly prove that mrs. ballantyne was free from all complicity in this crime that he felt he would not be doing his duty to her unless he made it public at the first opportunity. that unhappy lady had already, as every one who had paid even the most careless attention to the facts that had been presented by the prosecution must know, suffered so much distress and sorrow in the course of her married life that he felt it would not be fair to add to it the strain and suspense which even the most innocent must suffer when sent for trial upon such a serious charge. he at once proposed to call mr. thresk, and thresk rose and went into the witness-box. thresk told the story of that dinner-party word for word as it had occurred, laying some emphasis on the terror which from time to time had taken possession of stephen ballantyne, down to the moment when baram singh had brought the ash-tray and left the two men together, thresk sitting by the table in the middle of the room and ballantyne at his bureau with the despatch-box on the floor at his feet. "then i noticed an extraordinary look of fear disfigure his face," he continued, "and following the direction of his eyes i saw a lean brown arm with a thin hand as delicate as a woman's wriggle forward from beneath the wall of the tent towards the despatch-box." "you saw that quite clearly?" asked mr. travers. "the tent was not very brightly lit," thresk explained. "at the first glance i saw something moving. i was inclined to believe it a snake and to account in that way for captain ballantyne's fear and the sudden rigidity of his attitude. but i looked again and i was then quite sure that it was an arm and hand." the evidence roused those present to such a tension of excitement and to so loud a burst of murmuring that it was quite a minute before order was restored and thresk took up his tale again. he described ballantyne's search for the thief. "and what were you doing," mr. travers asked, "whilst the search was being made?" "i stood by the table holding the despatch-box firmly in my hands as ballantyne had urgently asked me to do." "quite so," said mr. travers; and the attention of the court was now directed to that despatch-box and the portrait of bahadur salak which it contained. the history of the photograph, its importance at this moment when salak's trial impended, and ballantyne's conviction of the extreme danger which its possessor ran--a conviction established by the bold attempt to steal it made under their very eyes--was laid before the stipendiary. he sent the case to trial as he was bound to do, but the verdict in most people's eyes was a foregone conclusion. thresk had supplied a story which accounted for the crime, and cross-examination could not shake him. it was easy to believe that at the very moment when thresk was saying goodbye to captain ballantyne by the fire on the edge of the camp the thief slipped into the marquee, and when discovered by ballantyne either on his return or later shot him with mrs. ballantyne's rifle. it was clear that no conviction could be obtained while this story held the field and in due course mrs. ballantyne was acquitted. of thresk's return to the tent just before leaving the camp nothing was said. thresk himself did not mention it and the counsel for the crown had no hint which could help him to elicit it. thus the case ended. the popular heroine of a criminal trial loses, as all observers will have noticed, her crown of romance the moment she is set free; and that good fortune awaited stella ballantyne. thresk called the next day upon jane repton and was coldly told that stella had already gone from bombay. he betook himself to her solicitor, who was cordial but uncommunicative. the reptons, it appeared, were responsible to him for the conduct of the case. he had not any knowledge of stella ballantyne's destination, and he pointed to a stack of telegrams and letters as confirmation of his words. "they will all go up to khamballa hill," he said. "i have no other address." the next day, however, a little note of gratitude came to thresk through the post. it was unsigned and without any address. but it was in stella ballantyne's handwriting and the post-mark was kurrachee. that she did not wish to see him he could quite understand; kurrachee was a port from which ships sailed to many destinations; he could hardly set out in a blind search for her across the world. so here, it seemed, was that chapter closed. he took the next steamer westwards from bombay, landed at brindisi and went back to his work in the law courts and in parliament. chapter xiii little beeding again but though she disappeared stella ballantyne was not in flight from men and women. she avoided them because they did not for the moment count in her thoughts, except as possible hindrances. she was not so much running away as running to the place of her desires. she yielded to an impulse with which they had nothing whatever to do, an impulse so overmastering that even to the reptons her precipitancy wore a look of ingratitude. she drove home with jane repton as soon as she was released, to the house on khamballa hill, and while she was still in the carriage she said: "i must go away to-morrow morning." she was sitting forward with a tense and eager look upon her face and her hands clenched tightly in her lap. "there is no need for that. make your home with us, stella, for a little while and hold your head high." jane repton had talked over this proposal with her husband. both of them recognised that the acceptance of it would entail on them some little sacrifice. prejudice would be difficult. but they had thrust these considerations aside in the loyalty of their friendship and jane repton was a little hurt that stella waved away their invitation without ceremony. "i can't. i can't," she said irritably. "don't try to stop me." her nerves were quite on edge and she spoke with a greater violence than she knew. jane repton tried to persuade her. "wouldn't it be wiser for you to face things here, even though it means some effort and pain?" "i don't know," answered stella, still in the quick peremptory tone of one who will not be argued with. "i don't care either. i have nothing to do with wisdom just now. i don't want people at all. i want--oh, how i want--" she stopped and then she added vaguely: "something else," and her voice trailed away into silence. she sat without a word, all tingling impatience, during the rest of that drive and continued so to sit after the carriage had stopped. when jane repton descended, and she woke up with a start and looked at the house, it was as though she brought her eyes down from heaven to earth. once within the house she went straight up to repton. he had left his wife behind with stella at the law courts and had come home in advance of them. he had not spoken a word to stella that day, and he had not the time now, for she began immediately in an eager voice and a look of fever in her eyes: "you won't try to stop me, will you? i must go away to-morrow." repton used more tact now than his wife had done. he took the troubled and excited woman's hand and answered her very gently: "of course, stella. you shall go when you like." "oh, thank you," she cried, and was freed to remember the debt which she owed to these good friends of hers. "you must think me a brute, jane! i haven't said a word to you about all your kindness. but--oh, you'll think me ridiculous, when you know"--and she began to laugh and to sob in one breath. stella ballantyne had remained so sunk in apathy through all that long trial that her friends were relieved at her outburst of tears. jane repton led her upstairs and put her to bed just as if she had been a child. "there! you can get up for dinner if you like, stella, or stay where you are. and if you'll tell us what you want to do we'll make the arrangements for you and not ask you a question." jane repton kissed her and left her alone; and it was while stella was sleeping upstairs that henry thresk called at the house and was told that there was no news for him. "no doubt she will write to you, mr. thresk, if she wishes you to know what she is doing. but i should not count upon it if i were you," said jane repton, in a sweet voice and with eyes like pebbles. "she did not mention you, i am sorry to say, when the trial was over." she could not forgive him because of her own share in what she now called his "treachery" towards stella. she had no more of the logician in her composition than thresk had of the hero. he had committed under a great stress of emotion and sympathy what the whole experience and method of his life told him was one of the worst of crimes. and now that its object was achieved, and stella ballantyne free, he was in the mood to see only the harm which he had done to the majesty of the law; he was uneasy; he was not troubled by the thought that discovery would absolutely ruin him. that indeed did not enter into his thoughts. but he could not but make a picture of himself in the robe of a king's counsel, claiming sternly the anger of the law against some other man who should have done just what he had done, no more and no less. and so when mrs. repton's door was finally closed upon him, and no message was given to him from the woman he had saved, he was at once human and unheroic enough to visit a little of his resentment upon her. he had not spoken to her at all since the night at chitipur; he had no knowledge of the stupor and the prostration into which, after her years of misery, she had fallen; he had no insight into the one compelling passion which now had her, body and soul, in its grip. he turned away from the door and went back to the taj mahal. a steamer would be starting for port said in two days and by that steamer he would travel. that stella was in the house on the khamballa hill he did not doubt, but since she had no word or thought to spare for him he could not but turn his back and go. stella herself got up to dinner, and after it was over she told her friends of the longing which filled her soul. "all through the trial," she said shyly, with the shrinking of those who reveal a very secret fancy and are afraid that it will be ridiculed, "in the heat of the court, in the close captivity of my cell, i was conscious of just one real unconquerable passion--to feel the wind blowing against my face upon the sussex downs. can you understand that? just to see the broad green hills with the white chalk hollows in their sides and the forests marching down to the valleys like the roman soldiers from chichester--oh! i was mad for the look and the smell and the sounds of them! it was all that i thought about. i used to close my eyes in the dock and i was away in a second riding through charlton forest or over farm hill, or looking down to slindon from gumber corner, and over its woods to the sea. and now that i am free"--she clasped her hands and her face grew radiant--"oh, i don't want to see people." she reached out a hand to each of her friends. "i don't call you people, you know. but even you--you'll understand and forgive and not be hurt--i don't want to see for a little while." the beaten look of her took the sting of ingratitude out of her words. she stood between them, her delicate face worn thin, her eyes unnaturally big; she had the strange transparent beauty of people who have been lying for months in a mortal sickness. jane repton's eyes filled with tears and her hand sought for her handkerchief. "let's see what can be done," said repton. "there's a mail-steamer of course, but you won't want to travel by that." "no." repton worked out the sailings from bombay and the other ports on the western coast of india while stella leaned over his shoulder. "look!" he said. "this is the best way. there's a steamer going to kurrachee to-morrow, and when you reach kurrachee you'll just have time to catch a german lloyd boat which calls at southampton. you won't be home in thirteen days to be sure, but on the other hand you won't be pestered by curious people." "yes, yes," cried stella eagerly. "i can go to-morrow." "very well." repton looked at the clock. it was still no more than half-past ten. he saw with what a fever of impatience stella was consumed. "i believe i could lay my hand on the local manager of the line to-night and fix your journey up for you." "you could?" cried stella. he might have been offering her a crown, so brightly her thanks shone in her eyes. "i think so." he got up from the table and stood looking at her, and then away from her with his lips pursed in doubt. "yes?" said she. "i was thinking. will you travel under another name? i don't suggest it really, only it might save you--annoyance." repton's hesitation was misplaced, for stella ballantyne's pride was quite beaten to the ground. "yes," she said at once. "i should wish to do that"; and both he and his wife understood from that ready answer more completely than they ever had before how near stella had come to the big blank wall at the end of life. for seven years she had held her head high, never so much as whispering a reproach against her husband, keeping with a perpetual guard the secret of her misery. pride had been her mainspring; now even that was broken. repton went out of the house and returned at midnight. "it's all settled," he said. "you will have a cabin on deck in both steamers. i gave your name in confidence to the manager here and he will take care that everything possible is done for you. there will be very few passengers on the german boat. the season is too early for either the tourists or the people on leave." thus stella ballantyne crept away from bombay and in five weeks' time she landed at southampton. there she resumed her name. she travelled into sussex and stayed for a few nights at the inn whither henry thresk had come years before on his momentous holiday. she had a little money--the trifling income which her parents had left to her upon their death--and she began to look about for a house. by a piece of good fortune she discovered that the cottage in which she had lived at little beeding would be empty in a few months. she took it and before the summer was out she was once more established there. it was on an afternoon of august when stella made her home in it again. she passed along the yellow lane driven deep between high banks of earth where the roots of great elm-trees cropped out. every step was familiar to her. the lane with many twists under overarching branches ran down a steep hill and came out into the open by the big house with its pillared portico and its light grey stone and its wonderful garden of lawn and flowers and cedars. a tiny church with a narrow graveyard and strange carefully-trimmed square bushes of yew stood next to the house, and beyond the church the lane dipped to the river and the cottage. stella went from room to room. she had furnished the cottage simply and daintily; the walls were bright, her servant-girl had gathered flowers and set them about. outside the window the sunlight shone on a green garden. she was alone. it was the home-coming she had wished for. for three or four months she was left alone; and then one afternoon as she came into the cottage after a walk she found a little white card upon the table. it bore the name of mr. hazlewood. chapter xiv the hazlewoods in the quiet country town obvious changes had taken place during the eight years of stella's absence. they were not changes of importance, however, and one sentence can symbolize them all--there was now tarmac upon its roads. but in the cluster of houses a mile away at the end of the deep lane the case was different. mr. harold hazlewood had come to little beeding. he now lived in the big house to which the village owed its name and indeed its existence. he lived--and spread consternation amongst the gentry for miles round. "lord, how i wish poor arthur hadn't died!" old john chubble used to cry. he had hunted the west sussex hounds for thirty years and the very name of little beeding turned his red face purple. "there was a man. but this fellow! and to think he's got that beautiful house! do you know there's hardly a pheasant on the place. and i've hashed them down out of the sky in the old days there by the dozen. well, he's got a son in the coldstream, dick hazlewood, who's not so bad. but harold! oh, pass me the port!" harold indeed had inherited little beeding by an accident during the first summer after stella had gone out to india. arthur hazlewood, the owner and harold's nephew, had been lost with his yacht in a gale of wind off the coast of portugal. arthur was a bachelor and thus harold hazlewood came quite unexpectedly into the position of a country squire when he was already well on in middle age. he was a widower and a man of a noticeable aspect. at the first glance you knew that he was not as other men; at the second you suspected that he took a pride in his dissimilarity. he was long, rather shambling in his gait, with a mild blue eye and fair thin hair now growing grey. but length was the chief impression left by his physical appearance. his legs, his arms, his face, even his hair, unless his son in the coldstream happened to be at home at the time, were long. "is your father mad?" mr. chubble once asked of dick hazlewood. the two men had met in the broad street of great beeding at midday, and the elder one, bubbling with indignation, had planted himself in front of dick. "mad?" dick repeated reflectively. "no, i shouldn't go as far as that. oh no! what has he done now?" "he has paid out of his own pocket the fines of all the people in great beeding who have just been convicted for not having their babies vaccinated." dick hazlewood stared in surprise at his companion's indignant face. "but of course he'd do that, mr. chubble," he answered cheerfully. "he's anti-everything--everything, i mean, which experience has established or prudence could suggest." "in addition he wants to sell the navy for old iron and abolish the army." "yes," said dick, nodding his head amicably. "he's like that. he thinks that without an army and a navy we should be less aggressive. i can't deny it." "i should think not indeed," cried mr. chubble. "are you walking home?" "yes." "let us walk together." mr. chubble took dick hazlewood by the arm and as they went filled the lane with his plaints. "i should think you can't deny it. why, he has actually written a pamphlet to enforce his views upon the subject." "you should bless your stars, mr. chubble, that there is only one. he suffers from pamphlets. he writes 'em and prints 'em and every member of parliament gets one of 'em for nothing. pamphlets do for him what the gout does for other old gentlemen--they carry off from his system a great number of disquieting ailments. he's at prison reform now," said dick with a smile of thorough enjoyment. "have you heard him on it?" "no, and i don't want to," mr. chubble exploded. he struck viciously at an overhanging bough, as though it was the head of harold hazlewood, and went on with the catalogue of crimes. "he made a speech last week in the town-hall," and he jerked his thumb backwards towards the town they had left. "intolerable i call it. he actually denounced his own countrymen as a race of oppressors." "he would," answered dick calmly. "what did i say to you a minute ago? he's advanced, you know." "advanced!" sneered mr. chubble, and then dick hazlewood stopped and contemplated his companion with a thoughtful eye. "i really don't think you understand my father, mr. chubble," said dick with a gentle remonstrance in his voice which mr. chubble was at a loss whether to take seriously or no. "can you give me the key to him?" he cried. "i can." "then out with it, my lad." mr. chubble disposed himself to listen but with so bristling an expression that it was clear no explanation could satisfy him. dick, however, took no heed of that. he spoke slowly as one lecturing to an obtuse class of scholars. "my father was born predestined to believe that all the people whom he knows are invariably wrong, and all the people he doesn't know are invariably right. and when i feel inclined to deplore his abuse of his own country i console myself with the reflection that he would be the staunchest friend of england that england ever had--if only he had been born in germany." mr. chubble grunted and turned the speech suspiciously over in his mind. was dick poking fun at him or at his father? "that's bookish," he said. "i am afraid it is," dick hazlewood agreed humbly. "the fact is i am now an instructor at the staff college and much is expected of me." they had reached the gate of little beeding house. it was summer time. a yellow drive of gravel ran straight between long broad flower-beds to the door. "won't you come in and see my father?" dick asked innocently. "he's at home." "no, my lad, no." mr. chubble hastened to add: "i haven't the time. but i am very glad to have met you. you are here for long?" "no. only just for luncheon," said dick, and he walked along the drive into the house. he was met in the hall by hubbard the butler, an old colourless man of genteel movements which seemed slow and were astonishingly quick. he spoke in gentle purring tones and was the very butler for mr. harold hazlewood. "your father has been asking for you, sir," said hubbard. "he seems a little anxious. he is in the big room." "very well," said dick, and he crossed the hall and the drawing-room, wondering what new plan for the regeneration of the world was being hatched in his father's sedulous brains. he had received a telegram at camberley the day before urgently calling upon him to arrive at little beeding in time for luncheon. he went into the library as it was called, but in reality it was the room used by everybody except upon ceremonial occasions. it was a big room; half of it held a billiard table, the other half had writing-tables, lounges, comfortable chairs and a table for bridge. the carpet was laid over a parquet floor so that young people, when they stayed there, rolled it up and danced. there were windows upon two sides of the room. here a row of them looked down the slope of the lawn to the cedar-trees and the river, the other, a great bay which opened to the ground, gave a view of a corner of the high churchyard wall and of a meadow and a thatched cottage beyond. in this bay mr. hazlewood was standing when dick entered the room. "i got your telegram, father, and here i am." mr. hazlewood turned back from the window with a smile upon his face. "it is good of you, richard. i wanted you to-day." a very genuine affection existed between these two, dissimilar as they were in physique and mind. dick hazlewood was at this time thirty-four years old, an officer of hard work and distinction, one of the younger men to whom the generals look to provide the brains in the next great war. he had the religion of his type. to keep physically fit for the hardest campaigning and mentally fit for the highest problems of modern strategy and to boast about neither the one qualification nor the other--these were the articles of his creed. in appearance he was a little younger than his years, lithe, long in the leg, with a thin brown face and grey eyes which twinkled with humour. harold hazlewood was intensely proud of him, though he professed to detest his profession. and no doubt he found at times that the mere healthful, well-groomed look of his son was irritatingly conventional. what was quite wholesome could never be quite right in the older man's philosophy. to dick, on the other hand, his father was an intense enjoyment. here was a lovable innocent with the most delightful illusion that he understood the world. dick would draw out his father by the hour, but, as he put it, he wouldn't let the old boy down. he stopped his chaff before it could begin to hurt. "well, i am here," he said. "what scrape have you got into now?" "i am in no scrape, richard. i don't get into scrapes," replied his father. he shifted from one foot to the other uneasily. "i was wondering, richard--you have been away all this last year, haven't you?--i was wondering whether you could give me any of your summer." dick looked at his father. what in the world was the old boy up to now? he asked himself. "of course i can. i shall get my leave in a day or two. i thought of playing some polo here and there. there are a few matches arranged. then no doubt--" he broke off. "but look here, sir! you didn't send me an urgent telegram merely to ask me that." "no, richard, no." everybody else called his son dick, but harold hazlewood never. he was richard. from richard you might expect much, the awakening of a higher nature, a devotion to the regeneration of the world, humanitarianism, even the cult of all the "antis." from dick you could expect nothing but health and cleanliness and robustious conventionality. therefore richard captain hazlewood of the coldstream and the staff corps remained. "no, there was something else." mr. hazlewood took his son by the arm and led him into the bay window. he pointed across the field to the thatched cottage. "you know who lives there?" "no." "mrs. ballantyne." dick put his head on one side and whistled softly. he knew the general tenor of that _cause celebre_. mr. hazlewood raised remonstrating hands. "there! you are like the rest, richard. you take the worst view. here is a good woman maligned and slandered. there is nothing against her. she was acquitted in open trial by a jury of responsible citizens under a judge of the highest court in india. yet she is left alone--like a leper. she is the victim of gossip and _such_ gossip. richard," said the old man solemnly, "for uncharitableness, ill-nature and stupid malice the gossip of a sussex village leaves the most deplorable efforts of voltaire and swift entirely behind." "father, you _are_ going it," said dick with a chuckle. "do you mean to give me a step-mother?" "i do not, richard. such a monstrous idea never entered my thoughts. but, my boy, i have called upon her." "oh, you have!" "yes. i have seen her too. i left a card. she left one upon me. i called again. i was fortunate." "she was in?" "she gave me tea, richard." richard cocked his head on one side. "what's she like, father? topping?" "richard, she gave me tea," said the old man, dwelling insistently upon his repetition. "so you said, sir, and it was most kind of her to be sure. but that fact won't help me to form even the vaguest picture of her looks." "but it will, richard," mr. hazlewood protested with a nervousness which set dick wondering again. "she gave me tea. therefore, don't you see, i must return the hospitality, which i do with the utmost eagerness. richard, i look to you to help me. we must champion that slandered lady. you will see her for yourself. she is coming here to luncheon." the truth was out at last. yet dick was aware that he might very easily have guessed it. this was just the quixotic line his father could have been foreseen to take. "well, we must just keep our eyes open and see that she doesn't slip anything into the decanters while our heads are turned," said dick with a chuckle. old mr. hazlewood laid a hand upon his son's shoulder. "that's the sort of thing they say. only you don't mean it, richard, and they do," he remarked with a mild and reproachful shake of the head. "ah, some day, my boy, your better nature will awaken." dick expressed no anxiety for the quick advent of that day. "how many are there of us to be at luncheon?" asked dick. "only the two of us." "i see. we are to keep the danger in the family. very wise, sir, upon my word." "richard, you pervert my meaning," said mr. hazlewood. "the neighbourhood has not been kind to mrs. ballantyne. she has been made to suffer. the vicar's wife, for instance--a most uncharitable person. and my sister, your aunt margaret, too, in great beeding--she is what you would call--" "hot stuff," murmured dick. "quite so," replied mr. hazlewood, and he turned to his son with a look of keen interest upon his face. "i am not familiar with the phrase, richard, but not for the first time i notice that the crude and inelegant vulgarisms in which you abound and which you no doubt pick up in the barrack squares compress a great deal of forcible meaning into very few words." "that is indeed true, sir," replied dick with an admirable gravity, "and if i might be allowed to suggest it, a pamphlet upon that interesting subject would be less dangerous work than coquetting with the latest edition of the marquise de brinvilliers." the word pamphlet was a bugle-call to mr. hazlewood. "ah! speaking of pamphlets, my boy," he began, and walked over to a desk which was littered with papers. "we have not the time, sir," dick interrupted from the bay of the window. a woman had come out from the cottage. she unlatched a little gate in her garden which opened on to the meadow. she crossed it. yet another gate gave her entrance to the garden of little beeding. in a moment hubbard announced: "mrs. ballantyne"; and stella came into the room and stood near to the door with a certain constraint in her attitude and a timid watchfulness in her big eyes. she had the look of a deer. it seemed to dick that at one abrupt movement she would turn and run. mr. hazlewood pressed forward to greet her and she smiled with a warmth of gratitude. dick, watching her from the bay window, was surprised by the delicacy of her face, by a look of fragility. she was dressed very simply in a coat and short skirt of white, her shoes and her gloves were of white suede, her hat was small. "and this is my son richard," said mr. hazlewood; and dick came forward out of the bay. stella ballantyne bowed to him but said no word. she was taking no risks even at the hands of the son of her friend. if advances of friendliness were to be made they must be made by him, not her. there was just one awkward moment of hesitation. then dick hazlewood held out his hand. "i am very glad to meet you, mrs. ballantyne," he said cordially, and he saw the blood rush into her face and the fear die out in her eyes. the neighbourhood, to quote mr. hazlewood, had not been kind to stella ballantyne. she had stood in the dock and the fact tarnished her. moreover here and there letters had come from india. the verdict was inevitable, but--but--there was a doubt about its justice. the full penalty--no. no one desired or would have thought it right, but something betwixt and between in the proper spirit of british compromise would not have been amiss. thus gossip ran. more-over stella ballantyne was too good-looking, and she wore her neat and simple clothes too well. to some of the women it was an added offence when they considered what she might be wearing if only the verdict had been different. thus for a year stella had been left to her own company except for a couple of visits which the reptons had paid to her. at the first she had welcomed the silence, the peace of her loneliness. it was a balm to her. she recovered like a flower in the night. but she was young--she was twenty-eight this year--and as her limbs ceased to be things of lead and became once more aglow with life there came to her a need of companionship. she tried to tramp the need away on the turf of her well-loved downs, but she failed. a friend to share with her the joy of these summer days! her blood clamoured for one. but she was an outcast. friends did not come her way. therefore she had gratefully received old mr. hazlewood in her house, and had accepted, though with some fear, his proposal that she should lunch at the big house and make the acquaintance of his son. she was nervous at the beginning of that meal, but both father and son were at the pains to put her at her ease; and soon she was talking naturally, with a colour in her cheeks, and now and then a note of laughter in her voice. dick worked for the recurrence of that laughter. he liked the clear sound of it and the melting of all her face into sweetness and tender humour which came with it. and for another thing he had a thought, and a true one, that it was very long since she had known the pleasure of good laughter. they took their coffee out on the lawn under the shade of a huge cedar-tree. the river ran at their feet and a canadian canoe and a rowing-boat were tethered close by in a little dock. the house, a place of grey stone with grey weathered and lichen-coloured slates, raised its great oblong chimneys into a pellucid air. the sunlight flashed upon its rows of tall windows--they were all flat to the house, except the one great bay on the ground floor in the library--and birds called from all the trees. the time slipped away. dick hazlewood found himself talking of his work, a practice into which he seldom fell, and was surprised that she could talk of it with him. he realised with a start how it was that she knew. but she talked naturally and openly, as though he must know her history. once even some jargon of the staff college slipped from her. "you were doing let us pretend at box hill last week, weren't you?" she said, and when he started at the phrase she imagined that he started at the extent of her information. "it was in the papers," she said. "i read every word of them," and then for a second her face clouded, and she added: "i have time, you see." she looked at her watch and sprang to her feet. "i must go," she said. "i didn't know it was so late. i have enjoyed myself very much." she did not hesitate now to offer her hand. "goodbye." dick hazlewood went with her as far as the gate and came back to his father. "you were asking me," he said carelessly, "if i could give you some part of the summer. i don't see why i shouldn't come here in a day or two. the polo matches aren't so important." the old man's eyes brightened. "i shall be delighted, richard, if you will." he looked at his son with something really ecstatic in his expression. at last then his better nature was awakening. "i really believe--" he exclaimed and dick cut him short. "yes, it may be that, sir. on the other hand it may not. what is quite clear is that i must catch my train. so if i might order the car?" "of course, of course." he came out with his son into the porch of the house. "we have done a fine thing to-day, richard," he said with enthusiasm and a nod towards the cottage beyond the meadow. "we have indeed, sir," returned dick cheerily. "did you ever see such a pair of ankles?" "she lost the tragic look this afternoon, richard. we must be her champions." "we will put in the summer that way, father," said dick, and waving his hand was driven off to the station. mr. hazlewood walked back to the library. but "walked" is a poor word. he seemed to float on air. a great opportunity had come to him. he had enlisted the services of his son. he saw dick and himself as toreadors waving red flags in the face of a bull labelled conventionality. he went back to the pamphlet on which he was engaged with renewed ardour and laboured diligently far into the night. chapter xv the great crusade "i was in great beeding this morning," said dick, as he sat at luncheon with his father, "and the blinds were up in aunt margaret's house." "they have returned from their holiday then," his father observed with a tremor in his voice. he looked afraid. then he looked annoyed. "pettifer will break down if he doesn't take care," he exclaimed petulantly. "no man with any sense would work as hard as he does. he ought to have taken two months this year at the least." "we should still have to meet aunt margaret at the end of them," said dick calmly. he had no belief in mr. hazlewood's distress at the overwork of pettifer. a month had passed since the inauguration of the great crusade, and though talk was rife everywhere and indignation in many places loud, a certain amount of success had been won. but all this while mrs. pettifer had been away. now she had returned. mr. hazlewood stood in some awe of his sister. she was not ill-natured, but she knew her mind and expressed it forcibly and without delay. she was of a practical limited nature; she saw very clearly what she saw, but she walked in blinkers, and had neither comprehension of nor sympathy with those of a wider vision. she was at this time a woman of forty, comfortable to look upon and the wife of mr. robert pettifer, the head of the well-known firm of solicitors, pettifer, gryll and musgrave. mrs. pettifer had very little patience to spare for the idiosyncrasies of her brother, though she owed him a good deal more than patience. for at the time, some twenty years before, when she had married robert pettifer, then merely a junior partner of the firm, harold hazlewood had alone stood by her. to the rest of the family she was throwing herself away; to her brother harold she was doing a fine thing, not because it was a fine thing but because it was an exceptional thing. robert pettifer however had prospered, and though he had reached an age when he might have claimed his leisure the nine o'clock train still took him daily to london. "aunt margaret isn't after all so violent," said dick, for whom she kept a very soft place in her heart. but harold shook his head. "your aunt, richard, has all the primeval ferocity of the average woman." and then the fires of the enthusiast were set alight in his blue eyes. "i'll tell you what i'll do: i'll send her my new pamphlet, richard. it may have a humanising influence upon her. i have some advance copies. i'll send her one this afternoon." dick's eyes twinkled. "i should if i were you, though to be sure, sir, we have tried that plan before without any prodigious effect." "true, richard, true, but i have never before risen to such heights as these." mr. hazlewood threw down his napkin and paced the room. "richard, i am not inclined to boast. i am a humble man." "it is only humility, sir, which achieves great work," said dick, as he went contentedly on with his luncheon. "but the very title of this pamphlet seems to me calculated to interest the careless and attract the thoughtful. it is called _the prison walls must cast no shadow_." with an arm outstretched he seemed to deliver the words of the title one by one from the palm of his hand. then he stood smiling, confident, awaiting applause. dick's face, which had shown the highest expectancy, slowly fell in a profound disappointment. he laid down his knife and fork. "oh, come, father. all walls cast shadows. it entirely depends upon the altitude of the sun." mr. hazlewood returned to his seat and spoke gently. "the phrase, my boy, is a metaphor. i develop in this pamphlet my belief that a convict, once he has expiated his offence, should upon his release be restored to the precise position in society which he held before with all its privileges unimpaired." dick chuckled in the most unregenerate delight. "you are going it, father," he said, and disappointment came to mr. hazlewood. "richard," he remonstrated mildly, "i hoped that i should have had your approval. it seemed to me that a change was taking place in you, that the player of polo, the wild hunter of an inoffensive little white ball, was developing into the humanitarian." "well, sir," rejoined dick, "i won't deny that of late i have been beginning to think that there is a good deal in your theories. but you mustn't try me too high at the beginning, you know. i am only in my novitiate. however, please send it to aunt margaret, and--oh, how i would like to hear her remarks upon it!" an idea occurred to mr. hazlewood. "richard, why shouldn't you take it over yourself this afternoon?" dick shook his head. "impossible, father, i have something to do." he looked out of the window down to the river running dark in the shade of trees. "but i'll go to-morrow morning," he added. and the next morning he walked over early to great beeding. his aunt would have received the pamphlet by the first post and he wished to seize the first fine careless rapture of her comments. but he found her in a mood of distress rather than of wordy impatience. the pettifers lived in a big house of the georgian period at the bottom of an irregular square in the middle of the little town. mrs. pettifer was sitting in a room facing the garden at the back with the pamphlet on a little table beside her. she sprang up as dick was shown into the room, and before he could utter a word of greeting she cried: "dick, you are the one person i wanted to see." "oh?" "yes. sit down." dick obeyed. "dick, i believe you are the only person in the world who has any control over your father." "yes. even in my pinafores i learnt the great lesson that to control one's parents is the first duty of the modern child." "don't be silly," his aunt rejoined sharply. then she looked him over. "yes, you must have some control over him, for he lets you remain in the army, though an army is one of his abominations." "theoretically it's a great grief to him," replied dick. "but you see i have done fairly well, so actually he's ready to burst with pride. every sentimental philosopher sooner or later breaks his head against his own theories." mrs. pettifer nodded her head in commendation. "that's an improvement on your last remark, dick. it's true. and your father's going to break his head very badly unless you stop him." "how?" "mrs. ballantyne." all the flippancy died out of dick hazlewood's face. he became at once grave, wary. "i have been hearing about him," continued mrs. pettifer. "he has made friends with her--a woman who has stood in the dock on a capital charge." "and has been acquitted," dick hazlewood added quietly and mrs. pettifer blazed up. "she wouldn't have been acquitted if i had been on the jury. a parcel of silly men who are taken in by a pretty face!" she cried, and dick broke in: "aunt margaret, i am sorry to interrupt you. but i want you to understand that i am with my father heart and soul in this." he spoke very slowly and deliberately and mrs. pettifer was utterly dismayed. "you!" she cried. she grew pale, and alarm so changed her face it was as if a tragic mask had been slipped over it. "oh, dick, not you!" "yes, i. i think it is cruelly hard," he continued with his eyes relentlessly fixed upon mrs. pettifer's face, "that a woman like mrs. ballantyne, who has endured all the horrors of a trial, the publicity, the suspense, the dread risk that justice might miscarry, should have afterwards to suffer the treatment of a leper." there was for the moment no room for any anger now in mrs. pettifer's thoughts. consternation possessed her. she weighed every quiet firm word that fell from dick, she appreciated the feeling which gave them wings, she searched his face, his eyes. dick had none of his father's flightiness. he was level-headed, shrewd and with the conventions of his times and his profession. if dick spoke like this, with so much certitude and so much sympathy, why then--she shrank from the conclusion with a sinking heart. she became very quiet. "oh, she shouldn't have come to little beeding," she said in a low voice, staring now upon the ground. it was to herself she spoke, but dick answered her, and his voice rose to a challenge. "why shouldn't she? here she was born, here she was known. what else should she do but come back to little beeding and hold her head high? i respect her pride for doing it." here were reasons no doubt why stella should come back; but they did not include the reason why she had. dick hazlewood was well aware of it. he had learnt it only the afternoon before when he was with her on the river. but he thought it a reason too delicate, of too fine a gossamer to be offered to the prosaic mind of his aunt margaret. with what ridicule and disbelief she would rend it into tatters! reasons so exquisite were not for her. she could never understand them. mrs. pettifer abandoned her remonstrances and was for dropping the subject altogether. but dick was obstinate. "you don't know mrs. ballantyne, aunt margaret. you are unjust to her because you don't know her. i want you to," he said boldly. "what!" cried mrs. pettifer. "you actually--oh!" indignation robbed her of words. she gasped. "yes, i do," continued dick calmly. "i want you to come one night and dine at little beeding. we'll persuade mrs. ballantyne to come too." it was a bold move, and even in his eyes it had its risks for stella. to bring mrs. pettifer and her together was, so it seemed to him, to mix earth with delicate flame. but he had great faith in stella ballantyne. let them but meet and the earth might melt--who could tell? at the worst his aunt would bristle, and there were his father and himself to see that the bristles did not prick. "yes, come and dine." mrs. pettifer had got over her amazement at her nephew's audacity. curiosity had taken its place--curiosity and fear. she must see this woman for herself. "yes," she answered after a pause. "i will come. i'll bring robert too." "good. we'll fix up a date and write to you. goodbye." dick went back to little beeding and asked for his father. the old gentleman added to his other foibles that of a collector. it was the only taste he had which was really productive, for he owned a collection of miniatures, gathered together throughout his life, which would have realised a fortune if it had been sold at christie's. he kept it arranged in cabinets in the library and dick found him bending over one of the drawers and rearranging his treasures. "i have seen aunt margaret," he said. "she will meet stella here at dinner." "that will be splendid," cried the old man with enthusiasm. "perhaps," replied his son; and the next morning the pettifers received their invitation. mrs. pettifer accepted it at once. she had not been idle since dick had left her. before he had come she had merely looked upon the crusade as one of harold hazlewood's stupendous follies. but after he had gone she was genuinely horrified. she saw dick speaking with the set dogged look and the hard eyes which once or twice she had seen before. he had always got his way, she remembered, on those occasions. she drove round to her friends and made inquiries. at each house her terrors were confirmed. it was dick now who led the crusade. he had given up his polo, he was spending all his leave at little beeding and most of it with stella ballantyne. he lent her a horse and rode with her in the morning, he rowed her on the river in the afternoon. he bullied his friends to call on her. he brandished his friendship with her like a flag. love me, love my stella was his new motto. mrs. pettifer drove home with every fear exaggerated. dick's career would be ruined altogether--even if nothing worse were to happen. to any view that stella ballantyne might hold she hardly gave a thought. she was sure of what it would be. stella ballantyne would jump at her nephew. he had good looks, social position, money and a high reputation. it was the last quality which would give him a unique value in stella ballantyne's eyes. he was not one of the chinless who haunt the stage doors; nor again one of that more subtly decadent class which seeks to attract sensation by linking itself to notoriety. no. from stella's point of view dick hazlewood must be the ideal husband. mrs. pettifer waited for her husband's return that evening with unusual impatience, but she was wise enough to hold her tongue until dinner was over and he with a cigar between his lips and a glass of old brandy on the table-cloth in front of him, disposed to amiability and concession. then, however, she related her troubles. "you see it must be stopped, robert." robert pettifer was a lean wiry man of fifty-five whose brown dried face seemed by a sort of climatic change to have taken on the colour of the binding of his law-books. he, too, was a little troubled by the story, but he was of a fair and cautious mind. "stopped?" he said. "how? we can't arrest mrs. ballantyne again." "no," replied mrs. pettifer. "robert, you must do something." robert pettifer jumped in his chair. "i, margaret! lord love you, no! i decline to mix myself up in the matter at all. dick's a grown man and mrs. ballantyne has been acquitted." margaret pettifer knew her husband. "is that your last word?" she asked ruefully. "absolutely." "it isn't mine, robert." robert pettifer chuckled and laid a hand upon his wife's. "i know that, margaret." "we are going to dine next friday night at little beeding to meet stella ballantyne." mr. pettifer was startled but he held his tongue. "the invitation came this morning after you had left for london," she added. "and you accepted it at once?" "yes." pettifer was certain that she had before she opened her mouth to answer him. "i shall dine at little beeding on friday," he said, "because harold always gives me an admirable glass of vintage port"; and with that he dismissed the subject. mrs. pettifer was content to let it smoulder in his mind. she was not quite sure that he was as disturbed as she wished him to be, but that he was proud of dick she knew, and if by any chance uneasiness grew strong in him, why, sooner or later he would let fall some little sentence; and that little sentence would probably be useful. chapter xvi consequences the dinner-party at little beeding was a small affair. there were but ten altogether who sat down at mr. hazlewood's dinner-table and with the exception of the pettifers all, owing to dick hazlewood's insistence, were declared partisans of stella ballantyne. none the less stella came to it with hesitation. it was the first time that she had dined abroad since she had left india, now the best part of eighteen months ago, and she went forth to it as to an ordeal. for though friends of hers would be present to enhearten her she was to meet the pettifers. the redoubtable aunt margaret had spoilt her sleep for a week. it was for the pettifers she dressed, careful to choose neither white nor black, lest they should find something symbolic in the colour of her gown and make of it an offence. she put on a frock of pale blue satin trimmed with some white lace which had belonged to her mother, and she wore not so much as a thin gold chain about her neck. but she did not need jewels that night. the months of quiet had restored her to her beauty, the excitement of this evening had given life and colour to her face, the queer little droop at the corners of her lips which had betrayed so much misery and bitterness of spirit had vanished altogether. yet when she was quite dressed and her mirror bade her take courage she sat down and wrote a note of apology pleading a sudden indisposition. but she did not send it. even in the writing her cowardice came home to her and she tore it up before she had signed her name. the wheels of the cab which was to take her to the big house rattled down the lane under her windows, and slipping her cloak over her shoulders she ran downstairs. the party began with a little constraint. mr. hazlewood received his guests in his drawing-room and it had the chill and the ceremony of a room which is seldom used. but the constraint wore off at the table. most of those present were striving to set stella ballantyne at her ease, and she was at a comfortable distance from mrs. pettifer, with mr. hazlewood at her side. she was conscious that she was kept under observation and from time to time the knowledge made her uncomfortable. "i am being watched," she said to her host. "you mustn't mind," replied mr. hazlewood, and the smile came back to her lips as she glanced round the table. "oh, i don't, i don't," she said in a low voice, "for i have friends here." "and friends who will not fail you, stella," said the old man. "to-night begins the great change. you'll see." robert pettifer puzzled her indeed more than his wife. she was plain to read. she was frigidly polite, her enemy. once or twice, however, stella turned her head to find robert pettifer's eyes resting upon her with a quiet scrutiny which betrayed nothing of his thoughts. as a matter of fact he liked her manner. she was neither defiant nor servile, neither loud nor over-silent. she had been through fire; that was evident. but it was evident only because of a queer haunting look which came and went in her dark eyes. the fire had not withered her. indeed pettifer was surprised. he had not formulated his expectations at all, but he had not expected what he saw. the clear eyes and the fresh delicate colour, her firm white shoulders and her depth of bosom, forced him to think of her as wholesome. he began to turn over in his mind his recollections of her case, recollections which he had been studious not to revive. halfway through the dinner stella lost her uneasiness. the lights, the ripple of talk, the company of men and women, the bright dresses had their effect on her. it was as though after a deep plunge into dark waters she had come to the surface and flung out her arms to the sun. she ceased to notice the scrutiny of the pettifers. she looked across the table to dick and their eyes met; and such a look of tenderness transfigured her face as made mrs. pettifer turn pale. "that woman's in love," she said to herself and she was horrified. it wasn't dick's social position then or the shelter of his character that stella ballantyne coveted. she was in love. mrs. pettifer was honest enough to acknowledge it. but she knew now that the danger which she had feared was infinitely less than the danger which actually was. "i must have it out with harold to-night," she said, and later on, when the men came from the dining-room, she looked out for her husband. but at first she did not see him. she was in the drawing-room and the wide double doors which led to the big library stood open. it was through those doors that the men had come. some of the party were gathered there. she could hear the click of the billiard balls and the voices of women mingling with those of the men. she went through the doors and saw her husband standing by harold hazlewood's desk, and engrossed apparently in some little paper-covered book which he held in his hand. she crossed to him at once. "robert," she said, "don't be in a hurry to go to-night. i must have a word with harold." "all right," said pettifer, but he said it in so absent a voice that his wife doubted whether he had understood her words. she was about to repeat them when harold hazlewood himself approached. "you are looking at my new pamphlet, pettifer, _the prison walls must cast no shadow_. i am hoping that it will have a great influence." "no," replied pettifer. "i wasn't. i was looking at this," and he held up the little book. "oh, that?" said hazlewood, turning away with disappointment. "yes, that," said pettifer with a strange and thoughtful look at his brother-in-law. "and i am not sure," he added slowly, "that in a short time you will not find it the more important publication of the two." he laid the book down and in his turn he moved away towards the billiard-table. margaret pettifer remained. she had been struck by the curious deliberate words her husband had used. was this the hint for which she was looking out? she took up the little book. it was a copy of _notes and queries_. she opened it. it was a small periodical magazine made up of printed questions which contributors sent in search of information and answers to those questions from the pens of other contributors. mrs. pettifer glanced through the leaves, hoping to light upon the page which her husband had been studying. but he had closed the book when he laid it down and she found nothing to justify his remark. yet he had not spoken without intention. of that she was convinced, and her conviction was strengthened the next moment, for as she turned again towards the drawing-room robert pettifer looked once sharply towards her and as sharply away. mrs. pettifer understood that glance. he was wondering whether she had noticed what in that magazine had interested him. but she did not pursue him with questions. she merely made up her mind to examine the copy of _notes and queries_ at a time when she could bring more leisure to the task. she waited impatiently for the party to break up but eleven o'clock had struck before any one proposed to go. then all took their leave at once. robert pettifer and his wife went out into the hall with the rest, lest others seeing them remain should stay behind too; and whilst they stood a little apart from the general bustle of departure margaret pettifer saw stella ballantyne come lightly down the stairs, and a savage fury suddenly whirled in her head and turned her dizzy. she thought of all the trouble and harm this young woman was bringing into their ordered family and she would not have it that she was innocent. she saw stella with her cloak open upon her shoulders radiant and glistening and slender against the dark panels of the staircase, youth in her face, enjoyment sparkling in her eyes, and her fingers itched to strip her of her bright frock, her gloves, her slim satin slippers, the delicate white lace which nestled against her bosom. she clothed her in the heavy shapeless garments, the coarse shoes and stockings of the convict; she saw her working desperately against time upon an ignoble task with black and broken finger-nails. if longing could have worked the miracle, thus at this hour would stella ballantyne have sat and worked, all the colour of her faded to a hideous drab, all the grace of her withered. mrs. pettifer turned away with so abrupt a movement and so disordered a face that robert asked her if she was ill. "no, it's nothing," she said and against her will her eyes were drawn back to the staircase. but stella ballantyne had disappeared and margaret pettifer drew her breath in relief. she felt that there had been danger in her moment of passion, danger and shame; and already enough of those two evils waited about them. stella, meanwhile, with a glance towards dick hazlewood, had slipped back into the big room. then she waited for a moment until the door opened and dick came in. "i had not said good-night to you," she exclaimed, coming towards him and giving him her hands, "and i wanted to say it to you here, when we were alone. for i must thank you for to-night, you and your father. oh, i have no words." the tears were very near to her eyes and they were audible in her low voice. dick hazlewood was quick to answer her. "good! for there's need of none. will you ride to-morrow?" stella took her hands from his and moved across the room towards the great bay window with its glass doors. "i should love to," she said. "eight. is that too early after to-night?" "no, that's the good time," she returned with a smile. "we have the day at its best and the world to ourselves." "i'll bring the same horse round. he knows you now, doesn't he?" "thank you," said stella. she unlatched the glass door and opened it. "you'll lock it after me, won't you?" "no," said dick. "i'll see you to your door." but stella refused his company. she stood in the doorway. "there's no need! see what a night it is!" and the beauty of it crept into her soul and stilled her voice. the moon rode in a blue sky, a disc of glowing white, the great cedar-trees flung their shadows wide over the bright lawns and not a branch stirred. "listen," said stella in a whisper and the river rippling against its banks with now a deep sob and now a fairy's laugh sang to them in notes most musical and clear. that liquid melody and the flutter of a bird's wings in the bough of a tree were the only sounds. they stood side by side, she looking out over the garden to the dim and pearly hills, he gazing at her uplifted face and the pure column of her throat. they stood in a most dangerous silence. the air came cool and fresh to their nostrils. stella drew it in with a smile. "good-night!" she laid her hand for a second on his arm. "don't come with me!" "why not?" and the answer came in a clear whisper: "i am afraid." stella seemed to feel the man at her side suddenly grow very still. "it's only a step," she went on quickly and she passed out of the window on to the pathway. dick hazlewood followed but she turned to him and raised her hand. "don't," she pleaded; the voice was troubled but her eyes were steady. "if you come with me i shall tell you." "what?" he interrupted, and the quickness of the interruption broke the spell which the night had laid upon her. "i shall tell you again how much i thank you," she said lightly. "i shall cross the meadow by the garden gate. that brings me to my door." she gathered her skirt in her hand and crossed the pathway to the edge of the grass. "you can't do that," exclaimed dick and he was at her side. he stooped and felt the turf. "even the lawn's drenched. crossing the meadow you'll be ankle-deep in dew. you must promise never to go home across the meadow when you dine with us." he spoke, chiding her as if she had been a mutinous child, and with so much anxiety that she laughed. "you see, you have become rather precious to me," he added. though the month was july she that night was all april, half tears, half laughter. the smile passed from her lips and she raised her hands to her face with the swiftness of one who has been struck. "what's the matter?" he asked, and she drew her hand away. "don't you understand?" she asked, and answered the question herself. "no, why should you?" she turned to him suddenly, her bosom heaving, her hands clenched. "do you know what place i fill here, in my own county? years ago, when i was a child, there was supposed to be a pig-faced woman in great beeding. she lived in a small yellow cottage in the square. it was pointed out to strangers as one of the sights of the town. sometimes they were shown her shadow after dusk between the lamp and the blind. sometimes you might have even caught a glimpse of her slinking late at night along the dark alleys. well, the pig-faced woman has gone and i have taken her place." "no," cried dick. "that's not true." "it is," she answered passionately. "i am the curiosity. i am the freak. the townspeople take a pride in me, yes, just the same pride they took in her, and i find that pride more difficult to bear than all the aversion of the pettifers. i too slink out early in the morning or late after night has fallen. and you"--the passion of bitterness died out of her voice, her hands opened and hung at her sides, a smile of tenderness shone on her face--"you come with me. you ride with me early. with you i learn to take no heed. you welcome me to your house. you speak to me as you spoke just now." her voice broke and a cry of gladness escaped from her which went to dick hazlewood's heart. "oh, you shall see me to my door. i'll not cross the meadow. i'll go round by the road." she stopped and drew a breath. "i'll tell you something." "what?" "it's rather good to be looked after. i know. it has never happened to me before. yes, it's very good," and she drew out the words with a low laugh of happiness. "stella!" he said, and at the mention of her name she caught her hands up to her heart. "oh, thank you!" the hall-door was closed and all but one car had driven away when they turned the corner of the house and came out in the broad drive. they walked in the moonlight with a perfume of flowers in the air and the big yellow cups of the evening primroses gleaming on either side. they walked slowly. stella knew that she should quicken her feet but she could not bring herself to do more than know it. she sought to take into her heart every tiniest detail of that walk so that in memory she might, years after, walk it again and so never be quite alone. they passed out through the great iron gates and turned into the lane. here great elms overhung and now they walked in darkness, and now again were bathed in light. a twig snapped beneath her foot; even so small a thing she would remember. "we must hurry," she said. "we are doing all that we can," replied dick. "it's a long way--this walk." "you feel it so?" said stella, tempting him--oh, unwisely! but the spell of the hour and the place was upon her. "yes," he answered her. "it's a long way in a man's life," and he drew close to her side. "no!" she cried with a sudden violence. but she was awake too late. "no, dick, no," she repeated, but his arms were about her. "stella, i want you. oh, life's dull for a man without a woman; i can tell you," he exclaimed passionately. "there are others--plenty," she said, and tried to thrust him away. "not for me," he rejoined, and he would not let her go. her struggles ceased, she buried her face in his coat, her hands caught his shoulders, she stood trembling and shivering against him. "stella," he whispered. "stella!" he raised her face and bent to it. then he straightened himself. "not here!" he said. they were standing in the darkness of a tree. he put his arms about her waist and lifted her into an open space where the moonlight shone bright and clear and there were no shadows. "here," he said, and he kissed her on the lips. she thrust her head back, her face uplifted to the skies, her eyes closed. "oh, dick," she murmured, "i meant that this should never be. even now--you shall forget it." "no--i couldn't." "so one says. but--oh, it would be your ruin." she started away from him. "listen!" "yes," he answered. she stood confronting him desperately a yard or so away, her bosom heaving, her face wet with her tears. dick hazlewood did not stir. stella's lips moved as though she were speaking but no words were audible, and it seemed that her strength left her. she came suddenly forward, groping with her hands like a blind person. "oh, my dear," she said as he caught them. they went on again together. she spoke of his father, of the talk of the countryside. but he had an argument for each of hers. "be brave for just a little, stella. once we are married there will be no trouble," and with his arms about her she was eager to believe. stella ballantyne sat late that night in the armchair in her bedroom, her eyes fixed upon the empty grate, in a turmoil of emotion. she grew cold and shivered. a loud noise of birds suddenly burst through the open window. she went to it. the morning had come. she looked across the meadow to the silent house of little beeding in the grey broadening light. all the blinds were down. were they all asleep or did one watch like her? she came back to the fireplace. in the grate some torn fragments of a letter caught her eyes. she stooped and picked them up. they were fragments of the letter of regret which she had written earlier that evening. "i should have sent it," she whispered. "i should not have gone. i should have sent the letter." but the regret was vain. she had gone. her maid found her in the morning lying upon her bed in a deep sleep and still wearing the dress in which she had gone out. chapter xvii trouble for mr. hazlewood when dick and stella walked along the drive to the lane harold hazlewood, who was radiant at the success of his dinner-party, turned to robert pettifer in the hall. "have a whisky-and-soda, robert, before you go," he said. he led the way back into the library. behind him walked the pettifers, robert ill-at-ease and wishing himself a hundred miles away, margaret pettifer boiling for battle. hazlewood himself dropped into an arm-chair. "i am very glad that you came to-night, margaret," he said boldly. "you have seen for yourself." "yes, i have," she replied. "harold, there have been moments this evening when i could have screamed." robert pettifer hurriedly turned towards the table in the far corner of the room where the tray with the decanters and the syphons had been placed. "margaret, i pass my life in a scream at the injustice of the world," said harold hazlewood, and robert pettifer chuckled as he cut off the end of a cigar. "it is strange that an act of reparation should move you in the same way." "reparation!" cried margaret pettifer indignantly. then she noticed that the window was open. she looked around the room. she drew up a chair in front of her brother. "harold, if you have no consideration for us, none for your own position, none for the neighbourhood, if you will at all costs force this woman upon us, don't you think that you might still spare a thought for your son?" robert pettifer had kept his eyes open that evening as well as his wife. he took a step down into the room. he was anxious to take no part in the dispute; he desired to be just; he was favourably inclined towards stella ballantyne; looking at her he had been even a little moved. but dick was the first consideration. he had no children of his own, he cared for dick as he would have cared for his son, and when he went up each morning by the train to his office in london there lay at the back of his mind the thought that one day the fortune he was amassing would add a splendour to dick's career. harold hazlewood alone of the three seemed to have his eyes sealed. "why, what on earth do you mean, margaret?" margaret pettifer sat down in her chair. "where was dick yesterday afternoon?" "margaret, i don't know." "i do. i saw him. he was with stella ballantyne on the river--in the dusk--in a canadian canoe." she uttered each fresh detail in a more indignant tone, as though it aggravated the crime. yet even so she had not done. there was, it seemed, a culminating offence. "she was wearing a white lace frock with a big hat." "well," said mr. hazlewood mildly, "i don't think i have anything against big hats." "she was trailing her hand in the water--that he might notice its slenderness of course. outrageous i call it!" mr. hazlewood nodded his head at his indignant sister. "i know that frame of mind very well, margaret," he remarked. "she cannot do right. if she had been wearing a small hat she would have been frenchified." but mrs. pettifer was not in a mood for argument. "can't you see what it all means?" she cried in exasperation. "i can. i do," mr. hazlewood retorted and he smiled proudly upon his sister. "the boy's better nature is awakening." margaret pettifer lifted up her hands. "the boy!" she exclaimed. "he's thirty-four if he's a day." she leaned forward in her chair and pointing up to the bay asked: "why is that window open, harold?" harold hazlewood showed his first sign of discomfort. he shifted in his chair. "it's a hot night, margaret." "that is not the reason," mrs. pettifer retorted implacably. "where is dick?" "i expect that he is seeing mrs. ballantyne home." "exactly," said mrs. pettifer with a world of significance in her voice. mr. hazlewood sat up and looked at his sister. "margaret, you want to make me uncomfortable," he exclaimed pettishly. "but you shan't. no, my dear, you shan't." he let himself sink back again and joining the tips of his fingers contemplated the ceiling. but margaret was in the mind to try. she shot out her words at him like so many explosive bullets. "being friends is one thing, harold. marrying is another." "very true, margaret, very true." "they are in love with one another." "rubbish, margaret, rubbish." "i watched them at the dinner-table and afterwards. they are man and woman, harold. that's what you don't understand. they are not illustrations of your theories. ask robert." "no," exclaimed robert pettifer. he hurriedly lit a cigar. "any inference i should make must be purely hypothetical." "yes, we'll ask robert. come, pettifer!" cried mr. hazlewood. "let us have your opinion." robert pettifer came reluctantly down from his corner. "well, if you insist, i think they were very friendly." "ah!" cried hazlewood in triumph. "being friends is one thing, margaret. marrying is another." mrs. pettifer shook her head over her brother with a most aggravating pity. "dick said a shrewd thing the other day to me, harold." mr. hazlewood looked doubtfully at his sister. "i am sure of it," he answered, but he was careful not to ask for any repetition of the shrewd remark. margaret, however, was not in the mind to let him off. "he said that sentimental philosophers sooner or later break their heads against their own theories. mark those words, harold! i hope they won't come true of you. i hope so very much indeed." but it was abundantly clear that she had not a shadow of doubt that they would come true. mr. hazlewood was stung by the slighting phrase. "i am not a sentimental philosopher," he said hotly. "sentiment i altogether abhor. i hold strong views, i admit." "you do indeed," his sister interrupted with an ironical laugh. "oh, i have read your pamphlet, harold. the prison walls must cast no shadow and convicts, once they are released, have as much right to sit down at our dinner-tables as they had before. well, you carry your principles into practice, that i will say. we had an illustration to-night." "you are unjust, margaret," and mr. hazlewood rose from his chair with some dignity. "you speak of mrs. ballantyne, not for the first time, as if she had been tried and condemned. in fact she was tried and acquitted," and in his turn he appealed to pettifer. "ask robert!" he said. but pettifer was slow to answer, and when he did it was without assurance. "ye-es," he replied with something of a drawl. "undoubtedly mrs. ballantyne was tried and acquitted"; and he left the impression on the two who heard him that with acquittal quite the last word had not been said. mrs. pettifer looked at him eagerly. she drew clear at once of the dispute. she left the questions now to harold hazlewood, and pettifer had spoken with so much hesitation that harold hazlewood could not but ask them. "you are making reservations, robert?" pettifer shrugged his shoulders. "i think we have a right to know them," hazlewood insisted. "you are a solicitor with a great business and consequently a wide experience." "not of criminal cases, hazlewood. i bring no more authority to judge them than any other man." "still you have formed an opinion. please let me have it," and mr. hazlewood sat down again and crossed his knees. but a little impatience was now audible in his voice. "an opinion is too strong a word," replied pettifer guardedly. "the trial took place nearly eighteen months ago. i read the accounts of it certainly day by day as i travelled in the train to london. but they were summaries." "full summaries, robert," said hazlewood. "no doubt. the trial made a great deal of noise in the world. but they were not full enough for me. even if my memory of those newspaper reports were clear i should still hesitate to sit in judgment. but my memory isn't clear. let us see what i do remember." pettifer took a chair and sat for a few moments with his forehead wrinkled in a frown. was he really trying to remember? his wife asked herself that question as she watched him. or had he something to tell them which he meant to let fall in his own cautiously careless way? mrs. pettifer listened alertly. "the--well--let us call it the catastrophe--took place in a tent in some state of rajputana." "yes," said mr. hazlewood. "it took place at night. mrs. ballantyne was asleep in her bed. the man ballantyne was found outside the tent in the doorway." "yes." pettifer paused. "so many law cases have engaged my attention since," he said in apology for his hesitation. he seemed quite at a loss. then he went on: "wait a moment! a man had been dining with them at night--oh yes, i begin to remember." harold hazlewood made a tiny movement and would have spoken, but margaret held out a hand towards him swiftly. "yes, a man called thresk," said pettifer, and again he was silent. "well," asked hazlewood. "well--that's all i remember," replied pettifer briskly. he rose and put his chair back. "except--" he added slowly. "yes?" "except that there was left upon my mind when the verdict was published a vague feeling of doubt." "there!" cried mrs. pettifer triumphantly. "you hear him, harold." but hazelwood paid no attention to her. he was gazing at his brother-in-law with a good deal of uneasiness. "why?" he asked. "why were you in doubt, robert?" but pettifer had said all that he had any mind to say. "oh, i can't remember why," he exclaimed. "i am very likely quite wrong. come, margaret, it's time that we were getting home." he crossed over to hazlewood and held out his hand. hazlewood, however, did not rise. "i don't think that's quite fair of you, robert," he said. "you don't disturb my confidence, of course--i have gone into the case thoroughly--but i think you ought to give me a chance of satisfying you that your doubts have no justification." "no really," exclaimed pettifer. "i absolutely refuse to mix myself up in the affair at all." a step sounded upon the gravel path outside the window. pettifer raised a warning finger. "it's midnight, margaret," he said. "we must go"; and as he spoke dick hazlewood walked in through the open window. he smiled at the group of his relations with a grim amusement. they certainly wore a guilty look. he was surprised to remark some embarrassment even upon his father's face. "you will see your aunt off, richard," said mr. hazlewood. "of course." the pettifers and dick went out into the hall, leaving the old man in his chair, a little absent, perhaps a little troubled. "aunt margaret, you have been upsetting my father," said dick. "nonsense, dick," she replied, and her face flushed. she stepped into the carriage quickly to avoid questions, and as she stepped in dick noticed that she was carrying a little paper-covered book. pettifer followed. "good-night, dick," he said, and he shook hands with his nephew very warmly. in spite of his cordiality, however, dick's face grew hard as he watched the carriage drive away. stella was right. the pettifers were the enemy. well, he had always known there would be a fight, and now the sooner it came the better. he went back to the library and as he opened the door he heard his father's voice. the old man was sitting sunk in his chair and repeating to himself: "i won't believe it. i won't believe it." he stopped at once when dick came in. dick looked at him with concern. "you are tired, father," he said. "yes, i think i am a little. i'll go to bed." hazlewood watched dick walk over to the corner table where the candles stood beside the tray, and his face cleared. for the first time in his life the tidy well-groomed conventional look of his son was a real pleasure to him. richard was of those to whom the good-will of the world meant much. he would never throw it lightly away. hazlewood got up and took one of the candles from his son. he patted him on the shoulder. he became quite at ease as he looked into his face. "good-night, my boy," he said. "good-night, sir," replied dick cheerfully. "there's nothing like acting up to one's theories, is there?" "nothing," said the old man heartily. "look at my life!" "yes," replied dick. "and now look at mine. i am going to marry stella ballantyne." for a moment mr. hazlewood stood perfectly still. then he murmured lamely: "oh, are you? are you, richard?" and he shuffled quickly out of the room. chapter xviii mr. hazlewood seeks advice as dick was getting out of bed at half-past seven a troubled little note was brought to him written hurriedly and almost incoherent. "dick, i can't ride with you this morning. i am too tired ... and i don't think we should meet again. you must forget last night. i shall be very proud always to remember it, but i won't ruin you, dick. you mustn't think i shall suffer so very much ..." dick read it all through with a smile of tenderness upon his face. he wrote a line in reply. "i will come and see you at eleven, stella. meanwhile sleep, my dear," and sent it across to the cottage. then he rolled back into bed again and took his own advice. it was late when he came down into the dining-room and he took his breakfast alone. "where's my father?" he asked of hubbard the butler. "mr. hazlewood breakfasted half an hour ago, sir. he's at work now." "capital," said dick. "give me some sausages. hubbard, what would you say if i told you that i was going to be married?" hubbard placed a plate in front of him. "i should keep my head, sir," he answered in his gentle voice. "will you take tea?" "thank you." dick looked out of the window. it was a morning of clear skies and sunlight, a very proper morning for this the first of all the remarkable days which one after the other were going especially to belong to him. he was of the gods now. the world was his property, or rather he held it in trust for stella. it was behaving well; dick hazlewood was contented. he ate a large breakfast and strolling into the library lit his pipe. there was his father bending over his papers at his writing-table before the window, busy as a bee no doubt at some new enthusiasm which was destined to infuriate his neighbours. let him go on! dick smiled benignly at the old man's back. then he frowned. it was curious that his father had not wished him a good-morning, curious and unusual. "i hope, sir, that you slept well," he said. "i did not, richard," and still the back was turned to him. "i lay awake considering with some care what you told me last night about--about stella ballantyne." of late she had been simply stella to harold hazlewood. the addition of ballantyne was significant. it replaced friendliness with formality. "yes, we agreed to champion her cause, didn't we?" said dick cheerily. "you took one good step forward last night, i took another." "you took a long stride, richard, and i think you might have consulted me first." dick walked over to the table at which his father sat. "do you know, that's just what stella said," he remarked, and he seemed to find the suggestion rather unintelligible. mr. hazlewood snatched at any support which was offered to him. "ah!" he exclaimed, and for the first time that morning he looked his son in the face. "there now, richard, you see!" "yes," richard returned imperturbably. "but i was able to remove all her fears. i was able to tell her that you would welcome our marriage with all your heart, for you would look upon it as a triumph for your principles and a sure sign that my better nature was at last thoroughly awake." dick walked away from the table. the old man's face lengthened. if he was a philosopher at all, he was a philosopher in a piteous position, for he was having his theories tested upon himself, he was to be the experiment by which they should be proved or disproved. "no doubt," he said in a lamentable voice. "quite so, richard. yes," and he caught at vague hopes of delay. "there's no hurry of course. for one thing i don't want to lose you... and then you have your career to think of, haven't you?" mr. hazlewood found himself here upon ground more solid and leaned his weight on it. "yes, there's your career." dick returned to his father, amazement upon his face. he spoke as one who cannot believe the evidence of his ears. "but it's in the army, father! do you realise what you are saying? you want me to think of my career in the british army?" consistency however had no charms for mr. hazlewood at this moment. "exactly," he cried. "we don't want to prejudice that--do we? no, no, richard! oh, i hear the finest things about you. and they push the young men along nowadays. you don't have to wait for grey hairs before you're made a general, richard, so we must keep an eye on our prospects, eh? and for that reason it would be advisable perhaps"--and the old man's eyes fell from dick's face to his papers--"yes, it would certainly be advisable to let your engagement remain for a while just a private matter between the three of us." he took up his pen as though the matter was decided and discussion at an end. but dick did not move from his side. he was the stronger of the two and in a little while the old man's eyes wandered up to his face again. there was a look there which margaret pettifer had seen a week ago. dick spoke and the voice he used was strange and formidable to his father. "there must be no secrecy, father. i remember what you said: for uncharitable slander an english village is impossible to beat. our secret would be known within a week and by attempting to keep it we invite suspicion. nothing could be more damaging to stella than secrecy. consequently nothing could be more damaging to me. i don't deny that things are going to be a little difficult. but of this i am sure"--and his voice, though it still was quiet, rang deep with confidence--"our one chance is to hold our heads high. no secrecy, father! my hope is to make a life which has been very troubled know some comfort and a little happiness." mr. hazlewood had no more to say. he must renounce his gods or hold his tongue. and renounce his gods--no, that he could not do. he heard in imagination the whole neighbourhood laughing--he saw it a sea of laughter overwhelming him. he shivered as he thought of it. he, harold hazlewood, the man emancipated from the fictions of society, caught like a silly struggling fish in the net of his own theories! no, that must never be. he flung himself at his work. he was revising the catalogue of his miniatures and in a minute he began to fumble and search about his over-loaded desk. "everybody is trying to thwart me this morning," he cried angrily. "what's the matter, father?" asked dick, laying down the _times_. "can i help?" "i wrote a question to _notes and queries_ about the marie antoinette miniature which i bought at lord mirliton's sale and there was an answer in the last number, a very complete answer. but i can't find it. i can't find it anywhere"; and he tossed his papers about as though he were punishing them. dick helped in the search, but beyond a stray copy or two of _the prison walls must cast no shadow_, there was no publication to be found at all. "wait a bit, father," said dick suddenly. "what is _notes and queries_ like? the only notes and queries i read are contained in a pink paper. they are very amusing but they do not deal with miniatures." mr. hazlewood described the appearance of the little magazine. "well, that's very extraordinary," said dick, "for aunt margaret took it away last night." mr. hazlewood looked at his son in blank astonishment. "are you sure, richard?" "i saw it in her hand as she stepped into her carriage." mr. hazlewood banged his fist upon the table. "it's extremely annoying of margaret," he exclaimed. "she takes no interest in such matters. she is not, if i may use the word, a virtuoso. she did it solely to annoy me." "well, i wonder," said dick. he looked at his watch. it was eleven o'clock. he went out into the hall, picked up a straw hat and walked across the meadow to the thatched cottage on the river-bank. but while he went he was still wondering why in the world margaret had taken away that harmless little magazine from his father's writing-table. "pettifer's at the bottom of it," he concluded. "there's a foxy fellow for you. i'll keep my eye on uncle robert." he was near to the cottage. only a rail separated its garden from the meadow. beyond the garden a window stood open and within the room he saw the flutter of a lilac dress. from the window of the library mr. hazlewood watched his son open the garden gate. then he unlocked a drawer of his writing-table and took out a large sealed envelope. he broke the seal and drew from the envelope a sheaf of press cuttings. they were the verbatim reports of stella ballantyne's trial, which had been printed day by day in the _times of india_. he had sent for them months ago when he had blithely taken upon himself the defence of stella ballantyne. he had read them with a growing ardour. so harshly had she lived; so shadowless was her innocence. he turned to them now in a different spirit. pettifer had been left by the english summaries of the trial with a vague feeling of doubt. mr. hazlewood respected robert pettifer. the lawyer was cautious, deliberate, unemotional--qualities with which hazlewood had instinctively little sympathy. but on the other hand he was not bound hand and foot in prejudice. he could be liberal in his judgments. he had a mind clear enough to divide what reason had to say and the presumptions of convention. suppose that pettifer was after all right! the old man's heart sank within him. then indeed this marriage must be prevented--and the truth must be made known--yes, widely known. he himself had been deceived--like many another man before him. it was not ridiculous to have been deceived. he remained at all events consistent to his principles. there was his pamphlet to be sure, _the prison walls must cast no shadow_ that gave him an uncomfortable twinge. but he reassured himself. "there i argue that, once the offence has been expiated, all the privileges should be restored. but if pettifer is right there has been no expiation." that saving clause let him out. he did not thus phrase the position even to himself. he clothed it in other and high-sounding words. it was after all a sort of convention to accept acquittal as the proof of innocence. but at the back of his mind from first to last there was an immense fear of the figure which he himself would cut if he refused his consent to the marriage on any ground except that of stella ballantyne's guilt. for stella herself, the woman, he had no kindness to spare that morning. yesterday he had overflowed with it. for yesterday she had been one more proof to the world how high he soared above it. "since pettifer's in doubt," he said to himself, "there must be some flaw in this trial which i overlooked in the heat of my sympathy"; and to discover that flaw he read again every printed detail of it from the morning when stella first appeared before the stipendiary magistrate to that other morning a month later when the verdict was given. and he found no flaw. stella's acquittal was inevitable on the evidence. there was much to show what provocation she had suffered, but there was no proof that she had yielded to it. on the contrary she had endured so long, the presumption must be that she would go on enduring to the end. and there was other evidence--positive evidence given by thresk which could not be gainsaid. mr. hazlewood replaced his cuttings in the drawer; and he was utterly discontented. he had hoped for another result. there was only one point which puzzled him and that had nothing really to do with the trial, but it puzzled him so much that it slipped out at luncheon. "richard," he said, "i cannot understand why the name of thresk is so familiar to me." dick glanced quickly at his father. "you have been reading over again the accounts of the trial." mr. hazlewood looked confused. "and a very natural proceeding, richard," he declared. "but while reading over the trial i found the name thresk familiar to me in another connection, but i cannot remember what the connection is." dick could not help him, nor was he at that time concerned by the failure of his father's memory. he was engaged in realising that here was another enemy for stella. knowing his father, he was not greatly surprised, but he thought it prudent to attack without delay. "stella will be coming over to tea this afternoon," he said. "will she, richard?" the father replied, twisting uncomfortably in his chair. "very well--of course." "hubbard knows of my engagement, by the way," dick continued implacably. "hubbard! god bless my soul!" cried the old man. "it'll be all over the village already." "i shouldn't wonder," replied dick cheerfully. "i told him before i saw you this morning, whilst i was having breakfast." mr. hazlewood remained silent for a while. then he burst out petulantly: "richard, there's something i must speak to you seriously about: the lateness of your hours in the morning. i have noticed it with great regret. it is not considerate to the servants and it cannot be healthy for you. such indolence too must be enervating to your mind." dick forbore to remind his father that he was usually out of the house before seven. "father," he said, at once a very model of humility, "i will endeavour to reform." mr. hazlewood concealed his embarrassment at teatime under a show of over-work. he had a great deal to do--just a moment for a cup of tea--no more. there was to be a meeting of the county council the next morning when a most important question of small holdings was to come up for discussion. mr. hazlewood held the strongest views. he was engaged in shaping them in the smallest possible number of words. to be brief, to be vivid--there was the whole art of public speaking. mr. hazlewood chattered feverishly for five minutes; he had come in chattering, he went out chattering. "that's all right, stella, you see," said dick cheerfully when they were left alone. stella nodded her head. mr. hazlewood had not said one word in recognition of her engagement but she had made her little fight that morning. she had yielded and she could not renew it. she had spent three miserable hours framing reasonable arguments why last night should be forgotten. but the sight of her lover coming across the meadow had set her heart so leaping that she could only stammer out a few tags and phrases. "oh, i wish you hadn't come!" she had repeated and repeated and all the while her blood was leaping in her body for joy that he had. she had promised in the end to stand firm, to stand by his side and brave--what, after all, but the clamour of a week? so he put it and so she was eager to believe. mr. hazelwood, busy though he made himself out to be, found time that evening to drive in his motor-car into great beeding, and when the london train pulled up at the station he was on the platform. he looked anxiously at the passengers who descended until he saw robert pettifer. he went up to him at once. "what in the world are you doing here?" asked the lawyer. "i came on purpose to catch you, robert. i want to speak to you in private. my car is here. if you will get into it with me we can drive slowly towards your house." pettifer's face changed, but he could not refuse. hazlewood was agitated and nervous; of his ordinary complacency there was no longer a trace. pettifer got into the car and as it moved away from the station he asked: "now what's the matter?" "i have been thinking over what you said last night, robert. you had a vague feeling of doubt. well, i have the verbatim reports of the trial in bombay here in this envelope and i want you to read them carefully through and give me your opinion." he held out the envelope as he spoke, but pettifer thrust his hands into his pockets. "i won't touch it," he declared. "i refuse to mix myself up in the affair at all. i said more than i meant to last night." "but you did say it, robert." "then i withdraw it now." "but you can't, robert. you must go further. something has happened to-day, something very serious." "oh?" said pettifer. "yes," replied mr. hazlewood. "margaret really has more insight than i credited her with. they propose to get married." pettifer sat upright in the car. "you mean dick and stella ballantyne?" "yes." and for a little while there was silence in the car. then mr. hazlewood continued to bleat. "i never suspected anything of the kind. it places me, robert, in a very difficult position." "i can quite see that," answered pettifer with a grim smile. "it's really the only consoling element in the whole business. you can't refuse your consent without looking a fool and you can't give it while you are in any doubt as to mrs. ballantyne's innocence." mr. hazlewood was not, however, quite prepared to accept that definition of his position. "you don't exhaust the possibilities, robert," he said. "i can quite well refuse my consent and publicly refuse it if there are reasonable grounds for believing that there was in that trial a grave miscarriage of justice." mr. pettifer looked sharply at his companion. the voice no less than the words fixed his attention. this was not the mr. hazlewood of yesterday. the champion had dwindled into a figure of meanness. harold hazlewood would be glad to discover those reasonable grounds; and he would be very much obliged if robert pettifer would take upon himself the responsibility of discovering them. "yes, i see," said pettifer slowly. he was half inclined to leave harold hazlewood to find his way out of his trouble by himself. it was all his making after all. but other and wider considerations began to press upon pettifer. he forced himself to omit altogether the subject of hazlewood's vanities and entanglements. "very well. give the cuttings to me! i will read them through and i will let you know my opinion. their intention to marry may alter everything--my point of view as much as yours." mr. pettifer took the envelope in his hand and got out of the car as soon as hazlewood had stopped it. "you have raised no objections to the engagement?" he asked. "a word to richard this morning. of not much effect i am afraid." mr. pettifer nodded. "right. i should say nothing to anybody. you can't take a decided line against it at present and to snarl would be the worst policy imaginable. to-day's thursday. we'll meet on saturday. good-night," and robert pettifer walked away to his own house. he walked slowly, wondering at the eternal mystery by which this particular man and that individual woman select each other out of the throng. he owed the greater part of his fortune to the mystery like many another lawyer. but to-night he would willingly have yielded a good portion of it up if that process of selection could be ordered in a more reasonable way. love? the attraction of sex? yes, no doubt. but why these two specimens of sex? why dick and stella ballantyne? when he reached his house his wife hurried forward to meet him. already she had the news. there was an excitement in her face not to be misunderstood. the futile time-honoured phrase of triumph so ready on the lips of those who have prophesied evil was trembling upon hers. "don't say it, margaret," said pettifer very seriously. "we have come to a pass where light words will lead us astray. hazlewood has been with me. i have the reports of the trial here." margaret pettifer put a check upon her tongue and they dined together almost in complete silence. pettifer was methodically getting his own point of view quite clearly established in his mind, so that whatever he did or advised he might be certain not to swerve from it afterwards. he weighed his inclinations and his hopes, and when the servants had left the dining-room and he had lit his cigar he put his case before his wife. "listen, margaret! you know your brother. he is always in extremes. he swings from one to the other. he is terrified now lest this marriage should take place." "no wonder," interposed mrs. pettifer. pettifer made no comment upon the remark. "therefore," he continued, "he is anxious that i should discover in these reports some solid reason for believing that the verdict which acquitted stella ballantyne was a grave miscarriage of justice. for any such reason must have weight." "of course," said mrs. pettifer. "and will justify him--this is his chief consideration--in withholding publicly his consent." "i see." only a week ago dick himself had observed that sentimental philosophers had a knack of breaking their heads against their own theories. the words had been justified sooner than she had expected. mrs. pettifer was not surprised at harold hazlewood's swift change any more than her husband had been. harold, to her thinking, was a sentimentalist and sentimentality was like a fir-tree--a thing of no deep roots and easily torn up. "but i do not take that view, margaret," continued her husband, and she looked at him with consternation. was he now to turn champion, he who only yesterday had doubted? "and i want you to consider whether you can agree with me. there is to begin with the woman herself, stella ballantyne. i saw her for the first time yesterday, and to be quite honest i liked her, margaret. yes. it seemed to me that there was nothing whatever of the adventuress about her. and i was impressed--i will go further, i was moved--dry-as-dust old lawyer as i am, by something--how shall i express it without being ridiculous?" he paused and searched in his vocabulary and gave up the search. "no, the epithet which occurred to me yesterday at the dinner-table and immediately, still seems to me the only true one--i was moved by something in this woman of tragic experiences which was strangely virginal." one quick movement was made by margaret pettifer. the truth of her husband's description was a revelation, so exact it was. therein lay stella ballantyne's charm, and her power to create champions and friends. her history was known to you, the miseries of her marriage, the suspicion of crime. you expected a woman of adventures and lo! there stood before you one with "something virginal" in her appearance and her manner, which made its soft and irresistible appeal. "i recognise that feeling of mine," pettifer resumed, "and i try to put it aside. and putting it aside i ask myself and you, margaret, this: here's a woman who has been through a pretty bad time, who has been unhappy, who has stood in the dock, who has been acquitted. is it quite fair that when at last she has floated into a haven of peace two private people like hazlewood and myself should take it upon ourselves to review the verdict and perhaps reverse it?" "but there's dick, robert," cried mrs. pettifer. "there's dick. surely he's our first thought." "yes, there's dick," mr. pettifer repeated. "and dick's my second point. you are all worrying about dick from the social point of view--the external point of view. well, we have got to take that into our consideration. but we are bound to look at him, the man, as well. don't forget that, margaret! well, i find the two points of view identical. but our neighbours won't. will you?" mrs. pettifer was baffled. "i don't understand," she said. "i'll explain. from the social standpoint what's really important as regards dick? that he should go out to dinner? no. that he should have children? yes!" and here mrs. pettifer interposed again. "but they must be the right children," she exclaimed. "better that he should have none than that he should have children--" "with an hereditary taint," pettifer agreed. "admitted, margaret. if we come to the conclusion that stella ballantyne did what she was accused of doing we, in spite of all the verdicts in the world, are bound to resist this marriage. i grant it. because of that conviction i dismiss the plea that we are unfair to the woman in reviewing the trial. there are wider, greater considerations." these were the first words of comfort which mrs. pettifer had heard since her husband began to expound. she received them with enthusiasm. "i am so glad to hear that." "yes, margaret," pettifer retorted drily. "but please ask yourself this question: (it is where, to my thinking, the social and the personal elements join) if this marriage is broken off, is dick likely to marry at all?" "why not?" asked margaret. "he is thirty-four. he has had, no doubt, many opportunities of marriage. he must have had. he is good-looking, well off and a good fellow. this is the first time he has wanted to marry. if he is disappointed here will he try again?" mrs. pettifer laughed, moved by the remarkable depreciation of her own sex which women of her type so often have. it was for man to throw the handkerchief. not a doubt but there would be a rush to pick it up! "widowers who have been devoted to their wives marry again," she argued. "a point for me, margaret!" returned pettifer. "widowers--yes. they miss so much--the habit of a house with a woman its mistress, the companionship, the order, oh, a thousand small but important things. but a man who has remained a bachelor until he's thirty-four--that's a different case. if he sets his heart at that age, seriously, for the first time on a woman and does not get her, that's the kind of man who, my experience suggests to me--i put it plainly, margaret--will take one or more mistresses to himself but no wife." mrs. pettifer deferred to the worldly knowledge of her husband but she clung to her one clear argument. "nothing could be worse," she said frankly, "than that he should marry a guilty woman." "granted, margaret," replied mr. pettifer imperturbably. "only suppose that she's not guilty. there are you and i, rich people, and no one to leave our money to--no one to carry on your name--no one we care a rap about to benefit by my work and your brother's fortune--no one of the family to hand over little beeding to." both of them were silent after he had spoken. he had touched upon their one great sorrow. margaret herself had her roots deep in the soil of little beeding. it was hateful to her that the treasured house should ever pass to strangers, as it would do if this the last branch of the family failed. "but stella ballantyne was married for seven years," she said at last, "and there were no children." "no, that's true," replied pettifer. "but it does not follow that with a second marriage there will be none. it's a chance, i know, but--" and he got up from his chair. "i do honestly believe that it's the only chance you and i will have, margaret, of dying with the knowledge that our lives have not been altogether vain. we've lighted our little torch. yes, and it burns merrily enough, but what's the use unless at the appointed mile-stone there's another of us to take it and carry it on?" he stood looking down at his wife with a wistful and serious look upon his face. "dick's past the age of calf-love. we can't expect him to tumble from one passion to another; and he's not easily moved. therefore i hope very sincerely that these reports which i am now going to read will enable me to go boldly to harold hazlewood and say: 'stella ballantyne is as guiltless of this crime as you or i.'" mr. pettifer took up the big envelope which he had placed on the table beside him and carried it away to his study. chapter xix pettifer's plan on the saturday morning mr. hazlewood drove over early to great beeding. his impatience had so grown during the last few days that his very sleep was broken at night and in the daytime he could not keep still. the news of dick's engagement to stella ballantyne was now known throughout the countryside and the blame for it was laid upon harold hazlewood's shoulders. for blame was the general note, blame and chagrin. a few bold and kindly spirits went at once to see stella; a good many more seriously and at great length debated over their tea-tables whether they should call after the marriage. but on the whole the verdict was an indignant no. disgrace was being brought upon the neighbourhood. little beeding would be impossible. dick hazlewood only laughed at the constraint of his acquaintances, and when three of them crossed the road hurriedly in great beeding to avoid stella and himself he said good-humouredly: "they are like an ill-trained company of bad soldiers. let one of them break from the ranks and they'll all stream away so as not to be left behind. you'll see, stella. one of them will come and the rest will tumble over one another to get into your drawing-room." how much he believed of what he said stella did not inquire. she had a gift of silence. she just walked a little nearer to him and smiled, lest any should think she had noticed the slight. the one man, in a word, who showed signs of wear and tear was mr. hazlewood himself. so keen was his distress that he had no fear of his sister's sarcasms. "i--think of it!" he exclaimed in a piteous bewilderment, "actually i have become sensitive to public opinion," and mrs. pettifer forbore from the comments which she very much longed to make. she was in the study when harold hazlewood was shown in, and pettifer had bidden her to stay. "margaret knows that i have been reading these reports," he said. "sit down, hazlewood, and i'll tell you what i think." mr. hazlewood took a seat facing the garden with its old red brick wall, on which a purple clematis was growing. "you have formed an opinion then, robert?" "one." "what is it?" he asked eagerly. robert pettifer clapped the palm of his hand down upon the cuttings from the newspapers which lay before him on his desk. "this--no other verdict could possibly have been given by the jury. on the evidence produced at the trial in bombay mrs. ballantyne was properly and inevitably acquitted." "robert!" exclaimed his wife. she too had been hoping for the contrary opinion. as for hazlewood himself the sunlight seemed to die off that garden. he drew his hand across his forehead. he half rose to go when again robert pettifer spoke. "and yet," he said slowly, "i am not satisfied." harold hazlewood sat down again. mrs. pettifer drew a breath of relief. "the chief witness for the defence, the witness whose evidence made the acquittal certain, was a man i know--a barrister called thresk." "yes," interrupted hazlewood. "i have been puzzled about that man ever since you mentioned him before. his name i am somehow familiar with." "i'll explain that to you in a minute," said pettifer, and his wife leaned forward suddenly in her chair. she did not interrupt but she sat with a look of keen expectancy upon her face. she did not know whither pettifer was leading them but she was now sure that it was to some carefully pondered goal. "i have more than once briefed thresk myself. he's a man of the highest reputation at the bar, straightforward, honest; he enjoys a great practice, he is in parliament with a great future in parliament. in a word he is a man with everything to lose if he lied as a witness in a trial. and yet--i am not satisfied." mr. pettifer's voice sank to a low murmur. he sat at his desk staring out in front of him through the window. "why?" asked hazlewood. but pettifer did not answer him. he seemed not to hear the question. he went on in the low quiet voice he had used before, rather like one talking to himself than to a companion. "i should very much like to put a question or two to mr. thresk." "then why don't you?" exclaimed mrs. pettifer. "you know him." "yes." mr. hazlewood eagerly seconded his sister. "since you know him you are the very man." pettifer shook his head. "it would be an impertinence. for although i look upon dick as a son i am not his father. you are, hazlewood, you are. he wouldn't answer me." "would he answer me?" asked hazlewood. "i don't know him at all. i can't go to him and ask if he told the truth." "no, no, you can't do that," pettifer answered, "nor do i mean you to. i want to put my questions myself in my own way and i thought that you might get him down to little beeding." "but i have no excuse," cried hazlewood, and mrs. pettifer at last understood the plan which was in her husband's mind, which had been growing to completion since the night when he had dined at little beeding. "yes, you have an excuse," she cried, and pettifer explained what it was. "you collect miniatures. some time ago you bought one of marie antoinette at lord mirliton's sale. you asked a question as to its authenticity in _notes and queries_. it was answered--" mr. hazlewood broke in excitedly: "by a man called thresk. that is why the name was familiar to me. but i could not remember." he turned upon his sister. "it is your fault, margaret. you took my copy of _notes and queries_ away with you. dick noticed it and told me." "dick!" pettifer exclaimed in alarm. but the alarm passed. "he cannot have guessed why." mrs. pettifer was clear upon the point. "no. i took the magazine because of a remark which robert made to you. dick did not hear it. no, he cannot have guessed why." "for it's important he should have no suspicion whatever of what i propose that you should do, hazlewood," pettifer said gravely. "i propose that we should take a lesson from the legal processes of another country. it may work, it may not, but to my mind it is our only chance." "let me hear!" said hazlewood. "thresk is an authority on old silver and miniatures. he has a valuable collection himself. his advice is sought by people in the trade. you know what collectors are. get him down to see your collection. it wouldn't be the first time that you have invited a stranger to pass a night in your house for that purpose, would it?" "no." "and the invitation has often been accepted?" "well--sometimes." "we must hope that it will be this time. get thresk down to little beeding upon that excuse. then confront him unexpectedly with mrs. ballantyne. and let me be there." such was the plan which pettifer suggested. a period of silence followed upon his words. even mr. hazlewood, in the extremity of his distress, recoiled from it. "it would look like a trap." mr. pettifer thumped his table impatiently. "let's be frank, for heaven's sake. it wouldn't merely look like a trap, it would be one. it wouldn't be at all a pretty thing to do, but there's this marriage!" "no, i couldn't do it," said hazlewood. "very well. there's no more to be said." pettifer himself had no liking for the plan. it had been his intention originally to let hazlewood know that if he wished to get into communication with thresk there was a means by which he could do it. but the fact of dick's engagement had carried him still further, and now that he had read the evidence of the trial carefully there was a real anxiety in his mind. pettifer sealed up the cuttings in a fresh envelope and gave them to hazlewood and went out with him to the door. "of course," said the old man, "if your legal experience, robert, leads you to think that we should be justified--" "but it doesn't," pettifer was quick to interpose. he recognised his brother-in-law's intention to throw the discredit of the trick upon his shoulders but he would have none of it. "no, hazlewood," he said cheerfully: "it's not a plan which a high-class lawyer would be likely to commend to a client." "then i am afraid that i couldn't do it." "all right," said pettifer with his hand upon the latch of the front door. "thresk's chambers are in king's bench walk." he added the number. "i simply couldn't think of it," hazlewood repeated as he crossed the pavement to his car. "perhaps not," said pettifer. "you have the envelope? yes. choose an evening towards the end of the week, a friday will be your best chance of getting him." "i will do nothing of the kind, pettifer." "and let me know when he is coming. goodbye." the car carried mr. hazlewood away still protesting that he really couldn't think of it for an instant. but he thought a good deal of it during the next week and his temper did not improve. "pettifer has rubbed off the finer edges of his nature," he said to himself. "it is a pity--a great pity. but thirty years of life in a lawyer's office must no doubt have that effect. i regret very much that pettifer should have imagined that i would condescend to such a scheme." chapter xx on the downs they went up by the steep chalk road which skirts the park wall to the top of the conical hill above the race-course. an escarpment of grass banks guards a hollow like a shallow crater on the very summit. they rode round it upon the rim, now facing the black slope of charlton forest across the valley to the north, now looking out over the plain and chichester. thirty miles away above the sea the chalk cliffs of the isle of wight gleamed under their thatch of dark turf. it was not yet nine in the morning. later the day would climb dustily to noon; now it had the wonder and the stillness of great beginnings. a faint haze like a veil at the edges of the sky and a freshness of the air made the world magical to these two who rode high above weald and sea. stella looked downwards to the silver flash of the broad water west of chichester spire. "that way they came, perhaps on a day like this," she said slowly, "those old centurions." "your thoughts go back," said dick hazlewood with a laugh. "not so far as you think," cried stella, and suddenly her cheeks took fire and a smile dimpled them. "oh, i dare to think of many things to-day." she rode down the steep grass slope towards the race-course with dick at her side. it was the first morning they had ridden together since the night of the dinner-party at little beeding. mr. hazlewood was at this moment ordering his car so that he might drive in to the town and learn what pettifer had discovered in the cuttings from the newspapers. but they were quite unaware of the plot which was being hatched against them. they went forward under the high beech-trees watching for the great roots which stretched across their path, and talking little. an open way between wooden posts led them now on to turf and gave them the freedom of the downs. they saw no one. with the larks and the field-fares they had the world to themselves; and in the shade beneath the hedges the dew still sparkled on the grass. they left the long arm of halnaker down upon their right, its old mill standing up on the edge like some lighthouse on a bluff of the sea, and crossing the high road from up-waltham rode along a narrow glade amongst beeches and nut-trees and small oaks and bushes of wild roses. open spaces came again; below them were the woods and the green country of slindon and the deep grass of dale park. and so they drew near to gumber corner where stane street climbs over bignor hill. here dick hazlewood halted. "i suppose we turn." "not to-day," said stella, and dick turned to her with surprise. always before they had stopped at this point and always by stella's wish. either she was tired or was needed at home or had letters to write--always there had been some excuse and no reason. dick hazlewood had come to believe that she would not pass this point, that the down land beyond was a sort of tom tiddler's ground on which she would not trespass. he had wondered why, but his instinct had warned him from questions. he had always turned at this spot immediately, as if he believed the excuse which she had ready. stella noticed the surprise upon his face; and the blushes rose again in her cheeks. "you knew that i would not go beyond," she said. "yes." "but you did not know why?" there was a note of urgency in her voice. "i guessed," he said. "i mean i played with guesses--oh not seriously," and he laughed. "there runs stane street from chichester to london and through london to the great north wall. up that road the romans marched and back by that road they returned to their galleys in the water there by chichester. i pictured you living in those days, a boadicea of the weald who had set her heart, against her will, on some dashing captain of old rome camped here on the top of bignor hill. you crept from your own people at night to meet him in the lane at the bottom. then came week after week when the street rang with the tramp of soldiers returning from london and lichfield and the north to embark in their boats for gaul and rome." "they took my captain with them?" cried stella, laughing with him at the conceit. "yes, so my fable ran. he pined for the circus and the theatre and the painted ladies, so he went willingly." "the brute," cried stella. "and so i broke my heart over a decadent philanderer in a suit of bright brass clothes and remember it thirteen hundred years afterwards in another life! thank you, captain hazlewood!" "no, you don't actually remember it, stella, but you have a feeling that round about stane street you once suffered great humiliation and unhappiness." and suddenly stella rode swiftly past him, but in a moment she waited for him and showed him a face of smiles. "you see i have crossed stane street to-day, dick," she said. "we'll ride on to arundel." "yes," answered dick, "my story won't do," and he remembered a sentence of hers spoken an hour and a half ago: "my thoughts do not go back as far as you think." at all events she was emancipated to-day, for they rode on until at the end of a long gentle slope the great arch of the gate into arundel park gleamed white in a line of tall dark trees. chapter xxi the letter is written but stella's confidence did not live long. mr. hazlewood was a child at deceptions; and day by day his anxieties increased. his friends argued with him--his folly and weakness were the themes--and he must needs repel the argument though his thoughts echoed every word they used. never was a man brought to such a piteous depth of misery by the practice of his own theories. he sat by the hour at his desk, burying his face amongst his papers if dick came into the room, with a great show of occupation. he could hardly bear to contemplate the marriage of his son, yet day and night he must think of it and search for expedients which might put an end to the trouble and let him walk free again with his head raised high. but there were only the two expedients. he must speak out his fears that justice had miscarried, and that device his vanity forbade; or he must adopt pettifer's suggestion, and from that he shrank almost as much. he began to resent the presence of stella ballantyne and he showed it. sometimes a friendliness, so excessive that it was almost hysterical, betrayed him; more usually a discomfort and constraint. he avoided her if by any means he could; if he could not quite avoid her an excuse of business was always on his lips. "your father hates me, dick," she said. "he was my friend until i touched his own life. then i was in the black books in a second." dick would not hear of it. "you were never in the black books at all, stella," he said, comforting her as well as he could. "we knew that there would be a little struggle, didn't we? but the worst of that's over. you make friends daily." "not with your father, dick. i go back with him. ever since that night--it's three weeks ago now--when you took me home from little beeding." "no," cried dick, but stella nodded her head gloomily. "mr. pettifer dined here that night. he's an enemy of mine." "stella," young hazlewood remonstrated, "you see enemies everywhere," and upon that stella broke out with a quivering troubled face. "is it wonderful? oh, dick, i couldn't lose you! a month ago--before that night--yes. nothing had been said. but now! i couldn't, i couldn't! i have often thought it would be better for me to go right away and never see you again. and--and i have tried to tell you something, dick, ever so many times." "yes?" said dick. he slipped his arm through hers and held her close to him, as though to give her courage and security. "yes, stella?" and he stood very still. "i mean," she said, looking down upon the ground, "that i have tried to tell you that i wouldn't suffer so very much if we did part, but i never could do it. my lips shook so, i never could speak the words." then her voice ran up into a laugh. "to think of your living in a house with somebody else! oh no!" "you need have no fear of that, stella." they were in the garden of little beeding and they walked across the meadow towards her cottage, talking very earnestly. mr. hazlewood was watching them secretly from the window of the library. he saw that dick was pleading and she hanging in doubt; and a great wave of anger surged over him that dick should have to plead to her at all, he who was giving everything--even his own future. "king's bench walk," he muttered to himself, taking from the drawer of his writing-table a slip of paper on which he had written the address lest he should forget it. "yes, that's the address," and he looked at it for a long time very doubtfully. suppose that his suspicions were correct! his heart sank at the supposition. surely he would be justified in setting any trap. but he shut the drawer violently and turned away from his writing-table. even his pamphlets had become trivial in his eyes. he was brought face to face with real passions and real facts, he had been fetched out from his cloister and was blinking miserably in a full measure of daylight. how long could he endure it, he wondered? the question was settled for him that very evening. he and his son were taking their coffee on a paved terrace by the lawn after dinner. it was a dark quiet night, with a clear sky of golden stars. across the meadow the lights shone in the windows of stella's cottage. "father," said dick, after they had sat in a constrained silence for a little while, "why don't you like stella any longer?" the old man blustered in reply: "a lawyer's question, richard. i object to it very strongly. you assume that i have ceased to like her." "it's extremely evident," said dick drily. "stella has noticed it." "and complained to you of course," cried mr. hazlewood resentfully. "stella doesn't complain," and then dick leaned over and spoke in the full quiet voice which his father had grown to dread. there rang in it so much of true feeling and resolution. "there can be no backing down now. we are both agreed upon that, aren't we? imagine for an instant that i were first to blazon my trust in a woman whom others suspected by becoming engaged to her and then endorsed their suspicions by breaking off the engagement! suppose that i were to do that!" mr. hazlewood allowed his longings to lead him astray. for a moment he hoped. "well?" he asked eagerly. "you wouldn't think very much of me, would you? not you nor any man. a cur--that would be the word, the only word, wouldn't it?" but mr. hazlewood refused to answer that question. he looked behind him to make sure that none of the servants were within hearing. then he lowered his voice to a whisper. "what if stella has deceived you, dick?" it was too dark for him to see the smile upon his son's face, but he heard the reply, and the confidence of it stung him to exasperation. "she hasn't done that," said dick. "if you are sure of nothing else, sir, you may be quite certain of what i am telling you now. she hasn't done that." he remained silent for a few moments waiting for any rejoinder, and getting none he continued: "there's something else i wanted to speak to you about." "yes?" "the date of our marriage." the old man moved sharply in his chair. "there's no hurry, richard. you must find out how it will affect your career. you have been so long at little beeding where we hear very little from the outer world. you must consult your colonel." dick hazlewood would not listen to the argument. "my marriage is my affair, sir, not my colonel's. i cannot take advice, for we both of us know what it would be. and we both of us value it at its proper price, don't we?" mr. hazlewood could not reply. how often had he inveighed against the opinions of the sleek worldly people who would add up advantages in a column and leave out of their consideration the merits of the higher life. "it would not be fair to stella were we to ask her to wait," dick resumed. "any delay--think what will be made of it! a month or six weeks from now, that gives us time enough." the old man rose abruptly from his chair with a vague word that he would think of it and went into the house. he saw again the lovers as he had seen them this afternoon walking side by side slowly towards stella ballantyne's cottage; and the picture even in the retrospect was intolerable. the marriage must not take place--yet it was so near. a month or six weeks! mr. hazlewood took up his pen and wrote the letter to henry thresk at last, as robert pettifer had always been sure that he would do. it was the simplest kind of letter and took but a minute in the writing. it mentioned only his miniatures and invited henry thresk to little beeding to see them, as more than one stranger had been asked before. the answers which thresk had given to the questions in _notes and queries_ were pleaded as an introduction and thresk was invited to choose his own day and remain at little beeding for the night. the reply came by return of post. thresk would come to little beeding on the friday afternoon of the next week. he was in town, for parliament was sitting late that year. he would reach little beeding soon after five so that he might have an opportunity of seeing the miniatures by daylight. mr. hazlewood hurried over with the news to robert pettifer. his spirits had risen at a bound. already he saw the neighbourhood freed from the disturbing presence of stella ballantyne and himself cheerfully resuming his multifarious occupations. robert pettifer, however, spoke in quite another strain. "i am not so sure as you, hazlewood. the points which trouble me are very possibly capable of quite simple explanations. i hope for my part that they will be so explained." "you hope it?" cried mr. hazlewood. "yes. i want dick to marry," said robert pettifer. mr. hazlewood was not, however, to be discouraged. he drove back to his house counting the days which must pass before thresk's arrival and wondering how he should manage to conceal his elation from the keen eyes of his son. but he found that there was no need for him to trouble himself on that point, for this very morning at luncheon dick said to him: "i think that i'll run up to town this afternoon, father. i might be there for a day or two." mr. hazlewood was delighted. no other proposal could have fitted in so well with his scheme. the mere fact that dick was away would start people at the pleasant business of conjecturing mishaps and quarrels. perhaps indeed the lovers _had_ quarrelled. perhaps richard had taken his advice and was off to consult his superiors. mr. hazlewood scanned his son's face eagerly but learnt nothing from it; and he was too wary to ask any questions. "by all means, richard," he said carelessly, "go to london! you will be back by next friday, i suppose." "oh yes, before that. i shall stay at my own rooms, so if you want me you can send me a telegram." dick hazlewood had a small flat of his own in some mansions at westminster which had seen very little of him that summer. "thank you, richard," said the old man. "but i shall get on very well, and a few days change will no doubt do you good." dick grinned at his father and went off that afternoon without a word of farewell to stella ballantyne. mr. hazlewood stood in the hall and saw him go with a great relief at his heart. everything at last seemed to be working out to advantage. he could not but remember how so very few weeks ago he had been urgent that richard should spend his summer at little beeding and lend a hand in the noble work of defending stella ballantyne against ignorance and unreason. but the twinge only lasted a moment. he had made a mistake, as all men occasionally do--yes, even sagacious and thoughtful people like himself. and the mistake was already being repaired. he looked across the meadow that night at the lighted blinds of stella's windows and anticipated an evening when those windows would be dark and the cottage without an inhabitant. "very soon," he murmured to himself, "very soon." he had not one single throb of pity for her now, not a single speculation whither she would go or what she would make of her life. his own defence of her had now become a fault of hers. he wished her no harm, he argued, but in a week's time there must be no light shining behind those blinds. chapter xxii a way out of the trap mr. hazlewood was very glad that richard was away in london during this week. excitement kept him feverish and the fever grew as the number of days before thresk was to come diminished. he would never have been able to keep his secret had every meal placed him under his son's eyes. he was free too from stella herself. he met her but once on the monday and then it was in the deep lane leading towards the town. it was about five o'clock in the evening and she was driving homewards in an open fly. mr. hazlewood stopped it and went to the side. "richard is away, stella, until wednesday, as no doubt you knew," he said. "but i want you to come over to tea when he comes back. will friday suit you?" she had looked a little frightened when mr. hazlewood had called to the driver and stopped the carriage; but at his words the blood rushed into her cheeks and her eyes shone and she pushed out her hand impulsively. "oh, thank you," she cried. "of course i will come." not for a long time had he spoken to her with so kind a voice and a face so unclouded. she rejoiced at the change in him and showed him such gratitude as is given only to those who render great service, so intense was her longing not to estrange dick from his father. but she had become a shrewd observer under the stress of her evil destiny; and the moment of rejoicing once past she began to wonder what had brought about the change. she judged mr. hazlewood to be one of those weak and effervescing characters who can grow more obstinate in resentment than any others if their pride and self-esteem receive an injury. she had followed of late the windings of his thoughts. she put the result frankly to herself. "he hates me. he holds me in horror." why then the sudden change? she was in the mood to start at shadows and when a little note was brought over to her on the friday morning in mr. hazlewood's handwriting reminding her of her engagement she was filled with a vague apprehension. the note was kindly in its terms yet to her it had a menacing and sinister look. had some stroke been planned against her? was it to be delivered this afternoon? dick came at half-past four from a village cricket match to fetch her. "you are ready, stella? right! for we can't spare very much time. i have a surprise for you." stella asked him what it was and he answered: "there's a house for sale in great beeding. i think that you would like it." stella's face softened with a smile. "anywhere, dick," she said, "anywhere on earth." "but here best of all," he answered. "not to run away--that's our policy. we'll make our home in our own south country. i arranged to take you over the house between half-past five and six this evening." they walked across to little beeding and were made welcome by mr. hazlewood. he came out to meet them in the garden and nervousness made him kittenish and arch. "how are you, stella?" he inquired. "but there's no need to ask. you look charming and upon my word you grow younger every day. what a pretty hat! yes, yes! will you make tea while i telephone to the pettifers? they seem to be late." he skipped off with an alacrity which was rather ridiculous. but stella watched him go without any amusement. "i am taken again into favour," she said doubtfully. "that shouldn't distress you, stella," replied dick. "yet it does, for i ask myself why. and i don't understand this tea-party. mr. hazlewood was so urgent that i should not forget it. perhaps, however, i am inventing trouble." she shook herself free from her apprehensions and followed dick into the drawing-room, where the kettle was boiling and the tea-service spread out. stella went to the table and opened the little mahogany caddy. "how many are coming, dick?" she asked. "the pettifers." "my enemies," said stella, laughing lightly. "and you and my father and myself." "five altogether," said stella. she began to measure out the tea into the tea-pot but stopped suddenly in the middle of her work. "but there are six cups," she said. she counted them again to make sure, and at once her fears were reawakened. she turned to dick, her face quite pale and her big eyes dark with forebodings. so little now was needed to disquiet her. "who is the sixth?" dick came closer to her and put his arm about her waist. "i don't know," he said gently; "but what can it matter to us, stella? think, my dear!" "no, of course," she replied, "it can't make any difference," and she dipped her teaspoon once more into the caddy. "but it's a little curious, isn't it?--that your father didn't mention to you that there was another guest?" "oh, wait a moment," said dick. "he did tell me there would be some visitor here to-day but i forgot all about it. he told me at luncheon. there's a man from london coming down to have a look at his miniatures." "his miniatures?" stella was pouring the hot water into the tea-pot. she replaced the kettle on its stand and shut the tea-caddy. "and mr. hazlewood didn't tell you the man's name," she said. "i didn't ask him," answered dick. "he often has collectors down." "i see." her head was bent over the tea-table; she was busy with her brew of tea. "and i was specially asked to come this afternoon. i had a note this morning to remind me." she looked at the clock. "dick, if we are to see that house this afternoon you had better change now before the visitors come." "that's true. i will." dick started towards the door, and he heard stella come swiftly after him. he turned. there was so much trouble in her face. he caught her in his arms. "dick," she whispered, "look at me. kiss me! yes, i am sure of you," and she clung to him. dick hazlewood laughed. "i think we ought to be fairly happy in that house," and she let him go with a smile, repeating her own words, "anywhere, dick, anywhere on earth." she waited, watching him tenderly until the door was closed. then she covered her face with her hands and a sob burst from her lips. but the next moment she tore her hands away and looked wildly about the room. she ran to the writing-table and scribbled a note; she thrust it into an envelope and gummed the flap securely down. then she rang the bell and waited impatiently with a leaping heart until hubbard came to the door. "did you ring, madam?" he asked. "yes. has mr. thresk arrived yet?" she tried to control her face, to speak in a careless and indifferent voice, but she was giddy and the room whirled before her eyes. "yes, madam," the butler answered; and it seemed to stella ballantyne that once more she stood in the dock and heard the verdict spoken. only this time it had gone against her. that queer old shuffling butler became a figure of doom, his thin and piping voice uttered her condemnation. for here without her knowledge was henry thresk and she was bidden to meet him with the pettifers for witnesses. but it was henry thresk who had saved her before. she clung to that fact now. "mr. thresk arrived a few minutes ago." just before old hazlewood had come forward out of the house to welcome her! no wonder he was in such high spirits! very likely all that great show of kindliness and welcome was made only to keep her in the garden for a few necessary moments. "where is mr. thresk now?" she asked. "in his room, madam." "you are quite sure?" "quite." "will you take this note to him, hubbard?" and she held it out to the butler. "certainly, madam." "will you take it at once? give it into his hands, please." hubbard took the note and went out of the room. never had he seemed to her so dilatory and slow. she stared at the door as though her sight could pierce the panels. she imagined him climbing the stairs with feet which loitered more at each fresh step. some one would surely stop him and ask for whom the letter was intended. she went to the door which led into the hall, opened it and listened. no one was descending the staircase and she heard no voices. then above her hubbard knocked upon a door, a latch clicked as the door was opened, a hollow jarring sound followed as the door was sharply closed. stella went back into the room. the letter had been delivered; at this moment henry thresk was reading it; and with a sinking heart she began to speculate in what spirit he would receive its message. henry thresk! the unhappy woman bestirred herself to remember him. he had grown dim to her of late. how much did she know of him? she asked herself. once years ago there had been a month during which she had met him daily. she had given her heart to him, yet she had learned little or nothing of the man within the man's frame. she had not even made his acquaintance. that had been proved to her one memorable morning upon the top of bignor hill, when humiliation had so deeply seared her soul that only during this last month had it been healed. in the great extremities of her life henry thresk had decided, not she, and he was a stranger to her. she beat her poor wings in vain against that ironic fact. never had he done what she had expected. on bignor hill, in the law court at bombay, he had equally surprised her. now once more he held her destinies in his hand. what would he decide? what had he decided? "yes, he will have decided now," said stella to herself; and a certain calm fell upon her troubled soul. whatever was to be was now determined. she went back to the tea-table and waited. henry thresk had not much of the romantic in his character. he was a busy man making the best and the most of the rewards which the years brought to him, and slamming the door each day upon the day which had gone before. he made his life in the intellectual exercise of his profession and his membership of the house of commons. upon the deeps of the emotions he had closed a lid. yet he had set out with a vague reluctance to little beeding; and once his motor-car had passed hindhead and dipped to the weald of sussex the reluctance had grown to a definite regret that he should once more have come into this country. his recollections were of a dim far-off time, so dim that he could hardly believe that he had any very close relation with the young struggling man who had spent his first real holiday there. but the young man had been himself and he had missed his opportunity high up on the downs by arundel. words which jane repton had spoken to him in bombay came back to him on this summer afternoon like a refrain to the steady hum of his car. "you can get what you want, so long as you want it enough, but you cannot control the price you will have to pay." he had reached little beeding only a few moments before dick and stella had crossed into the garden. he had been led by hubbard into the library, where mr. hazlewood was sitting. from the windows he had even seen the thatched cottage where stella ballantyne dwelt and its tiny garden bright with flowers. "it is most kind of you to come," mr. hazlewood had said. "ever since we had our little correspondence i have been anxious to take your opinion on my collection. though how in the world you manage to find time to have an opinion at all upon the subject is most perplexing. i never open the _times_ but i see your name figuring in some important case." "and i, mr. hazlewood," thresk replied with a smile, "never open my mail without receiving a pamphlet from you. i am not the only active man in the world." even at that moment mr. hazlewood flushed with pleasure at the flattery. "little reflections," he cried with a modest deprecation, "worked out more or less to completeness--may i say that?--in the quiet of a rural life, sparks from the tiny flame of my midnight oil." he picked up one pamphlet from a stack by his writing-table. "you might perhaps care to look at _the prison walls_." thresk drew back. "i have got mine, mr. hazlewood," he said firmly. "every man in england should have one. no man in england has a right to two." mr. hazlewood fairly twittered with satisfaction. here was a notable man from the outside world of affairs who knew his work and held it in esteem. obviously then he was right to take these few disagreeable twists and turns which would ensure to him a mind free to pursue his labours. he looked down at the pamphlet however, and his satisfaction was a trifle impaired. "i am not sure that this is quite my best work," he said timidly--"a little hazardous perhaps." "would you say that?" asked thresk. "yes, indeed i should." mr. hazlewood had the air of one making a considerable concession. "the very title is inaccurate. _the prison walls must cast no shadow_." he repeated the sentence with a certain unction. "the rhythm is perhaps not amiss but the metaphor is untrue. my son pointed it out to me. as he says, all walls cast shadows." "yes," said thresk. "the trouble is to know where and on whom the shadow is going to fall." mr. hazlewood was startled by the careless words. he came to earth heavily. all was not as yet quite ready for the little trick which had been devised. the pettifers had not arrived. "perhaps you would like to see your room, mr. thresk," he said. "your bag has been taken up, no doubt. we will look at my miniatures after tea." "i shall be delighted," said thresk as he followed hazlewood to the door. "but you must not expect too much knowledge from me." "oh!" cried his host with a laugh. "pettifer tells me that you are a great authority." "then pettifer's wrong," said thresk and so stopped. "pettifer? pettifer? isn't he a solicitor?" "yes, he told me that he knew you. he married my sister. they are both coming to tea." with that he led thresk to his room and left him there. the room was over the porch of the house and looked down the short level drive to the iron gates and the lane. it was all familiar ground to thresk or rather to that other man with whom thresk's only connection was a dull throb at his heart, a queer uneasiness and discomfort. he leaned out of the window. he could hear the river singing between the grass banks at the bottom of the garden behind him. he would hear it through the night. then came a knocking upon his door, and he did not notice it at once. it was repeated and he turned and said: "come in!" hubbard advanced with a note upon a salver. "mrs. ballantyne asked me to give you this at once, sir." thresk stared at the butler. the name was so apposite to his thoughts that he could not believe it had been uttered. but the salver was held out to him and the handwriting upon the envelope removed his doubts. he took it up, said "thank you" in an absent voice and waited until the door was closed again and he was alone. the last time he had seen that writing was eighteen months ago. a little note of thanks, blurred with tears and scribbled hastily and marked with no address, had been handed to him in bombay. stella ballantyne had disappeared then. she was here now at little beeding and his relationship with the young struggling barrister of ten years back suddenly became actual and near. he tore open the envelope and read. "be prepared to see me. be prepared to hear news of me. i will have a talk with you afterwards if you like. this is a trap. be kind." he stood for a while with the letter in his hand, speculating upon its meaning, until the wheels of a car grated on the gravel beneath his window. the pettifers had come. but thresk was in no hurry to descend. he read the note through many times before he hid it away in his letter-case and went down the stairs. chapter xxiii methods from france meanwhile stella ballantyne waited below. she heard mr. hazlewood in the hall greeting the pettifers with the false joviality which sat so ill upon him; she imagined the shy nods and glances which told them that the trap was properly set. mr. hazlewood led them into the room. "is tea ready, stella? we won't wait for dick," he said, and stella took her place at the table. she had her back to the door by which thresk would enter. she had not a doubt that thus her chair had been deliberately placed. he would be in the room and near to the table before he saw her. he would not have a moment to prepare himself against the surprise of her presence. stella listened for the sound of his footsteps in the hall; she could not think of a single topic to talk about except the presence of that extra sixth cup; and that she must not mention if the tables were really to be turned upon her antagonists. surprise must be visible upon her side when thresk did come in. but she was not alone in finding conversation difficult. embarrassment and expectancy weighed down the whole party, so that they began suddenly to speak at once and simultaneously to stop. robert pettifer however asked if dick was playing cricket, and so gave harold hazlewood an opportunity. "no, the match was over early," said the old man, and he settled himself in his arm-chair. "i have given some study to the subject of cricket," he said. "you?" asked stella with a smile of surprise. was he merely playing for time, she wondered? but he had the air of contentment with which he usually embarked upon his disquisitions. "yes. i do not consider our national pastime beneath a philosopher's attention. i have formed two theories about the game." "i am sure you have," robert pettifer interposed. "and i have invented two improvements, though i admit at once that they will have to wait until a more enlightened age than ours adopts them. in the first place"--and mr. hazlewood flourished a forefinger in the air--"the game ought to be played with a soft ball. there is at present a suggestion of violence about it which the use of a soft ball would entirely remove." "entirely," mr. pettifer agreed and his wife exclaimed impatiently: "rubbish, harold, rubbish!" stella broke nervously into the conversation. "violence? why even women play cricket, mr. hazlewood." "i cannot, stella," he returned, "accept the view that whatever women do must necessarily be right. there are instances to the contrary." "yes. i come across a few of them in my office," robert pettifer said grimly; and once more embarrassment threatened to descend upon the party. but mr. hazlewood was off upon a favourite theme. his eyes glistened and the object of the gathering vanished for the moment from his thoughts. "and in the second place," he resumed, "the losers should be accounted to have won the game." "yes, that must be right," said pettifer. "upon my word you are in form, hazlewood." "but why?" asked mrs. pettifer. harold hazlewood smiled upon her as upon a child and explained: "because by adopting that system you would do something to eradicate the spirit of rivalry, the desire to win, the ambition to beat somebody else which is at the bottom of half our national troubles." "and all our national success," said pettifer. hazlewood patted his brother-in-law upon the shoulder. he looked at him indulgently. "you are a tory, robert," he said, and implied that argument with such an one was mere futility. he had still his hand upon pettifer's shoulder when the door opened. stella saw by the change in his face that it was thresk who was entering. but she did not move. "ah," said mr. hazlewood. "come over here and take a cup of tea." thresk came forward to the table. he seemed altogether unconscious that the eyes of the two men were upon him. "thank you. i should like one," he said, and at the sound of his voice stella ballantyne turned around in her chair. "you!" she cried and the cry was pitched in a tone of pleasure and welcome. "of course you know mrs. ballantyne," said hazlewood. he saw stella rise from her chair and hold out her hand to thresk with the colour aflame in her cheeks. "you are surprised to see me again," she said. thresk took her hand cordially. "i am delighted to see you again," he replied. "and i to see you," said stella, "for i have never yet had a chance of thanking you"; and she spoke with so much frankness that even pettifer was shaken in his suspicions. she turned upon mr. hazlewood with a mimicry of indignation. "do you know, mr. hazlewood, that you have done a very cruel thing?" mr. hazlewood was utterly discomfited by the failure of his plot, and when stella attacked him so directly he had not a doubt but that she had divined his treachery. "i?" he gasped. "cruel? how?" "in not telling me beforehand that i was to meet so good a friend of mine." her face relaxed to a smile as she added: "i would have put on my best frock in his honour." undoubtedly stella carried off the honour of that encounter. she had at once driven the battle with spirit onto hazlewood's own ground and left him worsted and confused. but the end was not yet. mr. hazlewood waited for his son richard, and when richard appeared he exclaimed: "ah, here's my son. let me present him to you, mr. thresk. and there's the family." he leaned back, with a smile in his eyes, watching henry thresk. robert pettifer watched too. "the family?" thresk asked. "is mrs. ballantyne a relation then?" "she is going to be," said dick. "yes," mr. hazlewood explained, still beaming and still watchful. "richard and stella are going to be married." a pause followed which was just perceptible before thresk spoke again. but he had his face under control. he took the stroke without flinching. he turned to dick with a smile. "some men have all the luck," he said, and dick, who had been looking at him in bewilderment, cried: "mr. thresk? not the mr. thresk to whom i owe so much?" "the very man," said thresk, and dick held out his hand to him gravely. "thank you," he said. "when i think of the horrible net of doubt and assumption in which stella was coiled, i tell you i feel cold down my spine even now. if you hadn't come forward with your facts--" "yes," thresk interposed. "if i hadn't come forward with my facts. but i couldn't well keep them to myself, could i?" a few more words were said and then dick rose from his chair. "time's up, stella," and he explained to henry thresk: "we have to look over a house this afternoon." "a house? yes, i see," said thresk, but he spoke slowly and there was just audible a little inflection of doubt in his voice. stella was listening for it; she heard it when her two antagonists noticed nothing. "but, dick," she said quickly, "we can put the inspection off." "not on my account," thresk returned. "there's no need for that." he was not looking at stella whilst he spoke and she longed to see his face. she must know exactly how she stood with him, what he thought of her. she turned impulsively to mr. hazlewood. "i haven't been asked, but may i come to dinner? you see i owe a good deal to mr. thresk." mr. hazlewood was for the moment at a loss. he had not lost hope that between now and dinner-time explanations would be given which would banish stella ballantyne altogether from little beeding. but he had no excuse ready and he stammered out: "of course, my dear. didn't i ask you? i must have forgotten. i certainly expect you to dine with us to-night. margaret will no doubt be here." margaret pettifer had taken little part in the conversation about the tea-table. she sat in frigid hostility, speaking only when politeness commanded. she accepted her brother's invitation with a monosyllable. "thank you," said stella, and she faced henry thresk, looking him straight in the eyes but not daring to lay any special stress upon the words: "then i shall see you to-night." thresk read in her face a prayer that he should hold his hand until she had a chance to speak with him. she turned away and went from the room with dick hazlewood. the old man rose as soon as the door was closed. "now we might have a look at the miniatures, mr. thresk. you will excuse us, margaret, won't you?" "of course," she answered upon a nod from her husband. the two men passed through the doors into the great library whilst thresk took a more ceremonious leave of mrs. pettifer; and as hazlewood opened the drawers of his cabinets robert pettifer said in a whisper: "that was a pretty good failure, i must say. and it was my idea too." "yes," replied hazlewood in a voice as low. "what do you think?" "that they share no secret." "you are satisfied then?" "i didn't say that"; and thresk himself appeared in the doorway and went across to the writing-table upon which hazlewood had just laid a drawer in which miniatures were ranged. "i haven't met you," said pettifer, "since you led for us in the great birmingham will-suit." "no," answered thresk as he took his seat at the table. "it wasn't quite such a tough fight as i expected. you see there wasn't one really reliable witness for the defence." "no," said pettifer grimly. "if there had been we should have been beaten." mr. hazlewood began to point out this and that miniature of his collection, bending over thresk as he did so. it seemed that the two collectors were quite lost in their common hobby until robert pettifer gave the signal. then mr. hazlewood began: "i am very glad to meet you, mr. thresk, for reasons quite outside these miniatures of mine." he spoke with a noticeable awkwardness, yet henry thresk disregarded it altogether. "oh?" he said carelessly. "yes. being richard's father i am naturally concerned in everything which affects him nearly--the trial of stella ballantyne for instance." thresk bent his head down over the tray. "quite so," he said. he pointed to a miniature. "i saw that at christie's and coveted it myself." "did you?" mr. hazlewood asked and he almost offered it as a bribe. "now you gave evidence, mr. thresk." thresk never lifted his head. "you have no doubt read the evidence i gave," he said, peering from this delicate jewel of the painter's art to that. "to be sure." "and since your son is engaged to mrs. ballantyne, i suppose that you were satisfied with it"--and he paused to give a trifle of significance to his next words--"as the jury was." "yes, of course," mr. hazlewood stammered, "but a witness, i think, only answers the questions put to him." "that is so," said thresk, "if he is a wise witness." he took one of the miniatures out of the drawer and held it to the light. but mr. hazlewood was not to be deterred. "and subsequent reflection," he continued obstinately, "might suggest that all the questions which could throw light upon the trial had not been put." thresk replaced the miniature in the drawer in front of him and leaned back in his chair. he looked now straight at mr. hazlewood. "it was not, i take it, in order to put those questions to me that you were kind enough, mr. hazlewood, to ask me to give my opinion on your miniatures. for that would have been setting a trap for me, wouldn't it?" hazlewood stared at thresk with the bland innocence of a child. "oh no, no," he declared, and then an insinuating smile beamed upon his long thin face. "only since you _are_ here and since so much is at stake for me--my son's happiness--i hoped that you might perhaps give us an answer or two which would disperse the doubts of some suspicious people." "who are they?" asked thresk. "neighbours of ours," replied hazlewood, and thereupon robert pettifer stepped forward. he had remained aloof and silent until this moment. now he spoke shortly, but he spoke to the point: "i for one." thresk turned with a smile upon pettifer. "i thought so. i recognised mr. pettifer's hand in all this. but he ought to know that the sudden confrontation of a suspected person with unexpected witnesses takes place, in those countries where the method is practised, before the trial; not, as you so ingeniously arranged it this afternoon, two years after the verdict has been given." robert pettifer turned red. then he looked whimsically across the table at his brother-in-law. "we had better make a clean breast of it, hazlewood." "i think so," said thresk gently. pettifer came a step nearer. "we are in the wrong," he said bluntly. "but we have an excuse. our trouble is very great. here's my brother-in-law to begin with, whose whole creed of life has been to deride the authority of conventional man--to tilt against established opinion. mrs. ballantyne comes back from her trial in bombay to make her home again at little beeding. hazlewood champions her--not for her sake, but for the sake of his theories. it pleases his vanity. now he can prove that he is not as others are." mr. hazlewood did not relish this merciless analysis of his character. he twisted in his chair, he uttered a murmur of protest. but robert pettifer waved him down and continued: "so he brings her to his house. he canvasses for her. he throws his son in her way. she has beauty--she has something more than beauty--she stands apart as a woman who has walked through fire. she has suffered very much. look at it how one will, she has suffered beyond her deserts. she has pretty deferential ways which make their inevitable appeal to women as to men. in a word, hazlewood sets the ball rolling and it gets beyond his reach." thresk nodded. "yes, i understand that." "finally, hazlewood's son falls in love with her--not a boy mind, but a man claiming a man's right to marry where he loves. and at once in hazlewood conventional man awakes." "dear me, no," interposed harold hazlewood. "but i say yes," pettifer continued imperturbably. "conventional man awakes in him and cries loudly against the marriage. then there's myself. i am fond of dick. i have no child. he will be my heir and i am not poor. he is doing well in his profession. to be an instructor of the staff corps at his age means hard work, keenness, ability. i look forward to a great career. i am very fond of him. and--understand me, mr. thresk"--he checked his speech and weighed his words very carefully--"i wouldn't say that he shouldn't marry stella ballantyne just because stella ballantyne has lain under a grave charge of which she has been acquitted. no, i may be as formal as my brother-in-law thinks, but i hold a wider faith than that. but i am not satisfied. that is the truth, mr. thresk. i am not sure of what happened in that tent in far-away chitipur after you had ridden away to catch the night mail to bombay." robert pettifer had made his confession simply and with some dignity. thresk looked at him for a few moments. was he wondering whether he could answer the questions? was he hesitating through anger at the trick which had been played upon him? pettifer could not tell. he waited in suspense. thresk pushed his chair back suddenly and came forward from behind the table. "ask your questions," he said. "you consent to answer them?" mr. hazlewood cried joyously, and thresk replied with coldness: "i must. for if i don't consent your suspicions at once are double what they were. but i am not pleased." "oh, we practised a little diplomacy," said hazlewood, making light of his offence. "diplomacy!" for the first time a gleam of anger shone in thresk's eyes. "you have got me to your house by a trick. you have abused your position as my host. and but that i should injure a woman whom life has done nothing but injure i should go out of your door this instant." he turned his back upon harold hazlewood and sat down in a chair opposite to robert pettifer. a little round table separated them. pettifer, seated upon a couch, took from his pocket the envelope with the press-cuttings and spread them on the table in front of him. thresk lolled back in his chair. it was plain that he was in no terror of pettifer's examination. "i am at your service," he said. chapter xxiv the witness the afternoon sunlight poured into the room golden and clear. outside the open windows the garden was noisy with birds and the river babbled between its banks. henry thresk shut his ears against the music. for all his appearance of ease he dreaded the encounter which was now begun. pettifer he knew to be a shrewd man. he watched him methodically arranging his press-cuttings in front of him. pettifer might well find some weak point in his story which he himself had not discovered; and whatever course he was minded afterwards to take, here and now he was determined once more to fight stella's battle. "i need not go back on the facts of the trial," said pettifer. "they are fresh enough in your memory, no doubt. your theory as i understand it ran as follows: while you were mounting your camel on the edge of the camp to return to the station and ballantyne was at your side, the thief whose arm you had both seen under the tent wall, not knowing that now you had the photograph of bahadur salak which he wished to steal, slipped into the tent unperceived, took up the rook-rifle--" "which was standing by mrs. ballantyne's writing-table," thresk interposed. "loaded it,--" "the cartridges were lying open in a drawer." "and shot ballantyne on his return." "yes," thresk agreed. "in addition you must remember that when captain ballantyne was found an hour or so later mrs. ballantyne was in bed and asleep." "quite so," said pettifer. "in brief, mr. thresk, you supplied a reasonable motive for the crime and some evidence of a criminal. and i admit that on your testimony the jury returned the only verdict which it was possible to give." "what troubles you then?" henry thresk asked, and pettifer replied drily: "various points. here's one--a minor one. if captain ballantyne was shot by a thief detected in the act of thieving why should that thief risk capture and death by dragging captain ballantyne's body out into the open? it seems to me the last thing which he would naturally do." thresk shrugged his shoulders. "i can't explain that. it is perhaps possible that not finding the photograph he fell into a blind rage and satisfied it by violence towards the dead man." "dead or dying," mr. pettifer corrected. "there seems to have been some little doubt upon that point. but your theory's a little weak, isn't it? to get away unseen would be that thief's first preoccupation, surely?" "reasoning as you and i are doing here quietly, at our ease, in this room, no doubt you are right, mr. pettifer. but criminals are caught because they don't reason quietly when they have just committed a crime. the behaviour of a man whose mind is influenced by that condition cannot be explained always by any laws of psychology. he may be in a wild panic. he may act as madmen act, or like a child in a rage. and if my explanation is weak it's no weaker than the only other hypothesis: that mrs. ballantyne herself dragged him into the open." mr. pettifer shook his head. "i am not so sure. i can conceive a condition of horror in the wife, horror at what she had done, which would make that act not merely possible but almost inevitable. i make no claims to being an imaginative man, mr. thresk, but i try to put myself into the position of the wife"; and he described with a vividness for which thresk was not prepared the scene as he saw it. "she goes to bed, she undresses and goes to bed--she must do that if she is to escape--she puts out her light, she lies in the dark awake, and under the same roof, close to her, in the dark too, is lying the man she has killed. just a short passage separates her from him. there are no doors--mind that, mr. thresk--no doors to lock and bolt, merely a grass screen which you could lift with your forefinger. wouldn't any and every one of the little cracks and sounds and breathings, of which the quietest and stillest night is full, sound to her like the approach of the dead man? the faintest breath of air would seem a draught made by the swinging of the grass-curtain as it was stealthily lifted--lifted by the dead man. no, mr. thresk. the wife is just the one person i could imagine who would do that needless barbarous violence of dragging the body into the open--and she would do it, not out of cruelty, but because she must or go mad." thresk listened without a movement until robert pettifer had finished. then he said: "you know mrs. ballantyne. has she the strength which she must have had to drag a heavy man across the carpet of a tent and fling him outside?" "not now, not before. but just at the moment? you argued, mr. thresk, that it is impossible to foresee what people will do under the immediate knowledge that they have committed a capital crime. i agree. but i go a little further. i say that they will also exhibit a physical strength with which it would be otherwise impossible to credit them. fear lends it to them." "yes," thresk interrupted quickly, "but don't you see, mr. pettifer, that you are implying the existence of an emotion in mrs. ballantyne which the facts prove her to have been without--fear, panic? she was found quietly asleep in her bed by the ayah when she came to call her in the morning. there's no doubt of that. the ayah was never for a moment shaken upon that point. the pyschology of crime is a curious and surprising study, mr. pettifer, but i know of no case where terror has acted as a sleeping-draught." mr. pettifer smiled and turned altogether away from the question. "it is, as i said, a minor point, and perhaps one from which any sort of inference would be unsafe. it interested me. i lay no great stress upon it." he dismissed the point carelessly, to the momentary amusement of henry thresk. the art of slipping away from defeat had been practised with greater skill. thresk lost some part of his apprehension but none of his watchfulness. "now, however, we come to something very different," said pettifer, hitching himself a little closer to his table and fixing his eyes upon thresk. "the case for the prosecution ran like this: stephen ballantyne was, though a man of great ability, a secret drunkard who humiliated his wife in public and beat her in private. she went in terror of him. she bore on more than one occasion the marks of his violence; and upon that night in chitipur, perhaps in a panic and very likely under extreme provocation, she snatched up her rook-rifle and put an end to the whole bad business." "yes," thresk agreed, "that was the case for the crown." "yes, and throughout the sitting at the stipendiary's inquiry before you came upon the scene that theory was clearly developed." "yes." thresk's confidence vanished as quickly as it had come. he realised whither pettifer's questions were leading. there was a definitely weak link in his story and pettifer had noticed it and was testing it. "now," the solicitor continued--"and this is the important point--what was the answer to that charge foreshadowed by the defence during those days before you appeared?" thresk answered the question quickly, if answer it could be called. "the defence had not formulated any answer. i came forward before the case for the crown finished." "quite so. but mrs. ballantyne's counsel did cross-examine the witnesses for the prosecution--we must not forget that, mr. thresk--and from the cross-examination it is quite clear what answer he was going to make. he was going--not to deny that mrs. ballantyne shot her husband--but to plead that she shot him in self-defence." "oh?" said thresk, "and where do you find that?" he had no doubt himself in what portion of the report of the trial a proof of pettifer's statement was to be discovered, but he made a creditable show of surprise that any one should hold that opinion at all. pettifer selected a column of newspaper from his cuttings. "listen," he said. "mr. repton, a friend of mrs. ballantyne, was called upon a subpoena by the crown and he testified that while he was a collector at agra he went up with his wife from the plains to the hill-station of moussourie during a hot weather. the ballantynes went up at the same time and occupied a bungalow next to repton's. one night repton's house was broken into. he went across to ballantyne the next morning and advised him in the presence of his wife to sleep with a revolver under his pillow." "yes, i remember that," said thresk. he had indeed cause to remember it very well, for it was just this evidence given by repton with its clear implication of the line which the defence meant to take that had sent him in a hurry to mrs. ballantyne's solicitor. pettifer continued by reading repton's words slowly and with emphasis. "'mrs. ballantyne then turned very pale, and running after me down the garden like a distracted woman cried: "why did you tell him to do that? it will some night mean my death."' this statement, mr. thresk, was elicited in cross-examination by mrs. ballantyne's counsel, and it could only mean that he intended to set up a plea of self-defence. i find it a little difficult to reconcile that intention with the story you subsequently told." henry thresk for his part knew that it was not merely difficult, it was, in fact, impossible. mr. pettifer had read the evidence with an accurate discrimination. the plea of self-defence was here foreshadowed and it was just the certainty that the defence was going to rely upon it for a verdict which had brought henry thresk himself into the witness-box at bombay. given all that was known of stephen ballantyne and of the life he had led his unhappy wife, the defence would have been a good one, but for a single fact--the discovery of ballantyne's body outside the tent. no plea of self-defence could safely be left to cover that. thresk himself wondered at it. it struck at public sympathy, it seemed the act of a person insensate and vindictive. therefore he had come forward with his story. but mr. pettifer was not to know it. "there are three things for you to remember," said thresk. "in the first place it is too early to assume that self-defence was going to be the plea. assumptions in a case of this kind are very dangerous, mr. pettifer. they may lead to an irreparable injustice. we must keep to the fact that no plea of self-defence was ever formulated. in the second place mrs. ballantyne was brought down to bombay in a state of complete collapse. her married life had been a torture to her. she broke down at the end of it. she was indifferent to anything that might happen." pettifer nodded. "yes, i can understand that." "it followed that her advisers had to act upon their own initiative." "and the third point?" pettifer asked. "well, it's not so much a point as an opinion of mine. but i hold it strongly. her counsel mishandled the case." pettifer pursed up his lips and grunted. he tapped a finger once or twice on the table in front of him. he looked towards thresk as if all was not quite said. harold hazlewood, to whom the position of a neglected listener was rare and unpalatable, saw an opportunity for intervention. "the three points are perhaps not very conclusive," he said. thresk turned towards him coldly: "i promised to answer such questions as mr. pettifer put to me. i am doing that. i did not undertake to discuss the value of my answers afterwards." "no, no, quite so," murmured mr. hazlewood. "we are very grateful, i am sure," and he left once more the argument to pettifer. "then i come to the next question, mr. thresk. at some moment in this inquiry you of your own account put yourself into communication with mrs. ballantyne's advisers and volunteered your evidence?" "yes." "isn't it strange that the defence did not at the very outset get into communication with you?" "no," replied thresk. here he was at his ease. he had laid his plans well in bombay. mr. pettifer might go on asking questions until midnight upon this point. thresk could meet him. "it was not at all strange. it was not known that i could throw any light upon the affair at all. all that passed between ballantyne and myself passed when we were alone; and ballantyne was now dead." "yes, but you had dined with the ballantynes on that night. surely it's strange that since you were in bombay mrs. ballantyne's advisers did not seek you out." "yes, yes," added mr. hazlewood, "very strange indeed, mr. thresk--since you were in bombay"; and he looked up at the ceiling and joined the tips of his fingers, his whole attitude a confident question: "answer that if you can." thresk turned patiently round. "hasn't it occurred to you, mr. hazlewood, that it is still more strange that the prosecution did not at once approach me?" "yes," said pettifer suddenly. "that question too has troubled me"; and thresk turned back again. "you see," he explained, "i was not known to be in bombay at all. on the contrary i was supposed to be somewhere in the red sea or the mediterranean on my way back to england." mr. pettifer looked up in surprise. the statement was news to him and if true provided a natural explanation of some of his chief perplexities. "let me understand that!" and there was a change in his voice which thresk was quick to detect. there was less hostility. "certainly," thresk answered. "i left the tent just before eleven to catch the bombay mail. i was returning direct to england. the reason why ballantyne asked me to take the photograph of bahadur salak was that since i was going on board straight from the train it could be no danger to me." "then why didn't you go straight on board?" asked pettifer. "i'll tell you," thresk replied. "i thought the matter over on the journey down to bombay, and i came to the conclusion that since the photograph might be wanted at salak's trial i had better take it to the governor's house at bombay. but government house is out at malabar point, four miles from the quays. i took the photograph out myself and so i missed the boat. but there was an announcement in the papers that i had sailed, and in fact the consul at marseilles came on board at that port to inquire for me on instructions from the indian government." mr. pettifer leaned back. "yes, i see," he said thoughtfully. "that makes a difference--a big difference." then he sat upright again and said sharply: "you were in bombay then when mrs. ballantyne was brought down from chitipur?" "yes." "and when the case for the crown was started?" "yes." "and when the crown's witnesses were cross-examined?" "yes." "why did you wait then all that time before you came forward?" pettifer put the question with an air of triumph. "why, mr. thresk, did you wait till the very moment when mrs. ballantyne was going to be definitely committed to a particular line of defence before you announced that you could clear up the mystery? doesn't it rather look as if you had remained hidden on the chance of the prosecution breaking down, and had only come forward when you realised that to-morrow self-defence would be pleaded, the firing of that rook-rifle admitted and a terrible risk of a verdict of guilty run?" thresk agreed without a moment's hesitation. "but that's the truth, mr. pettifer," he said, and mr. pettifer sprang up. "what?" "consider my position"--thresk drew up his chair close to the table--"a barrister who was beginning to have one of the large practices, the courts opening in london, briefs awaiting me, cases on which i had already advised coming on. i had already lost a fortnight. that was bad enough, but if i came forward with my story i must wait in bombay not merely for a fortnight but until the whole trial was completed, as in the end i had to do. of course i hoped that the prosecution would break down. of course i didn't intervene until it was absolutely necessary in the interests of justice that i should." he spoke so calmly, there was so much reason in what he said, that pettifer could not but be convinced. "i see," he said. "i see. yes. that's not to be disputed." he remained silent for a few moments. then he shuffled his papers together and replaced them in the envelope. it seemed that his examination was over. thresk rose from his chair. "you have no more questions to ask me?" he inquired. "one more." pettifer came round the table and stood in front of henry thresk. "did you know mrs. ballantyne before you went to chitipur?" "yes," thresk replied. "had you seen her lately?" "no." "when had you last seen her?" "eight years before, in this neighbourhood. i spent a holiday close by. her father and mother were then alive. i had not seen her since. i did not even know that she was in india and married until i was told so in bombay." thresk was prepared for that question. he had the truth ready and he spoke it frankly. mr. pettifer turned away to hazlewood, who was watching him expectantly. "we have nothing more to do, hazlewood, but to thank mr. thresk for answering our questions and to apologise to him for having put them." mr. hazlewood was utterly disconcerted. after all, then, the marriage must take place; the plot had ignominiously failed, the great questions which were to banish stella ballantyne from little beeding had been put and answered. he sat like a man stricken by calamity. he stammered out reluctantly a few words to which thresk paid little heed. "you are satisfied then?" he asked of pettifer; and pettifer showed him unexpectedly a cordial and good-humoured face. "yes. let me say to you, mr. thresk, that ever since i began to study this case i have wished less and less to bear hardly upon mrs. ballantyne. as i read those columns of evidence the heavy figure of stephen ballantyne took life again, but a very sinister life; and when i look at stella and think of what she went through during the years of her married life while we were comfortably here at home i cannot but feel a shiver of discomfort. yes, i am satisfied and i am glad that i am satisfied"; and with a smile which suddenly illumined his dry parched face he held out his hand to henry thresk. it was perhaps as well that the questions were over, for even while pettifer was speaking stella's voice was heard in the hall. pettifer had just time to thrust away the envelope with the cuttings into a drawer before she came into the room with dick. she had been forced to leave the three men together, but she had dreaded it. during that one hour of absence she had lived through a lifetime of terror and anxiety. what would thresk tell them? what was he now telling them? she was like one waiting downstairs while a surgical operation is being performed in the theatre above. she had hurried dick back to little deeding, and when she came into the room her eyes roamed round in suspense from thresk to hazlewood, from hazlewood to pettifer. she saw the tray of miniatures upon the table. "you admire the collection?" she said to thresk. "very much," he answered, and pettifer took her by the arm and in a voice of kindness which she had never heard him use before he said: "now tell me about your house. that's much more interesting." chapter xxv in the library henry thresk took mrs. pettifer in to dinner that night and she found him poor company. he tried indeed by fits and starts to entertain her, but his thoughts were elsewhere. he was in a great pother and trouble about stella ballantyne, who sat over against him on the other side of the table. she wore no traces of the consternation which his words had caused her a couple of hours before. she had come dressed in a slim gown of shimmering blue with her small head erect, a smile upon her lips and a bright colour in her cheeks. thresk hardly knew her, he had to tell himself again and again that this was the stella ballantyne whom he had known here and in india. she was not the girl who had ridden with him upon the downs and made one month of his life very memorable and one day a shameful recollection. nor was she the stricken creature of the tent in chitipur. she was a woman sure of her resources, radiant in her beauty, confident that what she wore was her colour and gave her her value. yet her trouble was greater than thresk's, and many a time during the course of that dinner, when she felt his eyes resting upon her, her heart sank in fear. she sought his company after dinner, but she had no chance of a private word with him. old mr. hazlewood took care of that. one moment stella must sing; at another she must play a rubber of bridge. he at all events had not laid aside his enmity and suspected some understanding between her and his guest. at eleven mrs. pettifer took her leave. she came across the room to henry thresk. "are you staying over to-morrow?" she asked, and thresk with a laugh answered: "i wish that i could. but i have to catch an early train to london. even to-night my day's work's not over. i must sit up for an hour or two over a brief." stella rose at the same time as mrs. pettifer. "i was hoping that you would be able to come across and see my little cottage to-morrow morning," she said. thresk hesitated as he took her hand. "i should very much like to see it," he said. he was in a very great difficulty, and was not sure that a letter was not the better if the more cowardly way out of it. "if i could find the time." "try," said she. she could say no more for mr. hazlewood was at her elbow and dick was waiting to take her home. it was a dark clear night; a sky of stars overarched the earth, but there was no moon, and though lights shone brightly even at a great distance there was no glimmer from the road beneath their feet. dick held her close in his arms at the door of her cottage. she was very still and passive. "you are tired?" he asked. "i think so." "well, to-night has seen the last of our troubles, stella." she did not answer him at once. her hands clung about his shoulders and with her face smothered in his coat she whispered: "dick, i couldn't go on without you now. i couldn't. i wouldn't." there was a note of passionate despair in her voice which made her words suddenly terrible to him. he took her and held her a little away from him, peering into her face. "what are you saying, stella?" he asked sternly. "you know that nothing can come between us. you break my heart when you talk like that." he drew her again into his arms. "is your maid waiting up for you?" "no." "call her then, while i wait here. let me see the light in her room. i want her to sleep with you to-night." "there's no need, dick," she answered. "i am unstrung to-night. i said more than i meant. i swear to you there's no need." he raised her head and kissed her on the lips. "i trust you, stella," he said gently; and she answered him in a low trembling voice of so much tenderness and love that he was reassured. "oh, you may, my dear, you may." she went up to her room and turned on the light, and sat down in her chair just as she had done after her first dinner at little beeding. she had foreseen then all the troubles which had since beset her, but she had seemed to have passed through them--until this afternoon. over there in the library of the big house was henry thresk--the stranger. very likely he was at this moment writing to her. if he had only consented to come over in the morning and give her the chance of pleading with him! she went to the window and, drawing up the blind, leaned her head out and looked across the meadow. in the library one of the long windows stood open and the curtain was not drawn. the room was full of light. henry thresk was there. he had befriended her this afternoon as he had befriended her at bombay, for the second time he had won the victory for her; but the very next moment he had warned her that the end was not yet. he would send her a letter, she had not a doubt of it. she had not a doubt either of the message which the letter would bring. a sound rose to her ears from the gravel path below her window--the sound of a slight involuntary movement. stella drew sharply back. then she leaned out again and called softly: "dick." he was standing a little to the left of the window out of reach of the light which streamed out upon the darkness from the room behind her. he moved forward now. "oh, dick, why are you waiting?" "i wanted to be sure that all was right, stella." "i gave you my word, dick," she whispered and she wished him good-night again and waited till the sound of his footsteps had altogether died away. he went back to the house and found thresk still at work in the library. "i don't want to interrupt you," he said, "but i must thank you again. i can't tell you what i owe you. she's pretty wonderful, isn't she? i feel coarse beside her, i tell you. i couldn't talk like this to any one else, but you're so sympathetic." henry thresk had responded with nothing more than a grunt. he sat slashing at his brief with a blue pencil, all the while that dick hazlewood was speaking, and wishing that he would go to bed. dick however was unabashed. "did you ever see a woman look so well in a blue frock? or in a black one either? there's a sort of painted thing she wears sometimes too. well, perhaps i had better go to bed." "i think it would be wise," said thresk. young hazlewood went over to the table in the corner and lit his candle. "you'll shut that window before you go to bed, won't you?" "yes." hazlewood filled for himself a glass of barley-water and drank it, contemplating henry thresk over the rim. then he went back to him, carrying his candle in his hand. "why don't you get married, mr. thresk?" he asked. "you ought to, you know. men run to seed so if they don't." "thank you," said thresk. the tone was not cordial, but mere words were an invitation to dick hazlewood at this moment. he sat down and placed his lighted candle on the table between thresk and himself. "i am thirty-four years old," he said, and thresk interposed without glancing up from his foolscap: "from your style of conversation i find that very difficult to believe, captain hazlewood." "i have wasted thirty-four complete years of twelve months each," continued the ecstatic captain, who appeared to think that on the very day of his birth he would have recognised his soul's mate. "just jogging along with the world, a miracle about one and not half an eye to perceive it. you know." "no, i don't," thresk observed. he lifted the candle and held it out to dick. dick got up and took it. "thank you," he said. "that was very kind of you. i told you--didn't i?--how sympathetic i thought you." thresk was not proof against his companion's pertinacity. he broke into a laugh. "are you going to bed?" he pleaded, and dick hazlewood replied, "yes i am." suddenly his tone changed. "stella had a very good friend in you, mr. thresk. i am sure she still has one," and without waiting for any answer he went upstairs. his bedroom was near to the front in the side of the house. it commanded a view of the meadow and the cottage and he rejoiced to see that all stella's windows were dark. the library was out of sight round the corner at the back, but a glare of light from the open door spread out over the lawn. hazlewood looked at his watch. it was just midnight. he went to bed and slept. in the library thresk strove to concentrate his thoughts upon his brief. but he could not, and he threw it aside at last. there was a letter to be written, and until it was written and done with his thoughts would not be free. he went over to the writing-table and wrote it. but it took a long while in the composition and the clock upon the top of the stable was striking one when at last he had finished and sealed it up. "i'll post it in the morning at the station," he resolved, and he went to the window to close it. but as he touched it a slight figure wrapped in a dark cloak came out of the darkness at the side and stepped past him into the room. he swung round and saw stella ballantyne. "you!" he exclaimed. "you must be mad." "i had to come," she said, standing well away from the window in the centre of the room as though she thought he would drive her out. "i heard you say you would be sitting late here." "how long have you been waiting out there?" "a little while...i don't know...not very long. i wasn't sure that you were alone." thresk closed the window and drew the curtain across it. then he crossed the room and locked the doors leading into the dining-room and hall. "there was no need for you to come," he said in a low voice. "i have written to you." "yes." she nodded her head. "that's why i had to come. this afternoon you spoke of leaving your pipe behind. i understood," and as he drew the letter from his pocket she recoiled from it. "no, it has never been written. i came in time to prevent its being written. you only had an idea of writing. say that! you are my friend." she took the letter from him now and tore it across and again across. "see! it has never been written at all." but thresk only shook his head. "i am very sorry. i see to-night the stricken woman of the tent in chitipur. i am very sorry," and stella caught at the commiseration in his voice. she dropped the cloak from her shoulders; she was dressed as she had been at the dinner some hours before, but all her radiance had gone, her cheeks trembled, her eyes pleaded desperately. "sorry! i knew you would be. you are not hard. you couldn't be. you must come close day by day in your life to so much that is pitiful. one can talk to you and you'll understand. this is my first chance, the first real chance i have ever had, henry, the very first." thresk looked backwards over the years of stella ballantyne's unhappy life. it came upon him with a shock that what she said was the bare truth; and remorse followed hard upon the heels of the shock. this was her first real chance and he himself was to blame that it had come no earlier. the first chance of a life worth the living--it had been in his hands to give her and he had refused to give it years ago on bignor hill. "it's quite true," he admitted. "but i don't ask you to give it up, stella." she looked at him eagerly. "no! you would have understood that if you had read my letter instead of tearing it up. i only ask you to tell your lover the truth." "he knows it," she said sullenly. "no!" "he does! he does!" she protested, her voice rising to a low cry. "hush! you'll be heard," said thresk, and she listened for a moment anxiously. but there was no sound of any one stirring in the house. "we are safe here," she said. "no one sleeps above us. henry, he knows the truth." "would you be here now if he did?" "i came because this afternoon you seemed to be threatening me. i didn't understand. i couldn't sleep. i saw the light in this room. i came to ask you what you meant--that's all." "i'll tell you what i meant," said thresk, and stella with her eyes fixed upon him sank down upon a chair. "i left my pipe behind me in the tent on the night i dined with you. your lover, stella, doesn't know that. i came back to fetch it. he doesn't know that. you were standing by the table--" and stella ballantyne broke in upon him to silence the words upon his lips. "there was no reason why he should know," she exclaimed. "it had nothing to do with what happened. we know what happened. there was a thief"--and thresk turned to her then with such a look of sheer amazement upon his face that she faltered and her voice died to a murmur of words--"a lean brown arm--a hand delicate as a woman's." "there was no thief," he said quietly. "there was a man delirious with drink who imagined one. there was you with the bruises on your throat and the unutterable misery in your eyes and a little rifle in your hands. there was no one else." she ceased to argue; she sat looking straight in front of her with a stubborn face and a resolution to cling at all costs to her chance of happiness. "come, stella," thresk pleaded. "i don't say tell every one. i do say tell him. for unless you do i must." stella stared at him. "you?" she said. "you would tell him that you came back into the tent and saw me?" "oh, much more--that i lied at the trial, that the story which secured your acquittal was false, that i made it up to save you. that i told it again this afternoon to give you a chance of slipping out from an impossible position." she looked at thresk for a moment in terror. then her expression changed. a wave of relief swept over her; she laughed in thresk's face. "you are trying to frighten me," she said. "only i know you. do you realise what it would mean to you if it were ever really known that you had lied at the trial?" "yes." "your ruin. your absolute ruin." "worse than that." "prison!" "perhaps. yes." stella laughed again. "and you would run the risk of the truth becoming known by telling it to so much as one person. no, no! another, perhaps--not you! you have had one dream all your life--to rise out of obscurity, to get on in the world, to hold the high positions. everything and every one has been sacrificed to its fulfilment. oh, who should know better than i?" and she struck her hands together sharply as she uttered that bitter cry. "you have lain down late and risen early, and you have got on. well, are you the man to throw away all this work and success now that they touch fulfilment? you are in the chariot. will you step down and run tied to the wheels? will you stand up and say, 'there was a trial. i perjured myself'? no. another, perhaps. not you, henry." thresk had no answer to that indictment. all of it was true except its inference, and it was no news to him. he made no effort to defend himself. "you are not very generous, stella," he replied gently. "for if i lied, i saved you by the lie." stella was softened by the words. her voice lost its hardness, she reached out her hand in an apology and laid it on his arm. "oh, i know. i sent you a little word of thanks when you gave me my freedom. but it won't be of much value to me if i lose--what i am fighting for now." "so you use every weapon?" "yes." "but this one breaks in your hand," he said firmly. "the thing you think it incredible that i should do i shall do none the less." stella looked at him in despair. she could no longer doubt that he really meant his words. he was really resolved to make this sacrifice of himself and her. and why? why should he interfere? "you save me one day to destroy me the next," she said. "no," he replied. "i don't think i shall do that, stella," and he explained to her what drove him on. "i had no idea why hazlewood asked me here. had i suspected it i say frankly that i should have refused to come. but i am here. the trouble's once more at my door but in a new shape. there's this man, young hazlewood. i can't forget him. you will be marrying him by the help of a lie i told." "he loves me," she cried. "then he can bear the truth," answered thresk. he pulled up a chair opposite to that in which stella sat. "i want you to understand me, if you will. i don't want you to think me harsh or cruel. i told a lie upon my oath in the witness-box. i violated my traditions, i struck at my belief in the value of my own profession, and such beliefs mean a good deal to any man." stella stirred impatiently. what words were these? traditions! the value of a profession! "i am not laying stress upon them, stella, but they count," thresk continued. "and i am telling you that they count because i am going to add that i should tell that lie again to-morrow, were the trial to-morrow and you a prisoner. i should tell it again to save you again. yes, to save you. but when you go and--let me put it very plainly--use that lie to your advantage, why then i am bound to cry 'stop.' don't you see that? you are using the lie to marry a man and keep him in ignorance of the truth. you can't do that, stella! you would be miserable yourself if you did all your life. you would never feel safe for a moment. you would be haunted by a fear that some day he would learn the truth and not from you. oh, i am sure of it." he caught her hands and pressed them earnestly. "tell him, stella, tell him!" stella ballantyne rose to her feet with a strange look upon her face. her eyes half closed as though to shut out a vision of past horrors. she turned to thresk with a white face and her hands tightly clenched. "you don't know what happened on that night, after you rode away to catch your train?" "no." "i think you ought to know--before you sit in judgment"; and so at last in that quiet library under the sussex downs the tragic story of that night was told. for thresk as he listened and watched, its terrors lived again in the eyes and the hushed voice of stella ballantyne, the dark walls seemed to fall back and dissolve. the moonlit plain of far-away chitipur stretched away in front of him to the dim hill where the old silent palaces crumbled; and midway between them and the green signal-lights of the railway the encampment blazed like the clustered lights of a small town. but thresk learnt more than the facts. the springs of conduct were disclosed to him; the woman revealed herself, dark places were made light; and he bowed himself beneath a new burden of remorse. chapter xxvi two strangers "you came back to the tent," she began, "and ever since then you have misunderstood what you saw. for this is the truth: i was going to kill myself." thresk was startled as he had not expected to be; and a great wave of relief swept over him and uplifted his soul. here was the simplest explanation, yet it had never occurred to him. always he had been besieged by the vision of stella standing quietly by the table, deliberately preparing her rifle for use, always he had linked up that vision with the death of stephen ballantyne in a dreadful connection. he did not doubt that she spoke the truth now. looking at her and noticing the anguish of her face, he could not doubt it. so definite a premeditation as he had imagined there had not been, and relief carried him to pity. "so it had come to that?" he said. "yes," replied stella. "and you had your share in bringing it to that--you who sit in judgment." "i!" thresk exclaimed. "yes, you who sit in judgment. i am not alone. no, i am not alone. a crime was committed? then you must shoulder your portion of the blame." thresk asked himself in vain what was his share. he had done a cowardly thing years ago a few miles from this spot. he had never ceased to reproach himself for the cowardice. but that it had lived and worked like some secret malady until in the end it had made him an all-unconscious accomplice in that midnight tragedy, a sharer in its guilt, if guilt there were--here again was news for him. but the knowledge which her first words had given to him, that all these years he had never got the truth of her, kept him humble now. he ceased to be judge. he became pupil and as pupil he answered her. "i am ready to shoulder it." he was seated on a cushioned bench which stood behind the writing-table and stella sat down at his side. "when we parted--that morning--it was in the drawing-room over there in my cottage. we parted, you to your work of getting on, henry, i to think of you getting on without me at your side. there was a letter lying on the table, a letter from india. jane repton had written it and she asked me to go out to her for the cold weather. i went. i was a young girl, lonely and very unhappy, and as young girls often do who are lonely and very unhappy i drifted into marriage." "i see," said thresk in a hushed voice. the terrible conviction grew upon him now, lurid as the breaking of a day of storm, that the cowardice he had shown on bignor hill ruined her altogether and hurt him not at all. "yes, i see. there my share begins." "oh no. not yet," she answered. "then i spoke when i should have kept silence. i let my heart go out when i should have guarded it. no, i cannot blame you." "you have the right none the less." but stella would not excuse herself now and to him by any subtlety or artifice. "no: i married. that was my affair. i was beaten--despised--ridiculed--terrified by a husband who drank secretly and kept all his drunkenness for me. that, too, was my affair. but i might have gone on. for seven years it had lasted. i was settling into a dull habit of misery. i might have gone on being bullied and tortured had not one little thing happened to push me over the precipice." "and what was that?" asked thresk. "your visit to me at chitipur," she replied, and the words took his breath away. why, he had travelled to chitipur merely to save her. he leaned forward eagerly but she anticipated him. she smiled at him with an indulgent forgiveness. "oh, why did you come? but i know." "do you?" thresk asked. here at all events she was wrong. "yes. you came because of that one weak soft spot of sentimentalism there is in all of you, the strongest, the hardest. you are strong for years. you live alone for years. then comes the sentimental moment and it's we who suffer, not you." and deep in thresk's mind was the terror of the mistakes people make in ignorance of each other, and of the mortal hurt the mistakes inflict. he had misread stella. here was she misreading him and misreading him in some strange way to her peril and ruin. "you are sure of that?" he asked. she had no doubt--no more doubt than he had had of the reason why she stood preparing her rifle. "quite," she answered. "you had heard of me in bombay and it came over you that you would like to see how the woman you had loved looked after all these years: whether she retained her pretty way, whether she missed you--ah, above all, whether she missed you. you wanted to fan up into a mild harmless flame the ashes of an old romance, warm your hands at it for half an hour, recapture a savour of dim and pleasant memories and then go back to your own place and your own work, untouched and unhurt." thresk laughed aloud with bitterness at the mistake she had made. yet he could not blame her. there was a certain shrewd insight which though it had led her astray in this case might well have been true in any other case, might well have been true of him. he remembered her disbelief in all that he had said to her in that tent at chitipur; and he was appalled by the irony of things and the blind and feeble helplessness of men to combat it. "so that's why i came to chitipur?" he cried. "yes," stella answered without a second of hesitation. "but i couldn't be left untouched and unhurt. you came and all that i had lost came with you, came in a vivid rush of bright intolerable memories." she clasped her hands over her eyes and thresk lived over again that evening in the tent upon the desert, but with a new understanding. his mind was illumined. he saw the world as a prison in which each living being is shut off from his neighbour by the impenetrable wall of an inability to understand. "memories of summers here," she resumed, "of women friends, of dainty and comfortable things, and days of great happiness when it was good--oh so very good!--to be alive and young. and you were going back to it all, straight by the night-mail to bombay, straight from the station on board your ship. oh, how it hurt to hear you speak of it, with a casual pleasant word about exile and next-door neighbours!" she clasped her hands together in front of her, her fingers worked and twisted. "no, i couldn't endure it," she whispered. "the blows, the ridicule, the contempt, i determined, should come to an end that night, and when you saw me with the rifle in my hand i was going to end it." "yes?" "and then the stupidest thing happened. i couldn't find the little box of cartridges." stella described to him how she had run hither and thither about the tent, opening drawers, looking into bags and growing more nervous and more flurried with every second that passed. she had so little time. ballantyne was not going as far as the station with thresk. he merely intended to see his visitor off beyond the edge of the camp. and it must all be over and done with before he came back. she heard ballantyne call to thresk to sit firm while the camel rose; and still she had not found them. she heard thresk's voice saying good-night. "the last words, henry, i wanted to hear in the world. i thought that i would wait for them and the moment they had died away--then. but i hadn't found the cartridges and so the search began again." thresk, watching her as she lived through again those desperate minutes, was carried back to chitipur and seemed to be looking into that tent. he had a dreadful picture before his eyes of a hunted woman rushing wildly from table to table, with a white, quivering face and lips which babbled incoherently and feverish hands which darted out nervously, over-setting books and ornaments--in a vain search for a box of cartridges wherewith to kill herself. she found them at last behind the whisky bottle, and clutched at them with a great sigh of relief. she carried them over to the table on which she had laid her rifle, and as she pushed one into the breech, stephen ballantyne stood in the doorway of the tent. "he swore at me," stella continued. "i had taken the necklace off. i had shown you the bruises on my throat. he cursed me for it, and he asked me roughly why i didn't shoot myself and rid him of a fool. i stood without answering him. that always maddened him. i didn't do it on purpose. i had become dull and slow. i just stood and looked at him stupidly, and in a fury he ran at me with his fist raised. i recoiled, he frightened me, and then before he reached me--yes." her voice died away in a whisper. thresk did not interrupt. there was more for her to tell and one dreadful incident to explain. stella went on in a moment, looking straight in front of her and with all the passion of fear gone from her voice. "i remember that he stood and stared at me foolishly for a little while. i had time to believe that nothing had happened, and to be glad that nothing had happened and to be terrified of what he would do to me. and then he fell and lay quite still." it seemed that she had no more to say, that she meant to leave unexplained the inexplicable thing; and even thresk put it out of his thoughts. "it was an accident then," he cried. "after all, stella, it was an accident." but stella sat mutely at his side. some struggle was taking place in her and was reflected in her countenance. thresk's eager joy was damped. "no, my friend," she said at length, slowly and very deliberately. "it was not an accident." "but you fired in fear." thresk caught now at that alternative. "you shot in self-defence. stella, i blundered at bombay." he moved away from her in his agitation. "i am sorry. oh, i am very sorry. i should never have come forward at all. i should have lain quiet and let your counsel develop his case, as he was doing, on the line of self-defence. you would have been acquitted--and rightly acquitted. you would have had the sympathy of every one. but i didn't know your story. i was afraid that the discovery of ballantyne outside the tent would ruin you. i knew that my story could not fail to save you. so i told it. but i was wrong, stella. i blundered. i did you a great harm." he was standing before her now and so poignant an anguish rang in his voice that stella was moved by it to discard her plans. thus she had meant to tell the story if ever she was driven to it. thus she had told it. but now she put out a timid hand and took him by the arm. "i said i would tell you the truth. but i have not told it all. it's so hard not to keep one little last thing back. listen to me"; and with a bowed head and her hand still clinging desperately to his arm she made the final revelation. "it's true i was crazy with fear. but there was just one little moment when i knew what i was going to do, when it came upon me that the way i had chosen before was the wrong one, and this new way the right one. no, no," she cried as thresk moved. "even that's not all. that moment--you could hardly measure it in time, yet to me it was distinct enough and is marked distinctly in my memories, for during it _he_ drew back." "what?" cried thresk. "don't say it, stella!" "yes," she answered. "during it he drew back, knowing what i was going to do just as i suddenly knew it. it was a moment when he seemed to me to bleat--yes, that's the word--to bleat for mercy." she had told the truth now and she dropped her hand from his sleeve. "and you? what did you do?" asked thresk. "i? oh, i went mad, i think. when i saw him lying there i lost my head. the tent was flecked with great spots of fire which whirled in front of my eyes and hurt. a strength far greater than mine possessed me. i was crazy. i dragged him out of the tent for no reason--that's the truth--for no reason at all. can you believe that?" "yes," replied thresk readily enough. "i can well believe that." "then something broke," she resumed. "i felt weak and numbed. i dragged myself to my room. i went to bed. does that sound very horrible to you? i had one clear thought only. it was over. it was all over. i slept." she leaned back in her chair, her hands dropped to her side, her eyes closed. "yes i did actually sleep." a clock ticking upon the mantelshelf seemed to grow louder and louder in the silence of the library. the sound of it forced itself upon thresk. it roused stella. she opened her eyes. in front of her thresk was standing, his face grave and very pitiful. "now answer me truly," said stella, and leaning forward she fixed her eyes upon him. "if you still loved me, would you, knowing this story, refuse to marry me?" thresk looked back across the years of her unhappy life and saw her as the sport of a malicious destiny. "no," he said, "i should not." "then why shouldn't dick marry me?" "because he doesn't know this story." stella nodded her head. "yes. there's the flaw in my appeal to you, i know. you are quite right. i should have told him. i should tell him now," and suddenly she dropped on her knees before thresk, the tears burst from her eyes, and in a voice broken with passion she cried: "but i daren't--not yet. i have tried to--oh, more than once. believe that, henry! you must believe it! but i couldn't. i hadn't the courage. you will give me a little time, won't you? oh, not long. i will tell him of my own free will--very soon, henry. but not now--not now." the sound of her sobbing and the sight of her distress wrung thresk's heart. he lifted her from the ground and held her. "there's another way, stella," he said gently. "oh, i know," she answered. she was thinking of the little bottle with the tablets of veronal which stood by her bed, not for the first time that night. she did not stop to consider whether thresk, too, had that way in his mind. it came to her so naturally; it was so easy, so simple a way. she never thought that she misunderstood. she had come to the end of the struggle; the battle had gone against her; she recognised it; and now, without complaint, she bowed her head for the final blow. the inherited habit of submission taught her that the moment had come for compliance and gave her the dignity of patience. "yes, i suppose that i must take that way," she said, and she walked towards the chair over which she had thrown her wrap. "good-night, henry." but before she had thrown the cloak about her shoulders thresk stood between her and the window. he took the cloak from her hands. "there have been too many mistakes, stella, between you and me. there must be no more. here are we--until to-night strangers, and because we were strangers, and never knew it, spoiling each other's lives." stella looked at him in bewilderment. she had taught thresk that night unimagined truths about herself. she was now to learn something of the inner secret man which the outward trappings of success concealed. he led her to a sofa and placed her at his side. "you have said a good many hard things to me, stella," he said with a smile--"most of them true, but some untrue. and the untrue things you wouldn't have said if you had ever chanced to ask yourself one question: why i really missed my steamer at bombay." stella ballantyne was startled. she made a guess but faltered in the utterance of it, so ill it fitted with her estimate of him. "you missed it on purpose?" "yes. i didn't come to chitipur on any sentimental journey"; and he told how he had seen her portrait in jane repton's drawing-room and learnt of the misery of her marriage. "i came to fetch you away." and again stella stared at him. "you? you pitied me so much? oh, henry!" "no. i wanted you so much. it's quite true that i sacrificed everything for success. i don't deny that it is well worth having. but jane repton said something to me in bombay so true--you can get whatever you want if you want it enough, but you cannot control the price you will have to pay. i know, my dear, that i paid too big a price. i trampled down something better worth having." stella rose suddenly to her feet. "oh, if i had known that on the night in chitipur! what a difference it would have made!" she turned swiftly to him. "couldn't you have told me?" "i hadn't a chance. i hadn't five minutes with you alone. and you wouldn't have believed me if i had had the chance. i left my pipe behind me in order to come back and tell you. i had only the time then to tell you that i would write." "yes, yes," she answered, and again the cry burst from her: "what a difference it would have made! merely to have known that you really wanted me!" she would never have taken that rifle from the corner and searched for the cartridges, that she might kill herself! whether she had consented or not to go away and ruin thresk's future she would have had a little faith wherewith to go on and face the world. if she had only known! but up on the top of bignor hill a blow had been struck under which her faith had reeled and it had never had a chance of recovery. she laughed harshly. the heart of her tragedy was now revealed to her. she saw herself the sport of gods who sat about like cruel louts torturing a helpless animal and laughing stupidly at its sufferings. she turned again to thresk and held out her hand. "thank you. you would have ruined yourself for me." "ruin's a large word," he answered, and still holding her hand he drew her down again. she yielded reluctantly. she might misread his character, but when the feelings and emotions were aroused she had the unerring insight of her sex. she was warned by it now. she looked at thresk with startled eyes. "why have you told me all this?" she asked in suspense, ready for flight. "i want to prepare you. there's a way out of the trouble--the honest way for both of us: to make a clean breast of it together and together take what follows." she was on her feet and away from him in a second. "no, no," she cried in alarm, and thresk mistook the cause of the alarm. "you can't be tried again, stella. that's over. you have been acquitted." she temporised. "but you?" "i?" and he shrugged his shoulders. "i take the consequences. i doubt if they would be so very heavy. there would be some sympathy. and afterwards--it would be as though you had slipped down from chitipur to bombay and joined me as i had planned. we can make the best of our lives together." there was so much sincerity in his manner, so much simplicity she could not doubt him; and the immensity of the sacrifice he was prepared to make overwhelmed her. it was not merely scandal and the divorce court which he was ready to brave now. he had gone beyond the plan contemplated at bombay. he was willing to go hand in hand with her into the outer darkness, laying down all that he had laboured for unsparingly. "you would do that for me?" she said. "oh, you put me to shame!" and she covered her face with her hands. "you give up your struggle for a footing in the world--that's what you want, isn't it?" he pleaded, and she drew her hands away from her face. he believed that? he imagined that she was fighting just for a name, a position in the world? she stared at him in amazement, and forced herself to understand. since he himself had cared for her enough to remain unmarried, since the knowledge of the mistake which he had made had grown more bitter with each year, he had fallen easily into that other error that she had never ceased to care too. "we'll make something of our lives, never fear," he was saying. "but to marry this man for his position, and he not knowing--oh, my dear, i know how you are driven--but it won't do! it won't do!" she stood in silence for a little while. one by one he had torn her defences down. she could hardly bear the gentleness upon his face and she turned away from him and sat down upon a chair a little way off. "stand there, henry," she said. a strange composure had succeeded her agitation. "i must tell you something more which i had meant to hide from you--the last thing which i have kept back. it will hurt you, i am afraid." there came a change upon thresk's face. he was steeling himself to meet a blow. "go on." "it isn't because of his position that i cling to dick. i want him to keep that--yes--for his sake. i don't want him to lose more by marrying me than he needs must"; and comprehension burst upon henry thresk. "you care for him then! you really care for him?" "so much," she answered, "that if i lost him now i should lose all the world. you and i can't go back to where we stood nine years ago. you had your chance then, henry, if you had wished to take it. but you didn't wish it, and that sort of chance doesn't often come again. others like it--yes. but not quite the same one. i am sorry. but you must believe me. if i lost dick i should lose all the world." so far she had spoken very deliberately, but now her voice faltered. "that is my one poor excuse." the unexpected word roused thresk to inquiry. "excuse?" he asked, and with her eyes fixed in fear upon him she continued: "yes. i meant dick to marry me publicly. but i saw that his father shrank from the marriage. i grew afraid. i told dick of my fears. he banished them. i let him banish them." "what do you mean?" thresk asked. "we were married privately in london five days ago." thresk uttered a low cry and in a moment stella was at his side, all her composure gone. "oh, i know that it was wrong. but i was being hunted. they were all like a pack of wolves after me. mr. hazlewood had joined them. i was driven into a corner. i loved dick. they meant to tear him from me without any pity. i clung. yes, i clung." but thresk thrust her aside. "you tricked him," he cried. "i didn't dare to tell him," stella pleaded, wringing her hands. "i didn't dare to lose him." "you tricked him," thresk repeated; and at the note of anger in his voice stella found herself again. "you accuse and condemn me?" she asked quietly. "yes. a thousand times, yes," he exclaimed hotly, and she answered with another question winged on a note of irony: "because i tricked him? or because i--married him?" thresk was silenced. he recognised the truth implied in the distinction, he turned to her with a smile. "yes," he answered. "you are right, stella. it's because you married him." he stood for a moment in thought. then with a gesture of helplessness he picked up her cloak. she watched his action and as he came towards her she cried: "but i'll tell him now, henry." in a way she owed it to this man who cared for her so much, who was so prepared for sacrifice, if sacrifice could help. that morning on the downs was swept from her memory now. "yes, i'll tell him now," she said eagerly. since henry thresk set such store upon that confession, why so very likely would dick, her husband, too. but thresk shook his head. "what's the use now? you give him no chance. you can't set him free"; and stella was as one turned to stone. all argument seemed sooner or later to turn to that one dread alternative which had already twice that night forced itself on her acceptance. "yes, i can, henry, and i will, i promise you, if he wishes to be free. i can do it quite easily, quite naturally. any woman could. so many of us take things to make us sleep." there was no boastfulness in her voice or manner, but rather a despairing recognition of facts. "good god, you mustn't think of it!" said thresk eagerly. "that's too big a price to pay." stella shook her head wistfully. "you hear it said, henry," she answered with an indescribable wistfulness, "that women will do anything to keep the men they love. they'll do a great deal--i am an example--but not always everything. sometimes love runs just a little stronger. and then it craves that the loved one shall get all he wants to have. if dick wants his freedom i too, then, shall want him to have it." and while thresk stood with no words to answer her there came a knocking upon the door. it was gentle, almost furtive, but it startled them both like a clap of thunder. for a moment they stood rigid. then thresk silently handed stella her cloak and pointed towards the window. he began to speak aloud. a word or two revealed his plan to stella ballantyne. he was rehearsing a speech which he was to make in the courts before a jury. but the handle of the door rattled and now old mr. hazlewood's voice was heard. "thresk! are you there?" once more thresk pointed to the window. but stella did not move. "let him in," she said quietly, and with a glance at her he unlocked the door. mr. hazlewood stood outside. he had not gone to bed that night. he had taken off his coat and now wore a smoking-jacket. "i knew that i should not sleep to-night, so i sat up," he began, "and i thought that i heard voices here." over thresk's shoulder he saw stella ballantyne standing erect in the middle of the room, her shining gown the one bright patch of colour. "you here?" he cried to her, and thresk made way for him to enter. he advanced to her with a look of triumph in his eyes. "you here--at this house--with thresk? you were persuading him to continue to hold his tongue." stella met his gaze steadily. "no," she replied. "he was persuading me to the truth, and he has succeeded." mr. hazlewood smiled and nodded. there was no magnanimity in his triumph. a schoolboy would have shown more chivalry to the opponent who was down. "you confess then? good! richard must be told." "yes," answered stella. "i claim the right to tell him." but mr. hazlewood scoffed at the proposal. "oh dear no!" he cried. "i refuse the claim. i shall go straight to richard now." he had actually taken a couple of steps towards the door before stella's voice rang out suddenly loud and imperative. "take care, mr. hazlewood. after you have told him he will come to me. take care!" hazlewood stopped. certainly that was true. "i'll tell dick to-morrow, here, in your presence," she said. "and if he wishes it i'll set him free and never trouble either of you again." hazlewood looked at thresk and was persuaded to consent. reflection showed him that it was the better plan. he himself would be present when stella spoke. he would see that the truth was told without embroidery. "very well, to-morrow," he said. stella flung the cloak over her shoulders and went up to the window. thresk opened it for her. "i'll see you to your door," he said. the moon had risen now. it hung low with the branches of a tree like a lattice across its face; and on the garden and the meadow lay that unearthly light which falls when a moonlit night begins to drown in the onrush of the dawn. "no," she said. "i would rather go alone. but do something for me, will you? stay to-morrow. be here when i tell him." she choked down a sob. "oh, i shall want a friend and you are so kind." "so kind!" he repeated with a note of bitterness. could there be praise from a woman's lips more deadly? you are kind; you are put in your place in the ruck of men; you are extinguished. "oh yes, i'll stay." she stood for a moment on the stone flags outside the window. "will he forgive?" she asked. "you would. and he is not so very young, is he? it's the young who don't forgive. good-night." she went along the path and across the meadow. thresk watched her go and saw the light spring up in her room. then he closed the window and drew the curtain. mr. hazlewood had gone. thresk wondered what the morrow would bring. after all, stella was right. youth was a graceful thing of high-sounding words and impetuous thoughts, but like many other graceful things it could be hard and cruel. its generosity did not come from any wide outlook on a world where there is a good deal to be said for everything. it was rather a matter of physical health than judgment. yes, he was glad dick hazlewood was half his way through the thirties. for himself--well, he knew his business. it was to be kind. he turned off the lights and went to bed. chapter xxvii the verdict "six, seven, eight," said mr. hazlewood, counting the letters which he had already written since breakfast and placing them on the salver which hubbard was holding out to him. he was a very different man this morning from the mr. hazlewood of yesterday. he shone, complacent and serene. he leaned back in his chair and gazed mildly at the butler. "there must be an answer to the problem which i put to you, hubbard." hubbard wrinkled his brows in thought and succeeded only in looking a hundred and ten years old. he had the melancholy look of a moulting bird. he shook his head and drooped. "no doubt, sir," he said. "but as far as you are concerned," mr. hazlewood continued briskly, "you can throw no light upon it?" "not a glimmer, sir." mr. hazlewood was disappointed and with him disappointment was petulance. "that is unlike you, hubbard," he said, "for sometimes after i have been deliberating for days over some curious and perplexing conundrum, you have solved it the moment it has been put to you." hubbard drooped still lower. he began the droop as a bow of acknowledgment but forgot to raise his head again. "it is very good of you, sir," he said. he seemed oppressed by the goodness of mr. hazlewood. "yet you are not clever, hubbard! not at all clever." "no, sir. i know my place," returned the butler, and mr. hazlewood continued with a little envy. "you must have some wonderful gift of insight which guides you straight to the inner meaning of things." "it's just common-sense, sir," said hubbard. "but i haven't got it," cried mr. hazlewood. "how's that?" "you don't need it, sir. you are a gentleman," hubbard replied, and carried the letters to the door. there, however, he stopped. "i beg your pardon, sir," he said, "but a new parcel of _the prison walls_ has arrived this morning. shall i unpack it?" mr. hazlewood frowned and scratched his ear. "well--er--no, hubbard--no," he said with a trifle of discomfort. "i am not sure indeed that _the prison walls_ is not almost one of my mistakes. we all make mistakes, hubbard. i think you shall burn that parcel, hubbard--somewhere where it won't be noticed." "certainly, sir," said hubbard. "i'll burn it under the shadow of the south wall." mr. hazlewood looked up with a start. was it possible that hubbard was poking fun at him? the mere notion was incredible and indeed hubbard shuffled with so much meekness from the room that mr. hazlewood dismissed it. he went across the hall to the dining-room, where he found henry thresk trifling with his breakfast. no embarrassment weighed upon mr. hazlewood this morning. he effervesced with good-humour. "i do not blame you, mr. thresk," he said, "for the side you took yesterday afternoon. you were a stranger to us in this house. i understand your position." "i am not quite so sure, mr. hazlewood," said thresk drily, "that i understand yours. for my part i have not closed my eyes all night. you, on the other hand, seem to have slept well." "i did indeed," said hazlewood. "i was relieved from a strain of suspense under which i have been labouring for a month past. to have refused my consent to richard's marriage with stella ballantyne on no other grounds than that social prejudice forbade it would have seemed a complete, a stupendous reversal of my whole theory and conduct of life. i should have become an object of ridicule. people would have laughed at the philosopher of little beeding. i have heard their laughter all this month. now, however, once the truth is known no one will be able to say--" henry thresk looked up from his plate aghast. "do you mean to say, mr. hazlewood, that after mrs. ballantyne has told her story you mean to make that story public?" mr. hazlewood stared in amazement at henry thresk. "but of course," he said. "oh, you can't be thinking of it!" "but i am. i must do it. there is so much at stake," replied hazlewood. "what?" "the whole consistency of my life. i must make it clear that i am not acting upon prejudice or suspicion or fear of what the world will say or for any of the conventional reasons which might guide other men." to thresk this point of view was horrible; and there was no arguing against it. it was inspired by the dreadful vanity of a narrow, shallow nature, and thresk's experience had never shown him anything more difficult to combat and overcome. "so for the sake of your reputation for consistency you will make a very unhappy woman bear shame and obloquy which she might easily be spared? you could find a thousand excuses for breaking off the marriage." "you put the case very harshly, mr. thresk," said hazlewood. "but you have not considered my position," and he went indignantly back to the library. thresk shrugged his shoulders. after all if dick hazlewood turned his back upon stella she would not hear the abuse or suffer the shame. that she would take the dark journey as she declared he could not doubt. and no one could prevent her--not even he himself, though his heart might break at her taking it. all depended upon dick. he appeared a few minutes afterwards fresh from his ride, glowing with good-humour and contentment. but the sight of thresk surprised him. "hulloa," he cried. "good-morning. i thought you were going to catch the eight forty-five." "i felt lazy," answered thresk. "i sent off some telegrams to put off my engagements." "good," said dick, and he sat down at the breakfast-table. as he poured out a cup of tea, thresk said: "i think i heard you were over thirty." "yes." "thirty's a good age," said thresk. "it looks back on youth," answered dick. "that's just what i mean," remarked thresk. "do you mind a cigarette?" "not at all." thresk smoked and while he smoked he talked, not carelessly yet careful not to emphasize his case. "youth is a graceful thing of high-sounding words and impetuous thoughts, but like many other graceful things it can be very hard and very cruel." dick hazlewood looked closely and quickly at his companion. but he answered casually: "it is supposed to be generous." "and it is--to itself," replied thresk. "generous when its sympathies are enlisted, generous so long as all goes well with it: generous because it is confident of triumph. but its generosity is not a matter of judgment. it does not come from any wide outlook upon a world where there is a good deal to be said for everything. it is a matter of physical health." "yes?" said dick. "and once affronted, once hurt, youth finds it difficult to forgive." so far both men had been debating on an abstract topic without any immediate application to themselves. but now dick leaned across the table with a smile upon his face which thresk did not understand. "and why do you say this to me this morning, mr. thresk?" he asked pointedly. "yes, it's rather an impertinence, isn't it?" thresk agreed. "but i was looking into a case late last night in which irrevocable and terrible things are going to happen if there is not forgiveness." dick took his cigarette-case from his pocket. "i see," he remarked, and struck a match. both men rose from the table and at the door dick turned. "your case, of course, has not yet come on," he said. "no," answered thresk, "but it will very soon." they went into the library, and mr. hazlewood greeted his son with a vivacity which for weeks had been absent from his demeanour. "did you ride this morning?" he asked. "yes, but stella didn't. she sent word over that she was tired. i must go across and see how she is." mr. hazlewood interposed quickly: "there is no need of that, my boy; she is coming here this morning." "oh!" dick looked at his father in astonishment. "she said no word of it to me last night--and i saw her home. i suppose she sent word over about that too?" he looked from one to the other of his companions, but neither answered him. some uneasiness indeed was apparent in them both. "oho!" he said with a smile. "stella's coming over and i know nothing of it. mr. thresk's lazy, so remains at little beeding and delivers a lecture to me over breakfast. and you, father, seem in remarkable spirits." mr. hazlewood seized upon the opportunity to interrupt his son's reflections. "i am, my boy," he cried. "i walked in the fields this morning and--" but he got no further with his explanations, for the sound of mrs. pettifer's voice rang high in the hall and she burst into the room. "harold, i have only a moment. good morning, mr. thresk," she cried in a breath. "i have something to say to you." thresk was disturbed. suppose that stella came while mrs. pettifer was here! she must not speak in mrs. pettifer's presence. somehow mrs. pettifer must be dismissed. no such anxiety, however, harassed mr. hazlewood. "say it, margaret," he said, smiling benignantly upon her. "you cannot annoy me this morning. i am myself again," and dick's eyes turned sharply upon him. "all my old powers of observation have returned, my old interest in the great dark riddle of human life has re-awakened. the brain, the sedulous, active brain, resumes its work to-day asking questions, probing problems. i rose early, margaret," he flourished his hands like one making a speech, "and walking in the fields amongst the cows a most curious speculation forced itself upon my mind. how is it, i asked myself--" it seemed that mr. hazlewood was destined never to complete a sentence that morning, for margaret pettifer at this point banged her umbrella upon the floor. "stop talking, harold, and listen to me! i have been speaking with robert and we withdraw all opposition to dick's marriage." mr. hazlewood was dumfoundered. "you, margaret--you of all people!" he stammered. "yes," she replied decisively. "robert likes her and robert is a good judge of a woman. that's one thing. then i believe dick is going to take st. quentins; isn't that so, dick?" "yes," answered dick. "that's the house we looked over yesterday." "well, it's not a couple of a hundred yards from us, and it would not be comfortable for any of us if dick and dick's wife were strangers. so i give in. there, dick!" she went across the room and held out her hand to him. "i am going to call on stella this afternoon." dick flushed with pleasure. "that's splendid, aunt margaret. i knew you were all right, you know. you put on a few frills at first, of course, but you are forgiven." mr. hazlewood made so complete a picture of dismay that dick could not but pity him. he went across to his father. "now, sir," he said, "let us hear this problem." the old man was not proof against the invitation. "you shall, richard," he exclaimed. "you are the very man to hear it. your aunt, richard, is of too practical a mind for such speculations. it's a most curious problem. hubbard quite failed to throw any light upon it. i myself am, i confess, bewildered. and i wonder if a fresh young mind can help us to a solution." he patted his son on the shoulder and then took him by the arm. "the fresh young mind will have a go, father," said dick. "fire away." "i was walking in the fields, my boy." "yes, sir, among the cows." "exactly, you put your finger on the very point. how is it, i asked myself--" "that's quite your old style, father." "now isn't it, richard, isn't it?" mr. hazlewood dropped dick's arm. he warmed to his theme. he caught fire. he assumed the attitude of the orator. "how is it that with the advancement of science and the progress of civilization a cow gives no more milk to-day than she did at the beginning of the christian era?" with outspread arms he asked for an answer and the answer came. "a fresh young mind can solve that problem in two shakes. it is because the laws of nature forbid. that's your trouble, father. that's the great drawback to sentimental enthusiasm. it's always up against the laws of nature." "dick," said mrs. pettifer, "by some extraordinary miracle you are gifted with common-sense. i am off." she went away in a hurricane as she had come, and it was time that she did go, for even while she was closing the door stella ballantyne came out from her cottage to cross the meadow. dick was the first to hear the gate click as she unlatched it and passed into the garden. he took a step towards the window, but his father interposed and for once with a real authority. "no, richard," he said. "wait with us here. mrs. ballantyne has something to tell us." "i thought so," said dick quietly, and he came back to the other two men. "let me understand." his face was grave but without anger or any confusion. "stella returned here last night after i had taken her home?" "yes," said thresk. "to see you?" "yes." "and my father came down and found you together?" "yes." "i heard voices," mr. hazlewood hurriedly interposed, "and so naturally i came down." dick turned to his father. "that's all right, father. i didn't think you were listening at the keyhole. i am not blaming anybody. i want to know exactly where we are--that's all." stella found the little group awaiting her, and standing up before them she told her story as she had told it last night to thresk. she omitted nothing nor did she falter. she had trembled and cried for a great part of the night over the ordeal which lay before her, but now that she had come to it she was brave. her composure indeed astonished thresk and filled him with compassion. he knew that the very roots of her heart were bleeding. only once or twice did she give any sign of what these few minutes were costing her. her eyes strayed towards dick hazlewood's face in spite of herself, but she turned them away again with a wrench of her head and closed her eyelids lest she should hesitate and fail. all listened to her in silence, and it was strange to thresk that the one man who seemed least concerned of the three was dick hazlewood himself. he watched stella all the while she was speaking, but his face was a mask, not a gesture or movement gave a clue to his thoughts. when stella had finished he asked composedly: "why didn't you tell me all this at the beginning, stella?" and now she turned to him in a burst of passion and remorse. "oh, dick, i tried to tell you. i made up my mind so often that i would, but i never had the courage. i am terribly to blame. i hid it all from you--yes. but oh! you meant so much to me--you yourself, dick. it wasn't your position. it wasn't what you brought with you, other people's friendship, other people's esteem. it was just you--you--you! i longed for you to want me, as i wanted you." then she recovered herself and stopped. she was doing the very thing she had resolved not to do. she was pleading, she was making excuses. she drew herself up and with a dignity which was quite pitiful she now pleaded against herself. "but i don't ask for your pity. you mustn't be merciful. i don't _want_ mercy, dick. that's of no use to me. i want to know what you think--just what you really and truthfully think--that's all. i can stand alone--if i must. oh yes, i can stand alone." and as thresk stirred and moved, knowing well in what way she meant to stand alone, stella turned her eyes full upon him in warning, nay, in menace. "i can stand alone quite easily, dick. you mustn't think that i should suffer so very much. i shouldn't! i shouldn't--" in spite of her control a sob broke from her throat and her bosom heaved; and then dick hazlewood went quietly to her side and took her hand. "i didn't interrupt you, stella. i wanted you to tell everything now, once for all, so that no one of us three need ever mention a word of it again." stella looked at dick hazlewood in wonder, and then a light broke over her face like the morning. his arm slipped about her waist and she leaned against him suddenly weak, almost to swooning. mr. hazlewood started up from his chair in consternation. "but you heard her, richard!" "yes, father, i heard her," he answered. "but you see stella is my wife." "your--" mr. hazlewood's lips refused to speak the word. he fell back again in his chair and dropped his face in his hands. "oh, no!" "it's true," said dick. "i have rooms in london, you know. i went to london last week. stella came up on monday. it was my doing, my wish. stella is my wife." mr. hazlewood groaned aloud. "but she has tricked you, richard," and stella agreed. "yes, i tricked you, dick. i did," she said miserably, and she drew herself from his arm. but he caught her hand. "no, you didn't." he led her over to his father. "that's where you both make your mistake. stella tried to tell me something on the very night when we walked back from this house to her cottage and i asked her to marry me. she has tried again often during the last weeks. i knew very well what it was--before you turned against her, before i married her. she didn't trick me." mr. hazlewood turned in despair to henry thresk. "what do you say?" he asked. "that i am very glad you asked me here to give my advice on your collection," thresk answered. "i was inclined yesterday to take a different view of your invitation. but i did what perhaps i may suggest that you should do: i accepted the situation." he went across to stella and took her hands. "oh, thank you," she cried, "thank you." "and now"--thresk turned to dick--"if i might look at a _bradshaw_ i could find out the next train to london." "certainly," said dick, and he went over to the writing-table. stella and henry thresk were left alone for a moment. "we shall see you again," she said. "please!" thresk laughed. "no doubt. i am not going out into the night. you know my address. if you don't ask mr. hazlewood. it's in king's bench walk, isn't it?" and he took the time-table from dick hazlewood's hand. the end the case and exceptions stories of counsel and clients by frederick trevor hill second edition new york frederick a. stokes company publishers copyright, , by frederick a. stokes company. _to_ m. w. h. contents. page outside the record in the matter of bateman the finding of fact a conclusion of law the burden of proof in his own behalf his honour an abstract story by way of counterclaim in the name of the people the latest decision the distant drum the case and exceptions. outside the record. in general sessions court room, _june , _. dorothy dear: it is over. warren's fate is in the hands of the jury. i have done the little i could, but the strain has been almost too much for me. even now, my heart sinks at the thought that i may have left something undone or failed to see some trap of the district attorney. for more than two hours i have been sitting here fighting it all through again. you have not known what this case means to me, and doubtless have often found me a dull companion and neglectful lover during the past months. but i will not cry "peccavi," my lady, unless you pronounce me guilty after reading what i write. see how confident i am--not of myself but of you! the court room is quiet now, for it is ten o'clock at night. only a few reporters and officials have lingered, and these yawn over the protracted business. think of it! this is merely a matter of business to them--the life of this man. i cannot blame them, yet the thought of such indifference to what is so terribly vital to me, crushes with its awful significance. godfrey warren is only a name to you, or at most only the name of one of my clients. you have not known that he is my oldest and dearest friend. how hard it has been to keep this from you! but it was his wish that you should not know it--and, if i do not send this letter, you never will. warren and i have been friends from boyhood. we attended the same school where we "raised the devil in couples" after a manner bad to record but good to remember. so inseparable were we that our families planned to send us to different universities, thinking, i suppose, that our continued intimacy would be at the expense of a broader knowledge of mankind. but their purpose, whatever it was, came to nothing, for we flatly rejected any college education upon such terms. as a result we entered yale together and left there four years later with our boyish affection welded in a friendship such as comes into the lives of but few men. warren showed, even as a lad, those characteristics which have since marked him as a man apart. he was quick at his studies and slow in his friendships. but his judgment of men, though slow, was sure. a more accurate reader of character never lived. but of late years, whenever i remarked on this, he would laugh and say the credit did not belong to him but rather to fantine, who told him all he knew. this brings me to another striking trait in the man--his devotion to animals and their worship of him. dogs were his for his whistle, and horses once touched by his hand would whinny a welcome if he only neared the stable door. when he held a moment's silent conference with a cat, it behooved the owner to watch lest pussy followed the charmer, and the way birds looked at him was positively uncanny. good god! i am writing this as though he were dead, and my heart is beating louder than the great clock in this silent court room! warren is not a handsome man, honey. you must not picture any prince charming in his person. he has--he has red hair. there--one would think i was making a confession. how he would laugh at me! he always says i try to make him out an adonis when he's about as ugly an animal as ever walked upright. this is nonsense, of course. he is not handsome, but his features are strong, and when he smiles, his eyes light up the whole face and he is splendid. but it is the mind of the man that has always fascinated me. his ideas are so clean--his breadth of view so comprehensive--his intellect so keen and his purpose so high. if i could only have told the jury about the man himself!--but all this is "outside the record." do you understand, dear? never have i known a more sunny disposition or a more even temper in anyone. but he could get angry. half a dozen times i have seen him lose control of himself, but, awful though his passion was, it always rose in some cause that made me think the better of him as a man. once i remember he overheard a foul-mouthed fellow repeating a filthy story in the presence of a little child. in an instant his face utterly changed, and before i could prevent him he struck the man a fearful blow, and i shall never forget the torrent of invective he hurled at the offender. i had not believed him capable of such tongue-lashing. (little did i then dream how this would be used against him.) it was on that day i first noted that, as long as warren's anger lasted, fantine kept on growling. when i spoke of it he smiled and answered, "fantine recognized the cur, i fancy." i have written that warren was my oldest and dearest friend, but i have not claimed to be his. i would not presume to usurp fantine's place. fantine was a gordon setter. when i first saw her she was little more than a fluffy ball in warren's lap to which he was addressing some remarks as he sat upon the floor of our study. i did not disturb the conference. "puppy," he was saying, "your name is fantine. do you understand, fantine?" for a moment the puppy gazed solemnly into his face, tilted its head slightly first on one side and then on the other, cocking it more and more in a puzzled effort at comprehension. then it panted a puppy smile--licked godfrey's hand and wagged its little feather of a tail. "ah, you understand, do you?" warren went on. "well, you and i will understand one another thoroughly after a while. i can teach you a little--not much, but still something worth knowing. for instance--not to bite my watch chain with those tiny milk teeth of yours! and you'll teach me--o, lots of things i want to know.--you'll show me the men i ought to trust and the ones to keep an eye on. won't you, fantine?" the puppy put a fat paw on warren's breast and wagged its whole body with its tail. "and, fantine, you'll never forget me as some people do, or think me ugly because i've got red hair? you have red hair yourself, you minx!--see those tiny flecks through your black coat? tan, you say? well, you'll have beauty enough for both of us some day. i'll teach you how to hunt too--is that a yawn? i make you tired, do i, mademoiselle? well, i dare say you do know more about hunting than i ever shall. i apologise. but we'll be great friends anyway--inseparables--worse than your master and this great oaf who's stolen in upon our confidential chat,--eh, fantine?" the puppy gave a sleepy sigh, nestling under godfrey's coat and, as he stooped to peer at her, lifted a baby head and licked his face. from that hour i was to a certain extent supplanted. but fantine approved of me which was all i could hope. of extraordinary intelligence she seemed to interpret every mood of her master and sometimes almost to anticipate his orders. the man and the dog were indeed inseparables. if he left a room where she was sleeping it was as though the very air she breathed had been exhausted, and she would wake with a start and follow him instantly. the first time warren sent her to his country place, some fifty miles from town, he forwarded her in a crate by express, and, the morning after she arrived he returned to town, leaving her with the gardener. before nightfall she was at his office door whining for admittance. how she had found her way back no one ever knew. it was more than instinct. the animal seemed to feel the man as the martian felt the north. no mere instinct could make a dog growl in sympathetic response to a man's moods, and yet fantine, as i have said, would do this very thing. yes, and sometimes the hair on her back would rise in silent warning against some stranger--a warning warren never disregarded. this devotion was no one-sided affair, for godfrey was a man-- --there! i am lapsing into the past tense again. god grant there is no evil omen in my pen!-- --it all happened so suddenly. i have not yet lived down the shock of it, and am nervous as any woman. just now there was a noise in the rear of the room and i leaped to my feet barely repressing a cry. i thought the jury were entering. but they are still talking.--about what i dare not think. it is foolish, i suppose, to let my mind dwell on this "case," but i cannot get away from it and it calms me to "talk" with you in this way and to feel your quiet sympathy. i could not sit idle in this gloomy room--fearful to me now, and full of shadows. i should go mad.--i am a cheerful counsellor--am i not? it was in the early evening of may tenth, a year ago, that warren passed through washington square with fantine at his heels. as they crossed the plaza on the north, a two-horse hack suddenly wheeled through the arch on the wrong side of the road, narrowly missing the man and dog. enraged at having to check his team, the driver, a burly irishman named dineen, snatched up his whip and, cursing fiercely, struck the dog with all his might. the lash wound itself about her head and flicked out one of fantine's eyes. with a howl she ran a few rods down the square and then crouched in the roadway, rubbing her bloody eye between her paws. in an instant warren was at the horses' heads and the hack stopped. "let go them horses--let them go, i tell you! ye won't, ye scum?--then take that and that!" the lash fell twice on the horses' backs and warren was thrown to the ground, but still kept his grip upon the reins. then the whip cut him in the face, his hold loosened, and the team plunged forward, the driver guiding straight for the spot where fantine lay. an instant more and the iron hoofs had trampled her down and the wheels of the carriage had crushed out her life. dineen shook the reins over the flying horses and shouted as he turned on his seat, "now pick up yur dirty cur--you loafin' scut you!" but his victim leaping and bounding alongside the thundering carriage made no answer, and the laugh the fellow started was never finished, for two strong hands gripped his throat as warren swung up beside him. literally torn from his seat by the shock, the reins flew from the driver's hands and the frightened team became a runaway. for a moment the two men, locked in deadly grapple, were struggling on the box. in another instant they were over the dashboard swaying to right and left above the wheels, until at last they crashed back upon the roof of the carriage rolling horribly to the fearful lurching of the wheels. one moment warren was on top--another moment he was under. then suddenly the wheels of the hack struck a curb and the dark mass was hurled from the roof to the ground with a sickening thud. there was a short struggle in the street and then warren raised the driver's head and dashed it fiercely against the stones. half an hour later he staggered into my rooms--the blood trickling down his face and fantine's crushed and bleeding body in his arms. he would hear of no other counsel. in vain i begged him to retain some criminal practitioner. "why should i?" he replied. "you know the facts and believe in me. that is all i want. only remember this. i would rather die than be imprisoned, and no trick or technicality shall ever clear me." what weary months of waiting we have gone through! the grand jury indicted for murder, the case has been much talked about and the district attorney has been very--zealous. how my spirits rose when i found so many animal lovers among the men summoned as jurors, and how the district attorney and i fought for and against them the whole of one long day! but he couldn't get rid of them all, lass. every man who admitted that he had no feeling for animals possessed some other trait which made even the district attorney fear him. there were dozens of witnesses but little controversy of fact. without difficulty i proved that dineen was a drunken sot of evil reputation, who had been drinking heavily on the day of his death, and then i placed warren on the stand. how splendid he looked as he faced the jury and told his story to their eyes. the district attorney was powerless before such a witness and he knew it. his only chance lay in the fearless candour of the man and, god forgive him, he took it. he asked only one question. "warren, do you feel any regret for the death of dineen?" i sprang to my feet with an objection, but godfrey waved me back. in breathless silence the court awaited his answer. the district attorney saw his advantage in the pause, and judging the man rightly, spoke with a show of fairness deliberately planned to his own purposes. "you can decline to answer upon the ground that it will tend to incriminate you." as he expected, warren flushed angrily, and flashed a scornful glance at his questioner. what a noble sensation it must give one to convict a man of murder by a trick! "you do not decline to answer? then tell us, warren, do you feel any regret for the death of this man?" "none whatsoever." the answer was given slowly and distinctly with his face full to the jury. oh, how my heart sank as i heard his words! i felt it was useless, but i tried to soften them by explanation. "mr. warren, tell the jury why you have no regret for the man's death." "because i saw him do foul murder which no law would reach. because i looked in the creature's face and saw in it something far lower than the lowest brute, and i killed him in the same spirit as i would kill any dangerous beast." i suppose i should have foreseen the awful hush which followed and prevented it with a flood of questions no matter how futile or meaningless. but at that moment, and in this place reeking with the breath of falsehood, his answer rang forth so true and brave that i closed the case without another word and began my summing up to the jury. dearest, i cannot now remember a single phrase i uttered. twelve men sat before me, but i could only see one face, and to that face i spoke. again and again the district attorney interrupted, claiming that what i said was outside the record, but i paid no heed. behind me the crowd was restless, and, once or twice, i think, the justice rapped for order with his gavel on the desk, but i never paused. this man's life was dearer to me than life itself, yet, in that moment of supreme effort, i failed. yes, i know it now, i utterly failed. but i did not realise it, dearest, even when i heard the pitiful feebleness of my argument exposed in the cool and cutting words of the district attorney. why could i not have seen the fatal weakness of my plea before it mocked me through the maddening calmness of the judge's charge, to echo all these weary hours from every nook and corner of this dreadful room! why did i not insist that he have some able counsel! to think that i--his closest friend, did not do for him what some hired advocate could have done! his blood is on my hands--the hands he grasped as the jurors filed from the court room--and i did not hide my head in shame. how gloomy this place is. i shudder at its every shadow, and the very air is poison. they're lighting more gas jets now. that's better. i could not have stood it much longer. i can at least be quiet in my humiliation. they shall not startle me again, and i will write on calmly. are you ashamed of me? you must be. you believed in me--thought me a man of some power--not a weakling who failed his friend. and you are right. i will never---- they are lighting the judge's desk. i must look up-- dorothy--dorothy! the jury is coming in!-- * * * * * to miss dorothy bentham, forest lodge, adirondacks, n. y. my dear miss bentham: there is no justification for these lines save the request of the man you love, but in that you will find a reason if not excuse for me--will you not? this, he says, is to be a postscript to some letter telling you of the dark days we have passed and which, if it please god, shall not have been lived through in vain. i have no right at this time to say what has been in my heart for you ever since my friend told me of his happiness. it is more fitting now that i write you what i am sure he has not, and what he seems to realise so little--his personal triumph in this day's work. twice, dear miss dorothy, the audience broke into uncontrollable applause during his wonderful address, and when the jury brought in their verdict those who heard it set up a mighty cheer for him which shook the very building. he bids me write that the jury found for acquittal on the first ballot, and were delayed two hours by a slight illness of one of their number. it was this period of anxious waiting, i fear, which told upon him so sadly. let me hasten to reassure you, however, as to his health. he is now resting at my rooms, and to-morrow i hope to send him to the only physician whose presence he needs, and who, i hope, will make him take a long summer vacation. that god may bless and keep you both is the earnest prayer of godfrey warren. _june , ._ in the matter of bateman. i have hesitated to tell this story because it involves confidential relations between lawyer and client which are, of course, absolutely sacred to all who love and honour their profession as i do--and there are many such, thank god. but i'm--well, i'm old enough to be sensitive about my age, and not old enough to be proud of it. almost all my companions are dead--bateman and his enemies have passed away, and i think there ought to be a statute of limitations for the relief of old lawyers who must live on memories. then, too, if a man has had the lessons which a matter like this teaches, i think his experiences belong to his profession. but when i think of it again, there is little in what i have to tell that will serve either as instruction or warning, because there never was, and never will be, another case like bateman's. i am satisfied, however, that there is no impropriety in disclosing the facts after all these years, and of this i trust my professional record is sufficient guaranty. at the time of which i write i was junior partner in the firm of paulding & wainwright, and our offices were on front street, in the heart of the shipping business. josiah bateman had been a client of mr. paulding long before i was admitted to a partnership. his will had been in our safe for fifteen years, but neither my partner nor i knew its terms, for the old man had drawn it up himself. "he guessed he knew enough law to give away his property," he told us as we witnessed the instrument. mr. bateman ought to have known some law. certainly he had expended enough money in litigation to pay for a hundred legal educations. indeed his genius for disputes would have made him an ideal client save for one fact--he seldom took the advice of his lawyers. it naturally followed that his success in the courts was by no means encouraging. whenever he won a suit he claimed all the credit, and if he lost, our responsibility was voiced by the loser in a tone only a little more offensive than his self-gratulation. people used to wonder how we got on with the man, but we were accustomed to his vagaries, and despite his declamations he paid handsomely and promptly for every service rendered. as he grew older mr. bateman's tendency to litigate increased tremendously and the office register coupled his name with every kind of law suit from a dispossess proceeding to a knotty problem in the law of nations. mr. bateman had never married, and he never spoke of his relatives to anyone. down-town new york knew him as a clear-headed, obstinate, hard-working, irascible merchant who had made a great deal of money. but there information stopped. his fortune was variously estimated from a million up to five millions--one guess being as good as another in the absence of any known facts. so when the news came that josiah bateman was dead i think everybody connected with our firm, from the senior partner to the office boy, was curious to learn how the old man had left his money. the news of his death did not reach us until a week after he had been buried. we were then advised by letter that he had been on a hunting trip in the adirondacks and had become ill and died when far away from any town. the guides seem to have known nothing about him and he was buried at the nearest cemetery. no papers or documents were found upon the body, and it was not until a week after his funeral that a crumpled piece of paper was discovered in his game bag. this proved to be one of our letters to him and we were at once put in possession of the facts. at the same time we were informed that the body had been exhumed and positively identified by an old friend of our client. mr. paulding was away from town on his vacation when the news came and in his absence the responsibility for proper action devolved upon me. the letter announcing mr. bateman's death arrived in the morning mail, but i was engaged in court all day and it was nearly seven o'clock in the evening before i returned to the office. letters and papers had accumulated on my desk during my absence, but i was too tired and hungry to attack the work they suggested, so dismissing the clerks for the night i sought out the nearest restaurant. all thought of bateman's affairs had been crowded out by the events of the day, and it was not until i had finished my after-dinner cigar that they were recalled to me by seeing mr. bateman's obituary printed in an evening paper. it was the usual "boneyard" article which had doubtless been set up in the newspaper office years before. any way, after reading three quarters of a column i learned nothing about the man i did not already know, and what i knew could have been condensed into a dozen lines. it set me thinking, however, about our queer old client. perhaps his will contained some directions for the disposition of his body which should govern my immediate instructions to the people in the adirondacks. his end would have been lonely enough anywhere, but up there in the silent mountains, away from the city's bustle and battle which he loved, death must have seemed fearful to that lonesome old man. late as it was i determined to return to the office and look at mr. bateman's will. i always carried a key to the front door of our office building, for no one slept on the premises and sometimes it was important to gain admission after the closing hour. the streets were absolutely deserted as i left the restaurant and my footsteps echoed upon the flagstones. surely down-town new york is the most dismal spot in the world at night--a veritable city of the dead. the silent, empty streets have an atmosphere of utter gloom--the buildings dark and forbidding stand in gruesome solemnity or huddle together in hideous attitudes of fear--the deserted offices here and there show a shaded light in some rear room, but the ghastly glow only intensifies the darkness, and over all is the silence--the awful silence--of the night. it is not the restful quiet of sleep--it is not the peaceful stillness of death--it is the horrid, breathing, staring silence of the trance. it is the silence that makes you stop and listen--hush and whisper, or gently motion with your finger on your lips. the feeling of all this was upon me as i turned toward my office. the unaccustomed stillness filled me with absurd apprehension, and tricked me into starting at every shadow. my footsteps echoed more and more rapidly upon the sidewalk, and louder and louder until i found myself actually running along deserted front street. i had been in the offices at night before, but i stumbled and tripped up the familiar stairway as though the steps and the very walls themselves had changed positions in the darkness. i lit a lamp in our front room, but the big black shadows transformed the well-known surroundings so that nothing seemed the same. the globe on the corner shelf took the shape of some great bird sitting gorged and sombre on its ample perch--the document cases with their white letterings suggested dark heads and shining rows of teeth, and the green baize doors studded with brass-nails seemed like monster coffins set on end, each staring silently through an oval eye of glass. i carried the lamp into my private room, but the draught from the hall blew it out, so i closed the door before lighting it again. in those days my private room in the rear of our office suite was connected with the main rooms by a short hall, from which it was separated by a green baize and glass-panelled door. in this room was the firm safe, a cavern-like affair built into and occupying the entire rear wall. the interior was lined with sheet iron, and the huge doors of the same material were opened and locked with a key weighing perhaps half a pound. sitting down at my desk i touched the secret spring of the drawer containing this key. i am not a nervous man, but i had been under more or less tension all day, and the stillness of the streets and the ugly suggestions of the dark shadows in the outer offices had had their effect upon my nerves, making me start as the spring snapped and the drawer shot out. holding the lamp in my left hand close to the safe directly behind my chair, i fitted the huge key into the keyhole, and unfastened the lock. the bolts turned easily, and placing the lamp upon the desk again i pulled at the handle of the safe door. for a moment it resisted and then swung open with a sound like a sob, emitting a breath of cold air that chilled me and set the flame of the lamp flaring above the chimney. it was like the damp breath of some underground tomb. moreover, it seemed to circle around me, blowing upon my neck and making the papers on my desk rustle and whisper. so strong was this impression that i swung about in my chair and stared into the blackness at the other end of the room, and even as i did so, one of the papers before me was silently wafted off the desk. i watched it as it floated slowly and noiselessly towards the doorway, and when at last it settled gently on the floor, i felt the beads of perspiration trickling down my face. for fully a minute i must have sat peering into the darkness as though fascinated by the gigantic shadows on the walls. then i laughed nervously, mopped my forehead, turned again to the safe, and hastily took from the inner compartment a bundle of wills. bateman's testament was the third in the bundle. it was sealed up in a plain envelope and the endorsement was in his own handwriting. "_will of josiah bateman. dated june , ._" the papers had that musty smell peculiar to old documents, and to which i was entirely accustomed, but that night the odor had a sickening effect upon me. it seemed to dry up the very air and make it suffocating with the horrible stench of decay. i stood up and stretched my neck to get an upper stratum of air, but the whole room seemed tainted with the foul cloying breath. i sat down at the desk again and turned my back upon the lamp so that the light would fall over my shoulder. with a shudder i picked up the envelope, which seemed to reek with the unendurable odor, and as i did so, noticed the window close beside me. why had i not thought of that before? i dropped the paper and rose to open the sash. the darkness outside and the light within had turned the window pane into a mirror reflecting the room behind me with perfect clearness. the whole effect was fearfully weird, and for an instant it held me spellbound. in the foreground was my own ghastly white face--the eyes apparently gazing not into mine, but at something behind me. in the background the lamp, the desk, the papers, and the brass-nailed green baize door, jet black in the night light, stood out clearly. as i stared into this reflected room, i noted a peculiar dark spot on the oval glass panel of the door. was it at this my mirrored eyes seemed to look? i knew i was in no fit condition to withstand the tricks of imagination, so i turned, not without an effort, to ascertain what really caused this strange reflection. but my imagination would have served my over-wrought nerves better than the fact, for the dark spot was unquestionably something pressed against the glass from outside the room. steadily i gazed at this object, and endeavored with all the power i possessed to reason myself out of the nameless dread that had settled down upon me. it could not be what it seemed.--hair against the panel of that coffin-like door was too full of horrible suggestions! it must be a mop which had fallen against the glass.--of course it must be that. a mop, too, would account for those damp breath stains on the glass. thus i reasoned, never taking my eyes off that oval pane in the door. but as i gazed my theory fell to pieces and my reasoning stopped. the moist spots on the glass began to expand and contract, vanish and reappear slowly and regularly as to some heavy breathing. every exhalation seemed to blow that fearful odor of death toward my nostrils! after a few moments however i could no longer deceive myself, for my eyes, accustomed to the light, made out too plainly for doubt a face pressed close against the glass watching my every movement. with that discovery my reason and coolness seemed to return instantly. without taking my eyes off the face framed in the door panel, i slid open the drawer immediately beneath my hand, groped for, and at last grasped, the revolver i always kept there. at last the face withdrew from the glass, but so sure was i that no illusion had deceived me that i waited without moving a muscle. at length the handle turned and the door was pulled open slowly. as slowly i turned the chamber of my revolver, touching each cartridge with my finger. the door continued to swing cautiously, and with my elbow still in the drawer i raised my forearm, covering the widening slit with the muzzle of my weapon. the door opened outward into the hall, and at first i could see nothing of the person pulling it. then suddenly a hand darted out and grasped the inside knob, and at the same moment the figure of a man, his back turned toward me, blocked the opening. had i fired then i could not have missed my aim, but the opportunity was so complete it seemed murderous. the fellow paused in the doorway and seemed to listen or look for something in the hall or rooms beyond. i tried to speak, but my throat only responded with a dry click. when at last i controlled my voice its utterance was a harsh whisper, "stop where you are, or i'll fire! don't turn or move a muscle! i have you covered with a revolver." the figure in the doorway started convulsively, but made no other motion, and for a moment everything was so still i could hear my watch ticking. then i heard the man say, "don't shoot, mr. wainwright. i'm going to face you." my heart almost stopped beating as i recognised the voice, but the horror of the situation did not burst upon me until josiah bateman turned and stood before me under the glare of the flaring lamp. for a moment neither of us spoke, but i noticed the haggard look of the man, the unkempt condition of his grey hair, and his soiled and tattered clothing. there was no doubt that the living man stood before me, but everything about him breathed a horrid suggestiveness. at last i motioned to a seat and addressed him. "what does this mean?" the old man smiled wearily, but his voice was much the same as usual. "i'm afraid i've given you a scare, without intending it, mr. wainwright. i owe you an apology. but you were plucky, sir, and i--well, i took some risks too." "what does all this mean?" i repeated, with some annoyance in my tone. "it's hard to tell in a few words, mr. wainwright, but i haven't risen from the dead. yes, i see you looking at my clothes, but i haven't been inside a grave, and no undertaker has handled me yet." "don't you think we've had enough of mysteries, mr. bateman?" i inquired impatiently. "surely--surely," replied the old man, "but i want to give you time to recover yourself and----" "i have quite recovered, thank you." "everything but your temper, mr. wainwright, everything but your temper. you need to have that in hand before giving me advice." "you seek a strange hour for consultation, mr. bateman. allow me to suggest an appointment for to-morrow morning." "no time like the present, mr. wainwright. i might say no time except the present. but while we are talking of time we waste it." mr. bateman's manner was usually abrupt, almost brusque, and his present oily tone had a peculiar menace to my ears. "i cannot listen very long to-night, mr. bateman, so i must ask you to explain your business at once," i answered shortly. "certainly my dear sir,--though you can have no business more important than this.--do you mind if i close the door? the draught is annoying and makes your miserable lamp sputter continually." i felt i would rather not have that door closed again, but could give no reason, so i simply nodded. mr. bateman rose and closed the door. he even slipped the bolt, but upon this i made no comment. then he resumed his seat, ran his hands through his long hair once or twice, and fixing his eyes on my face began speaking rapidly in an entirely different tone. "this is no time for details. you see i am alive, therefore the report of my death is false. it is no case of mistaken identity. i arranged it all. an unknown man did die in the adirondacks. no, i did not kill him. it was a natural death for him--an opportunity for me. i merely supplied the evidence for his identification. no need of asking how i did it. enough that it's done and done with practically no confederates. the question now i suppose is--why?" i nodded. "i will tell you, mr. wainwright. it was the only way to avoid failure--the one chance to save me from utter financial ruin. you look at me as though i were crazy.--well, i'm not. you think you know a good deal of my business affairs, but you know precious little and i tell you now, without discussing it, i had to die to make life worth living. if i had failed--well, there's no use talking 'ifs.' the point is this. i've been carrying a load that's pretty nearly done for me, but which'll give me the biggest harvest i've ever reaped. the devils think they've got me down, but i'll teach 'em who josiah bateman is!" the old man's eyes glittered and he struck the desk with his fist, but his manner was no more extravagant than usual, so i only said, "we are still dealing in mysteries, mr. bateman." "i'm explaining as fast as i can, sir! when i first entered upon the deal i'm now carrying through i thought i had plenty of money for it. but the unexpected happened again and again, and last month i began to turn things into cash. since then i've needed more and more money, needed it so badly i dare not ask for it, needed it cruelly, horribly. i've borrowed in every place where it would not ruin me to negotiate a loan--i'm at the end of my rope and i must have more money by tuesday next." "by tuesday next?" i queried. "yes. do you know how much life insurance i carry and where?" "a hundred thousand in the equitable and a hundred thousand in the mutual," i replied. "quite so--" he answered. "well then--i've got to have that money." i looked at the stern, haggard face before me. anxiety and sleeplessness had wrought great havoc with the man.--what if it had touched his brain? he interpreted my thought instantly. "leave your revolver alone, mr. wainwright! i'm quite as sane as you are and a good bit smarter if you don't yet see my scheme." "i think i prefer not to see it or hear it either," i answered. "nonsense, you've got to do both, and in the shortest possible time too, for i've had to waste a week already. i observe you were about to open my old will. well, it's no good. i've made another and here it is, signed, sealed, published, declared, witnessed and all the rest of the rot. this you will probate to-morrow morning. it appoints you my sole executor, gives you absolute power for five years to continue and conduct my business just as it is, leaves the bulk of my property to clerks and charities (for i haven't got as much as a second cousin living in the world), and it provides that my executor have one hundred thousand dollars in lieu of his fees." "that is generous," i observed. "i think it just," he replied, taking no notice of my smile. "now listen," he continued. "by tuesday morning you will be able to collect on my life insurance. the proofs are complete. yes, and genuine too. the doctor, the undertaker, the guides, all honestly believe i'm the corpse, and it does resemble me wonderfully. lord, but i've sweated in working it out! by tuesday, i say, those insurance companies will be satisfied, and they pay promptly, for the bigger the claim the better the advertisement. but if they delay, the fact of my death will tie up those devils who are trying to down me, for a few days at least. when you get the cash, pay it out under my directions and we'll roast the whole gang of them and josiah bateman will return to life ten times a millionaire, for i tell you, wainwright, this is the biggest thing you've ever been in!" "it is unique in more respects than one," i answered. "it is simplicity itself. only the details were difficult. even getting here, disguised as i am, was not easy without attracting too much notice, and----" "you might have saved yourself that trouble," i interrupted. "no, i had to see you to-night. to-morrow you would have probated that old will instead of----" "writing out our resignations." "what do you mean?" he gasped. "am i not clear enough?" "you don't mean to say you won't carry this thing through?" "i hoped you would come to your senses, mr. bateman, before a declination was necessary," i observed, keeping my eyes steadily upon the twitching face of my client. he stared at me for a moment in silence, and then burst out, "nonsense, wainwright, nonsense! you don't understand! what's the matter with you, anyway? i have desperate need of money and cannot get it from any ordinary channel without ruin. i so arrange that i shall be thought dead. i have absolutely no relations. you collect my life insurance and pay the money where i direct, and i am saved financially. i can then return and the amount paid by the life insurance companies will be refunded, and who, in god's name, is hurt?" "i have heard," i began, smiling, "that emergency evolves ethics, but----" "o don't go sermonizing about ethics, and stop that silly smiling! either i'm crazy, in which case you ought to humour me, or sane, and entitled to an intelligent hearing. i understand the proposition is a new one. it is made for new facts. but that does not argue it a crime. the only possible wrong in it is involved in the probate affidavits, but you know in nine out of ten cases you don't comply with the statutes in making affidavits, so there's no perjury. i only ask you to tell a lie--a lie which cannot possibly hurt anybody, but which will save me." "and incidentally help to perpetrate a fraud on the insurance companies." "an innocent fraud!--we will return the money with interest the moment it goes through." "and if it does not go through?" "it will.--it cannot fail, i tell you! but if it does," mr. bateman looked me steadily in the eyes, "if it does fail, no harm will be done. i shall be dead. before god, i swear it." there was tragedy written on the man's earnest face, and a note of pathos sounded in his voice. for a moment neither of us spoke. "mr. bateman," i said at last. "because i have listened to you, you must not suppose i have for one instant countenanced your scheme. it is impossible from beginning to end. suppose we terminate this interview----" "i see it!" he exclaimed suddenly--"i see it! you think the plan will fail and you take some risk for no gain in case my estate is bankrupt. i have said that if i do not get money i am ruined. i would not be, strictly speaking, a bankrupt. with my plans gone wrong my estate would still amount to $ , . your fee is safe. i have provided for that in the will. read it and see if i am not right. i cannot prove to-night the accuracy of my figures. to that extent you must trust me." it was pathetic to hear this rough old man pleading in such a manner. i suddenly felt more sorry than indignant and answered him quite gently. "i'm not practicing law, mr. bateman, merely for fees, or for only one case. i am following it as a career." "what in hell's name has that got to do with it?" he burst forth angrily. "i'm sick and tired of your hypocrisy and that of your whole legal crew. you take cases you don't believe in, argue to prove what you know is false, defeat the laws, shield the dishonest, help criminals to escape, bully and insult honest men, tell lies, act lies, live lies,--do anything and everything that's safe and disgusting--and yet you prate to me about your career! your career indeed! god save me from the smirch and smirk of it all!" "have you quite finished, mr. bateman?" the old man's face was purple with rage and his hands trembled as they clutched the arms of his chair. it was not until the look of hate faded from his eyes that he spoke again. "no, sir, i've not finished--but i apologise for what i said. it was childish--foolish. i was at the end of my patience for it seems so unjust that you should take such a stand. i ask you to save me from what would be ruin to me, for what should be a fortune to you. i ask you to do no wrong to any man, woman or child in the world. i have toiled years and years in my business. i have suffered to get what i have, and i made every dollar honestly, by my brains alone. i have only one ambition--have had only one thought for years--to die a rich man--the successful merchant of my time. a poor ambition you think? well, it's my heart's desire. take it away and i am dead. i have no wife, no children, no relatives of any sort. examine my will and see what i propose to do with my money. what have i to live for save the joy of making? oh, man, man, can't you understand? don't you see what this means to me?" i could not at once find an answer for the poor wretch, almost frantic with anxiety. he interpreted my silence hopefully, for he continued, "i ask you to take but little upon faith. if my plan succeeds, as it must, no one will lose save those who in commercial venture have staked upon my failure, and who have no idea to-day how near i am to it. the insurance companies will regain their money and more advertisement than they could get elsewhere in twenty years. if i fail, they will only have paid the money a few days too soon. you believe that? you must know i could not survive failure. but you need not rely on this, for you are safe in the fact that i cannot return without facing a prison for my few remaining years. when first i came here to-night, mr. wainwright, it was to open your safe and substitute the wills and let you do unknowingly what i now ask and implore you to do knowingly.--you will do it, will you not?" "mr. bateman,--once and for all,--i will not." "you won't help me? then, by god, you shan't hinder me!" i sprang to my feet, but before i understood what was taking place i saw a flash, and one of the window panes behind me shattered. almost at the same instant i launched myself upon the old man with such force that we both crashed to the floor, i upon his prostrate body. the struggle was brief, for i was young and powerfully built, and the man beneath me well advanced in years. pinning his arms with my knees i tore the revolver from his hand and hurled it across the room. then he ceased struggling and i turned him over easily, tying his arms with my handkerchief. but there was little need of this precaution, for his strength was gone, and it was necessary to help him into a chair. some moments passed before he said anything. when he spoke there were tears in his voice. "forgive me, mr. wainwright. i don't know what possessed me. the disappointment--the disappointment of a life's work must have suddenly crazed me. but i am sane now and i was before. everything i told you is true.--i know it is impossible now to hope for anything.--will you take me to a hospital? i am a sick man, mr. wainwright--a very sick man, but i do not wish to live. everything--i told you--is true." * * * * * ten days later josiah bateman died at the hospital where i took him that night. "it is a singular case," the house physician told me, "but not unheard of. he simply lacked the zest for living." mr. bateman's second will was never probated. a few days before he died he sent for it. "what is to-day?" he asked as i gave him the document. "wednesday," i answered. "it is too late now," he whispered. "i have lived too long. i revoke this." he tore the paper as he spoke. we proved the old will, but he had perfected his plans only too well. it was difficult to make out a case of mistaken identity for the body in the adirondacks, and it was months before we established our rights to the insurance moneys. his estate did not realise quite $ , , but after a close examination into his affairs i am persuaded all josiah bateman claimed he could accomplish was possible, and that everything he told me that night was absolutely true. the finding of fact. "but their wild exultation was suddenly checked, as the jailer informed them with tears, such a verdict would not have the slightest effect, as the pig had been dead for some years." lewis carroll. "anything on this morning, counsellor?" the title was still music to holden's ears, so he smiled encouragingly at the fat reporter. in an instant a bethumbed court calendar was shoved under his nose and the reportorial pencil questioned, "_grafton against the milling companies?_ are you in that? say, what's doing there to-day? is it any good?" the reportorial arm was slipped confidentially through his, and holden thus accompanied threaded his way through the crowded rotunda of the county court house. "hello--must be something up in holden's office. look at that leech plimpton glued to him!" "yes--_grafton against the milling companies_." "good lord! is that on? i might as well go back to the office then. we'll never be reached to-day." "that's right. we're not ready, so thank goodness they're ahead of us. it's a dandy case,--wish we had it." "think i'll stay and hear the arguments.--old man harter's in fine form, they say." so the managing clerks talked as they leaned against the walls of the rotunda or sat upon the railing of the "well." it is an interesting place that rotunda--a trifle impossible, perhaps, from an academic point of view,--but still an interesting place. it is the big noisy ante-chamber to the stuffy court rooms of a big noisy city. it has an atmosphere of tobacco, shirt sleeves and hurry--an atmosphere of the people--its architecture is big and plain--an architecture for the people, and its dirt and smears bespeak a daily use and occupation by the people. to the casual visitor the same persons seem to live in it all the year round. to the habitué the masses are kaleidoscopic--never and yet ever the same. messengers,--process-servers, office boys--all the fledglings of the law gather there in groups and blow cigarette smoke into each other's faces. court officials loll about the railing patronising the managing clerks, who must cultivate them or yield all claims to management. big-girthed men hold one another by watch chains and lapels and tell loud-mouthed stories of their triumphant practice. bloated gentlemen and shifty seek out corners to breathe moist secrets into each other's ears. but heedless of all these a hurrying crowd is ever streaming this way and that--here a haggard face and there a laughing one--now a brutal type and now a mask of breeding--so they go--shuffle, shuffle, click-a-clack, all day long, outside the halls of justice. holden pushed open the swinging doors labelled special term part i. and entered a small court room crowded to suffocation. every seat was occupied and men were standing about everywhere--jammed in between the chairs--plastered against the wall--crushed against the rail. the counsels' table and its two chairs were the only unoccupied bits of furniture in the room. the court criers glanced despairingly at the throng and shouted mechanically, "gentlemen will please take seats!" and then, more hopefully, "gentlemen will please stop talking!" but the babel of conversation was finally hushed by an attendant who announced the entrance of the judge by pounding with an ample fist upon the panels of a door. not a very dignified heralding of the presence of the court, but understood by the late comers whose view is limited to the judicial canopy--that pall-like canopy of red rep which sets one panting to gaze with relief at the steam-screened windows. they at least are wet. "_grafton_ vs. _the milling companies!_" holden fought his way like a foot-ball player through the "rush line" of lawyers, and as he pitched into the cleared space before the counsels' table his impulse was to dodge the one man before him and race down "the side-line." but he checked himself in time. then two other young men plunged into the open and stood somewhat breathlessly before the bench. "if it please the court," began holden, "this is a motion in a case of great importance and----" "all cases are equally important in this court, sir!" "i recognise that, your honour, but i was about to say----" "well, well, never mind! are you ready?" "yes, sir, but i was about to tell your honour----" "that'll do, sir!" "that mr. harter, who is to argue this motion, thinks it will take till recess." "ah, mr. harter? well, his opinions are interesting, of course, but not quite conclusive on this court. not necessarily conclusive. eh?" a titter from the crowd acknowledged this retort. is there anything so irresistibly infectious as the wit of the bench? the other young men then came to the rescue of their fellow clerk. this is such an old, old play that every one knows his cue. "col. partridge thinks he will need half an hour, your honour." "col. partridge? ah,--well,--what does the other side say?" "mr. coates thinks he will take twenty minutes more." "um--mr. coates? tell--er--tell mr. harter i'll take it up as soon as the cases ahead of it are disposed of. no cases after _grafton_ vs. _the milling companies_ will be heard before two o'clock. _morton_ vs. _sheldon_, are you ready?" "the defendant's counsel has just stepped into the hall. if your honour will hold it a moment----" "this court waits for no one, sir. its time belongs to the people. motion dismissed. _vone_ vs. _taunton_. what's that about?" "it's a motion to change the place of trial, if the court please." "well, hand in your papers." "but i'd like to be heard, your honour. this means much to my client." "now, mister,--er--mister--er--counsellor, what is the use of arguing that? i know all about it--i have hundreds of such cases--and seldom grant them. hand up your papers." "will not the court allow me----" "no, sir; no, sir! that'll do! hand up your papers.--_grafton_ vs. _the milling companies_! ah, mr. harter; good-morning, sir. officer, get mr. harter a chair. good-morning, colonel partridge, how are you to-day, sir? we are all ready now, i think, mr. coates? yes? well, no other cases will be heard this morning." and the judge leans back in his comfortable swing-chair, and beams in courteous attention upon the distinguished counsel. "if the court please," begins mr. coates, "this is a case of great importance----" yes, his honour knows its importance. he has gathered this from the retainer of messrs. harter and partridge and coates, and the reporters know its importance as they scribble on their pads, and the newspaper artists know it as they sketch illustrations for the "story," and the court officials know it reflecting his honour on the bench. but the one who knows it best of all is the grey-haired plaintiff, grafton, who sits behind mr. harter and listens with a puzzled air to the learned arguments. to grafton the case was indeed important. it involved all he had in the world. it had seemed a simple case to him when he first brought it to his attorney, but matters had not gone smoothly from the start. delay and postponement were followed by more delay and further postponement. "the defendants were putting up a stiff fight," his attorney told him. what about? well, they had "demurred," or "counterclaimed," or "made a motion," or "appealed,"--had done some of these things, or all of them--goodness knows just what--it was not very clear. why couldn't his case be tried? well, they were "stayed by appeal," or "enjoined pending a motion," or were "stricken off the calendar." some of these things, or all of them, had happened. "but the fact was," his attorney told him, "the defendant's counsel stood in too well with the court--he really ought to retain mr. harter." so mr. harter was retained, and the case bristled with nice legal points and pretty questions of practice, to the utter amazement of grafton, who blindly stumbled along in the ruck of the legal battle, hopelessly confused and growing daily more and more anxious, like the suitor in _jarndyce_ vs. _jarndyce_. but such a case as _jarndyce_ vs. _jarndyce_ could never happen in new york, because, as any lawyer can tell you, there is no court of chancery, or anything like---- well, there is no court of chancery. the argument of mr. coates was ably sustained, and mr. harter's reply was so masterly that col. partridge said in his rejoinder that nothing but his knowledge of the law kept him from being persuaded. the court laughed, and the officials laughed, and the listening bar laughed. everyone laughed except grafton, who had no sense of humour, anyway. but at last it was over. "well, mr. grafton, i hope you are satisfied--i feel sure his honour was with us.... holden, hand up your brief.... it was very good, sir.... mr. grafton, this is young mr. holden of our office who wrote the brief for you on the motion to-day--and wrote it well, too." holden blushed like a school-girl as he shook mr. grafton's hand. it was no small thing to be praised by mr. harter at any time, but about "_grafton_ vs. _the milling companies_," it was positive distinction. mr. harter was right about the court being with him, for the plaintiff won that motion. he was right again in the two appeals which followed the decision. he was right on several other like occasions and won no less than six different motions and five appeals by the end of the next three years. but the case didn't get to trial. it was then that grafton began to grow surly and instead of congratulating mr. harter on his triumphant practice, snapped out that such practice made perfect fools of honest men. which was decidedly ungrateful as well as impolitic. however, he sensibly gave up trying to follow the maze of procedure, and hammered away with expostulation and question at the fact that the case wasn't tried. with less wisdom he took to talking about the litigation with his friends and neighbours--with lawyers at the club--with officials in the court--with clerks in the office--with anyone and everyone who would listen, until he bored them beyond politeness and began to get snubbed. but the case itself was less interesting than at first. almost all the fine points of "practice" had been exhausted and only the dry fodder of facts remained. harter hadn't appeared in court with it for many a day and plainly intimated that he'd retire altogether if grafton didn't stop boring him. but in holden the plaintiff always had an interested listener. ever since the morning when mr. harter had praised his work holden had studied the case in every phase and knew its every detail. so when, a few months after he set up in practice for himself, grafton brought him all the papers and made him his sole attorney, holden knew no words with which to express his thanks. he had always despised the flagging interest of his seniors. doubtless they had done their best--mr. harter and the attorney, but despite their fruitless efforts he felt his ability to push the matter to a successful issue. it was a great case, and there was his chance, and into it he threw himself with all the splendid enthusiasm of his youth and strength. he pressed his adversaries this way and that, worried them with unending work and harassed them with ceaseless attack until he saw his case actually set down for trial on "a day certain." then his excitement knew no bounds. he worked hour after hour with grafton's witnesses, prepared schedules and accounts, compiled digests of testimony and indices of all the papers, made himself an expert bookkeeper and a master-expert on every detail of grafton's business. he raised every question that legal ingenuity could conjure up, and every quibble that cunning could devise and met them in his trial-brief--the work of months of careful study. there was no suggestion of a defence which was not ferreted out and run down by question and answer--no technicality neglected, until at length even grafton laughingly protested. "my dear boy, let's leave it alone now! there's no one can beat you on either the facts or the law." but holden wouldn't leave it alone. they were already talking about the approaching trial in the rotunda, and this was his start in life. so night and day he studied and planned with the increasing confidence which comes of perfect preparation. at last they were in the court crowded with witnesses, counsel, litigants and reporters. would there be another adjournment? not if he could help it, and holden squared his jaw and looked determination at the veteran mr. coates. "_grafton_ vs. _the milling companies_--how long will that take?" "about two days--your honour, i think." holden's voice fairly faltered as he answered glancing at the witnesses clustered near him and the immense pile of books and papers. but mr. coates did not dissent. he was ready. at last! at last they were at trial. "then no other matters will be heard to-day. _grafton_ vs. _the milling companies_. proceed with your case, sir." but mr. coates had arisen and was addressing the court. "i think it only right to say to your honour that i shall not interpose any defence in this action. the milling companies made an assignment last night, and i only represent the assignee. the gentleman will, of course, take our default, but i should hardly think he would occupy the whole day." holden stared silently at the speaker. the familiar scene darkened, faded, disappeared and flared up in a new light completely transforming it--a strange room with strange people--a stage setting in the white unmasking light of day.--a mocking face leered at him from a raised dais--mocking figures elbowed him with impatient scorn--mocking fingers pointed at him with derisive joy--fat clammy hands touched his breast and pushed him from the rail over which he glared with the most desperate hatred known to the world--the hatred of a man against mankind. then someone burst out laughing. "what does he mean, holden?" grafton's voice sounded a mile away, but the words of belden, coates' clerk, were clear enough as he whispered in holden's ear: "wasn't it great? kept you all off for over three years without a ghost of a defence! our people only wanted time to get things fixed and we got it for them all right enough, i guess. give you a dime for your judgment! i tell you----" but holden suddenly struck belden across the mouth and was promptly adjudged guilty of contempt of court.--of which the payment of his fine did not purge him, an order of the court to the contrary notwithstanding. a conclusion of law. this story will not be understood by half the people who read it and the other half will not believe it, so it should be perfectly innocuous. hartruff, it is true, took offence when norris told it in his presence,--but trust norris for picking out the hundredth man. he has about as much tact as hartruff has conscience, so they are admirably adapted for mutual misunderstanding. they encountered in the smoking-room of the equity club after lunch, where the usual number of lawyers were gathered to bore one another with dissertations on their respective cases. one can sometimes obtain useful information by listening to a good deal of tiresome boasting, but the real reward for enduring long blasts of someone else's horn is, of course, the privilege of blowing your own. norris, however, cared nothing for performances of this kind, and the first professional toot was, as a rule, the signal for his departure. the man who doesn't boast is apt to be popular, but the man who won't listen to boasting is invariably disliked. norris was not popular, and the loudest performers hinted that he hadn't any practice to talk about. what induced him to depart from his usual custom on this particular occasion i do not know, unless, as i have said, it was his fatal genius for picking out the hundredth man. groton had been discoursing for twenty minutes on his triumphant progress through a case with which all his hearers were supposed to be familiar--for groton thinks a breathless world watches his career--when he happened to mention somebody as being of "no political importance." "there isn't any such person," interrupted norris. groton stopped and looked at the speaker in surprise. "i didn't mean to interrupt you, groton," continued norris, "i've a bad habit of thinking aloud. go on with what you were saying." groton resumed his recital, and when at last his story reached the court of appeals and the final discomforture of all his opponents he turned indulgently to norris. "and now tell us, norris, why you say there is no one politically unimportant." "i was thinking of an experience jack holcomb had a few years ago----" "yes?" "you remember jack holcomb--don't you? no? well, he practised here for many years. he wasn't much of a lawyer, but he had the faculty of making his clients believe he was, which is quite as effective. barney mccarren was introduced to him by some real-estate broker, and though any lawyer could have accomplished what holcomb did for mccarren, yet such was his way of doing it that the man swore by him ever afterward. "barney mccarren was the proprietor of two or three little oyster-stands in the lower part of the city. as may be imagined he was not a person of any great wealth. he was of so little prominence in the down-town ward where he had lived all his life, that even his immediate neighbours only knew him as a quiet, self-supporting man, who devoted himself to his family and interfered with no one. "well, mccarren came to holcomb one day some years ago and said that a judgment had been entered against him by the district attorney's office on a forfeited bail bond. it appeared that one of his neighbours had been arrested for assault, and barney, having a small piece of real estate, became bail for him. when the case was called for trial, however, the prisoner failed to appear, and consequently mccarren's small property was in peril. high and low he searched for his principal, but a month elapsed before barney chanced upon the fellow. they saw one another at the same moment, and instantly a chase began, which lasted until the fugitive tripped on the canal street car tracks and mccarren fell on top of him and hauled him to the nearest police station. a little later the man was put on trial and acquitted, and at that stage of the proceedings barney sought holcomb's aid. the matter was, of course, a very simple one, and holcomb assured his client he would have the property cleared of the judgment forthwith. to this end he prepared the proper papers, which, as you know, include a receipt from the sheriff showing payment of all the fees of that official. "holcomb therefore looked up the matter in the code and found the proper fee was fifty cents. then he went to the deputy in charge of the case and presented the certificate for signature, at the same time tendering the statutory amount. the man read through the papers and then pointed to the money holcomb had placed on the table. "'what's that for?' he asked insolently. "'it's your fee,' explained holcomb. "'it ain't _my_ fee.' "'well, what is your charge then?' "'fifty dollars, i guess--about fifty dollars.' "'you are very much mistaken. here is the section regulating the matter.' "'aw, what do i care about the statue?--the fee's fifty plunks i tell yer!' "'and i tell you, my friend, i will not pay it!' answered holcomb, growing angry at the man's insolent manner. 'i will pay you half a dollar and not one cent more.' "'then yer don't get the certif. see?' "'i'll see that i get it at once and teach you a lesson at the same time!' "holcomb swung angrily out of the room and made straight for the sheriff's private office. he knew the sheriff well, and handing his card to the door-keeper was immediately ushered into the room, where he reported the actions of the deputy. the sheriff was indignant and rang the bell sharply. "'send mulqueen to me at once.' "mulqueen reported immediately and as soon as he had entered the room and closed the door the sheriff turned on him angrily. "'what does this mean, mulqueen? here is mr. holcomb, who says you demand $ for a matter covered by a fifty-cent charge. you must be crazy, man! what do you mean by it?' "'fifty dollars is the fee--sheriff,' answered the man sullenly. "'it is not, sir! i have looked at the code, which mr. holcomb says he showed you. make out the certificate instantly, and i'll take up your case later.' "'can i speak to you for a moment--sheriff?' asked the deputy. "'yes--go ahead,' snapped the official. "holcomb moved to the window to be out of hearing, and the man shuffling up to the desk whispered a few words in the sheriff's ear. when the lawyer looked into the room again the deputy had disappeared and the sheriff was gazing at the pattern of the rug under his desk. "'i'm awfully sorry, holcomb,' he began, without looking at his visitor, 'but i find--but the fact is,--the deputy is quite right. the fee is--is fifty dollars.' "holcomb stared at the official in amazement. "'the deputy right!' he exclaimed after a pause. 'why, what's the matter with you, townly? here's the law--you just quoted it yourself!' "'i know, i know,' muttered the sheriff, turning his head and gazing out of the window, 'but i was mistaken--i find i was mistaken.' "'but i am not mistaken,' persisted holcomb. 'you must be bewitched! i don't understand.' "'well, don't try to, old man. i'd do anything for you--you know, but i can't do this.' "'i don't want you to do anything for me!' interrupted holcomb, indignantly. 'i only want you to enforce the law as you find it, and not----' "he paused, feeling that he might say too much. "'you'll have to excuse me,' murmured the sheriff, impatiently, 'i'd do anything to oblige, but really, this time----' "holcomb gazed at the man in silence for a moment--nodding his head in comprehending pity and contempt, and left the room without another word." --"when did you say your friend dreamed all this rot?" it was hartruff who roughly interrupted the story. at the sound of his voice norris turned his gaze toward the window, and continued looking out of it while he answered slowly: "why do you think he dreamed it? have you heard the rest of the story?" "no--but anyone can see what's coming." "is it such an every-day affair with you? so much the less reason for thinking holcomb dreamed it." hartruff laughed contemptuously. "o, well, never mind--go on with your tarradiddle." "you will pardon me then for telling what must, of course, be commonplace to a member of the general committee?" "o, go to the devil!" "you forget yourself, my dear hartruff. why direct me to headquarters, when his deputies are members of decent down-town clubs?" "come, come, gentlemen," interposed lawton, "this is going too far." "precisely what i just remarked to hartruff," drawled norris. hartruff saw the smile on the faces of the company, and rose from his seat. "i will leave this gentleman to continue his pipe-dreaming, advising him, however, that it is a dangerous practice." "is that a warning, hartruff? if so, write it out, please. those warnings always look so much fiercer in mis-spelled words signed with crosses. but i forget, your organisation never puts itself on paper." "no--but it puts itself on record!" "makes its mark, you mean? well, that's merely a defect of early education, easily overcome with men like you to guide its fist." "take care you don't feel the weight of it." "my dear hartruff, haven't they taught you yet to keep your teeth on your temper? really, you'll never rise from the ranks unless you learn to smile and smile and,--well--you'd better learn to smile." hartruff turned on his heel, strode to the door and slammed it behind him. "when holcomb left the sheriff," continued norris calmly, "he promptly sent for his client barney mccarren and explained the entire situation to him. mccarren expressed no surprise, but when holcomb announced his intention of bringing mandamus proceedings to compel the sheriff to give the required certificates, barney laid a protesting hand on his counsel's arm. "'shure 'tis no use, counsellor,' he said. 'i was afraid you couldn't do anything, but i knew if you couldn't, nobody could.' "'what do you mean by its being "no use"--and why should you "be afraid"? i'm going to get out papers this instant and show those fellows up.' "'please don't do it, sir. at least not until i come again.' "'for goodness' sake, why not, man? it shan't cost you a cent.' "'it isn't that, sir. but--well--i shouldn't have troubled you--i might have known----' "'might have known what?' "'that they'd lay for me.' "'why?' "'for not attending meetings at the club.' "'what club?' "'the district club.' "then it came out, bit by bit, that mccarren had been a 'regular' in the organisation and a member of the district club. during the last year, however, he had wearied of the proceedings and had absented himself from the meetings. at the last election he hadn't voted. the district leader had spoken to him once jokingly about his absence from the meetings, and once, not jokingly, about his absence from the polls.--'i knew they had it up for me,' concluded mccarren resignedly. "'well, don't you let them frighten you, barney. i'll soon show them they can't play with the law.' "'you mustn't do it, sir. you really mustn't do it.' "holcomb argued and expostulated at length. he explained to his client that the courts would not permit such violations of the law, and that the legal proceedings would be free of cost. he showed him that prompt action would not only gain him his rights, but would make them respected in future. he urged his personal and professional interest in the matter and begged his client to take action. but all in vain. mccarren knew he'd win the lawsuit--but there were his oyster-stands for which licenses were necessary. he'd like to stand up for his rights--but he wanted his children to get into the schools next fall. he knew how mr. holcomb felt about the matter--but it helped out for his wife to continue as janitoress of the tenement where they lived.--in a word there were a hundred points where the powers could and would reach him. he couldn't afford it! "holcomb looked hopelessly at his client, and seeing the disappointment in his face, mccarren tried to soften the effect of his decision. "'wait--just wait a few days, sir. then maybe i'll come and see you about it again.' "at the end of a week he came. "'will you take up that matter again, mr. holcomb?' he said, 'try it once more just as though'--he hesitated a moment--'just as though i hadn't asked you before.' "holcomb 'took it up again' with the same papers he had prepared the first time, and called on the sheriff's deputy. "'i want a receipt for your fees in this case,' he said, laying the papers before the official and placing a fifty-cent piece on his desk. "the man read the papers slowly, thoughtfully inserted the date and blotted the ink. then he signed the sheriff's name by his own and handed the papers to holcomb. "'there ain't no fees in this case,' he said, as he pushed the fifty-cent piece toward the lawyer. "'i think you are mistaken. there is the statutory fee on 'entering execution.' "'there weren't nothing done in this case.' "'no?' "'no.' "'thank you.' "holcomb entered the proper order and returned to his client. "'how did you do it, barney?' he asked. "'how did i do it, sir?' "'yes.' "'i didn't do anything.' "'but why was it matters went so smoothly to-day? you must have used some influence.' "'no, sir,--that is--well,--i think the leader saw me at tuesday's meeting, sir.'" * * * * * young hudson was the first to break the silence which followed norris' recital. "i've always said," he began, "that some of the most annoying things in practice come from the obstinacy of clients. now i had a case----" "if a man wants to get blackmailed," interrupted harlow, "there's no law in the land to prevent or protect him." "i guess holcomb put on too much 'side' with that deputy," commented truslow. "those fellows are easy enough to handle if you only go about it in the right way. now i had occasion one time to need----" "i don't believe any sheriff would make such a break as to call down a deputy without inquiring about the inside facts," interrupted patton. "you take my word for it, norris, there's something wrong with that story." norris looked straight at the speaker. "you're right," he answered, "there is something wrong with that story." "i knew there was. what?" "the dates and the names. it happened yesterday and i was the lawyer. i told it to you men because you're members of the bar, interested in the administration of justice and the maintenance of law. i'm glad i did so, if only to learn we're so accustomed to such things nowadays that we see nothing in them but the obstinacy of clients and the need of jollying petty officials. isn't it a pretty commentary that the only doubt cast upon the truth of this story is that the sheriff should have failed to inform himself of the conspiracy? such things are going on every day and we wink at them if we don't actually aid and abet them to facilitate our private business. a fearful tyranny sways this whole city, clutching or shadowing the tenements, brutalising the prisons, frustrating the laws--wasting the treasury--corrupting the courts--and we not only suffer it, but we tolerate the men of education who associate themselves with such work--allow them to be members of our clubs and degrade ourselves until----" "say--old man--hire a hall for next tuesday evening and i'll take a ticket. honest i will. but i've got to leave you now and get back to work." lawton rose and smiled good-naturedly at norris, whose crimsoned face bespoke repentance of his sudden outburst. the other members followed lawton's example, and soon there was no one left in the room except norris and "silent" bancroft. for some moments neither man spoke. then bancroft rose and rolling his cigar between his fingers thoughtfully studied its glowing ashes. "say, norris," he began slowly, "do you--do you attend primaries?" "er--no." "um,--i thought not," remarked the old gentleman as he walked toward the door. the burden of proof. i. it had been snowing ever since the buffalo express left new york, but the pullman car passengers, comfortably housed, were no more conscious of the weather than they were of each other. when the train stopped unexpectedly at a flag station, the whispering of the snowflakes against the window-panes made itself heard, and the presence of the passengers made itself felt. the car instantly became a room whose occupants discovered one another at the same moment, and sat staring into each other's faces with all the gloom of fellow-patients in a doctor's office. the silence was embarrassing and absurd. a nervous passenger coughed to relieve the tension, and felt himself flushing under the concentrated attention of the entire company. a woman leaned forward to speak to her neighbour, but stopped as though conscious of some indecorum. then everyone sat perfectly quiet, and the slow throb of the engine was the only sound from the frosty world outside. at last the conductor opened the door, and the passengers gazed at him as if they had never seen his like before. when he stamped the snow off his feet they watched him with a charmed intensity. when he spoke they started perceptibly. --"anybody named glenning in this car?" --"yes--here." all eyes centred on the speaker, a middle-aged, well-dressed, commonplace man occupying a corner chair. --"a telegram for you, sir." mr. glenning slowly adjusted his glasses, peered at the address on the yellow envelope, took a penknife from his pocket and cut the flap with great deliberation. the passengers watched his face with the breathless interest of an audience viewing the climax of some mighty drama where every movement of the actors must be noted. but mr. glenning read the message without the slightest change of expression. "if you want to send an answer you can do it. we wait here for a few minutes longer." "i'll tell you in a moment." mr. glenning took from his vest-pocket a small, red book with indexed margin, opened it about the middle, ran his finger down the edge, stopped toward the foot of the page and said: "no answer. any charge? no? thank you." the audience gave vent to its relief in a relaxing stir and rustle. mr. glenning picked up his newspaper and began to read. the engine whistled two sharp warnings, the wheels slipped once or twice on the icy rails, the whispering of the snowflakes hushed and the inmates of the flying pullman once more forgot each other. when the train reached albany the last passenger to leave the car picked up the telegram which mr. glenning had crumpled and thrown upon the floor. but his curiosity was only partly satisfied by reading: _mr. john glenning, passenger on no. . effervescent albany._ had he possessed mr. glenning's code he would not have been much wiser, for the translated message simply read as follows: _the party wanted is in albany._ ii. messrs. constable, glenning and hertzog were engaged in the general practice of the law, but hertzog was the only lawyer in the partnership. the others were merely members of the bar. mr. constable's aptitudes lay in the line of drumming up business. he was known, although he did not know it, as the "barker" for the firm. he belonged to eight clubs; he was identified with fourteen charities, among which he counted three chairmanships; he was in the vestry of a prosperous church and on the visiting board of two hospitals; sixteen corporations published his name as a director, and the same sixteen acknowledged his firm as counsel. mr. constable was in the public eye. mr. glenning was not in the public eye, but he had its ear, provided public was spelled with a capital p and the right political party was in power. mr. glenning had been a member of the firm for twenty years, which proved that the right political party generally was in power. what his functions were no one seemed to know, but unquestionably he was a very busy man. a very serious, earnest believer too in his profession was mr. glenning, and impatient of the silly slights and slurs ever ready on the tongues of the outsiders. thus when an alleged wit said something about "more cases being decided at the trench than at the bench," mr. glenning, who dined more with the judges and knew them better than any other man in town, snubbed the speaker and disposed of his remark as "a sneer of the unsuccessful." everybody understood hertzog's work. it used to be said that his two best clients were constable and glenning, but then people are always saying bitter things for want of better. mr. constable was a florid-faced, white-whiskered, well-dressed little man, bright, quick and full of energy. there were those who considered him pompous, and it is true he regarded himself very seriously. but most people took him at his own estimate. in the outer office his manner was sharp, short and decisive; in the inner office he was silent, impressive and indecisive. that is to say he listened thoughtfully, earnestly, sympathetically, intelligently, comprehendingly--in any and every way that inspires confidence, but no one ever lured him into expressing an off-hand opinion. his decisions were always "decisions reserved."--"reserved for hertzog," muttered "the unsuccessful."--but luckily mr. constable never heard them, for, like mr. glenning, he was intolerant of flippancy in every form. he was also intolerant of details. if anything went wrong in the office mr. constable shook off all responsibility for it. "that is a detail of which i know nothing," was his ever present phrase in time of trouble, and this, accompanied by a wave of his hands, cleared the atmosphere in his vicinity. a detail in mr. constable's meaning was anything uncomfortable to remember. "that is a detail with which i do not charge my memory," he would say, and he was never contradicted. there was no firm in the city more prominent than constable, glenning and hertzog, and none more highly esteemed. possibly mr. constable emphasised this a little too often, but perhaps his insistence impressed some of the very people who pretended to laugh at it. "a firm of our standing," was another of his pet phrases, and on this he rang the changes with such genuine pride that those who did not envy readily forgave him the touch of conceit. still there were those who would not have grieved had the firm lost its standing in the hydroid fibre case. but the mud there only reached horton, the office notary public, and he went to sing sing for his cleansing. it was at the annual meeting of the great hydroid fibre co., during a bitter fight for control, that one of the stockholders repudiated a proxy bearing his name and carrying votes in favour of mr. constable. the signature was an evident forgery, and ugly things were said. horton, the notary public who had witnessed the paper and taken the signer's "acknowledgment," was sent for, but could give no adequate explanation. mr. constable, though dumfounded at the disclosure, acted with commendable promptness. he instantly ordered the arrest of horton and silenced accusation by placing himself in the hands of his counsel, mr. hertzog, and demanding an investigation. this inquiry clearly demonstrated that mr. constable controlled more votes than were necessary without the disputed shares. horton swore that the bogus stockholder had been properly identified, and claimed that he had been artfully imposed upon, but of this there was absolutely no proof. not a trace of the swindler could be found. but the firm did not rest satisfied with this vindication. a clerk in the office had proved untrustworthy, and of him it was determined to make an example. the district attorney's office was not a little proud of the short work it made of horton's case, and messrs. constable, glenning & hertzog, each in his own way, complimented the officials on having promptly closed what threatened to be quite a scandal, involving the fair name of the firm. but horton's case would not stay closed, and it was that which was "effervescing." horton's counsel, barton mackenzie, was one of those irrepressible persons who answer defeat with defiance, and gather courage with every fresh discouragement. but mackenzie built up a record of disaster in horton's case which surpassed anything he had ever experienced before. he was defeated before the police magistrate and horton was held for the grand jury, which promptly indicted him on half a dozen different charges. at the trial the presiding justice ruled steadily against him, and the verdict of the jury adjudged his client guilty. another judge refused a "certificate of reasonable doubt," and horton went to sing sing with his case still on appeal. eight weeks slipped by and then the appellate division affirmed the conviction. three months later mackenzie argued his client's cause before the court of appeals in albany, but horton had served nearly six months of his sentence before that tribunal decided he had been legally convicted. this brought mackenzie to a stand-still for a while, though hertzog thought he recognised his hand in the subsequent badgering of mr. constable and the hydroid fibre co. one of those insignificant five-share stockholders, the pest of every corporation, began to worry the company with ceaseless questions, demanding every possible privilege accorded by the statutes. who he was, or how he got his shares, was a detail of which mr. constable regretfully admitted "he knew nothing," and glenning, exploring every underground passage known to politics, could not run the thing to earth. this irrepressible shareholder examined the list of stockholders, obtained statements of the treasurer, called for papers and particulars, and made a general nuisance of himself. his specialty, however, was interviewing president constable. hardly a week passed without his calling on this official. "here's that five-share man again," mr. constable would say, slipping into mr. hertzog's private room. "shall i see him?" "of course--see him." "you will--er--drop in?" "no--confound it! you've seen him with me often enough. what have you got to worry about?" "nothing. nothing, of course--but----" "well, see him!" then mr. constable gaining confidence from his hebrew partner's shrewd face would answer decisively: "very well, i will see him." but in his own private office the president would be apt to run his fingers along the inside of his collar, as though it choked him, muttering, "damn this business!" before he pushed his bell and ordered in his visitor. mr. constable was subjected to another constant annoyance. several of the daily papers invariably coupled his name with some reference to the horton case. a paragraph announcing his election to a trusteeship would identify him as "_the president of the hydroid fibre co., who recently had a most unfortunate experience with a notary public now serving sentence in sing sing_." or, if his name appeared in some list, the paragrapher would add: "_mr. constable, it will be remembered, disposed of quite a serious charge in the hydroid fibre matter, some of the parties now being in sing sing_." it was incessant, intolerable, and intangible. but one evening, in an after-dinner chat, mr. glenning had a short, whispered conference about the matter with a city official, and the city official dropped a hint next day to his advertising agent which must have reached the city editors, for the "squibbing" stopped. however, when mr. constable resigned from the presidency of the hydroid fibre co., the paragraphers took occasion to revive the whole story. then, as though tired of being in the public eye, mr. constable began to resign his trusteeships one after another, until his partners took alarm and vigorously protested. "i'm not well," he answered, "and i don't want so much responsibility." "but what about the business?" suggested mr. glenning. then mr. constable astounded them. "let me retire," he answered wearily. but mr. constable's partners did not propose to have the business sacrificed in any such way. they would not hear of his retirement, and when he insisted, mr. hertzog remarked very pointedly that he did not presume to understand this gentle resignation business, but if there was any little game on hand he proposed to be in it for the next three years at least. about money matters mr. hertzog cherished no illusions, and at the word dollar hester street instantly reclaimed him. there was no "little game," mr. constable hastened to assure him. it was simply that he could not do justice to the firm or himself. he was a sick man--a very sick man. "then take a vacation. go into the country and stay as long as you like, but drop this retirement nonsense," commanded mr. hertzog, and the senior partner turned away wearily without another word. "it's the reaction after that cussed horton affair," mr. glenning remarked; "he was snappy enough about that until mackenzie was finally knocked out, but since then he's drooped. reaction, i suppose--don't you?" "yes." mr. hertzog was seldom more than monosyllabic, but his eyes followed the wilted little figure of his partner with more anxiety than the word implied. alone in his private room he frowned, muttering to himself: "reaction--yes or action.--costing us thousands of dollars anyway. confound the little fool!" iii. mr. constable's physician recommended rest and a complete change of scene. with all the world to choose from, the patient made a peculiar selection for his place of sojourn. it was sing sing, on the hudson. but mr. constable strictly complied with the doctor's advice in not allowing anyone to know his address. there is not much to be seen in sing sing except the state prison, but mr. constable saw that very thoroughly. for two days he spent all the time allotted to visitors in making himself acquainted with convict life. he was writing a novel, he told the warden, and wanted local colour. no--he did not know any one in the prison--he was an englishman, and only on a visit to this country. would he like to make a tour of the buildings with the warden? nothing, he declared, would give him greater pleasure--he was interested in every detail. so, escorted by the warden, he passed through the clean, well-aired corridors, inspected the orderly kitchens and the huge laundries, viewed the immense workshops filled with convicts toiling in splendid, disciplined silence, watched the men file to their meals, their hands hooked over one another's shoulders, their heads bent down, eyes upon the ground, bodies close together, and their feet keeping time in the lock-step prescribed by the regulations. it was all very impressive, he told the warden--a wonderful triumph of system and discipline. he congratulated the official, and was invited into the private office for a smoke and chat. did the warden suppose there were any innocent men in the cells? very likely there were some--it was not uncommon for prisoners to have new trials granted them, and occasionally a man would be acquitted on these second trials. did many of the men return after serving sentence? yes, a good many. why? well, principally, the warden supposed, because it was hard for an ex-convict to get an honest job after he got out. "damned near impossible, unless he has mighty good friends," the official added feelingly. was not that a reflection on the system? well, the warden wasn't there to pass on that--the prison association had undertaken to handle the question, but he couldn't see that they'd done much with it. but the innocent men--the men who were afterwards acquitted--they would be--they were not ex-convicts? no, the warden guessed they were all right. and the pardoned ones? the warden smiled. "i'm not very strong on pardons myself," he admitted. "i'd about as soon employ an out-and-outer. too much politics in pardons for me. moreover, sometimes they're not appreciated. we had a queer fellow here once who served five years, and was a model prisoner too. well, when he was discharged someone met him at the station with a pardon from the governor. 'you cur,' he shouted at the man who handed it to him, 'get pardons for those who need them!' with that he tore the paper into bits, threw the pieces in the man's face and gave him a terrible thrashing. we never learned what the trouble was, though the fellow served two more years for the assault. but some of us thought he must have been innocent all the time. however, when he came out again nobody offered him another pardon." the next day mr. constable visited the prison without the escort of the warden. in the work-rooms the silence of the workers oppressed him, but it was better than the language of some of the under-keepers which fairly sickened him. he had heard foul-mouthed men hurl epithets and profanity back and forth often enough, but never before had he seen the frightful answers which human beings can make without the utterance of a syllable. many times that day he saw murder done with the eyes--the foulest, fiercest, most glutting murder of which the human heart is capable. in every regulation he saw manhood debased, individuality destroyed, education neglected, reformation defeated, and glancing from the faces of the convicts to those of the keepers, he could not say which this "splendid system" had most brutalised. then mr. constable returned to his cheerless room at the hotel and locking himself in, lay down on the sofa, only to offer his body as a pavement for files of close-cropped and shaven men who passed over him with the steady tramp-tramp, tramp-tramp of the lock-step, stamping him into the ground gladly and sternly, gloatingly and viciously--deeper and deeper, until he felt the damp earth upon his face and heard less and less clearly the tread of those marching feet. then it ceased altogether and mr. constable smiled in his sleep as he dreamed he was dead, only to awake with a shriek when he felt that he was living. the next morning the warden met him on the street. "how's the local colour getting on?" he asked pleasantly. "i was working with it all last night." the warden stared silently at the speaker for a moment, frowned slightly and passed on. "good god!" he muttered to himself, "if it makes a man look like that to write, i never want to read again." mr. constable left sing sing for niagara, where he stopped long enough to write a letter in the public writing-room of an hotel. the composition of this missive, however, consumed several hours, for the writer kept glancing apprehensively over his shoulder and when anyone approached the table he covered his paper with the blotter and waited until he was alone again. but when at last the letter was finished he omitted to sign it, which was the more neglectful since no one could possibly have recognised the shaky handwriting as that of the snappy, energetic, confident mr. theodore constable. even the clerk in the new york post office who handled the envelope cursed the writer as he puzzled out the address. mr. constable next visited detroit presumably for the sole purpose of dictating curious statements to the hotel typewriter. these he mailed to new york with some enclosures, addressing the envelopes in large, childish capitals. the rest of his vacation was spent in the bedroom of a second class boarding-house in chicago. at the end of three weeks he returned to new york looking far worse than when he went away. mr. hertzog therefore hesitated to tell him that horton had moved for another trial on newly-discovered evidence. but the matter could not be kept secret, for horton's counsel had done more than claim he could prove his client's innocence; he not only produced one or two strikingly significant exhibits received anonymously from detroit, but also asserted he was daily obtaining clues from unknown friends in other cities which might lead to the discovery of a conspiracy, if not to the conspirators themselves. even a careless student of human nature must have observed the marked change which had taken place in mr. constable. the lines that come gradually with age and experience give meaning and character to the face--even the traces of illness are not without a certain dignity. but when care begins to crease the face of self-complacence its effects are distortions, terrible as those which some iron implement of torture would suddenly produce. mr. constable's florid countenance was without a line until it was wrinkled and furrowed and scarred. mr. hertzog was shocked by the appearance of his partner. was the man going mad? he had seen such changes foreshadow insanity. but if he was going mad--from what cause? he must make sure. mr. constable sat in the junior partner's private office reading a copy of the affidavits supporting the latest move in horton's long fight, and mr. hertzog watched him. he noted that the trembling hands left little spots of perspiration on the pages, he saw the twitching lips every now and then forming words--he counted the rapid throbbing of the arteries in head and neck. all this he had expected and discounted, but he was unprepared for the horrid look of cunning in the man's eyes, as he glanced up from his reading. for a few moments neither of the partners spoke. then mr. constable broke the silence. "you think--you would say these papers were--that they made a strong case?" mr. constable's eyes were fixed upon his partner in anxious inquiry, like a sick man waiting the decision of a doctor testing the heart or lungs. "yes, it's strong. too damned strong." the answer given slowly and with emphasis was received with a smile such as the face of a dead man might attempt with cracking skin and snapping muscles. "and the papers--are they--should you say they were well drawn?" "yes--that fellow mackenzie seems to have learned something during these years--damn him! by the way, how long did he get?" "who?" "horton, of course." "three, i think--yes, it was three years." "then he's served two years and--let's see--two years and three months." mr. hertzog pushed the electric button in his desk. "get me the revised statutes covering sing sing regulations," he said to the boy who answered the summons. the book was brought and mr. hertzog began studying its pages, his head resting on his hands and his elbows on the desk. for five minutes--ten minutes, there was silence. "don't let's take up this thing, hertzog--i think--i think he'll win." mr. constable's voice was almost a whisper. but hertzog, engrossed in the volume before him, did not hear. mr. constable glanced at the stern hebraic face, flushed and changed his remark to a question. "do you think he'll win?" the junior partner started up nervously. "how the devil can i tell!" he burst out angrily. "what's the use of sitting there parroting 'do-you-think-he-can-win? do-you-think-he-can-win?' he's got a damned good case on the merits. there's something in the code that may fix him, but i don't count on it. don't ask such idiotic questions. of course i think he can win, but i also think he mustn't. if you want my opinion"--mr. hertzog swung himself about and cast a searching glance at the shrivelled, mean little figure crushed into the leather easy-chair beside him. "if you want my real opinion, constable," he repeated, "i think we've _got_ to win. haven't we?" for a moment mr. constable stared silently at his partner. then shaking his head he mumbled a word or two, stopped, put his hand to his throat, began again, stammered a disjointed sentence and suddenly poured forth a torrent of confused and incoherent words that thickened into a clotted gurgle and freed itself in a sputter swelling to peal upon peal of hideous, shattering, mirthless laughter--laughter which forced the man to his feet and rocked him with its spasms. hertzog leaped toward the door and fastened it. the clerks must not hear the horror of this. then he darted to the window, but by the time he had closed it the laughter had died out, and constable was quivering upon the floor, the blood gushing from his mouth. iv. "o, i know, nurse, but i won't excite him--i'll go a long way toward curing him. you can trust me for that." mr. hertzog pushed himself into the sick-room and walked toward the bed, waving a telegram in his hand. mr. constable smiled feebly at his visitor. "now, old man, i'm the doctor to-day. are you up to taking my prescription in the form of a story?" the invalid nodded. "even if it's about the--the horton case?" mr. constable nodded positively. "well, you remember, just before you were taken sick, i told you i thought they'd got a pretty good case----" "yes, yes." the whisper was eager, expectant. --"and the more i examined it the more positive i became that there was no chance for attacking it on the merits----" the invalid lay back on the pillows and smiled foolishly at the man beside him. --"so, of course, i advised the district attorney to adjourn the matter for a week, and he did it. in the meantime i began to see daylight, and i told him to adjourn it again. but mackenzie either saw the point or suspected something, for he fought like a devil against further delay, and we only got three days. three days! good lord--i had to have two weeks. and, to make things worse, yesterday old judge masterton was unexpectedly assigned to hold court, and geddes is the only man in town who can approach masterton on a delicate matter of this kind. but geddes wasn't at home, and for nearly a day we couldn't get on his trail. then we learned he was in buffalo, but we couldn't find the district attorney to get his consent to retaining geddes. my god, we sweated blood, but we couldn't find him--and every hour was precious. finally glenning had to start for buffalo without the necessary consent. two hours later i located the district attorney, got what i wanted, and then learned geddes had left buffalo for albany! well, it was one chance in a thousand, but i wired glenning on the express, caught it before it reached albany--and geddes is retained! what do you think of that?" there was no response from the bed, and hertzog bent forward to see if the patient was asleep, but stopped as the laboured speech of the sick man reached him. "and geddes--he will apply for another adjournment?" "yes, and win it, too. he's got judge masterton in his pocket, i tell you!" "i don't--i'm not sure--i understand." "can't you see that horton's sentence will expire before the motion for new trial can be heard?" "yes--but----" the sick man raised himself on his elbow, and stared at his visitor. "well, when a man's served his sentence, the court won't entertain an application for a new trial. so there won't be any public discussion of horton's interesting yarns. see? pretty good, isn't it? you'll have to study law when you get well, constable. i tell you it pays. tricks in all trades, you know, and there's nothing like---- why, constable, old man, what's the matter? here, nurse! nurse! come and look after your patient. he's struck me and he's trying to get out of his bed! you've got him?--yes, of course i'll go--but i didn't say anything to excite him. all right, i'm going--but what in the world----" "write!" panted the sick man as the door closed, "and for god's sake write quickly, nurse. are you ready? yes? now then---- "_barton mackenzie, " wall street_. "_another adjournment fatal. constable dying. makes full confession. see him at once._ "wire it, nurse, wire it, and--let no one know! i thought i had done enough--but i'll do it--i'll beat them yet. help me to live--till--he comes!" in his own behalf. "well, clancy, your case is on the day calendar, and is likely to be reached this week." "'tis thankful oi am, sorr." michael clancy's two hundredweight of flesh and bones rested in my most reliable office chair, and michael clancy's huge hands were clasped over his capacious stomach, while his outstretched legs were crossed in a settled attitude. clancy had been entrusted to me by a sympathetic house physician of an up-town hospital. the story made a "negligence case." i had taken up the matter merely out of good nature, but the old man was a character, and i soon became interested in his personality. for two years he had been a regular visitor at my office, ostensibly to make inquiries as to the progress of his law suit, but really, i think, for social recreation. a litigation does not advance very rapidly in a new york court for the first two years, and he knew this at the outset, but his calls were made with a regularity which suggested routine. if he chanced to come in while i was busy he never interrupted, but sat in the outer offices chatting with the clerks until such time as he judged his social duty had been discharged. clancy's confidence in me was certainly gratifying, but it took the form of completely transferring to my shoulders all responsibility for the case. his attitude toward it was that of a friend interested but not especially involved in the outcome. whenever he referred to it, which was not often, he spoke of it as "yur kase," as though he had washed his hands of it but wished me well. there was no question about his gratitude, but his idea of expressing this was to put himself wholly in my care and give as little trouble as possible. i once thought that the possession of another's confidence was a proper matter for self-congratulation, but i have never felt quite the same about this since i finished clancy's case. michael's injuries had completely incapacitated him for work and his massive frame had taken on flesh until the ponderous body made his head appear ridiculously small. his clean-shaven face was round, his eyes were almost tiny, and his mouth was like that of a child. although loquacious to a degree, his delivery was slow, and whenever he talked to me his every word was accompanied by an apologetic smile, so that even when he spoke of his troubles his cheeks wore a "permanent puff." "have you ever been in a court, michael?" i asked as clancy sat by my desk smiling his benedictions upon my news of an early trial. "oi hov not, sorr--leastways not since dolan's nannie wuz afther bein' kilt be beagan's pup." i did not investigate clancy's experience in that _cause célèbre_, although i saw reminiscence in his eye. "i think we better go over your testimony, clancy," i said. "it's two years since the accident occurred and you may have forgotten details--i'm sure i have. but you remember making this affidavit at the time--do you not?" clancy looked at the paper in my hand and then cast a knowing glance in my direction. "am oi ter say--'yiz'--sorr?" "why you're to tell the truth, of course," i answered rather sharply. "but you must remember swearing to this." "must oi now, sorr? thot's all right thin. but whisper, oi only remimber a shlip av a gurl comin' in an' makin' little burd thracks in a bit av a book an' you spakin' to her thot pleasant-loike--'twas fascinayted oi wuz." i began to foresee trouble with this willing witness and to view clancy in a new light. however i tried explanation. "that was the stenographer taking down this affidavit," i answered. "wuz it now, sorr? oi'll not forgit ut." i felt somewhat embarrassed by the gleam of cunning in clancy's little eyes, but i pretended not to notice it and continued: "i'll read the statement to you and that will refresh your memory. then we can go over the questions you are liable to be asked." "'tis as you loike, sorr." clancy settled himself, with resignation rather than interest expressed in his good-natured face, but i knew he was all attention. "_city and county of new york ss:_" i began. "shure, counsellor, oi niver said thot. faith, oi want ter hilp yiz with yur kase, but sorra a wurd loike thim iver passed me lips." "o, never mind, clancy!" i exclaimed, silently cursing my indiscretion. "that's only a legal phrase with which every affidavit begins." "all right, sorr. 'tis for you ter know." again clancy assumed his attitude of resignation and i read on: "_michael clancy being duly sworn deposes and says that he resides at no. -- west ninety-third street, in the city of new york, and that on the th day of may, , he was in the employ of the cavendish tool company._" "thrue for you, sorr--an' bad cess ter thim," commented clancy. "_that previous to may , , he had been in the employ of said company for nine years_----" "'twas not so long, sorr, for whin me sisther-in-law theresa's sicond child, she thot aftherwards married bicie sullivan's lad, wuz sick at th' toime av me wife's brother's wake, oi stayed from wurrk two days fur ter luk ter th' child an' so----" "o, well--that's near enough--say nine years," i interrupted. "oi'll say whativer you want, sorr--but, be th' same token, 'tis thruth oi do be tellin' you now--betwane oursilves loike." i looked sternly at clancy's rotund countenance. this case was looming up pregnant with possibilities in the presence of a witness with ready-made testimony and confidential truths. clancy as a character was all right, but, as a client? i began to be alarmed. this had to be stopped. "now, understand once and for all, clancy," i exclaimed almost threateningly, "i don't want you to tell anything at any time except the truth." clancy relapsed again. "'tis for you ter know, sorr," was all he said. i looked at the man with desperation in my eyes. "now, michael, listen to me. if there's anything really wrong in the affidavit, stop me; but, if it's unimportant, don't let's waste time on it. now, where were we? here it is:--'_had been in the employ of said company for nine years_----'" "av coorse, thot's moindin' what oi do be afther tellin' you, sorr." "good lord, man! for _nearly_ nine years then. will that satisfy you? we'll never finish if you keep this up!" "'tis dumb oi am, sorr." clancy's big hands waved off further reproaches in a little gesture half soothing, half disclaiming. then all intelligence faded from his face, and he sat with closed eyes, punctuating my sentences with nodding head, as i continued from the text of the affidavit. "_during those nine years_" (clancy winced, but kept silent), "_he was engaged as a porter in the company's main office, in fulton street. on the morning of may , , while engaged in sorting merchandise on the fourth floor of said building, a shelf on the north side of the room gave way, and a keg of nails fell upon his spine, inflicting serious injuries_. "_deponent did not erect said shelf, nor was the same erected under his direction, nor was the merchandise upon it placed there by deponent or deponent's orders._ "_deponent further avers that he never knew the said shelf was unsafe, although the superintendent had been told that one of its brackets needed repairing._" i continued reading the rest of the long statement without interruption from clancy. even when i finished he made no comment, and i thought him depressed in spite of his smile, so i spoke up cheerfully. "that's the story, michael. it all comes back clearly enough now, doesn't it? there's nothing like having these affidavits made out at the time, so one can recall all the facts. now there's very little more work to be done. you remember i had diagrams made of the room where you were working, so we have those, and the doctor's sent me word that he's ready at any time. there were no other witnesses, you say? well, then, let me hear you tell the story in your own way, without any prompting from me. begin by describing the place. now, go on." clancy smiled contentedly, leaned forward in his chair and slowly rubbed his knees with the palms of his hands. "beyant th' dure," he began, "there do be a laarge room, with foive windows in ut, an' a stairkase ter th' left hand soide goin' upstairs. in th' cintre av this room they do hov two rows av stoof an' th' same is on shilves foreninst an' behoind thim----" the picture was not entirely clear, but i spoke up hopefully: "yes; and in this room you worked?" "oi niver did, sorr." "then describe the room where you did work," i answered, wearily. "no other room is of any importance." "will you leave me tell ut in my own way, sorr?" "yes." "well, sorr, 'twas this way ut wuz. there do be a gang av min on th' fourth flure handlin' stoof thot's afther comin' outer th' elevaytor. th' elevaytor do be nixt th' stairkase, an' th' min stand in loine an' roll th' barruls wan to anither clane acrost th' flure. th' furst feller do be called 'the guide,' an'----" "and you worked with these men?" i interposed. "shure oi niver had onythin' at all to do with thim. but minny a toime oi've seen thim----" "wait," i said, "this won't do. i'll start at the beginning, and ask you questions just as though you were in court, and you answer them." clancy looked a bit troubled, but he shifted himself in his chair and said, "yiz, sorr," brightly enough. "mr. clancy," i began in my best jury manner, "where do you reside?" a light gleamed in the witness's eyes. "city an' county av new york--ss!" he burst out proudly. i dropped the paper on my desk and groaned aloud. but when i saw the look of crushing disappointment on clancy's face i forced a smile and said, "try to forget that, michael. it has nothing whatever to do with your testimony. now let's begin again--where do you reside?" "shure you know, sorr." "yes, i know, clancy, but the jury doesn't and we're supposed to be in court. answer just as you would before the jury. now--who employed you in may, ?" "a boonch av scuts--no less!" i sighed hopelessly. it was useless to continue this game. "perhaps we've had about enough for to-day, michael," i said. "go to court to-morrow and listen to some witnesses testify. you'll soon get the idea. then come down to the office in the afternoon and i'll have some questions written out so that you'll know about what you're to be asked. there's nothing like thorough preparation. by the way, do you want to add anything to the affidavit? the facts are all right as far as they go, i suppose?" clancy hesitated, wiped his mouth once or twice--smiled out of the window and ended by a general shift of his bulk. but he did not speak. "what is it?" i asked encouragingly. a gesture of disclaimer, almost coy this time, prefaced his reply. "shure oi don't loike ter throuble you, sorr, an' 'tis as loike as not to be wan av thim deetales you was spakin' av----" "never mind, what is it?" "well, sorr, oi don't seem ter call ter moinde th' lad thot's been afther sayin' an' doin' some av thim things." the excitement had evidently been too much for michael's head, but to soothe him i asked, "what lad, clancy?" "daypont, sorr." "daypont?" i repeated. then i picked up the affidavit, and light dawned upon me. "you don't mean _deponent_, do you?" "'tis the same, sorr--shure he niver wurrked fer thim in all me toime." a penholder broke, but i slowly minced a blotter before i trusted myself to explain. "deponent means you, clancy." "is ut me?" "certainly. for instance----" here i picked up the affidavit.--"this reads '_deponent did not erect said shelf_', and that means, you did not erect it,----" "but begorra, that's just what oi did, sorr----" "what!" i shrieked. "oi builded----" "you built the shelf that fell?" my voice was desperately calm but the pencil in my hands was playing a tattoo on the desk. "shure, oi did, sorr." "then why in the name of common sense, man, didn't you say so before?" i burst out. "shure oi didn't loike ter throuble yiz, an' you readin' it out so beautiful-loike. an' faith, oi thought 'twas some scut av a daypont you wuz spakin' av as not doin'----" clancy looked at me and my face must have been awesome, for he stopped with mouth agape. "_nor was the merchandise upon said shelf placed there by deponent?_" i read inquiringly. "'twas oi that put ut there av a friday marnin,' sorr, an'----" "_deponent further avers_," i continued with fearful calm, "_that he never knew the said shelf was unsafe?_" "shure 'twas the day befure oi was spakin' to th' super, an' ses oi to him--o'toole, ses oi, the shilf foreninst the dure is broke, ses oi, but oi've stooffed a bit of sthick in fur a nail, ses oi, an' 'twill holt good an' ut don't come down, oi ses. moike, ses he----" "for heaven's sake man, stop! you must have known all this two years ago--why didn't you speak then?" "'twas afraid av throublin' yiz with deetales oi wuz. do ut make any difference, sorr?" "difference!" i burst out. "your case is absurd--utterly impossible and absurd! why, man--you haven't got a leg to stand on!" clancy looked at his feet for a moment. "'tis me spoine----" he began. then he stopped and smiled. "'tis for you to know, sorr," he added, sadly. i didn't laugh, for i saw tears in clancy's childlike eyes. but i discontinued that action, and my affidavits now read with unprofessional clarity. his honour.[a] [footnote a: the judge who hears litigated motions does not now sign ex parte orders. the inside history of this change in the practice may some day be found in a biography. meanwhile this tale is told "without prejudice."] van was out of temper. van, the calm squelcher of office boys--the recognised saviour of managing clerks--the patient instructor of sophomoric attorneys--the courteous guide, philosopher and friend for all busy members of the new york bar--van, whose serenity and sanity had withstood some thirty years of service as chambers clerk, was in ill humour. unusual as this was, it might have been explained if the judge who throws papers on the floor had been upon the bench. but his honour was presiding over another court. martin, therefore, put it down to the weather, which was hot, and resigned himself to waiting, which was wearisome. the court room was stuffy as usual, and crowded as always. martin languidly studied the lawyers about him, trying to guess the kind of business each represented. here he prophesied a struggle for "costs," and there a contest for "time." in one face he read the cunning of the technical trickster, in another the earnest belief in a cause, and idly took to betting with himself on his prognostications. the low droning of voices had a soothing note, and the hot atmosphere of the room soon set him nodding. a moment more and he was out of the court, far away from the lawyers--at the east end of long island, with the strength and vigour of early autumn in the air. for some seconds he was dimly conscious of a man standing near him asking an oft-repeated question. then he woke with a start and saw allison. "do you always sleep with your eyes open?" "ye--yes," he yawned, rubbing the optics in question, "it's a trick i learned from a front seat and a dull lecturer at college." "well, what are you doing here beside dreaming?" "waiting to get some papers from van." "why don't you get them then, and go home to sleep?" "van's off his trolley to-day. got to wait." "um.--'furioso' on the bench?" "no.--hot weather, i guess." "ah. who's on deck then?" "i don't know, and van couldn't, or wouldn't, tell." "well, i was about to ask you to take charge of a little matter for me, but i'm afraid i oughtn't to keep you out of bed." "what's it about?" "nothing but opposing an application for a bill of particulars. i don't care very much whether i win or lose. merely contest it as a matter of form. you can submit it without argument, if you'd rather, but i've another case in part iv., and can't wait here. will you do it, you dormouse?" "yes--provided you won't damn me if you lose." "don't care a cuss." "all right." "thank you. good-bye." martin glanced lazily at the papers allison tossed into his lap. _phelps_ vs. _orson_? what number was it on the calendar? he pulled the _law journal_ out of his pocket and consulted the list of "motions." twenty-second case? good lord--allison had buncoed him! if he argued that motion he'd have to stay in the stuffy court room all morning. but he wouldn't argue it--he'd give the papers to van, and let him hand them up to the court when the case was called. martin stuffed the documents into his pocket, and lolling back in his chair, tried to regain those scenes from which allison had rudely torn him. to further this, he rested his head in his hand and closed his eyes. but try as he might, he could not again rid himself of his surroundings, for there was more movement all over the room as the waiting crowd grew restless, and directly back of him two men whispered with maddening persistency. for a time martin tried to fuse their sibilants into the general buzz, but failing in this, began to listen to their conversation. in a few seconds he ceased to hear any of the other sounds going on about him. --"then van doesn't know," one of the men asserted. "i tell you colton's ill and he's been assigned to take his place. he's never sat here before? well, of course not. that's just the point. you've got a head like a tack! now listen to what i say, and, for god's sake, don't make a mess of it. the order's in a green cover like this----" the speaker paused and martin almost turned, but checked himself in time. "no, there ain't many this colour.--you can't miss it if you keep awake. it'll be handed to van sometime before recess. when he gives it to his nibs you watch it like a cat, and the minute he signs it make for the telephone and notify 'em at the office. they'll keep the wire open. now d'ye think you've got sense enough to work this thing straight?" the other man made no response, but probably nodded, for his companion continued: "all right then. i'm o double f. but remember if you botch it, you'll be wanting a new job." the speaker rose and passed before martin, who languidly glanced at him and then strolled into the rotunda. mullin the process-server stood, as usual, near the door. martin touched his arm. "mullin," he began, "didn't you want to bet me a few days ago that you knew every man who entered this court house?" "sure. wanter take me up?" "yes," answered martin, hurrying him toward the right hand stairway. "bet you a good cigar you won't know the man in grey clothes we'll see coming down from the other side." they had just reached the first landing when the person in question passed through the open hall below. mullin laughed. "i'll take a 'carolina perfecto,'" he said and began to move up the steps again. "do you know him?" questioned martin, slowly following. "sure. everybody knows him. give us something harder." "well, who is he?" "nevis--of course." "who's he?" "boss reporter of _the guardian_." "o, i thought he was a lawyer." martin spoke in a tone of disappointment. "nope. too smart for that!" laughed the process-server. "well, i owe you a cigar, i suppose. we can't get a carolina perfecto here, but i'll see you when court adjourns, or if not then, some other day." "all right, mr. martin, your credit's good, i guess." nevis of _the guardian_? what did that dirty sheet have to do with court orders in green covers or any other covers? what sort of boys worked for such papers nowadays? martin had himself served an apprenticeship in the newspaper world and still felt a lively interest in the ways of park row. he would have a look at the cub reporter left on guard. with this purpose in view he returned to the court room, but the moment he entered the door the object of his quest was completely forgotten. the judge had already ascended the bench, and his honour was charles blagden, esq. martin slipped into a rear seat and watched the youthful face of the man behind the desk. there was no love lost between martin and the hon. charles blagden. they had met as lawyers and blagden had been the victor; they had met as men to differ on every matter of opinion and taste; they had met as rivals and martin had written a letter of congratulation which had cost him the bitterest thoughts of his life. but fortune continued to shower gifts upon her favourite and not very long after his marriage, an appointment to a vacancy on the supreme court bench made blagden the youngest judge in the city. charles blagden was a careful lawyer and he made a capable judge--so capable, indeed, that his political party had just nominated him as its judicial candidate for the coming november elections. but not satisfied with the start which fortune had thus given, the hero-worshippers set out to make fame meet him half way. what silly discoveries are made in the light of one small success; what senseless tributes are inspired by achievement--no matter what the agency. blagden's capability as a lawyer became "distinguished ability" on the tongues of hundreds of his fellow-citizens who never knew him. there were dozens of prophets who had always "marked him out," and scores of men ready with stories and anecdotes of his prowess and skill. martin had watched blagden's career with a jealousy but little removed from positive hatred, and every word of this indiscriminate praise fretted him almost past endurance. he felt himself as able a man as his rival, he knew many lawyers more worthy of distinction and, smarting under the injustice of these sudden acclamations, he began to grow contemptuous of public esteem. it was not long, however, before he awoke to the danger of brooding over such thoughts. the world was big enough for them both, and the mighty metropolis was a world so wide that the blotting out of any face was only the matter of a step in the crowd. this man should not spoil or embitter his life. from the moment of that resolution blagden disappeared from his horizon, and martin began to view life again from his normal standpoint. it was only when business threatened to bring him into blagden's court that he experienced the old feeling of bitterness. but then it returned with a rush. one such lesson had been sufficient to warn him however, and martin thereafter appeared before judge blagden by proxy only. it was just as well, he thought, as he felt the hot blood surging through his veins, that allison didn't insist upon his arguing _phelps_ vs. _orson_. it would have been impossible to address that self-satisfied piece of humanity with respect. thank goodness he could escape by handing the papers to the clerk! he rose and passed along the rear of the court room. in the far corner sat a newspaper artist sketching the judge and the scene about his desk. martin glanced sharply at the man, but he was absorbed in his work and obviously not on the outlook for green-covered law papers. nearer the front, however, sat a young fellow studying every movement behind the rail, and sometimes even rising nervously from his seat in his efforts to keep a clear view. this was undoubtedly the youth whose place depended on his vigilant watch of the bench. what the devil was it all about? in an instant his old newspaper instinct had carried everything before it and martin passed down the middle aisle, seating himself immediately behind the young reporter. "_phelps_ vs. _orson_." martin started at the sound of the judge's voice, every fibre in his body tingling with instant defiance. the defendant's attorney answered "ready," but martin made no response. he knew he did not intend to argue the case and should promptly state the fact. "_phelps_ vs. _orson_?" repeated the justice inquiringly. "ready!" answered martin, yielding to the call of sheer perversity. it was childish, petty, absurd--and he knew it. but at that moment to defy custom, to oppose everything and everybody, to hamper and obstruct the court in every possible manner, no matter how futile, seemed absolutely essential to the assertion of his independence and the maintenance of his self-respect. some one vacated a seat immediately in front of the nervous reporter who hastily gathered his papers together and moved into the empty chair. martin at once rose and took the journalist's place. as he did so he felt something crackle beneath him, and rising picked up a crumpled piece of paper from the seat. it was a sheet torn from a reporter's pad, and as he lazily unfolded it martin saw it was covered with writing in a weak, boyish hand. to the initiated the scribbles were unmistakable studies in newspaper captions or headings--the "makeup" of which martin recalled as a fad of his cub-reporter days. the first attempt was as follows: "a candidate coralled." then came several other "settings:" "a supreme court scandal." "a judicial judas." "a daniel come to grief." this last effort apparently satisfied the embryo city editor, for his sub-headings were written below: "an extraordinary court order unearthed by _the guardian_." "it bears the initials of the hon. charles blagden, candidate for judicial office." "a searching investigation to be instituted. lawyers indignant. litigants astonished." martin read the words with savage satisfaction. so, the hon. justice was playing tricks, was he--and not very good tricks either? he was on the point of being exposed--was he? well, it was about time something happened to those noiseless wheels of the little tin god! people were beginning to believe there was something miraculous in his transit. it had long been heretical to suggest either pull or push. but both agencies have to be paid for in one way or another, and at some time.--to pay whom or what was this green-covered order required?--what a shock it would be for the worshippers to see their metal divinity wobbling on his stand and to hear the shrieking of his squeaky rollers! fortunately for him some of his triumphs were secure, but it would be interesting for at least one person to discover---- no, she would never discover anything. charlie would tell her it was all right--and that would make it so.--"charlie," indeed!--ugh! a sharp movement in front of him aroused martin from his bitter musing. the young reporter was leaning forward in his chair, staring at a little clean-shaven hebrew who had entered the room and was leaning on the rail, a green-covered legal paper in his hand. van took the document from the messenger, shook it open and placed it at the bottom of the pile of orders on the judge's desk. the court had already begun to hear arguments, and as the counsel talked the judge occasionally took up one of these orders and signed it. clerks kept entering the room from time to time, handing papers and orders to van, who added them to the rapidly-increasing pile on the judge's desk. meanwhile martin stared at the green edge of the order in which _the guardian_ took such a lively interest. how did that paper come to know its contents? _the guardian_ was politically opposed to the judge's party--was, indeed, the semi-official organ of the enemy. it could not be in the confidence of the judge's friends. no avenue of exposure would be more carefully watched than that which led to the columns of _the guardian_. there must be a traitor in the camp. or perhaps some honest man, despising underhand methods, had given the clue to the most effective police. but if an honest man desired to protect his party, would he not frustrate the scheme rather than expose it after it was accomplished? yes, some traitor must be selling information to the opposition. _the guardian_ certainly would not hesitate to buy dirty secrets. it was savagely partisan--unscrupulous and daring. it fairly slobbered with the froth of sensation--lived on scandal, and obtained its pabulum by any and every means. thus far there had been little to feed upon in the career of the hon. charles blagden. but it would not shrink from providing itself with carrion if a touch of one of its underground wires would suffice.--might not _the guardian_ know the history of the green-covered order at first hand? martin dismissed the thought again and again, but it gathered strength and substance and forced itself upon him. he recalled the words of the boss reporter about blagden's never having sat at chambers before. he had explained that that was "just the point." and the point was--? obviously that the work at chambers was hurried, and that a novice would be apt to sign papers without due deliberation. what could be easier for a sheet like _the guardian_ than to trump up a legal proceeding of some sort, and to concoct, with the aid of cunning lawyers, an order unobjectionable on its face, but which would compromise the reputation of any judge who signed it? if the plot miscarried, the conspirators could readily cover their tracks and make good their escape.--it was a dangerous game but not a new one. and if all this were so, what had he, martin, to do with it? of course if blagden was playing tricks he deserved to get caught and no one but the hero-worshippers could be expected to cry.--but if he was being tricked?--that was just the question to be decided. he, martin, was merely a spectator, interested in the event, it is true, but still only an onlooker.--was that true? had not that rôle been forfeited when he acquired special information? was his attitude a perfectly passive one? if any other man than blagden was on the bench would he not instantly communicate what he had heard? would he feel no disappointment whatsoever if blagden refused to sign the order? frankly--was he not waiting to see his enemy walk into what he believed was a trap? martin flushed at the silent self-accusation and instantly pronounced it absurd. what could he do? any man who goes on the bench has to assume grave responsibilities and take the risk with the honours. blagden's attitude had always been a silent boast of needing no help from anyone. would not interference give him an opportunity for retorting that "he had the office and martin the officiousness." how he would roll that under his tongue!--no, blagden could take care of himself. he would never thank anyone for playing nurse for him. the papers on the judge's desk were piling higher and higher, and he began to sign or reject them more rapidly as the time wore on. martin glanced at _the guardian's_ order. it was still buried under a dozen others. why did he think of it as "_the guardian's_ order"? he had no proof of the matter. but were not his suspicions strong enough to excuse a warning? what did he fear? a snub? well, that was better than "_the laughter of the soul against itself when conscience has condemned it, which the soul never hears once in its fulness without hearing it forever after_." how often he had repeated those lines to himself! what a hopeless, haunting sound they had in them! he hated this man--but was he willing to wear the _the guardian's_ mask and hear forever after the hideous laughter of the soul? martin glanced again at the judge's desk, and then rapidly writing a few words on a piece of paper, folded and addressed it to the hon. charles blagden, and carried it to the clerk's desk. van, restored to his usual good humour, met him with a smile. "why didn't you come earlier for your papers, mr. martin?" he whispered. "i've had them here for you ever since court opened." "much obliged, van. just hand this note up to judge blagden--will you?" "i can't do it, mr. martin. his private secretary says it's one of his fads. he won't even let us hand him telegrams when he's on the bench." "but this is more important than a telegram, van," replied martin in a low tone. "hand it up to him and i'll assume all the responsibility." "i'd like to oblige you, mr. martin, but----" "you will not be obliging me, van, but him." the veteran clerk gazed at the earnest face of the lawyer for a moment, and then reached out his hand for the letter. "i'll try it, mr. martin," he whispered. it was some moments before the justice noticed van standing near his chair, and raised his eyes inquiringly. the clerk held out the folded piece of paper, but blagden frowned and impatiently waved the official away. for a moment van lingered, but when the magistrate swung his chair so as to turn his back on the interruption, he rejoined martin and handed him the rejected note, with a smile and a shrug. martin took it and sat down again with a distinct feeling of relief. he had done all he could. if there was anything wrong with the order he had tried his best to call it to the judge's attention, and that pompous fool had rejected the opportunity. he might as well hand up the _phelps_ vs. _orson_ papers and go back to the office. martin pulled the small bundle out of his pocket and studied the indorsement. _phelps_ against _orson_? why, that must be the case dick phelps had talked about for half an hour at the club the other night. of course it was--allison was his attorney. well, that was rather odd. martin wrote "_submitted_" on the first paper in the bundle, and then glanced at the bench. the green order was fourth from the top. why the devil did his heart keep thumping with excitement! he had done more than ninety-nine men out of a hundred would do. anything more would be asinine interference for which he would have time to repent at leisure. he'd get right out of that stifling court room-- "_phelps_ against _orson_" called the judge. for a heart-beat martin hesitated. then he rose to his feet and walking directly to the counsel's table slipped the rubber band from his bundle of papers and sat down. as his opponent began to speak, martin lazily read through his papers, making an occasional note on a loose sheet of legal cap. when he looked up again the green order was second from the top. then he shoved his chair back and watched the judge who, as the counsel ceased speaking, took up another paper, leaving the green-covered order at the top of the pile. martin glanced at the clock and noted that recess would begin in twenty-five minutes. then he sat quietly and waited till the judge, surprised at the unusual pause, looked at him, and nodded. "proceed, mr. martin." martin gazed fixedly at the bench and rose with great deliberation and dignity. "if it please the court," he began solemnly, "this is, on its face, a simple motion for a bill of particulars--part of that sparring for position which precedes every legal encounter. but at the outset i ask the closest possible attention from the court, for before i have finished i expect to show that this apparently simple motion cloaks a matter of vital importance, not only to these litigants but to the public at large." judge blagden leaned back in his chair and listened to the lawyer with grave attention. the attorney for the defendant stared at the speaker in blank astonishment. it was, martin continued impressively, a case in which a knowledge of all the facts was of supreme importance. to understand certain actions one must follow the wires that control them, underground or overhead, until the hand which clutches them be discovered. for this reason he would take the liberty of detailing to the court the history of the litigation. martin then launched into a minute and deliberate recital of the facts. he dwelt upon the private history of the plaintiff, traced his business career from its beginning up to the day of the transaction with the defendants, described the fruitless efforts of the parties to settle their differences out of court, and the failure of the attorneys to come to any agreement. at this point the defendant's attorney interrupted, claiming that none of these facts, however interesting they might be, was to be found in the papers, and that counsel must be confined to what was therein stated. martin admitted that, ordinarily, this would be proper, but in this case he asked for "great latitude for grave reasons." then, with marked emphasis, he recapitulated all the various points he had detailed and asked the court to note their important bearing upon what he was about to disclose. the opposing counsel shifted uneasily in his chair and shook his head in utter bewilderment, and the justice leaned forward on his desk. then martin picked up the bill of complaint and began to read it with great deliberation. that seemed to break the spell. "mr. martin, i must ask you to come to your point, please," interrupted the justice. "i am coming to it now, sir." he again took up the complaint and once more began to read it aloud. judge blagden revolved his chair restlessly from side to side and again interrupted--this time impatiently. "you have already occupied almost twenty minutes, mr. martin. this is not, you know, the court of appeals." "where your honour's decision can be reviewed if incorrect? i am aware of that, sir." the magistrate looked sharply at the speaker, who regarded him with a calm, cold glance. "the court cannot allow you to consume much more time, sir. the decision of this motion is largely a matter of discretion----" "which your honour will remember is the better part of valour." judge blagden frowned angrily at the speaker and picked up the green-covered order. the court room was hushed to almost breathless stillness. "go on with your argument, mr. martin, but be brief." the words came from behind the paper in the judge's hand. martin instantly sat down. the judge stopped reading and peered over the desk. "well," he queried, "have you finished?" "no, sir, i have not," answered martin positively. "then proceed, sir." "when the court honours me with the courtesy of its attention i will proceed--but not until then." the answer was a challenge, sharp and decisive. "i am listening, sir," retorted blagden, in a tone of marked annoyance, "and i have been listening much longer than should be necessary. get to your point at once." "if the court is willing to undertake a divided duty," martin paused until the judge's eyes met his--"i am unwilling to receive a divided attention." "the court has no inclination to hear further suggestions from counsel on this point." the judge took up his pen, dipped it in the ink, and turned to the last page of the green-covered order. behind him martin could hear the cub-reporter tiptoeing to the door. "then if the court will not give me a hearing i demand that it read my brief!" martin thundered out the words so fiercely that the audience started perceptibly and the judge looked up in angry astonishment. "sit down, mr. martin," he ordered sternly. "i hand you my brief, sir," answered martin, holding out a folded sheet of legal cap, "and request its immediate consideration." "you may hand it to the clerk, sir; it will be considered at the proper time." "i request the court to read it now." "the court will not entertain it at present." "i demand it as a right!" "mr. martin, you forget yourself." "you are right, but still i demand that this brief be now read." martin leaned over the rail and placed the document upon the judge's desk. in the pause that followed, the magistrate's eyes followed these lines indorsed on the cover of the paper thrust before him: "_look out for the green-covered order in your hand. suspect something fraudulent. parties now in court watching you. am talking against time._" then the stillness of the room was broken by the justice speaking in a constrained voice: "the court will now adjourn for recess. in the meantime, mr. martin, i will consider your brief." * * * * * it was some days after the crowd had ceased discussing the way blagden "got called down by martin" that the latter wrote a short reply to the former's long epistle. "_mr. martin respectfully acknowledges judge blagden's letter of the th inst., and is gratified to learn that the warning was not wholly uncalled for. the justice, however, may rest assured that he is under no obligation to mr. martin, whose sole concern in the matter was his honour--but not his honour charles blagden._" an abstract story. williams ought to have known that whenever meyer wanted a title searched he shopped with it until competition eliminated the margin of profit. but whether he knew this or not it was perfectly plain that there was no money in the east broadway work at the figures he agreed upon. however, year after year the legal arena is gladdened by the advent of certain rosy-cheeked, enthusiastic youths who fancy they can change the instinct of chatham square and acquire control of big real estate operators like meyer, through the simple expedient of doing some of their work for nothing. moreover, each newcomer thinks he has evolved an entirely novel plan for working up a practice. at first i thought williams was one of these delightfully optimistic individuals, but subsequent events have demonstrated there was more method in his madness. williams was in love with miss thornton. everybody knew it, though, as parsons said, miss thornton didn't seem to know it by heart. the more fool she, i thought, for williams was a first-rate fellow and a far better man than that doll-faced, shallow chit had any right to expect. i admit it isn't very gallant to speak of a girl in this way, but i sometimes think a little plain truth about the fair sex would make them more fair. miss thornton had prettiness enough of a certain kind, she wore her gowns well and looked the girl of good breeding that she was. but beyond that--well, i never could see what made williams so desperately in love with her. therefore when r. castelez forbes appeared on the scene, though i sympathised with the discomforted swain, i could not really feel very sorry for him. where r. castelez forbes came from was more or less of a mystery. mrs. thornton told me she met him on the "teutonic" and that he had been "awfully kind" to daisy and her during the passage. she had invited him to spend a day or two in the berkshires, and since then they had seen a good deal of him. to my inquiry as to his business mrs. thornton replied that he was "something in the manufacturing line" and she believed "quite a rising young fellow." she was a hopelessly silly woman. mr. thornton was an able man, but too easy going and good-natured to trouble himself about the antecedents of miss daisy's callers. it did not take much to frighten williams off. he was sensitive as most manly fellows are when in love. but had he possessed far more self-confidence there was quite enough in the situation to have discouraged him. miss thornton and forbes were constantly together, and although no engagement had been announced most people spoke of it as "an understood thing." such was the situation when meyer brought the east broadway papers to williams and inquired his fee for searching the title. williams glanced at the contract of sale for a moment, turned to the last deed in the abstract and promptly named a figure so low that even meyer feared to ask for a reduction, although he did insist on the work being finished in a week. the bargain was closed then and there, and everybody who heard of it cursed williams for cutting prices to a point where neither he nor anyone else could hope to make money. but the last item in the east broadway abstract would have explained to the initiated why williams undertook the work at losing rates, and it certainly excused him for beginning his investigation of the title wrong end foremost. this item read as follows: } _warranty deed, f. & c._ _reginald c. forbes_, } _dated may , ._ _to_ } _ack. may , ._ _beatrice gordon forbes_, } _rec. may , ._ } _cons. $ ._ _conveys premises under examination._ which meant that, at the date named, one reginald c. forbes had transferred the east broadway property to a woman named forbes at a nominal price. the contract of sale showed that this same miss or mrs. forbes had agreed to sell the property to meyer. within ten minutes after he had received the papers, williams was hot upon the trail. within an hour he had learned all he wished to know. the register's office showed that the deed made by reginald c. forbes was recorded at the request of messrs. harmon & headly, and at their offices williams made his first inquiry. "yes, i know mr. forbes," replied mr. harmon--"at least, i did know him. he was a client of mine some years ago. why do you ask?" williams exhibited the abstract and pointed out the deed in question. "i recall the transaction," continued the old lawyer, after a moment's thought. "forbes conveyed the property to his wife for one dollar, in consideration of her releasing him from alimony and dower rights.--yes, she obtained a divorce from him some time in ' or ' . i think you'll find her agreement on record, but perhaps forbes didn't record it. i haven't seen him for years, and don't know what's become of him.--do i remember what name the initial c stood for? yes, i believe i do. it had a spanish sound. something like castilian. castelez? yes--that was it." williams thanked mr. harmon and went home to work his way through a maze of tangled thoughts to the conclusion that his duty to his neighbour, miss thornton, was to love her far better than himself. his reasoning was something like this: miss thornton had been cruelly deceived. she had honoured a scamp by receiving his attention. perhaps she had even given him her love. but in any case, humiliation was to be her portion. the blow to her self-esteem she could not escape--but might he not save her pride the lasting sting of even a partial publicity? how could this best be done? to speak to a man of forbes' character would be a waste of words and give no protection to the girl. mr. and mrs. thornton were in bermuda, and every moment's delay must add insult to the injury. the girl's chaperone was a foolish hysterical old aunt whose idea of action in emergency would probably begin and end in a telegram. what if he undertook the task himself? he was a rival and she might not believe him? there was no chance for disbelief. if she required proofs--they were at hand. his knowledge of her humiliation would make her hate the sight of his face, and she would never forget or forgive it? he would still have saved her something of bitterness, and for this there was no sacrifice he would not make. now i do not propose to argue that williams took the wisest course even if mr. and mrs. thornton were in bermuda--i am not prepared to say he was not quixotic--i am ready to admit he was disqualified from acting either as tale-bearer or guardian, but i do maintain that in taking upon himself the responsibility of putting the girl in possession of the facts, he showed far more moral courage than nine out of ten men would display under similar circumstances. had miss thornton's mind been built upon broader lines, she would have appreciated the admirable tact with which williams handled the whole subject and understood the delicacy and deference which disclosed the truth so gradually that she seemed to discover it for herself. but miss thornton's mind was somewhat self-centred, and as she heard his story her pretty face showed nothing but its prettiness. she listened to the words of the man, but took no note of his quiet, sympathetic tone. suddenly the situation dawned upon her. her cheeks flushed, her hands, which had been clasped behind her shapely head, fell, and she sat there in the half light of the cozy drawing-room gazing before her without seeing the pained and tenderly anxious glance of the man who stood looking down at her. "good night, miss thornton.--won't you even say good-bye?" there was no answer from the girl who, with elbows on knees and her chin in her hands, stared into the fading fire as though unconscious of his presence. "good-bye, then, miss thornton, and--and god keep you--dear!" now it may be true, as her garrulous old aunt told me, that miss thornton was discovered in the drawing-room that night weeping bitterly, but if so, i venture to assert her tears were those of anger--the tears of a spoilt child. however, the point is not what i think, but what williams thought. he left the thorntons' house firmly convinced that he had wholly failed in his mission and succeeded only in making the woman he loved hate him. but as he lay awake brooding over the situation the possibility presented itself that the girl might go to forbes with the story and assert her loyalty by offering to marry him then and there. such things had happened before. as he thought it over, the possibility became a fear, and the fear a resolution to protect the girl, not only against forbes, but if necessary against herself. the step he took was theoretically quite as impossible as his original action. but to attempt the impossible is sometimes to achieve it. early the next morning williams looked up pierce & butler, the attorneys who had represented mrs. forbes in the divorce proceedings, obtained her address, and straightway called upon the lady herself. his interview was short, but at its close he made another extraordinary move. he telegraphed meyer that the east broadway business was to be closed within twenty-four hours. seeing that he had not up to that time made any adequate examination of the title, his action must have seemed somewhat rash to his clerks--especially as he spent most of the intervening hours, not at the register's office, but in the building of the green lamps on mulberry street known as police headquarters. as a result of this, the first callers at williams' offices on the following morning were afforded singular accommodations. one of them was stationed behind the portières, another was supplied with a seat in a closet, and another was ensconced in a coat-cupboard. then williams sat down at the big table in the title-closing room and waited for meyer and the other parties to the purchase and sale of the property. they came promptly. meyer arrived first, accompanied by jacobs, his confidential clerk, for that prudent hebrew never did anything without one of his own people being present as a witness; then mr. winter, the real estate broker, dropped in, and when finally mr. august stein, attorney-at-law, introduced himself and his client mrs. forbes. williams showed no surprise that mr. stein's client did not in any way resemble the mrs. forbes he had interviewed only the day before. mr. stein was a nervous, active little man who spoke in the sharp brisk tones of one who has much to do and but little time to do it in. "now, mr. williams, you are all ready, i hope. i have another appointment at . . you found everything clear? of course--of course. it isn't everyone who can carry east broadway property free and clear.--no, indeed, mrs. forbes." the attorney smiled approvingly at his client. williams studied the papers in his hand and answered without looking up. "everything is completed except the formality of identification. of course it's all right, but you know i have not had the pleasure of meeting mrs. forbes and i don't think my client has----" meyer shook his head. "well, don't let's waste time on that," mr. stein interrupted, "you know mr. winter here, and he will identify mrs. forbes to your satisfaction." williams glanced inquiringly at the broker whom he had known for a couple of years. "do you identify this lady as the owner of this east broadway property, mr. winter?" he asked. "surely--surely," was the answer. "how long have you known her, mr. winter?" "well, about--i should say--it must be--two years." "who introduced you--or how did you meet?" "now, mr. williams," interrupted mr. stein, "this is very interesting, but it's wasting my time. all this should have been attended to before i was summoned. i am a very busy man and you'll have to postpone the whole matter until to-morrow. i really can't wait." mr. stein began buttoning up his coat and reached for his hat. williams fumbled among his papers for a moment and drew forth an affidavit. "perhaps we can save time with your aid. this is rather a large transaction for me, so i have to go slowly. you will have no objection to signing this affidavit of identification--will you, mr. stein?" the attorney adjusted his glasses. "it's not necessary, sir," he remarked, merely glancing at the paper and handing it back.--"it's not at all necessary. there is already sufficient evidence to satisfy any reasonable man and we are not obliged to satisfy you. it was your duty to have convinced yourself before the time of closing." "i didn't suppose you would have any objection to giving the proof required." "i don't know that there is any objection, but i've been closing real estate titles all my life and i know my rights and don't intend to be imposed upon." "i'm not trying to impose upon you, my dear sir." "that's just what you are trying to do and i don't propose"--the lawyer rose and began to gather up his papers. "what is the matter, mr. stein? why are you getting excited?" "i'm not excited, sir, but i propose to be treated with decent respect and not like a shyster, and since you insist----" "but i don't insist----" interrupted williams. "sit down, mr. stein." ----"since you insist," persisted the lawyer, walking toward mr. meyer, "i make a tender to your client of this deed----" he drew a document from his pocket and handed it to meyer's clerk. "sit down, mr. stein," repeated williams sharply,--"unless you want me to think you are seeking an excuse to break this contract.--sit down at once, sir!--mr. jacobs--let me look at that deed." the clerk handed the paper to him and williams glanced at the signature. "this is already signed and acknowledged before you as witness and notary, mr. stein. it is perfectly satisfactory. let us proceed." the attorney slowly sat down again and then laughed uneasily. "i had completely forgotten that, mr. williams. your insistence nettled me for the moment and quite put it out of my head. a tempest in a tea-pot--much ado about nothing, of course!--but rights are rights, you know.--it's instinct with us lawyers to insist upon them, isn't it?" "mr. meyer, kindly hand your check to this lady who will deliver her deed," directed williams, as he passed the paper to the woman. meyer beckoned the young lawyer to the window. "is everything all right?" he whispered, as he fumbled in his pocket for the check, "are you sure?" "do as i tell you!" was the whispered answer, so sharp and savage that the old man started and his cunning eyes flashed angrily. for a moment he hesitated, gazing earnestly into the calm face of his counsel and then turned suddenly and handed the check to the woman. "is that check certified? let me see it!" cried stein starting to his feet. the woman handed it to him, at the same time delivering the deed into meyer's outstretched hand. "now what did you do that for?" stein snapped angrily at his client--"can't you wait----" he stopped suddenly, for something clicked behind him and he turned just in time to see winter handcuffed and struggling in the arms of a detective. with a cry the fellow leaped across the long, narrow table, but as he landed on the other side he found himself facing the muzzle of a revolver pointing at him from the window curtains. without a word he threw up his hands, and as he did so passed the check into his mouth. the movement did not escape williams, and like a flash his revolver was between the fellow's eyes. "spit it out," he said quietly. "don't chew it! this revolver is self-cocking! one--two----" the check came again into evidence. "hands down for the bangles--my son," ordered the detective as he stepped toward stein. as the handcuffs snapped, williams lowered his weapon and picked up the check. then as the men moved their prisoners toward the door he turned to the woman. "mrs.--forbes," he began in a low tone, "won't you be good enough to tell me your right name?" the reply was a paroxysm of tears and sobs. williams waited for the outburst to subside and then quietly repeated his question. the answer came brokenly between sobs. "it'd be--it'd be mrs. forbes--if--if--i had my rights!" williams stared at the speaker in utter amazement. was there something more in this case? who was this woman, anyway, and why did she claim any right to forbes' name? "and until you get your rights," he said, "what shall i call you?" "mary halpin--miss," answered the woman, sullenly. williams signalled the waiting detective to stop where he was. "well, mary," he continued, "will you kindly go into my room for a moment?" the woman rose and passed into the room indicated. "miss halpin," began williams when the door closed, "i suppose you are well aware what your position is, and that it can't be made much worse. i cannot, of course, promise you any leniency, but if you want to answer a few questions you can regard yourself as speaking confidentially to your counsel, and i may possibly be able to give you some advice." the woman looked at him in silence for a moment and then nodded. "are you the mary halpin mentioned in the divorce case of _forbes_ vs. _forbes_?" "yes." williams studied the face before him, and as he did so, possibilities began to crowd thick and fast upon his mind. he determined to risk something in his next question. "mr. forbes suggested that you impersonate mrs. forbes," he asserted boldly. "how do you know that?" snapped miss halpin. "no matter--i do know it. what reason did he give for wanting you to impersonate his wife?" the woman buried her face in her hands and williams let her cry it out. here was a nice ending to all his plans for miss thornton! if forbes' connection with this case was known what a splendid newspaper story his courtship of the young society girl would make! all the horrors of publicity would be crowded upon her with crushing force. she might bear humiliation in the sight of her friends, but not before the gaze of the world. if anything was to be done to strangle that journalistic tid-bit it must be done then and there. "why did he want you to impersonate his wife?" repeated williams. the woman looked at him through her tears. "he said he had to have the money and--if i did it--he'd have plenty. he said--he said there was no harm--that i was--i was--that i had a right to say i was mrs. forbes, and he'd marry me afterwards. but he'll never do it now!" she sobbed, "he'll never do it now!" "i think he will." miss halpin stopped weeping and stared eagerly at williams. "o if i thought that!" she began. "i'd do anything--anything!" "listen then. does winter or stein know of forbes in this matter?" "no, no." "don't they know he's back of you?" "no." "all your own game?--you bought them yourself?" "yes." "and you don't want revenge on forbes?" "no, no. god forgive me, i love him!" "then prove it. you will be taken to the tombs now. don't get frightened. say nothing to anyone. before night forbes will get bail for you and you will go at once with him to dr. strong's in jersey city. forbes has promised to marry you before?" "yes." "so i suppose you wouldn't mind having some sort of hold on him?" the woman smiled. "all right, i'll give you some advice. if he hesitates at the altar this time tell him you've been asked to turn state's evidence and remind him that it is difficult for wives to testify against their husbands. that's all. good-bye." williams opened the door and stepped into the outer office. "you will find your prisoner in my room, sergeant," he said to the waiting detective. "dan," he called to the office boy, as the door closed upon the officer and his charge. "ring up mr. r. castelez forbes, and say i want to see him here at once." ten minutes later williams was retained by r. castelez forbes, and gave that gentleman some sound advice. the same day toward evening, mrs. r. c. forbes, _née_ halpin, and her husband, _alias_ r. castelez forbes, started very privately for the west, and the city of new york was the richer in forfeited bail. * * * * * it is often difficult to differentiate between the accessory to a crime and the counsel defending the criminal. williams, of course, might plead confidential communications, which certainly cover a multitude of sins. but i prefer to pardon him on the theory that all is fair in love and--well, law is a sort of civil war. sometimes not even civil. if this wasn't a true story, i might report that williams married a fine woman in every way worthy of him, and that meyer as a reward for that day's good work gave him all his business ever afterwards. but the facts are williams never married, and meyer refused to pay his fee. whereupon williams promptly sued him for the money, won the suit and collected every cent due him. that is the real reason why the old scamp respects him nowadays and gives him so much of his business. by way of counterclaim. i. there are office buildings still standing in down-town new york where the occupant does not merge his identity with the numerals on his door. but they are very old buildings and the tenants are apt to be as old-fashioned as their surroundings. it was in one of these venerable piles that clayton sargent passed his legal apprenticeship, and perhaps this explains some things in his career which are otherwise inexplicable. when sargent was first ushered into the offices of messrs. harding, peyton, merrill and van standt he found a suite of plainly furnished rooms connected by green baize doors and surrounded by law books from floor to ceiling. the desks were large and dignified--almost learned in their solidity, as though they had soaked in all the wisdom that had dripped from the pens and all the experience of the pen holders.--the large iron safe built into the wall of the rear room looked a very monster of mystery from whose cavernous jaws no secrets would ever escape, and in whose keeping confidences were secure as with the sphinx. no sound of the typewriter was ever heard in those rooms, though the crackle and snapping of the soft cannel coal in the open fireplaces would occasionally lure someone into betting that "the ancients had surrendered." no telephone ever tinkled its call inside those doors and no member of the firm ever learned to use that instrument. harding, peyton, merrill and van standt's law papers were a joke in the profession. they were engrossed on parchment-like paper and tied with blue or red silk string, and if a seal was used two bits of ribbon always protruded from its edge. but those who read these documents, though they laughed at the outside, respected the inside, for "the ancients" had a large practice and knew how to keep it. "they're harmless old birds," said elmendorff, whose place sargent was taking, "but utterly impractical. i've been three years in a live office and i tell you i couldn't stand this. you'll waste your time here. why, not a week ago i heard old man peyton tell a client that he'd better put everything on the altar of compromise and then offer to divide, rather than get into litigation. they're dying of dry rot. you can't get up a scrap here to save your eternal. just think of this for instance. last month i began an action for the staunton manufacturing company against mundel and it was dead open and shut, too. well, in walks harding one morning madder than hops. 'how did this get in the office?' says he, waiving the complaint. i told him i advised the plaintiffs that they had a good case. 'good case!' he roars. 'there's not the slightest justice in the claim--not a scintilla of justice, sir!' 'but we can win,' i told him, and i showed the old fool where the defendant had slipped up in the wording of his contract and how we had him cold. well, darn me, if he didn't get hotter under the collar than before, asking me if i thought his firm were hired tricksters and bravos and i don't know what. finally he bundled all the papers back to the staunton company and wrote them they oughtn't to sue. that settled me, and so i told them i'd have to get out into the world again before the moss grew. it's a pity, too, for they've really got a smooth lot of clients if they only knew how to work them." so elmendorff departed, but no one ever heard that he took any of the ancients' practice with him. it was this atmosphere which sargent breathed for three years, and perhaps, as has been said, that may account for some of his many eccentricities and explain, in a measure, his treatment of fenton. fenton had married the daughter of brayton garland, one of mr. harding's clients, and when his wife sued him for divorce he brought the papers to sargent. it was in offices very different from the ancients' that fenton found his counsel. they were on the th floor of the titan building, on lower broadway, where the draught in the hall steadily sucked a stream of people into elevators, which, with the regularity of trip-hammers, shot them up breathless and dropped them gasping. there were three law firms in the same suite with sargent,--four attorneys "on their own hook," a seamless mattress company, an electric drying company and a collection agency. typewriters clicked in every room, messengers clattered up and down the long hallway, brass gates on the railed-off spaces swung to and fro crashing with every swing, the telephones sung a constant chorus, electric bells buzzed and tinkled, doors banged, papers rustled, voices droned or struck the air in sharp staccato, and yet in the midst of all this restless human energy there were times when sargent felt lonely. it was not merely that he missed the atmosphere of quiet and study, but the very rush and scramble seemed to generate ideas and actions foreign to the code of professional ethics and dignity which governed the ancients. sometimes the denizens of the titan building discussed the matter with him. "theoretically your venerable friends are all right," a brilliant, pushing young lawyer told him one day. "the man who lives by maxims in this day and generation will have food for thought, but he'll never earn his salt. we start with the same point of view, but----" he shrugged his shoulders. "but someone throws gold-dust in our eyes?" suggested sargent. "bosh!" was the retort. "don't talk the cant of the incompetent. the bar is of a higher average to-day than it ever was before." but despite the "high average," sargent often felt himself a solitary outsider looking on at the mad clamour and pitiless pursuit and wondering if it was worth all it seemed to cost. a defect in early education--this pausing to think--for philosophers on lower broadway are apt to have but brief careers. "there's nothing in the case," fenton told his counsel, who sat gazing out of the window at the tiny human ants crawling in and out of the stone heaps in the street below. sargent looked narrowly at his client, but the side face told him nothing, so he made no comment and fenton continued, "i don't know why she wants to drag us into court. i suppose some long-whiskered tabby has been telling her i ought to stay home every night. say, sargent, isn't there some way of bringing her to her senses?" the speaker turned from the window with a gesture of impatience, and sargent studied the handsome though somewhat boyish face. he knew fenton for an easy-going fellow, but no fool. he was a young man who had earned his money by his own brains, acquiring all the self-confidence and other characteristics, good and bad, which accompany achievement. there was strength of character in his face, and a certain firmness of purpose about the mouth that suggested something which the clear blue eyes contradicted. "you say there is nothing in the case," sargent answered. "why do you suppose she brings suit? i don't know mrs. fenton, of course, but women are not anxious as a rule to get themselves into court. have you tried to see her and obtain an explanation?" "lord, no! if you knew her you'd see how useless it would be. there's no way out of this except by showing her we mean business. she's nearly killed all the affection i ever had for her by this nonsense, but i want it stopped--and stopped right now." the suggestive lines of fenton's mouth were strongly marked as he snapped out the last words. "if you no longer love your wife,--am i to understand that you want a divorce? have you anything to set up by way of counterclaim?" "by way of counterclaim? no.--yes, i have. i want the children." sargent smiled. "that's hardly a counterclaim," he answered. "well, it's counterclaim enough for me.--that's just the thing. you push that and we'll see about the rest afterwards. if she wants to go into court she'll have to go without the children." fenton's mouth was firmly set, and its lines were almost grim. the boyish look had faded, and without it his features developed coarseness. sargent hesitated. "mr. fenton," he said at last, "i don't like these cases, and when a man dislikes his work, you know, he's not apt to do it well. i think you would do better to retain other counsel." "now that's all nonsense, sargent. you are just the man for me. i don't want one of those advertising roarers who'll have us in every paper. i want this thing stopped. you'll only have to apply for the children and that'll end it. there are plenty of legal ruffians to be had. i have chosen you because you are a gentleman and know how this business should be handled." there was no note of flattery in fenton's tone. "but, mr. fenton, admitting there is nothing in the case, the custody of the children is still a matter resting wholly in the discretion of the court and you may not succeed. mr. harding is an excellent lawyer and will doubtless make a good fight. you remember, of course, that i was in his office some years ago?" fenton looked sharply at his counsel and his eyes narrowed slightly as he answered. "well, that doesn't make any difference, does it? it ought to be all the better. you must know all the old chap's tricks." there was a suggestion of cunning about the man which completely transformed him for a moment. his watchful eyes, however, read the doubt in sargent's face and bespoke a charming sincerity as he added: "why, of course, i knew you were brought up with 'the ancients,' sargent. i was only joking. but that is merely another reason why you are best fitted to undertake this case. if it were the ordinary divorce dirt i wouldn't ask you to plough it up. but it's not. mr. harding knows you and you will be able to approach him easily. mrs. fenton has been poorly advised, i think, but the mischief's not yet wholly done. make your 'motion' or whatever you call it, and then you'll find the rest is easy. i know you can handle the matter as few men could. i've wanted to give you some business for a long time and i'm sorry to begin with this. however, it will not be the last, you know." sargent had built up a fair practice since he left "the ancients," but this was the first time he had ever been opposed to them. he confessed to himself that he did not like it. fenton was not wholly convincing, but if he did not take up this case someone else would. if he was better than his profession it was high time to retire from it. then, too, mr. harding was growing old, and doubtless the woman deceived by silly stories had deceived him. very probably, as fenton said, the first aggressive move would settle the whole affair. what fools women were to listen to every old wife who came along with idle tittle-tattle seeking recruits for the great army of the misunderstood! fenton's business was worth having, and if this matter went well there was no knowing where it might lead. moreover all the essential facts were in the defendant's favour, and as sargent skilfully set them forth in his "moving papers" he experienced that subtle influence, known to every lawyer, which can turn the most judicial counsel into a partisan, and make the silliest quarrel a matter of deadly moment between strangers to its cause. ii. any court with jurisdiction in divorce proceedings draws an audience peculiar to itself. every court room has, of course, its individual devotees. for instance "dutch pete" is accustomed to the corner bench in part xv. and would not change it for any other sleeping quarters, and even the migratory loafers seem to know and respect old "lawyer" brady's seat in trial term part xx. but, with divorce matters on the calendar, special term part i. appeals to a particular class. one can recognise its women out in the rotunda long before they turn toward the haven, and one can almost feel its moist and clammy type of man. to see the women with their hard faces well nigh intelligent with curiosity--their long necks and ears turned to catch each salacious morsel--is a sight to sicken every man with memory of a mother. to watch the flabby-jowled, pimply persons of the masculine gender, their drooling mouths fashioned to a grin, and their perspiring hands clutching the soiled and soiling newspapers, is to understand the cynic who protested that "the more he saw of men the better he liked dogs." "mr. harding," said the justice, as the arguments in _fenton_ vs. _fenton_ closed, "it seems to me the defendant has made out a reasonable case. as you have said, this matter rests wholly in the discretion of the court, and although we hold the parents joint and equal guardians of their children and do not follow the old world rule that a father has a superior claim to the possession of his offspring, yet, as it seems to me, this is a case where that rule should apply. mrs. fenton has left her husband's house without just cause, as he alleges. she makes no claim for his support, and the complaint, as has been shown, is deficient in its detail. if i am wrong, a trial will set the matter right. in the meantime i award the possession of the children to the father. if you can agree with mr. sargent upon the terms of the order, i will make such provision for occasional visits of the mother as justice may----" a scraping of chairs and rustling of skirts drowned the closing words of the judge and sargent turned to see a woman entering the court room with two little children at her side. she walked directly toward the counsel's table, and the restless eye-lashes of the unsexed "painted" her in rapid sweeping glances, now up--now down--and the fat-paunched leerers followed her with looks scarcely less offensive. "my child, you should not have come here," whispered mr. harding, as he rose and offered her his chair. she was scarcely more than a girl, but her tall graceful figure bespoke a quiet dignity, and the grey eyes with their steady gaze told of developed character. sargent glanced at his client. fenton must have seen the doubt expressed in the lawyer's face, for he spoke up sharply. "let's finish this business, sargent. i suppose i can take the children now." but his counsel did not answer, and fenton, growing impatient, addressed the court. "your honour, these are my children--i suppose i may take them now?" the judge, busy with the signing of papers, frowned but took no other notice of the questioner. mrs. fenton laid her hand on mr. harding's arm and almost shook it as she asked, "what does he mean? what--does--he--mean?" how the necks stretched and the ears strained to catch the counsel's answer! but he whispered to the woman at his side, who, with her arms thrown about the children, seemed oblivious of the eyes glutting themselves upon her. "impossible!" she kept repeating, "it is impossible!" the old lawyer shook his head gravely and glanced uneasily at the defendant. again he whispered to the young wife, speaking rapidly and stopping her interruptions with the pressure of his hand upon her arm, till at length she burst out in a frightened undertone, "but i tell you it is impossible! it _shall_ not be done!" sargent rose and crossed to where the two were talking. "pardon me for interrupting," he said to mr. harding, "but i apprehend this decision is a surprise to mrs. fenton. can we not arrange that the matter shall go no further?" "gladly, sargent, but how?" "i am authorised by my client to withdraw this motion if mrs. fenton will discontinue her case." mr. harding looked at the fair face turned toward him. "you understand," he said. "this is mr. sargent,--your husband's attorney." with a gesture, half terror and half disdain, the young mother drew the children closer to her side and sargent felt the hot blood flying to his cheeks. but she seemed only conscious of mr. harding's presence as she answered him. "does he dare offer to bribe me with my own children? it is monstrous!" mr. harding glanced sadly at the younger lawyer as the latter turned again to his impatient client. "she won't consent?" muttered fenton. "nonsense! you've worked the smooth business right enough, sargent, but we've won the motion and done the decent. now knock things about. you've got to scare her half out of her wits----" sargent's face flushed. "i think you are mistaking her," he said. "i know you are mistaking me." "good lord--man, don't get mussy just when everything's in our own hands. we've got to push it through now or never. why--damn it," he whispered fiercely, "don't you understand we can't defend this case? we've got to bluff her out!" the word "we" stung sargent as though someone had slapped his face. yet he was associated with this man. associated for what purpose--to do what? his client's angry outburst had made it plain enough. fenton saw the glance of scorn in his lawyer's eyes. "i'll be my own attorney then--and a damn sight better one," he muttered and turned toward the group at the other end of the table. "well, now, let's have the children--come, kids." he rose and took a step forward. as he did so his wife sprang to her feet and faced him. he stopped with an uneasy laugh before the splendid figure of the woman drawn up to her full height, and met her measured look of courage and contempt. then he turned again toward his counsel, speaking in an ugly undertone. "see here, sargent, i'm not going to make a fool of myself before all these people. get the officers to bring the children out to the carriage." but sargent did not reply, and for a moment there was dead silence in the court room. fenton stooped toward his counsel. "what do you think you're paid for?" he whispered menacingly. what was he paid for? that was plain talk--that made the truth stand out clearly! he was the hireling of this man--not his associate. he was hired to do contemptible work and he had done it,--was doing it. no wonder his employer stood ready with insult to show how he despised his creature. it was perfectly safe. an officer of the court was bound by professional duty and gagged by confidential communications. he must sit still and see this outrage on justice perpetrated. even aid in it. and for what? for money. how far had he sold himself--how much of his manhood was included in the purchase? he could retire from the case? yes, after the day's dirty work was finished and the wrong could not be righted. if he raised his hand to stop this thing, how many lawyers in the city would uphold him? not many in the titan building. it was easy to foreshadow the construction which would be placed upon his conduct. he could almost hear the fierce denunciation. to defend himself he would have to violate professional secrecy still further. true, there were those who would understand--men to whom their calling was and always would be "the honourable profession of the law"--men who would never permit the law's mantle of dignity to become a cloak for the vicious. but the others--"the high average"? had he the courage to face their verdict? perspiration poured down sargent's face and his hand shook with suppressed wrath as fenton rose and again addressed the court. "i presume your honour will enforce your order? i don't wish to make a scene." the justice looked inquiringly at the lawyers, but neither of them made any sign. "madam," he said at last, "i have awarded your husband the custody of his children pending this action. you will kindly put no obstacle in the way of the execution of my order." the chairs of the leerers grated on the floor with eagerness, and the skirts of the shameless shivered with delicious tremors. ah--this was worth coming for! a woman's tenderest feelings were to be exposed and crushed. privacy was to be invaded--delicacy was to be unveiled--the sacred was to be handled. ah--this well repaid the waiting! mrs. fenton flushed as the judge addressed her, and then grew ashy pale as she answered. "you have no right, no man has any right, to dispose of my children. they shall not leave me! i will not permit it!" the judge glanced at the bulging eyes and gaping mouths of the audience and frowned angrily. "officer," he said sharply, "take those children and deliver them to the defendant." there are moments when the bar does not envy the bench. as the judge's words reached her, the young mother leaped to her feet and swept the children behind her. then she backed toward the wall and crouched there like some magnificent wild thing, trembling with that mingling of terror and courage which warns the fiercest beast to caution. "let him," she panted, hoarsely, "let him come--come and take them if--if he dare!" mr. harding rose and stepped toward the woman, laying his hand gently upon her arm. she gazed at him for an instant with no recognition in her eyes, then flung her arms about his neck and laughed the hideous shuddering laughter of hysteria. here was entertainment indeed! a red-letter day in the annals of the audience! to-morrow the court room would be packed with expectants--all the floating population of the rotunda would be on hand. the judge seemed to think of this. "remove that woman!" he ordered. a court officer stepped forward, and at the same time fenton moved toward the children. then sargent's voice broke the stillness of the court. "if your honour please, i wish to withdraw the motion in this case." there was a moment of absolute, breathless silence. then fenton sprang to his feet. "withdraw?" he almost shouted. "what do you mean? this is my case. it's been decided in my favour. i won't permit it!" sargent only addressed the court as he answered, "nevertheless, i withdraw the motion." the justice looked steadily at the lawyer's face, and his gaze was not without a trace of approval. "i must warn you, counsellor," he said at length, "that this is very unusual. it is a most serious matter." "i will take all responsibility, your honour." "very well, mr. sargent. you consent, i presume, mr. harding? i am not sure that i have the power, but if not, the error can be corrected by appeal. mark the motion, 'withdrawn.'" "this is treachery!" fenton shouted at his lawyer. "i'll have you disbarred, sir! you'll lose every client you've got----" "but i'll keep my self-respect," answered sargent, in a whisper. "i'll have you disbarred, sir!--i'll ruin you utterly. your honour, he's conspired with the other side--he used to be in their office. i can prove----" "clear the court room!" thundered the justice. * * * * * outside in the rotunda the audience placed sargent on trial and straightway condemned him. in legal circles his conduct was denounced, eulogised, and on the whole deplored. but the court of conscience (hear the cynic mutter "court of last resort!") held him guiltless, and from its judgment there is no appeal. in the name of the people. valentine willard was not a bad fellow at heart, although gordon will never admit it. but gordon is a crank who carries his professional enmity into private life. their trouble began about an "affidavit of merits." gordon had a case in which he was about to enter judgment, when willard blocked him off with an extension obtained from the court by means of an affidavit, in which he swore that "his client had fully and fairly stated the matter to him, and from that statement he verily believed the defendant had a good and substantial defence to the action upon the merits." this, of course, was utter fiction. there was no thought of a defence. but delay defeats, and later willard withdrew, allowing gordon to take the twenty-fifth instead of the first judgment against his man. the same thing is done every day of practice in the city of new york. lawyers who are officers of the court prostitute the court with cheerful zeal--men with a high sense of self-respect in their private lives, demean themselves beyond expression in their professional careers--gentlemen who would not stoop to the slightest equivocation up-town, perjure themselves for money down-town, or teach their clerks to do it for them. it is not a pretty practice, but gordon ought to have known the custom. however, being young at that time, it still shocked him. to-day he says it only fills him with disgust. but he was just as much of a crank then as he is now, so he took willard's affidavit before the grievance committee of the bar association. he might have seen the smile on the faces of his auditors as he told his story, had he not been blinded by zeal. however the chairman was grave and judicial enough when he announced it was not the province of the committee to take up the quarrels of counsel, and that they did not propose to investigate light accusations of perjury. indeed, the chairman was so very judicial, and his speech so well delivered, that he might have been suspected of having said something of the same sort before under similar circumstances. but gordon, crank that he was, thought of nothing but his point, and stoutly maintained that false swearing was being practised every day by lawyers, great and small--that tricks and treachery were personal matters reflecting on but not involving the profession as a whole, while licensed perjury was a travesty of law, striking at the very foundations of justice. so he went on, boiling over with intensity and utterly innocent of tact. but when the chairman stopped him and said something about "seeking aid in legislative action," or "going before a grand jury," gordon, young as he was, looked straight into the speaker's eyes and drank in experience, if not wisdom, from their glance. later on willard's client quarrelled with his counsel, and put into gordon's hands the very proofs he needed. but the grievance committee never saw them, for gordon locked the papers in his safe and spoke no word. but that did not close the episode. it was, however, the beginning of the end as far as gordon and willard were concerned. more than a year passed before the two men met again. willard had in the meantime been appointed an assistant district attorney, and practised only in the criminal courts. their encounter was entirely a matter of accident, though gordon doesn't think so. nevertheless, the facts are that gordon chanced to wander into general sessions while waiting for some papers, and happened to find his _bête-noir_ prosecuting a case of burglary, and it was merely a matter of habit that caused him to study the prisoner as closely as he did. the man's face was gentle, and almost expressionless in its vague wonder at the scene before him. something had its grip on him--just what he did not seem to know--but something monstrous and merciless in its mechanism, and something was being said about him--just what he did not appear to comprehend. gordon watched the listless figure, and the weary droop of the head, and interpreted for himself. perhaps the poor wretch had struggled when arrested, but without avail--had stormed and protested to the sergeant at the police station, with no result--had denied and explained to the magistrate at the hearing, but to no end. the law--a hideous something--resistless in its power, relentless in its purpose, wanted him. these men--the one on the bench, the one behind the rail, those others in uniform--wished him out of the way. perhaps he had concluded he could best propitiate them by giving as little trouble as possible. so he sat there inert and silent, fascinated into non-resistance, watching the doors of his prison open somewhat as a rabbit must watch the widening jaws of a snake. it is impossible to comprehend the feeling without experiencing it, but gordon was a lonely sort of man, who sometimes felt himself apart from, instead of a part of, the universe, and so he understood. mr. assistant district attorney willard was presenting his case ably, handling his points with so much care that gordon asked the policeman sitting beside him if the trial was of any importance. "importance? well, i should say so! don't you see the chief sitting up near the rail?" gordon glanced in the direction indicated and observed the chief of police, note book in hand, watching every move of the district attorney. "who is he?" he asked, nodding toward the prisoner. "why the larrup says his name is winter--and don't he look innocent? well, he's really red farrell, a crook we've been after for years. but there's nothin' much gets by us, i guess.--eh?" but gordon was studying the prisoner again and did not respond. winter? where had he heard that name? why, of course, winter was the married name of his old nurse, who had been in his father's family for thirty years. but who was this man? "mr. duncan----" gordon turned as he heard the whisper behind him and found himself face to face with the very woman of whom he had been thinking. "why, margaret, what are you doing here?" "o, mr. duncan--it's him." "who?" "jack--there--my son." she glanced toward the prisoner. gordon motioned toward the door and they passed out together into the rotunda. "o, mr. duncan, can you save him?--you will, won't you, dearie? he's my only boy! indeed, indeed, he's not guilty for all he's been a wild lad at times. o, why do they say he's red farrell, or some such man? o please tell them, mr. duncan." and then the story came out with a burst of tears which the rotunda saw and heard without any emotion whatsoever. it has witnessed so many tears--that rotunda--heard so many, many stories. before court adjourned gordon found himself committed to aid in the defence of john winter--his first criminal case. by evening he was working enthusiastically, confident in the innocence of his client. winter was a stupid fellow and impossible as a witness, but this only further convinced his new counsel, who believed a bad witness could not be a good liar. but the defence had been poorly prepared at the hands of the attorney assigned by the court. proper witnesses had not been subpoenaed--details had been neglected, while the prosecution seemed unusually keen. this last fact worried and puzzled gordon more than all the others, and finally started him out on a tour of personal investigation. when he returned he had learned enough to make him admit that with the time at his command there was small hope of clearing his man from the closely pressed charge. one chance, however, remained--to see the assistant district attorney and obtain an adjournment. but to beg a favour from that source was gall and wormwood to gordon. moreover, what he had discovered was not calculated to cool his hot head or make him more diplomatic. so the mission did not promise well, and he had about determined not to attempt it, when the look of despair and mute appeal in margaret's face made him reconsider, and drove him late at night to visit a man he would have gone miles to avoid. the assistant district attorney was the opposite of gordon in every way--smooth, politic, even tempered, and ambitious to drop the word "assistant" from his title. this, it was rumoured, he would do at the next election. in an encounter between these two men it was not difficult to foresee with whom would rest the advantage. willard welcomed gordon to his study and opened with easy commonplaces. but gordon, hopelessly fanatic and stiff-necked in his honesty, disdained the aid of conventions and pushed directly to his point. "mr. willard, you are prosecuting a young man--john winter by name----" "ah yes, i thought i saw you at the trial to-day, but didn't know you practised in the criminal courts. yes,--john winter, alias red farrell." "i do not think so and that is why i am here. this young man is the son of margaret winter, an old family servant of ours on whose word i would stake my life. i have examined the prisoner and some of the witnesses, and am sure a mistake is being made and that i can prove the man's innocence." "well, i shall at least have the satisfaction of being beaten by a worthy adversary. but you didn't come here merely to throw down the gauntlet, mr. gordon." the district attorney smiled inquiringly at his visitor. "no, sir. i want you to withdraw a juror in this case and consent to a mistrial. meanwhile we can both make further investigations and the cause of justice will not suffer." if the speaker had asked for his head, willard's face could not have expressed more absolute amazement. he stared in silence for a moment--then checked a sudden inclination to laugh and answered calmly enough: "of course you have not practised very extensively in the criminal courts, mr. gordon, or you would know that what you ask is really absurd." the expression was unfortunate and gordon blazed up instantly. "i see nothing absurd about it, sir. i ask you for time to ascertain this man's guilt or his innocence which cannot now be properly determined.--do you mind telling me just why this seems absurd to the district attorney?" the speaker's tone and manner would have nettled a man less on his guard, but willard only laughed pleasantly as he answered: "the district attorney's office is satisfied to proceed, and you will admit the case must be fairly strong when we are undaunted by the presence of distinguished counsel." "this is no matter for jests, mr. willard. do you consider that the duty of the district attorney is to convict as many persons as possible--to win as many cases as you can?" "o come, come, mr. gordon, we are not here to discuss ethical questions." "mr. willard, i am not here to be trifled with or side-tracked. will you tell me what investigations you have made to ascertain if this man is innocent or not?" the district attorney leaned back wearily in his chair and gazed at the earnest face confronting him. then he lazily reached for a cigarette. "i am trying to keep my temper and be polite," he replied, "but you surely do not expect me to detail my case to my adversary?" "your case? is that how you term the solemn duty you are charged with? does the district attorney condescend to tricks--does he hope to make convictions by surprise?" willard struck a match angrily, but he applied it to the cigarette in his mouth before he answered: "red farrell must pay you a good fee, mr. gordon, to make this worth your while." for a moment gordon was the cooler man of the two. "is it not the duty of the district attorney to ascertain the truth?" he asked as though the other had not spoken. "are you, a public officer, interested in withholding any part of the truth? have you anything to conceal?" "mr. gordon, i do not propose to listen to these insinuations----" "let us cease bantering then, mr. willard. i am ready to talk plainly. must i?" "you must indeed, unless you wish me to interpret for myself." he flicked the ashes from his cigarette and glanced with a bored expression toward the clock. but gordon did not speak until willard's eyes met his again. "very well then. i will see that you understand. the police have been hunting a man called red farrell, but they have not been successful. the chief has blamed the captains--the captains the detectives, and the papers have ridiculed them all. the police of other cities too have twitted them about it. suddenly this young man is arrested under suspicious circumstances. no one seems particularly interested in him or knows much about him. why shouldn't he be red farrell? he is red farrell. do you understand me?" "i hear you making a very nasty and uncalled-for charge against the police of this city and----" "one that you well know has both foundation and precedent. you know the men who compose the force. so do i. they have the same pride and ambition and morals that other men have. no more and no less. they discover red farrell and remove a reproach. suppose winter isn't farrell--well, he's probably guilty anyhow. _they want to win cases too!_" "mr. gordon, you have said about enough----" "to persuade you that this is a proper case for further investigation?" "no, sir, and i will tell you right now that this case will not be adjourned for one hour!" gordon rose to his feet and faced his opponent, wording his question slowly and with deliberate emphasis. "of course you personally have no special interest in convicting this particular prisoner?" willard sprang from his seat and angrily tossed his cigarette into the fire. "mr. gordon, take care you do not go too far." "are you not especially anxious to win this case?" "i am prosecuting, sir, in the name of the people." "in the name of the people!" gordon laughed the words out with stinging scorn, and the attorneys faced one another with a rage that in men of less refinement would have set them at each other's throats. but the grapple was as deadly and the purpose as grim as though the struggle had been physical. there was no possible chance for argument now and gordon flung off all restraint as he poured forth his torrent of contempt. "in the name of the people! what people gave you a commission to tamper with the liberty of the meanest thing alive? what people privileged you to prosecute an innocent man--for you know he is innocent--i have seen it in every false smirk of your face ever since i entered this room. and to prosecute him for what? for your own personal advancement--to win a case for your client. do you want me to tell you who your client is----" "i want you to understand that you can't blackmail me, sir!" "blackmail you? by the lord harry, you shall hear the truth from one man if you never hear it again. don't lay a hand on me or i'll break you like this pencil! blackmail you? to-night you've got to know that another man knows you through and through. to-night you have to go unmasked. are you afraid of hearing me say who your client is? are you afraid of having me name the politicians whose orders you execute and whose nod is your law? you have been ordered by the police to win this case. this _case_ indeed! and you, the assistant district attorney, in the name of the people, will win it by fair means or foul. you have never investigated one fact, or asked one question, calculated to bring out the truth, but by trick and wile you stoop to serve your master's purpose. and do you think i do not know why? you poor fool! every honest man knows who cares to follow your dirty tracks, and the knaves whose gifts you buy know whom they sell to and for what. but remember this, the day you run for district attorney will be the day i take these papers where they will do the most good, and we will see if the people want a perjurer to prosecute in their name!" gordon tore from his pocket the "affidavit of merits," with the proofs of its falsity, and slapped them down upon the desk. willard glanced at the papers and then at his adversary. his answer was almost a whisper--hard and rasping. "gordon, i will convict your man if i never win another case in my life!" "by god--you dare not!" the study door slammed as with a threat--"you dare not!" the front door echoed "you dare not!" as a challenge. when willard looked up again the clock was striking three. but it chimed "you dare not," in the even tone of statement. * * * * * the second day of john winter's trial brought a series of reverses for the prosecution, and the prisoner was acquitted, to the utter disgust of the police. about that time the assistant district attorney's career suffered one of those sudden blights, the origin of which is the mystery of a city's politics. a few years after this red farrell was really found and convicted, but then willard had been so long on the political shelf that those who put him there had completely forgotten his existence. but i believe they were right in accusing him of bungling that case. of course, he may have been intimidated, but the chances are he could never have been convicted of perjury. the crime has almost the sanction of custom. this he must have known. so why not credit him with worthy motives and say he was a good fellow at heart, even though gordon, indian-hater that he is, will never admit it? the latest decision. there was a black-edged card on the bulletin board. that means a vacancy in the club membership until some one of the waiting-list steps into the dead man's shoes. the card bore the inscription: john furman delafield. december , . jack delafield had been no chum of mine, but i never thought the governors did right by him, and i was glad to remember my partisanship in the days when his mere name was sufficient to provoke instant debate among the thespians. i liked him then for some of the enemies he made, and perhaps my enthusiasm was always more for the cause than the man. however, i was sorry--very sorry, to see his name on that card, and i said as much to the group of men among whom i took my accustomed seat in the club corner. "well, i'm sorry he's gone, but i never knew him at all," remarked chandler. "i never met him either," said paddock. hepburn had never heard of him, neither had joline, and grafton knew him not. i looked at the speakers. was it possible i was as old as they seemed to intimate? "delafield hasn't been regular at the club for many a long day," i said--clinging to a straw. "i doubt if he's been inside the door for five years--so it isn't very strange you haven't met. but you all know of him. he was the delafield of the hawkins-delafield affair." the blank look on the faces of my companions surprised and, i admit, shocked me. it was ridiculous, but osborne's laugh grated, and i welcomed chandler's interrupting question, even though it pronounced sentence on my senility. "yes--i'll tell you the story," i answered, "but after retailing to members of this club something that was absolutely discussed to death here, and labelling it a 'story,' i shall never address you again except as 'my sons.'" "father, may i have a cigar?" asked chandler, as he rang the bell. i signed the check. "jack delafield was a man of good family," i began, "but to vary the conventional opening and adhere to the truth, i may as well say his parents were honest though not poor. he was a fellow of many talents, so many, in fact, that he became known as a 'versatile genius.' he never attained a more notable title. not that he hid his talents under a napkin. he sealed their fate in a bottle--in many bottles. i'm afraid we didn't do much to help him here. everyone thought he'd come out all right in the long run, and when he lost his money and settled down seriously to the law, his friends supposed his wild oats had all been sown. but somebody left him more money, and back he went to literature and painting, and music. the old set welcomed him with open arms, but didn't help him to write, or paint or practise. then miss--well, i won't say what girl--put him on probation, and he wrote two really notable stories before the probation was declared unsatisfactory. after that he never seemed to care much about anything except art, and he took that out in dreaming of the things he didn't do. yet no one seemed to blame him much, perhaps everybody liked him too well, and nobody loved him enough. anyway he went from bad to worse, until 'poor fellow' used to be coupled with his name, and delafield in various states of intoxication became a familiar sight in these rooms. "he must have been a handsome fellow before drink coarsened and aged him, for he was still good looking, though prematurely old, when i first met him, shortly after my election to the club. about that time galloway gave his bachelor dinner in the private dining-room upstairs. i attended as one of the ushers, and there were perhaps a dozen other guests--among them delafield. the dinner was as most such dinners are, a toast for every sentiment, and sentiments galore, so when we adjourned to the grill-room for coffee, jack tipped his chair against the wall over there and fell asleep. we sat about the centre-table smoking, and testing some remarkable port sent to grace the occasion. "i don't recall what led up to the conversation, but i do remember that the general subject was women, and that hawkins coupled the name of--well, a decent girl, with a remark so coarse that most of us stopped talking, though two or three laughed. it was a speech such as i suppose you've all heard made at some time or another, and which always seems to receive the tribute of a laugh before being buried in the silence of self-respecting men. "it was in the hush following this remark that delafield's chair fell sideways to the floor with a crash, making us start to our feet and setting the glasses tinkling. the roar of mirth that burst out at this mishap ceased instantly, as we saw delafield's ghastly face, down which the blood was running from a deep gash in his forehead. "someone hurried forward, offering help, but delafield pushed him aside, staggered to his feet, closed the door and leaned his back against it--his arms spread out as though to bar an exit. "we stood around the table in silence, watching him. two or three minutes must have passed before he spoke. "'is--mi--miss smith en--gaged?' "the question was asked slowly in a low tone, as though the man was struggling to control voice and speech. "we looked at one another and at the swaying figure before the door, but no one answered. "'is--miss smith's--father here?' "no answer. "'is miss smith's brother here?' "it was difficult to see all the faces in the smoky half-light of the lamps, but those about me showed a pallor of apprehension. "was miss smith's uncle there--or her guardian--or her cousin? was anybody present who had a claim to represent her? no? "the broadening trickle of blood on delafield's face dripped down the white shirt front, but no one stirred or spoke. "'then i wa--want to say'--here he lurched forward from the door and stood rocking slightly at the end of the table. 'i want to say that i--i'm drunk an'--and i know it. but i'm--i'm a gentleman. an'--and yonder's nothing but a cur--a low-lived cur--drunk or sober. you--you've heard him--now see him!' "something flashed before his eyes, and then a wine-glass struck hawkins square on the forehead, scattering in fragments over the table. "and hawkins stood there, his face dripping with the wine, and his clothes showing great stains of it--stood there without moving as delafield leaned over the table and laughed-- "'if--if you only had as much re--red blood in you--you--you----' "and then he fell fainting across the table, crashing among the bottles. "the governing board expelled delafield, but the club sentiment was so strongly in his favour that they afterward rescinded the expulsion, and suspended him for three years. but that never satisfied his friends." "i should think not, indeed," exclaimed joline, "it was outrageous! i've always claimed you can't be sure a man's a thorough gentleman until you've seen him drunk. and that proves it." "oh, the many times i've heard your theory debated in this place! the walls fairly ached with listening to the discussions." "well, i'm sorry i didn't know the chap," interrupted chandler. "let's drink to his memory!" he struck the bell as he spoke. as the waiter filled the orders, i noticed one of the older members on the stairs bending close to the bulletin board and peering through his glasses at the notice of john delafield's death. chandler touched me on the shoulder. "to the memory of a gentleman--jack delafield!" he cried. we rose to the toast. the old man on the stairs turned quickly and saw the lifted glasses. his face was a study. "hush!" i whispered, "that's hawkins." the distant drum. "some for the glories of this world; and some sigh for the prophet's paradise to come; ah, take the cash and let the credit go, nor heed the rumble of a distant drum!" --_rubáiyát._ i. almost everyone knows governor tilden's residence in gramercy park, but those who don't know it as such, may remember a big house with bas-reliefs over the door, on the south side of that quiet square. however, the house has nothing to do with this story, except that it was upon its door-steps i encountered sandy mcwhiffle, on my way to the club. i use the word "encountered" advisedly, for sandy, finding the bottom step somewhat narrow for a couch, had allowed one of his legs the freedom of the sidewalk, and it was over this protruding member that i stumbled into the arms of the gentleman slumbering on the governor's steps. it was late at night--and sandy protested. his opening remarks served to advise me that the cop couldn't get around the square again for at least fifteen minutes--that he (sandy) hadn't slept five, and that i'd destroyed his night's rest. it did seem unfair.--i certainly could have discovered his leg if i'd looked sharp, and twenty minutes' rest is--well, it's twenty minutes' heaven when you need it--and sandy needed it--there was no question about that. but the advent of the cop making slumber inexpedient, if not impracticable for the time being, we adjourned, at my suggestion, to the all-night restaurant on fourth avenue, near twenty-fifth street. you know food is a fair substitute for sleep at times, especially after one has experimented considerably with sleep as a substitute for food. sandy had made quite thorough investigations along that line. but experiments were difficult, what with the grey bastinado brigade in the squares and park, and their blue accomplices in the side streets. i agreed with my vis-à-vis over the poached eggs and ale at gibson's that it did seem queer the air wasn't free, and that sleeping in public was a misdemeanour. of course one does it when pressed, but while the island gives the needed respite, it lessens the chances of earning money to buy a sleeping privilege--and many trips over the river are apt to permanently impair claims to good citizenship. sandy hadn't been obliged to cross the upper east river yet, but he was getting very weary and careless about concealing it. hadn't he been able to get any work? not for a long time. didn't he do anything at all? yes--he looked for a job about four hours a day. why only four hours? because he tired easily and had to save his strength for the line at night. the line? yes--the bread line at fleischmann's. on the main artery of the chief city of this land of plenty--on broadway under the shadow of grace church--there forms nightly a line of men that stretches for more than a block. men with pale faces that show haggard under the white electric light, and haggard faces that show hideous,--shiveringly cold men who blink at you like dazed animals or glare at you like wild beasts;--hot, panting, almost pulseless men who gasp in the scorched atmosphere of the city's streets--solemn, mournful creatures, with their filthy rags loosened for any breath of air, no matter how fetid--miserables of every type, exhausted, wretched, but human beings all--stand every night at the edge of the curb on broadway and tenth streets waiting for a baker's over-baking. it all flashed before my eyes in a moment. you can see it any night, winter or summer--january or july--from ten o'clock till two, gentlemen. look at it and pity it--you who have pity in your hearts. look at it and fear it--you who have none! had he been there to-night? yes, but there was a fellow near the end of the line whose wife and children were waiting for him, so he and sandy exchanged places, and--well, the supply gave out about one o'clock, so of course---- yes, he would take another egg. was he married? no, thank god! there was nothing romantic about sandy mcwhiffle, and nothing scotch about him except his name. neither was his face in any way remarkable, nor his speech, nor his story; but it struck me then that there were dramatic possibilities in him as a man--dramatic probabilities in him as a type. ii. i was in a hurry to have the position filled; it wasn't much of a job, and i wanted to waste as little time as possible, so i advertised and gave my office address. of course it was foolish, but i was pressed with work and did it without thought. however, i saw no reason why the janitor should lose his temper. anyway, i can't abide impertinence in an inferior, and i let him understand this before the elevator reached the top floor. once there i admitted to myself he had reason for--well, for respectful annoyance. a pathway was forced for me through the crowd of men which choked the hallway and blocked the entrance to my office, but i couldn't get in until a score or so were driven down the stairs. i locked myself in my private room and cursed my folly and the janitor's impudence. but there was no time to lose--we had to be rid of those men--so i slipped a note under the door directing my clerk to send them in to me, one at a time, until further orders. it didn't take long to find the man i wanted. he was the third in line, i think--a respectable fellow--far above the position, i should have said, but he told me he wasn't, that he had a family to support, and all that sort of thing, so i engaged him and sent him out with a note to the superintendent. as he left the room i hastily tore open a letter which looked as though it needed an immediate answer. at the same moment my door opened again. "confound that ass junkin, why the devil didn't he give me time to ring the bell and tell him i'd engaged a man!--why the devil doesn't he----" it was just as i expected. that letter was important to a degree, and during the next ten minutes i was so deeply absorbed that when i looked up from my reading and saw a man standing beside me, i started with a nervous exclamation which turned to a surprised greeting as i recognised sandy mcwhiffle. he had changed somewhat since i'd seen him last--six months before--and not for the better. his gaunt face was even more sallow than before, giving to the features a harder caste, chiselling the nose into more of a hook, and deepening the lines under the eyes. he looked ravenous, but not with the hunger of appetite, and i thought--yes, i was quite sure--he smelt rather strongly of liquor. "well, sandy," i began, "where did you come from?" "from the hospital," he answered. "ah," i observed, "bad places--those--er--hospitals, sandy. they breed a great deal of sickness. there are seventy-two in my district." "you think i've been in a saloon, drinking?" "no, i don't think so," i answered, with a mental reservation favouring knowledge. "well, i haven't been, anyway. you smell whisky on me. they gave it to me at the hospital so's i could get down here. i ain't discharged yet, but i was bound to come when i saw your name in the papers and knew i'd get the job if i could only see you. i've been here since six this morning. will you give me a try at it?" "well, no, i can't, mcwhiffle," i said, with a good deal more ease than i could have felt if i hadn't smelt the liquor and heard that hospital story. "the fact is, i've taken a man on, and so the job's gone." sandy gazed at me with a bewildered, frightened look, but his answer was only a mumble about his being sure of a steady job this time, seeing how he knew me and all. mechanically i made a memorandum of the hospital at which he was allegedly a patient, but my mail was awaiting me, and he must have gone while i was intent upon its contents. anyway, he'd disappeared when i looked up, but the odour of whisky in the room was strong enough to destroy any interest i might have felt in my late supper companion. whisky and "that tired feeling" are mainly responsible for the army of the "unemployed." they talk about there not being enough work to go around! one good job'd last the whole shiftless lot a year. they don't want work, they want help--permanent and increasing help. some such thoughts occupied me until i happened to see a telegram protruding from the bundle of unopened letters on my desk. "gods and powers! will that triple idiot never learn to separate the telegrams from the letters? what the devil--junkin! junkin!" i crashed the bell with each repetition of the fool's name, at the same time tearing open the yellow envelope. "for god's sake, junkin, how many times must you be told to keep these things separate? half an hour gone, and here's this cipher still untranslated. do you think you've nothing to do but draw your salary----" "i'm sorry, sir, but you see these men came----" "quick, get the code and translate--don't stand around arguing! here, give me the book!" i rushed into the outer office, but stopped almost at the threshold of my door. the room was completely encircled by a line of men, and every eye in the crowd was turned upon me. what a motley throng it was--shabbily dressed and unshaven for the most part--untidy to the point of dirtiness. hardly a bright, healthy face among the lot--surly and ill-tempered looking many of them. bah! i don't like humanity in the abstract, and loathe it in the concrete of crowds. my disgust must have been apparent, and my thought audible as i said: "now, my men, the place is filled. you'd better all clear out." but my words, forbidding as they were, did not free me. "no, i haven't any other job. no, i don't expect to have any.... yes, well, i can't help it, can i?... of course, i know--don't bother me! i tell you the place is gone.... no, we never have any places in this office.... charity organisation, twenty-third street and fourth avenue.... yes, yes, yes, i don't doubt it, but i tell you i've filled the job--junkin--get the janitor and clear the room--they'll drive me mad!" almost frenzied, i rushed back to my private office. how i was worked that day! the section traction company almost caught us napping, and they'd have done it surely if we hadn't obtained the judge's signature to the injunction by four o'clock that afternoon. they not only laid two miles of track inside of eighteen hours, and came within four blocks of crossing our main line, but they sold our stock on the market, thousands and thousands of shares--poured it in from ten o'clock till three, pounding and hammering every supporting bid we made, and the only thing that saved us was the exchange closing at three o'clock. as it was, our board man, reynolds, became hysterical as the gong struck, and he's never been up to much since. well, it was a shrewd, ably-planned move, and, executed earlier, would have succeeded in wrecking us. but it cost them, as we figured it, two millions, and sent them higher than a kite. i didn't know they were so big--employed three thousand men, they say. iii. the name on a passing ambulance directed my steps to roosevelt hospital at the close of business, a few nights later. i don't think i wanted to nail that very poor lie of sandy's but i knew waldron, the superintendent, and thought i'd invite him to dinner and joke him a bit about his new whisky ward. waldron was in, but could not go to dinner. worst time in the day for him to get off, he said. "by the way," he continued, "too bad you couldn't give sandy mcwhiffle a job--he would have it you'd take him, so we let him go, with a dose of whisky to carry him through. but you lazy devils get down so late it didn't last him, and he fainted in the street on the way back. queer fellow, but i liked him--his sense of humour hasn't disappeared as it has with most of his class." perhaps my sense of humour had disappeared, but i saw no fun in my rehearsed jokes of a few minutes previous. "is he here now?" i asked. "no, we discharged him yesterday.--hope he'll get a job, but there's an awful lot of men looking for work." it was probably because i was out of temper with myself, but the city seemed hideously cruel to me as i walked down broadway from the hospital. the clang of the car gongs sounded like fierce commands--the electric lights snapped and glittered like cunning, wicked eyes--the hot air from the shops offended like venomous breath--the rattle of the carts and cabs sounded reckless--the crowds seemed to jostle and grapple. the gaily-lighted windows mocked me with their glitter, and the darkened ones had a menace in their black indifference. in every elbow touching me i seemed to feel some threat--in every eye looking at me i seemed to read some impatient question asked in brutal scorn. these masses of men rushing by me this way and that--they hated me--longed to trample me down and crush me into the dirt beneath their feet!--no, they didn't.--and wouldn't?--unless they found me in their path, and then they'd wipe me from it with scarce a thought--yes, and rush on without a sign, without knowledge of my obliteration.--well, it wasn't worth struggling against--the odds were too great.--and anyway, what difference did it make? i felt a touch on my shoulder, and almost screamed. it was st. clair mowbray. i don't like him much, but any companion was a friend just then, so we walked along together, he chatting and i silent. as we passed the metropolitan opera house a line of people stretched from the box-office out into the street. "what fools," said mowbray, "they must want tickets damned badly to do that. don't they look like a chain gang?" "more like the bread line at fleischmann's," i answered gloomily. "yes--but better bred." mowbray chuckled approvingly at his sally. i parted with him at the next corner feeling his wit would not appeal to me that evening. iv. the club disappointed me. i thought companionship would relieve, but it only served to aggravate my loneliness. everything talked about seemed local and trivial, and everybody appeared to sail under a different flag of interest. so after enduring this as long as possible i wandered out, walking down town for no other reason than to be among people i didn't know and who didn't know me--a hair-of-the-dog-that-bit-you cure for loneliness. a conservative investor once told me there was no better or safer property than a cheap lodging-house on the bowery. possibly my informant imparted his discovery to others, for the number of these establishments has increased tremendously during the last few years. but when many conservative investors undertake to walk the same road, the result is usually the elimination of some of them--only those, of course, who are not really entitled to be termed conservative. this sorting of the just from the unjust does not occur, however, until the malthusian doctrine needs a business illustration. as i walked along the east-side thoroughfare and noted the lodging-houses packed to their utmost capacity, i concluded that the number of applicants for such accommodation must have increased in a manner at once flattering to the judgment of the conservative investor, and satisfactory to his highest interest. who inhabit these houses? well, men who have no better homes--drunken, idle and shiftless men--strangers in this somewhat inhospitable town--men looking for work and men looking for mischief--great, hulking, ignorant brutes whose hope lies in their muscle, and well-formed fellows with intelligent faces--all sorts and conditions of men--a great tide of humanity that flows in at night and ebbs out in the morning, never and yet ever the same. a steadily rising tide? o, yes, perhaps,--but look at the embankments! it was curiosity and not a desire to educate myself for the day when i might become a conservative investor that led me to enter no. - / bowery. its sign offered attractions suited to almost any purse, the management apparently catering to every taste in the scale of social refinement. it read rooms by the week $ . rooms by the night c. beds by the week c. beds by the night c. there were several similar houses in the immediate vicinity, but this one seemed to secure most of the stragglers who came by during the ten or fifteen minutes i watched it from the opposite side of the street. the reasons for its popularity were not to be spelled out of the sign, so i crossed over and climbed the ladder-like stairs upon which the street door opened. i knew just about what was inside before i mounted a step. everybody knows who's travelled on the third avenue l at night and looked out of the windows of the train anywhere below ninth street. it was one o'clock in the morning when i left the club, so it must have been quite two when i entered the "columbian," but even at that hour the smoking-room was more than comfortably filled. a cloud of malodorous smoke so lowered the ceiling that one involuntarily stooped to avoid contact with it. occasionally some current of air would draw a funnel-shaped drift from this cloud and whirl it like an inverted sea-spout toward the steam-screened windows and out of the cracks at their top, and occasionally the draught in the red-hot stove sucked down a whiff of it. otherwise it hung motionless like some heavy, breathless canopy. a long, narrow table filled the centre of the room, reaching almost from the windows in the front to the stove in the rear. around this sat or lounged a score of men, and perhaps as many more occupied chairs about the stove and along the wall. half a dozen were reading newspapers, tattered and greasy through constant handling, but the rest of the company stared idly at each other, or at nothing, talking little, but smoking almost to a man. an artist could have found a study for almost every emotion in the figures and faces of that dimly-lighted room. excitement in the expression of the fair-haired lad following with his finger the closely-printed "ads.," and quickly noting the promising ones on a scrap of paper by his side.--anxiety on the face of the handsome fellow with the pointed beard, turning the pages of the long-coveted newspaper to find his particular "want column."--indifference in the attitude of the strong but unhealthy looking man with hands in pockets, his outstretched legs forming a v, as he lolled back in his chair, pipe in mouth, his eyes on vacancy.--despair in the huddled bit of humanity at the head of the table, with head on arms--his hair showing very white against the black coat-sleeve. i walked into the room and took a seat at the long table, near the front windows. my entrance attracted no attention, either owing to the smoke in the room or the indifference of its occupants. but i viewed the neglect with complacency, whatever the cause. "what are they waiting for--why don't they go to bed?" i asked in a low tone of my neighbour at the table--a rough but shrewd looking fellow. "who's _they_?" he replied surlily--"what's yer waiting for yourself?" "nothing," i answered--"not sleepy, that's all." "well, that's what the rest's waiting for--for nothing--not sleepy nor--nor anything." he gave a sharp glance at my face, and then, appearing to see a puzzled look on it, added, "say, d'yer mean ter tell me yer don't know what's bitin' this crowd?" "no," i replied, and my voice must have demonstrated my ignorance, for he exclaimed: "then yer must be a jay, sure. why, they're waiting for the morning papers, of course. do yer think yer'll ever get a job if yer wait till the noospapers gets on the stands? well, yer will--i guess not! where in hell did yer drift from, anyway?" "hist--there he comes," exclaimed a man opposite. i glanced towards the door, and saw a man standing with his hand on the door-knob. his tall figure was so slight as to be almost emaciated, and his clean though threadbare clothing hung loosely, as if it had once fitted a far stouter frame. his face was refined, and had that look of calmness which now and again follows some great storm of mind and rack of body. the skin was drawn tightly over the cheek bones, making the eyes seem disproportionately large in their sunken sockets. his mouth and chin were strong, and the prominent, slightly hooked nose gave the clean-shaven face a sternness which contrasted rather oddly with his abundant light-yellow hair. he closed the door, moved to the table, and seated himself at it near the centre of the room. almost every eye had been fixed upon him as he entered, but no greetings were given, and the interest in the newcomer flagged the moment he opened a book and began to read. "who is he?" i ventured to ask my neighbour. "schrieber," he replied, and then in a bored tone, as though remembering my greenness--"the fellow who's been talkin' at the lodgin'-houses for the last two weeks or so--at the 'crescent,' and the 'owl,' and the 'american,' and all of 'em." i desisted from asking the further questions that immediately suggested themselves, for my informant turned his back on me and rested his head on the table, as though to discourage further conversation. "here comes bill nevins," announced the man opposite, but just whom he addressed could not be gathered from the faces around me. his remark, however, referred to an individual who entered with a "howdy!" directed to the room in general. "cold morning, boys!" he exclaimed, as he walked towards the stove rubbing his hands together. no one responded, but this did not seem to affect the speaker, who stood smiling cheerfully at the crowd, with his back to the red-hot stove. a healthy, well-fed, kindly-looking man, with vigour in his limbs and character in his genial face, he looked like some good-natured priest or head-groom. "what's the news, bill?" called out a man with his chair tipped against the wall. "well, they strike to-morrow at noon, unless the companies concede something, but, as everybody knows they won't, i might just as well say--they strike to-morrow at noon." the voice was clear and the tone cheery, though decisive. all the newspapers seemed to have been drained of their contents, for everyone was staring at the speaker--some with interest, others listlessly. but no answer or comment greeted the news.--the silence was solemn or absurd--one scarcely knew which. "and as this strike's on," continued nevins, "the question for us is--will we aid the men, or help to defeat 'em? if we want to beat 'em, we've just got to take the places they're givin' up. things has got to be pretty bad when a working-man leaves his job these days--you know that--so there's no use discussin' why they strike. of course you know the answer of these car companies, and all other companies--'supply and demand.' and i'll tell you what rules the 'supply and demand.'--it's the supply of stock and the demand for dividends. it's greed that makes this demand, and it's poverty and sickness, and many mouths to feed, that makes the supply. it's greed, and not decent competition, that milks the companies and busts them, and drags men down to lower wages, or throws them out of work altogether. what we've got to do is to demonstrate which side we're on. if we're for the men, we must stand off and persuade others to do the like; and if we're for our children, we must do the same thing. but if we don't give a damn either for our own people or anybody else, we'd better go and take the places until the companies decide on the next reduction!" the determination in his voice would have been fierce but for the smile accompanying the words. half-muffled applause and ejaculations of approval could be heard from different parts of the room. the man schrieber looked up, his glance travelling from one face to another down the long room until it reached bill nevins and settled on him with an intensity that compelled an answering glance. "you say, my friend," he began slowly, "we must demonstrate on which side we stand. so say i. we must demonstrate--but not by waiting. we must make a great spectacle--but not by idle tableaux. you think you will compel these rich corporations to give in to these men by withholding your services? it is an empty dream. there will come other men from other places--you cannot prevent them from coming or the companies from hiring them. the disease is body-spread--you cannot doctor it locally. the longer we sit idle the fiercer will the disease ravage, the deeper will it enter. idle waiting will not do,--no, nor throwing stones. that will only make a holiday for the militia--stories for their armouries--child's play, forgotten by the children when the game is over. it does not turn the attention of prosperous humanity towards its suffering brothers, but it gives a pretext for 'man's inhumanity to man.' it only costs a little money--a very little money--easily saved by the corporations in the decreased wages, and made up to the state by increased taxation. it will not do, i tell you. we need a much bigger and a dearer demonstration." the speaker had risen, and was gazing into the faces of his auditors. as he paused and brushed the light hair away from his eyes, the air disturbed by the movement sent the smoke cloud blowing about his head. "now, that's just what we don't want, schrieber!" broke in nevins impatiently. "you go 'round raisin' a row and gettin' up a riot, and you'll turn all the sympathy of the press and the public against the people we're tryin' to help." the man did not reply at once, but stood gazing at the labour leader as though struggling to keep back some retort. "you do not understand me," he said at length--"i counsel no violence--i do not advocate riot. but not because i fear to lose the sympathy of the press and the public. you have had that, and with what result? aren't wages lower than ever, and isn't work more difficult to get every day we live? and who is your 'public'? the few well-to-do who never think unless their comfort's disturbed? i tell you the real public is the many poor, the constantly increasing poor, and not the few rich! your demonstration must teach the rich to think--it must redeem the poor from themselves!" his glance turned from the faces before him, and seemed to centre beyond and above them. the listening men drew closer to the speaker. the room was so still i could hear the empty cable rattling in the street below. "it is an awful disease--a disease of the blood--to be cured by blood--the only price the rich cannot afford to pay--blood, the redemption of the world throughout all generations--the blood of the lamb." he spoke the words dreamily, as though to himself. then, with gathering energy and rapidity-- "wait as you have waited, and you will see the disease spread--the public you are trying to reach grow blind to your affliction, deaf to your cries. riot, and you will only lend virtue to oppression and injustice. the hour is at hand for a great sacrifice--the time is ripe for redemption. the public you would propitiate fears death--loathes blood. for these alone will it stop and think--all else touches only what money can cure. but death arrests--blood you cannot buy. make them take what they cannot return--make them shed blood they cannot wash out. no, not with their tears!" he paused again and gazed into the faces half hid by the smoky atmosphere. mystic, dreamer, lunatic--what you will,--he held the men in weird fascination. they crouched, rather than sat before him. had he spoken in whispers, not a word would have been lost. his eyes shone with a new light, and his voice softened as he continued: "we are on the verge of another battle in the great conflict over the right to live. battles without number have been fought in this conflict--blood without stint has been poured upon its fields.--with what result? here, in this land of plenty, the hosts are gathering for a contest of such magnitude that, compared to it, all former conflicts will seem mere skirmishes. why? because the sword never has touched, and never can touch, the soul of man--because blood not shed in consecration cannot heal. the eyes of the world must look upon a blameless death-devotion to a cause. if i am mad, it is a madness learned of christ. are your lives so valuable that you fear to lose them? is death a terror to you who die daily? humanity bleeds from every pore--do you shudder at blood? civilisation calls upon you, her outcasts, for salvation. will you answer her--you who, here in the city of new york, see the rich digging a gulf between themselves and the poor--a gulf that may be a grave for countless thousands--a trench for oceans of blood that a few drops shed now may save? we must demonstrate which side we are on--we must make a great spectacle! i want volunteers for death--volunteers for the death that redeems!" with hands spread out in appeal--the fine head thrown back--he stood like the shade of some great being encircled by the mists of unreality. from out of the smoke there staggered and stumbled toward him a man who grasped the outstretched hand-- "i volunteer!" he cried. schrieber's calm face bespoke a benediction. "my brother," he answered, simply. the recruit was sandy mcwhiffle. i started to my feet with a cry of protest on my lips, but the great smoke bank above seemed suddenly to descend and envelop me, choking and stifling me. for a moment i fought it, gasping for breath, but only drawing the foul air deeper down into my lungs. then i remembered nothing more. they said at the hospital it was nicotine poisoning. v. for some days--just how many i don't remember--i had been in the condition which often follows sudden illness, when the mind is groping about to connect things one with another, and to adjust relative values. but i was not delirious. i want to state that distinctly, because when, like a fool, i told the stripling hospital doctor what i am now about to relate, he smiled in sickly imitation of the veteran practitioner, and soothingly patted my counterpane. it makes me wild, even now, to recall that superior youth pretending to humour me--a grown man with a clear head and more experience than will be his in many a long year. the nurses are all right--god bless them, i say--but, good lord, what do the sick in the hospitals not suffer from the tactless wisdom of the embryo physicians! however, that's neither here nor there, so i simply repeat i never was delirious, and when i say i saw these things, i know what i am talking about. i lay perfectly still because i was tired. i don't remember ever to have been so tired before or since.--occasionally i dozed, but for the most part i gazed steadily, hour after hour, at the brass setting of the push-bell in the wall, too weary even to avert my gaze. i knew the room was a ward of some hospital, but i was too indifferent to ask which one. i could see the nurses passing back and forth. i felt one of them resettle my pillow, which allowed me to observe a screen placed around the adjoining bed. i knew what that meant. it was not cheerful, so i turned again to the brass disk and watched it in sunlight, shadow, twilight and darkness. i was conscious too of all the different sounds about me--the stopping and starting of the elevator--the sliding and locking of its iron door--the rolling of the rubber-tire trucks about the halls--the creaking of a bed--the tinkle of a glass--the rattle and clatter of vehicles and horses in the street--even the peculiar rumble, rumble, rumble of the cart that passed the hospital and which i took to following through street after street, twisting and turning with it past towering tenements and squatting rookeries, plodding along under the broken roofs of the hissing elevated roads and over the singing trenches of the cables--through wide avenues and narrow alleys, until i found myself fairly launched into the sea of faces which spread out before me. what a crowd that was! it is impossible to imagine such a scene. all the descriptions they've written fail to picture it, for the flaring lights with their play of shadows changed it every instant, darkening one group, illuminating another, running up and down lines of faces, flashing some individual into prominence for an instant, blotting him into the surging mass the next. and then the hum and mutter, rising to a babel of voices,--swelling into a shout, bursting with the shock of a world-tongued roar ending in a single piercing shriek, and the hush--the awful hush as schrieber spoke his wondrous words--they're all part of this tableau utterly beyond the power of pen or brush. i stood there pinioned and upheld by the press about me which silently surged and swung with the motion of some sluggish sea. i felt the human steam hot upon my face--i breathed the fearful reek of that matted throng, but not for my life would i have missed one word of that which hushed those thousands. pale and impassive i could see sandy as he stood beside schrieber on the tail-board of the cart. once i thought he recognised me, but wedged in i could not signal, and the words i drank in held me speechless. what words!--if i could only remember them! but i cannot--and all the papers lie. i heard them above the roar of the maddened crowd as it parted behind me, crushing some and trampling others under foot in its wild stampede. i saw the rush of uniformed men clearing the triangle back of cooper union and was hurled with the throng to third avenue. then i heard schrieber calling on us to form a procession and march to the mayor's house with our petition--heard him tell the chief of police that all should be orderly--heard the official warn the people not to cross third avenue at the peril of their lives.--i saw the dead-line formed and felt the onward surge of the crowd as it swept the thin sentry-line away and moved toward broadway. i saw the glitter of levelled rifles as we neared the cox statue, felt the mass hesitate and recoil. then from out the ranks i saw schrieber and sandy emerge and start to cross the open space alone. i caught the sharp summons to halt, and even as i leaped toward them heard the crash of the volley before which they staggered and fell. "sandy!" i shrieked.... ... "sandy. yes--that's the name.--who said that?--sandy mcwhiffle and the fellow schrieber--they're under arrest, you know, mr. superintendent,--and the inspector orders me to take their statements,--me and my side partner here." a strange voice was speaking quite near me. "well, you can't do it, officer. neither patient can be seen to-night." was that waldron's voice? "can't do it? what's that mean? me tell the old man that? step one side please!--i guess you don't know who i'm from!" "then you guess wrong, my man. they're your prisoners, but they're my patients, and, by god almighty, so long as they are, it makes no difference whom you come from!" i raised myself on my elbow and gazed at the speaker. yes, there was waldron. a nurse stepped up to him and whispered in his ear. he turned quickly on his heel. "officer, tell the inspector you came too late," he said. i must have called out, for i remember the orderly hushed me, whispering that it was "nothing but a couple of rioting strikers, who'd just died of their wounds--which ought to stop such folly and teach the other fools a lesson." but i made no answer, recollecting something about "wise folly" and "foolish wisdom." then too i was wondering, quite as calmly as i am now, just how high and strong those embankments are which a restless, rising tide is ever lapping--lapping. * * * * * transcriber's note: minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. [illustration: at that moment ... mr. tutt emerged from behind the jury box and took his stand at tony's side.] by advice of counsel being adventures of the celebrated firm of tutt & tutt attorneys & counsellors at law by arthur train with frontispiece by arthur william brown published march, contents the shyster the kid and the camel contempt of court by advice of counsel "that sort of woman" you're another! beyond a reasonable doubt the shyster shyster, n. [origin obscure.] one who does business trickily; a person without professional honor: used chiefly of lawyers; as, pettifoggers and shysters.--century dictionary. when terry mcgurk hove the brick through the window of froelich's butcher shop he did it casually, on general principles, and without any idea of starting anything. he had strolled unexpectedly round the corner from his dad's saloon, had seen the row going on between froelich and the gang of boys that after school hours used the street in front of the shop as a ball ground, and had merely seized the opportunity to vindicate his reputation as a desperado and put one over on the dutchman. the fact that he had on a red sweater was the barest coincidence. having observed the brick to be accurately pursuing its proper trajectory he had ducked back round the corner again and continued upon his way rejoicing. he had not even noticed tony mathusek, who, having accidentally found himself in the midst of the mêlée, had started to beat a retreat the instant of the crash, and had run plump into the arms of officer delany of the second. unfortunately tony too was wearing a red sweater. "i've got you, you young devil!" exulted delany. "here's one of 'em, froelich!" "dot's him! it was a feller mit a red sweater! dot's the vun who done it!" shrieked the butcher. "i vill make a gomblaint against him!" "come along, you! quit yer kickin'!" ordered the cop, twisting tony's thin arm until he writhed. "you'll identify him, froelich?" "sure! didn't i see him mit my eyes? he's vun of dem rascals vot drives all mine gustomers avay mit deir yelling and screaming. you fix it for me, bill." "that's all right," the officer assured him. "i'll fix him good, i will! it's the reformatory for him. or, say, you can make a complaint for malicious mischief." "sure! dot's it! malicious mischief!" assented the not over-intelligent tradesman. "ve'll get rid of him for good, eh?" "sure," assented delany. "come along, you!" tony mathusek lifted a white face drawn with agony from his tortured arm. "say, mister, you got the wrong feller! i didn't break the window. i was just comin' from the house--" "aw, shut up!" sneered delany. "tell that to the judge!" "y' ain't goin' to take me to jail?" wailed tony. "i wasn't with them boys. i don't belong to that gang." "oh, so you belong to a gang, do ye? well, we don't want no gangsters round here!" cried the officer with adroit if unscrupulous sophistry. "come along now, and keep quiet or it'll be the worse for ye." "can't i tell my mother? she'll be lookin' for me. she's an old lady." "tell nuthin'. you come along!" tony saw all hope fade. he hadn't a chance--even to go to a decent jail! he had heard all about the horrors of the reformatory. they wouldn't even let your people visit you on sundays! and his mother would think he was run over or murdered. she would go crazy with worry. he didn't mind on his own account, but his mother-- he loved the old widowed mother who worked her fingers off to send him to school. and he was the only one left, now that peter had been killed in the war. it was too much. with a sudden twist he tore out of his coat and dashed blindly down the street. as well might a rabbit hope to escape the claws of a wildcat. in three bounds delany had him again, choking him until the world turned black. but this is not a story about police brutality, for most cops are not brutal. delany was an old-timer who believed in rough methods. he belonged, happily, to a fast-vanishing system more in harmony with the middle ages than with our present enlightened form of municipal government. he remained what he was for the reason that farther up in the official hierarchy there were others who looked to him, when it was desirable, to deliver the goods--not necessarily cash--but to stand with the bunch. these in turn were obligated on occasion, through self-interest or mistaken loyalty to friend or party, to overlook trifling irregularities, to use various sorts of pressure, or to forget what they were asked to forget. there was a far-reaching web of complicated relationships--official, political, matrimonial, commercial and otherwise--which had a very practical effect upon the performance of theoretical duty. delany was neither an idealist nor a philosopher. he was an empiricist, with a touch of pragmatism--though he did not know it. he was "a practical man." even reform administrations have been known to advocate a liberal enforcement of the laws. can you blame delany for being practical when others so much greater than he have prided themselves upon the same attribute of practicality? there were of course a lot of things he simply had to do or get out of the force; at any rate, had he not done them his life would have been intolerable. these consisted in part of being deaf, dumb and blind when he was told to be so--a comparatively easy matter. but there were other things that he had to do, as a matter of fact, to show that he was all right, which were not only more difficult, but expensive, and at times dangerous. he had never been called upon to swear away an innocent man's liberty, but more than once he had had to stand for a frame-up against a guilty one. according to his cop-psychology, if his side partner saw something it was practically the same as if he had seen it himself. that phantasmagorical scintilla of evidence needed to bolster up a weak or doubtful case could always be counted on if delany was the officer who had made the arrest. none of his cases were ever thrown out of court for lack of evidence, but then, delany never arrested anybody who wasn't guilty! of course he had to "give up" at intervals, depending on what administration was in power, who his immediate superior was, and what precinct he was attached to, but he was not a regular grafter by any means. he was an occasional one merely; when he had to be. he did not consider that he was being grafted on when expected to contribute to chowders, picnics, benevolent associations, defense funds or wedding presents for high police officials. neither did he think that he was taking graft because he amicably permitted froelich to leave a fourteen-pound rib roast every saturday night at his brother-in-law's flat. in the same way he regarded the bills slipped him by grabinsky, the bondsman, as well-earned commissions, and saw no reason why the civilian clothes he ordered at the store shouldn't be paid for by some mysterious friendly person--identity unknown--but shrewdly suspected to be mr. joseph simpkins, mr. hogan's runner. weren't there to be any cakes and ale in new york simply because a highbrow happened to be mayor? were human kindness, good nature and generosity all dead? would he have taken a ten-dollar bill--or even a hundred-dollar one--from simpkins when he was going to be a witness in one of hogan's cases? not on your life! he wasn't no crook, he wasn't! he didn't have to be. he was just a cog in an immense wheel of crookedness. when the wheel came down on his cog he automatically did his part. i perceive that the police are engaging too much of our attention. but it is necessary to explain why delany was so ready to arrest tony mathusek, and why as he dragged him into the station house he beckoned to mr. joey simpkins, who was loitering outside in front of the deputy sheriff's office, and whispered behind his hand, "all right. i've got one for you!" then the machine began to work as automatically as a cash register. tony was arraigned at the bar, and, having given his age as sixteen years and five days, charged with the "malicious destruction of property, to wit, a plate-glass window of one karl froelich, of the value of one hundred and fifty dollars." mr. joey simpkins had shouldered his way through the smelly push and taken his stand beside the bewildered and half-fainting boy. "it's all right, kid. leave it to me," he said, encircling him with a protecting arm. then to the clerk: "pleads not guilty." the magistrate glanced over the complaint, in which delany, to save froelich trouble, had sworn that he had seen tony throw the brick. hadn't the butcher said he'd seen him? besides, that let the dutchman out of a possible suit for false arrest. then the magistrate looked down at the cop himself. "do you know this boy?" he asked sharply. "sure, yerroner. he's a gangster. admitted it to me on the way over." "are you really over sixteen?" suddenly demanded the judge, who knew and distrusted delany, having repeatedly stated in open court that he wouldn't hang a yellow dog on his testimony. the underfed, undersized boy did not look more than fourteen. "yes, sir," said tony. "i was sixteen last week." "got anybody to defend you?" tony looked at simpkins inquiringly. he seemed a very kind gentleman. "mr. hogan's case, judge," answered joey. "please make the bail as low as you can." now this judge was a political accident, having been pitchforked into office by the providence that sometimes watches over sailors, drunks and third parties. moreover, in spite of being a reformer he was nobody's fool, and when the other reformers who were fools got promptly fired out of office he had been reappointed by a supposedly crooked boss simply because, as the boss said, he had made a hell of a good judge and they needed somebody with brains here and there to throw a front. incidentally, he had a swell cousin on fifth avenue who had invited the boss and his wife to dinner, by reason of which the soreheads who lost out went round asking what kind of a note it was when a silk-stocking crook could buy a nine-thousand-dollar job for a fifty-dollar dinner. anyhow, he was clean and clean-looking, kindly, humorous and wise above his years--which were thirty-one. and tony looked to him like a poor runt, simpkins and delany were both rascals, froelich wasn't in court, and he sensed a nigger somewhere. he would have turned tony out on the run had he had any excuse. he hadn't, but he tried. "would you like an immediate hearing?" he asked tony in an encouraging tone. "mr. hogan can't be here until to-morrow morning," interposed simpkins. "besides, we shall want to produce witnesses. make it to-morrow afternoon, judge." judge harrison leaned forward. "are you sure you wouldn't prefer to have the hearing now?" he inquired with a smile at the trembling boy. "well, i want to get froelich here--if you're going to proceed now," spoke up delany. "and i'd like to look up this defendant's record at headquarters." tony quailed. he feared and distrusted everybody, except the kind mr. simpkins. he suspected that smooth judge of trying to railroad him. "no! no!" he whispered to the lawyer. "i want my mother should be here; and the janitor, he knows i was in my house. the rabbi, he will give me a good character." the judge heard and shrugged his bombazine-covered shoulders. it was no use. the children of darkness were wiser in their generation than the children of light. "five hundred dollars bail," he remarked shortly. "officer, have your witnesses ready to proceed to-morrow afternoon at two o'clock." * * * * * "mr. tutt," said tutt with a depressed manner as he watched willie remove the screen and drag out the old gate-leg table for the firm's daily five o'clock tea and conference in the senior partner's office, "if a man called you a shyster what would you do about it?" the elder lawyer sucked meditatively on the fag end of his stogy before replying. "why not sue him?" mr. tutt inquired. "but suppose he didn't have any money?" replied tutt disgustedly. "then why not have him arrested?" continued mr. tutt. "it's libelous _per se_ to call a lawyer a shyster." "even if he is one," supplemented miss minerva wiggin ironically, as she removed her paper cuffs preparatory to lighting the alcohol lamp under the teakettle. "the greater the truth the greater the libel, you know!" "and what do you mean by that?" sharply rejoined tutt. "you don't--" "no," replied the managing clerk of tutt & tutt. "i don't! of course not! and frankly, i don't know what a shyster is." "neither do i," admitted tutt. "but it sounds opprobrious. still, that is a rather dangerous test. you remember that colored client of ours who wanted us to bring an action against somebody for calling him an ethiopian!" "there's nothing dishonorable in being an ethiopian," asserted miss wiggin. "a shyster," said mr. tutt, reading from the century dictionary, "is defined as 'one who does business trickily; a person without professional honor; used chiefly of lawyers.'" "well?" snapped tutt. "well?" echoed miss wiggin. "h'm! well!" concluded mr. tutt. "i nominate for the first pedestal in our hall of legal ill fame--raphael b. hogan," announced tutt, complacently disregarding all innuendoes. "but he's a very elegant and gentlemanly person," objected miss wiggin as she warmed the cups. "my idea of a shyster is a down-at-the-heels, unshaved and generally disreputable-looking police-court lawyer--preferably with a red nose--who murders the english language--and who makes his living by preying upon the ignorant and helpless." "like finklestein?" suggested tutt. "exactly!" agreed miss wiggin. "like finklestein." "he's one of the most honorable men i know!" protested mr. tutt. "my dear minerva, you are making the great mistake--common, i confess, to a large number of people--of associating dirt and crime. now dirt may breed crime, but crime doesn't necessarily breed dirt." "you don't have to be shabby to prey upon the ignorant and helpless," argued tutt. "some of our most prosperous brethren are the worst sharks out of sing sing." "that is true!" she admitted, "but tell it not in gath!" "a shyster," began mr. tutt, unsuccessfully applying a forced draft to his stogy and then throwing it away, "bears about the same relation to an honest lawyer as a cad does to a gentleman. the fact that he's well dressed, belongs to a good club and has his name in the social register doesn't affect the situation. clothes don't make men; they only make opportunities." "but why is it," persisted miss wiggin, "that we invariably associate the idea of crime with that of 'poverty, hunger and dirt'?" "that is easy to explain," asserted mr. tutt. "the criminal law originally dealt only with crimes of violence--such as murder, rape and assault. in the old days people didn't have any property in the modern sense--except their land, their cattle or their weapons. they had no bonds or stock or bank accounts. now it is of course true that rough, ignorant people are much more prone to violence of speech and action than those of gentle breeding, and hence most of our crimes of violence are committed by those whose lives are those of squalor. but"--and here mr. tutt's voice rose indignantly--"our greatest mistake is to assume that crimes of violence are the most dangerous to the state, for they are not. they cause greater disturbance and perhaps more momentary inconvenience, but they do not usually evince much moral turpitude. after all, it does no great harm if one man punches another in the head, or even in a fit of anger sticks a dagger in him. the police can easily handle all that. the real danger to the community lies in the crimes of duplicity--the cheats, frauds, false pretenses, tricks and devices, flimflams--practised most successfully by well-dressed gentlemanly crooks of polished manners." by this time the kettle was boiling cheerfully, quite as if no such thing as criminal law existed at all, and miss wiggin began to make the tea. "all the same," she ruminated, "people--particularly very poor people--are often driven to crime by necessity." "it's nature's first law," contributed tutt brightly. mr. tutt uttered a snort of disgust. "it may be nature's first law, but it's about the weakest defense a guilty man can offer. 'i couldn't help myself' has always been the excuse for helping oneself!" "rather good--that!" approved miss wiggin. "can you do it again?" "the victim of circumstances is inevitably one who has made a victim of someone else," blandly went on mr. tutt without hesitation. "ting-a-ling! right on the bell!" she laughed. "it's true!" he assured her seriously. "there are two defenses that are played out--necessity and instigation. they've never been any good since the almighty overruled adam's plea in confession and avoidance that a certain female co-defendant took advantage of his hungry innocence and put him up to it." "no one could respect a man who tried to hide behind a woman's skirts!" commented tutt. "are you referring to adam?" inquired his partner. "anyhow, come to think of it, the maxim is not that 'necessity is the first law of nature,' but that 'necessity knows no law.'" "i'll bet you--" began tutt. then he paused, recalling a certain celebrated wager which he had lost to mr. tutt upon the question of who cut samson's hair. "i bet you don't know who said it!" he concluded lamely. "if i recall correctly," ruminated mr. tutt, "shakspere says in 'julius caesar' that 'nature must obey necessity'; while rabelais says 'necessity has no law'; but the quotation we familiarly use is 'necessity knows no law except to conquer,' which is from publilius syrus." "from who?" cried tutt in ungrammatical surprise. "never mind!" soothed miss wiggin. "anyway, it wasn't raphael b. hogan." "who certainly completely satisfies your definition so far as preying upon the ignorant and helpless is concerned," said mr. tutt. "that man is a human hyena--worse than a highwayman." "yet he's a swell dresser," interjected tutt. "owns his house and lives in amity with his wife." "doubtless he's a loyal husband and a devoted father," agreed mr. tutt. "but so, very likely, is the hyena. certainly hogan hasn't got the excuse of necessity for doing what he does." "don't you suppose he has to give up good and plenty to somebody?" demanded tutt. "cops and prison keepers and bondsmen and under sheriffs, and all kinds of crooked petty officials. i should worry!" _"great fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite 'em, and little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum,"_ quoted miss wiggin reminiscently. "a flea has to be a flea," continued tutt. "he, or it, can't be anything else, but hogan doesn't have to be a lawyer. he could be an honest man if he chose." "he? not on your life! he couldn't be honest if he tried!" roared mr. tutt. "he's just a carnivorous animal! a man eater! they talk about scratching a russian and finding a tartar; i'd hate to scratch some of our legal brethren." "so would i!" assented tutt. "i guess you're right, mr. tutt. christianity and the golden rule are all right in the upper social circles, but off fifth avenue there's the same sort of struggle for existence that goes on in the animal world. a man may be all sweetness and light to his wife and children and go to church on sundays; he may even play pretty fair with his own gang; but outside of his home and social circle he's a ravening wolf; at least raphael b. hogan is!" * * * * * the subject of the foregoing entirely accidental conversation was at that moment standing contemplatively in his office window smoking an excellent cigar preparatory to returning to the bosom of his family. raphael b. hogan believed in taking life easily. he was accustomed to say that outside office hours his time belonged to his wife and children; and several times a week he made it his habit on the way home to supper to stop at the florist's or the toy shop and bear away with him inexpensive tokens of his love and affection. on the desk behind him, over which in the course of each month passed a lot of very tainted money, stood a large photograph of mrs. hogan, and another of the three little hogans in ornamented silver frames, and his face would soften tenderly at the sight of their self-conscious faces, even at a moment when he might be relieving a widowed seamstress of her entire savings-bank account. after five o'clock this hyena purred at his wife and licked his cubs; the rest of the time he knew no mercy. but he concealed his cruelty and his avarice under a mask of benignity. he was fat, jolly and sympathetic, and his smile was the smile of a warm-hearted humanitarian. the milk of human kindness oozed from his every pore. in fact, he was always grumbling about the amount of work he had to do for nothing. he was a genial, generous host; unostentatiously conspicuous in the local religious life of his denomination; in court a model of obsequious urbanity, deferential to the judges before whom he appeared and courteous to all with whom he was thrown in contact. a good-natured, easy-going, simple-minded fat man; deliberate, slow of speech, well-meaning, with honesty sticking out all over him, you would have said; one in whom the widow and the orphan would have found a staunch protector and an unselfish friend. and now, having thus subtly connoted the character of our villain, let us proceed with our narrative. the telephone buzzed on the wall set beside him. "that you, chief?" came the voice of simpkins. "yep." "got one off delany." "what is it?" "kid smashed a window--malicious mischief. held for examination to-morrow at two. five hundred bail." "any sugar?" "don't know. says his father's dead and mother earns seventeen a week in a sweatshop and sends him to school. got some insurance. i'm going right round there now." "well," replied hogan, "don't scare her by taking too much off her at first. i suppose there's evidence to hold him?" "sure. delany says he saw it." "all right. but go easy! good night." "leave that to me, chief!" assured simpkins. "see you to-morrow." it will be observed that in this professional interchange nothing at all was said regarding the possibility of establishing tony's innocence, but that on the contrary mr. simpkins' mind was concentrated upon his mother's ability to pay. this was the only really important consideration to either of them. but hogan did not worry, because he knew that simpkins would skilfully entangle mrs. mathusek in such a web of apprehension that rather than face her fears she would if necessary go out and steal the money. so mr. raphael b. hogan hung up the receiver and with his heart full of gentle sympathy for all mankind walked slowly home, pausing to get some roses for mrs. hogan and to buy a box for daddy long legs at the strand, for whenever he got a new case he always made it the occasion for a family party, and he wanted the children to benefit by passing an evening under the sweet influence of miss pickford. now just at the moment that his employer was buying the roses mr. simpkins entered the apartment of mrs. mathusek and informed her of tony's arrest and incarceration. he was very sympathetic about it, very gentle, this dapper little man with the pale gray eyes and inquisitive, tapirlike nose; and after the first moment of shock mrs. mathusek took courage and begged the gentleman to sit down. there are always two vultures hanging over the poor--death and the law; but of the two the law is the lesser evil. the former is a calamity; the latter is a misfortune. the one is final, hopeless, irretrievable; from the other there may perhaps be an escape. she knew tony was a good boy; was sure his arrest was a mistake, and that when the judge heard the evidence he would let tony go. life had dealt hardly with her and made her an old woman at thirty-four, really old, not only in body but in spirit, just as in the middle ages the rigor of existence made even kings old at thirty-five. what do the rich know of age? the women of the poor have a day of spring, a year or two of summer, and a lifetime of autumn and winter. mrs. mathusek distrusted the law and lawyers in the abstract, but mr. simpkins' appearance was so reassuring that he almost counteracted in her mind the distress of tony's misfortune. he was clearly a gentleman, and she had a reverential regard for the gentry. what gentlefolk said was to be accepted as true. in addition this particular gentleman was learned in the law and skilled in getting unfortunate people out of trouble. now, though mr. simpkins possessed undoubtedly this latter qualification, it was also true that he was equally skilled in getting people into it. if he ultimately doubled their joys and halved their sorrows he inevitably first doubled their sorrows and halved their savings. like the witch in macbeth: "double, double toil and trouble." his aims were childishly simple: first, to find out how much money his victim had, and then to get it. his methods were no more complicated than his aims and had weathered the test of generations of experience. so: "of course tony must be bailed out," he said gently. "you don't want him to spend the night in jail." "jail! oh, no! how much is the bail?" cried tony's mother. "only five hundred dollars." his pale gray eyes were watching her for the slightest sign of suspicion. "five hundred dollars! eoi! eoi! it is a fortune! where can i get five hundred dollars?" she burst into tears. "i have saved only one hundred and sixty!" mr. simpkins pursed his lips. then there was nothing for it! he reached for his hat. mrs. mathusek wrung her hands. couldn't the gentleman go bail for tony? he was such a dear, kind, good gentleman! she searched his face hungrily. mr. simpkins falteringly admitted that he did not possess five hundred dollars. "but--" he hesitated. "yes!" "but--" she echoed, seizing his sleeve and dragging him back. mr. simpkins thought that they could hire somebody to go bail; no, in that case there would be no money to pay the great lawyer whom they must at once engage to defend her son--mr. hogan, one who had the pull and called all the judges by their first names. he would not usually go into court for less than five hundred dollars, but mr. simpkins said he would explain the circumstances to him and could almost promise mrs. mathusek that he would persuade him to do it this once for one hundred and fifty. so well did he act his part that tony's mother had to force him to take the money, which she unsewed from inside the ticking of her mattress. then he conducted her to the station house to show her how comfortable tony really was and how much better it was to let him stay in jail one night and make sure of his being turned out the next afternoon by giving the money to mr. hogan, than to use it for getting bail for him and leave him lawyerless and at the mercy of his accusers. when mrs. mathusek saw the cell tony was in she became even more frightened than she had been at first. but by that time she had already given the money to simpkins. second thoughts are ofttimes best. most crooks are eventually caught through their having, from long immunity, grown careless and yielded to impulse. once he had signed the complaint in which he swore that he had seen tony throw the brick, delany had undergone a change of heart. being an experienced policeman he was sensitive to official atmosphere, and he had developed a hunch that judge harrison was leery of the case. the more he thought of it the less he liked the way the son-of-a-gun had acted, the way he'd tried to get mathusek to ask for an immediate hearing. why had he ever been such a fool as to sign the complaint himself? it had been ridiculous--just because he was mad at the boy for trying to get away and wanted to make things easy for froelich. if he went on the stand the next afternoon he'd have to make up all sorts of fancy details, and hogan would have his skin neatly tacked to the barn doors for keeps. thereafter, no matter what happened, he'd never be able to change his testimony. after all, it would be easy enough to abandon the charge at the present point. it was a genuine case of cold feet. he scented trouble. he wanted to renig while the renigging was good. what in hell had froelich ever done for him, anyhow? a few measly pieces of roast! when hogan returned home that evening with the little hogans from the movies he found the cop waiting for him outside his door. "look here," delany whispered, "i'm going to can this here mathusek window case. i'm going to fall down flat on my identification and give you a walkout. so go easy on me--and sort of help me along, see?" "the hell you are!" retorted hogan indignantly. "then where do i come in, eh? why don't you come through?" "but i've got him wrong!" pleaded delany. "you don't want me to put my neck in a sling, do you, so as you can make a few dollars? look at all the money i've sent your way. have a heart, rafe!" "bull!" sneered the honorable rafe. "a man's gotta live! you saw him do it! you've sworn to it, haven't you?" "i made a mistake." "how'll that sound to the commissioner? an' to judge harrison? no, no! nothin' doin'! if you start anything like that i'll roast the life out of you!" delany spat as near hogan's foot as he elegantly could. "you're a hell of a feller, you are!" he growled, and turned his back on him as upon satan. * * * * * the brick that terry mcgurk hurled as a matter of principle through froelich's window produced almost as momentous consequences as the want of the horseshoe nail did in franklin's famous maxim. it is the unknown element in every transaction that makes for danger. the morning after the catastrophe mr. froelich promptly made application to the casualty company with which he had insured his window for reimbursement for his damage. just as promptly the company's lawyer appeared at the butcher shop and ascertained that the miscreant who had done the foul deed had been arrested and was to be brought into court that afternoon. this lawyer, whose salary depended indirectly upon the success which attended his efforts to secure the conviction and punishment of those who had cost his company money, immediately camped upon the trails of both froelich and delany. it was up to them, he said, to have the doer of wanton mischief sent away. if they didn't cooperate he would most certainly ascertain why. now insurance companies are powerful corporations. they can do favors, and contrariwise they can make trouble, and lawyer asche was hot under the collar about that window. had he ever heard of the place he would have likened it to the destruction of coucy-le-château by the huns. this, for delany, put an entirely new aspect upon the affair. it was one thing to ditch a case and another to run up against nathan asche. he had sworn to the complaint and if he didn't make good on the witness stand asche would get his hide. then he bethought him that if only froelich was sufficiently emphatic in his testimony a little uncertainty on his own part might be excused. in the meantime, however, two things had happened to curdle froelich's enthusiasm. first, his claim against the tornado casualty company had been approved, and second, he had been informed on credible authority that they had got the wrong boy. now he had sincerely thought that he had seen tony throw the brick--he had certainly seen a boy in a red sweater do something--but he realized also that he had been excited and more or less bewildered at the time; and his informant--mrs. sussman, the wife of the cigar dealer--alleged positively that it had been thrown by a strange kid who appeared suddenly from round the corner and as suddenly ran away in the direction whence he had come. froelich perceived that he had probably been mistaken, and being relatively honest--and being also about to get his money--and not wishing to bear false witness, particularly if he might later be sued for false imprisonment, he decided to duck and pass the buck to delany, who was definitely committed. he was shrewd enough, however, not to give his real reason to the policeman, but put it on the ground of being so confused that he couldn't remember. this left delany responsible for everything. "but you said that that was the feller!" argued the cop, who had gone to urge froelich to assume the onus of the charge. "and now you want to leave me holdin' the bag!" "vell, you said yourself you seen him, didn't you?" replied the german. "an' you svore to it. i didn't svear to noddings." "aw, you!" roared the enraged cop, and hastened to interview mr. asche. aping a broad humanitarianism he suggested to asche that if mrs. mathusek would pay for the window they could afford to let up on the boy. he did it so ingeniously that he got asche to go round there, only to find that she had no money, all given to simpkins. gee, what a mix-up! it is quite possible that even under these circumstances delany might still have availed himself of what in law is called a _locus poenitentiae_ had it not been that the mix-up was rendered still more mixed by the surreptitious appearance in the case of mr. michael mcgurk, the father of the actual brick artist, who had learned that the cop was getting wabbly and was entertaining the preposterous possibility of withdrawing the charge against the innocent mathusek, to the imminent danger of his own offspring. in no uncertain terms the saloon keeper intimated to the now embarrassed guardian of the public peace that if he pulled anything like that he would have him thrown off the force, to say nothing of other and darker possibilities connected with the morgue. all of which gave delany decided pause. hogan, for his own reasons, had meanwhile reached an independent conclusion as to how he could circumvent delany's contemplated treachery. if, he decided, the cop should go back on his identification of the criminal he foresaw tony's discharge in the magistrate's court, and no more money. the only sure way, therefore, to prevent tony's escape would be by not giving delany the chance to change his testimony; and by waiving examination before the magistrate and consenting voluntarily to having his client held for the action of the grand jury, in which event tony would be sent to the tombs and there would be plenty of time for simpkins to get an assignment of mrs. mathusek's insurance money before the grand jury kicked out the case. this also had the additional advantage of preventing any funny business on the part of judge harrison. delany was still undecided what he was going to do when the case was called at two o'clock. it is conceivable that he might still have tried to rectify his error by telling something near the truth, in spite of hogan, asche and mcgurk, but the opportunity was denied him. at two o'clock tony, a mere chip tossed aimlessly hither and yon by eddies and cross currents, the only person in this melodrama of motive whose interests were not being considered by anybody, was arraigned at the bar and, without being consulted in the matter, heard mr. hogan, the fat, kindly lawyer whom his mother had retained to defend him, tell the judge that they were going to waive examination and consent to be held for the action of the grand jury. "you see how it is, judge," hogan simpered. "you'd have no choice but to hold my client on the officer's testimony. the easiest way is to waive examination and let the grand jury throw the case out of the window!" delany heard this announcement with intense relief, for it let him out. it would relieve him from the dangerous necessity of testifying before judge harrison and he could later spill the case before the grand jury when called before that august body. moreover, he could tip off the district attorney in charge of the indictment bureau that the case was a lemon, and the latter would probably throw it out on his own motion. the d.a.'s office didn't want any more rotten cases to prosecute than it could help. it seemed his one best bet, the only way to get his feet out of the flypaper. what a mess for a few pieces of rotten beef! "you understand what is being done, do you?" inquired the keen-faced judge sharply. "you understand this means that unless you give bail you will have to stay in jail until the grand jury dismisses the case or finds an indictment against you?" underneath the cornice of the judge's dais hogan patted his arm, and tony, glancing for encouragement at the big friendly face above him, whispered "yes." so tony went to the tombs and was lodged in a cell next door to soko the monk, who had nearly beaten a chinaman to death with a pair of brass knuckles, from whom he learned much that was exciting if not edifying. now, as delany was wont to say for years thereafter, that damn mathusek case just went bad on him. he had believed that in the comparative secrecy of the inquisitorial chamber he could easily pretend that he had originally made an honest mistake and was no longer positive of the defendant's identity, in which case when the grand jury threw out the case nobody would ever know the reason and no chickens would come home to roost on him. but when the cop visited the office of deputy assistant district attorney caput magnus the next morning, to inform him that this here window-breaking case was a messina, he found mr. nathan asche already solidly there present, engaged in advising mr. magnus most emphatically to the exact contrary. indeed the attorney was rhetorical in his insistence that this destruction of the property of law-abiding taxpayers must stop. mr. asche was not a party to be trifled with. he was a rectangular person whom nothing could budge, and his very rectangularity bespoke his stubborn rectitude. his shoulders were massive and square, his chin and mouth were square, his burnsides were square cut, and he had a square head and wore a square-topped derby. he looked like the family portrait of uncle amos hardscrabble. when he sat down he remained until he had said his say. it was a misfortunate meeting for delany, for asche nailed him upon the spot and made him repeat to caput magnus the story of how he had seen tony throw the brick and then, for some fool reason, not being satisfied to let it go at that, he insisted on calling in a stenographer and having delany swear to the yarn in affidavit form! this entirely spoiled any chance the policeman might otherwise have had of changing his testimony. he now had no choice but to go on and swear the case through before the grand jury--which he did. even so, that distinguished body of twenty-three representative citizens was not disposed to take the matter very seriously. having heard what delany had to say--and he made it good and strong under the circumstances--several of them remarked disgustedly that they did not understand why the district attorney saw fit to waste their valuable time with trivial cases of that sort. boys would play ball and boys would throw balls round; if not balls, then stones. they were about to dismiss by an almost unanimous vote, when the case went bad again. the foreman, a distinguished person in braided broadcloth, rose and announced that he was very much interested to learn their views upon this subject as he was the president of a casualty company, and he wished them to understand that thousands--if not hundreds of thousands--of dollars' worth of plate-glass windows were wantonly broken by young toughs, every year, for which his and other insurance companies had to recoup the owners. in fact, he alleged heatedly, window breaking was a sign of peculiar viciousness. incipient criminals usually started their infamous careers that way; you could read that in any book on penology. an example ought to be made. he'd bet this feller who threw the brick was a gangster. so his twenty-two fellow grand jurymen politely permitted him to recall officer delany and ask him: "say, officer, isn't it a fact--just tell us frankly now--if this feller mathusek isn't a gangster?" "sure, he's a gangster. he was blowin' about it to me after i arrested him," swore delany without hesitation. the foreman swept the circle with a triumphant eye. "what'd i tell you?" he demanded. "all in favor of indicting said tony mathusek for malicious destruction of property signify in the usual manner. cont'riminded? it's a vote. ring the bell, simmons, and bring on the next case." so tony was indicted by the people of the state of new york for a felony, and a learned judge of the general sessions set his bail at fifteen hundred dollars; and hogan had his victim where he wanted him and where he could keep him until he had bled his mother white of all she had or might ever hope to have in this world. everybody was satisfied--hogan, simpkins, asche, mcgurk, even delany, because the fleas upon his back were satisfied and he was planning ultimately to get rid of the whole damn tangle by having the indictment quietly dismissed when nobody was looking, by his friend o'brien, to whom the case had been sent for trial. and everything being as it should be, and tony being locked safely up in a cell, mr. joey simpkins set himself to the task of extorting three hundred and fifty dollars more from mrs. mathusek upon the plea that the great mr. hogan could not possibly conduct the case before a jury for less. now the relations of mr. assistant district attorney o'brien and the hon. raphael b. hogan were distinctly friendly. at any rate, whenever mr. hogan asked for an adjournment in mr. o'brien's court he usually got it without conspicuous difficulty, and that is what occurred on the five several occasions that the case of the people versus antonio mathusek came up on the trial calendar during the month following tony's incarceration, on each of which mr. hogan with unctuous suavity rose and humbly requested that the case be put over at his client's earnest request in order that counsel might have adequate time in which to subpoena witnesses and prepare for a defense. and each day simpkins, who now assumed a threatening and fearsome demeanor toward mrs. mathusek, visited the heartsick woman in her flat and told her that tony could and would rot in the tombs until such time as she procured three hundred and fifty dollars. the first week she assigned her life-insurance money; the second she pawned the furniture; until at last she owed hogan only sixty-five dollars. at intervals hogan told tony that he was trying to force the district attorney to try the case, but that the latter was insisting on delay. in point of fact, o'brien had never looked at the papers, much less made any effort to prepare the case; if he had he would have found that there was no case at all. and delany's mind became at peace because he perceived that at the proper psychological moment he could go to o'brien and whisper: "say, mr. o'brien, that mathusek case. it's a turn-out! better recommend it for dismissal," and o'brien would do so for the simple reason that he never did any more work than he was actually compelled to do. but as chance would have it, three times out of the five, mr. ephraim tutt happened to be in court when mr. hogan rose and made his request for an adjournment; and he remembered it because the offense charged was such an odd one--breaking a window. delany's simple plan was again defeated by nemesis, who pursued him in the shape of the rectangular mr. asche, and who shouldered himself into o'brien's office during the fifth week of tony's imprisonment and wanted to know why in hell he didn't try that mathusek case and get rid of it. the assistant district attorney had just been called down by his official boss and being still sore was glad of a chance to take it out on someone else. "d'you think i've nothin' better to do than try your damned old window-busting cases?" he sneered. "who ever had the idea of indicting a boy for that sort of thing, anyhow?" "that is no way to talk," answered mr. asche with firmness. "you're paid to prosecute whatever cases are sent to you. this is one of 'em. there's been too much delay. our president will be annoyed." "oh, he will, will he?" retorted o'brien, nevertheless, coming to the instant decision that he had best find some other excuse than mere disinclination. "if he gets too shirty i'll tell him the case came in here without any preparation and being in the nature of a private prosecution we've been waiting for you to earn your fee. how'll you like that, eh?" mr. asche became discolored. "h'm!" he replied softly. "so that is it, is it? you won't have that excuse very long, even if you could get away with it now. i'll have a trial brief and affidavits from all the witnesses ready for you in forty-eight hours." "all right, old top!" nodded o'brien carelessly. "we always strive to please!" so mr. asche got busy, while the very same day mr. hogan asked for and obtained another adjournment. some people resemble animals; others have a geometrical aspect. in each class the similarity tends to indicate character. the fox-faced man is apt to be sly, the triangular man is likely to be a lump. so mr. asche, being rectilinear, was on the square; just as mr. hogan, being soft and round, was slippery and hard to hold. three days passed, during which mrs. mathusek grew haggard and desperate. she was saving at the rate of two dollars a day, and at that rate she would be able to buy tony a trial in five weeks more. she had exhausted her possibilities as a borrower. the indictment slept in o'brien's tin file. nobody but tony, his mother and hogan remembered that there was any such case, except mr. asche, who one afternoon appeared unexpectedly in the offices of tutt & tutt, the senior partner of which celebrated law firm happened to be advisory counsel to the tornado casualty company. "i just want you to look at these papers, mr. tutt," mr. asche said, and his jaw looked squarer than ever. mr. tutt was reclining as usual in his swivel chair, his feet crossed upon the top of his ancient mahogany desk. "take a stog!" he remarked without getting up, and indicating with the toe of one congress-booted foot the box which lay open adjacent to the code of criminal procedure. "what's your misery?" "hell's at work!" returned mr. asche, solemnly handing over a sheaf of affidavits. "i never smoke." mr. tutt somewhat reluctantly altered his position from the horizontal to the vertical and reached for a fresh stogy. then his eye caught the name of raphael b. hogan. "what the devil is this?" he cried. "it's the devil himself!" answered mr. asche with sudden vehemence. "tutt, tutt! come in here!" shouted the head of the firm. "mine enemy hath been delivered into mine hands!" "hey? what?" inquired tutt, popping across the threshold. "who--i mean--" "raphael b. hogan!" "the devil!" ejaculated tutt. "you've said it!" declared mr. asche devoutly. * * * * * that evening under cover of darkness mr. ephraim tutt descended from a dilapidated taxi at the corner adjacent to froelich's butcher shop, and several hours later was whisked uptown again to the brownstone dwelling occupied by the hon. simeon watkins, the venerable white-haired judge then presiding in part i of the general sessions, where he remained until what may be described either as a very late or a very early hour, and where during the final period of his intercourse he and that distinguished member of the judiciary emptied an ancient bottle containing a sparkling rose-colored liquid of great artistic beauty. then mr. tutt returned to his own library at the house on twenty-third street and paced up and down before the antiquated open grate, inhaling quantities of what mr. bonnie doon irreverently called "hay smoke," and pondering deeply upon the evils that men do to one another, until the dawn peered through the windows and he bethought him of the all-night lunch stand round the corner on tenth avenue, and there sought refreshment. "salvatore," he remarked to the smiling son of the olive groves who tended that bar of innocence, "the worst crook in the world is the man who does evil for mere money." "_si, signor tutti_," answered salvatore with latin perspicacity. "you gotta one, eh? you giva him hell?" "_si! si!_" replied mr. tutt cheerily. "even so! and of a truth, moreover! give me another hot dog and a cup of bilge water!" * * * * * "people versus mathusek?" inquired judge watkins some hours later on the call of the calendar, looking quite vaguely as if he had never heard of the case before, round part i, which was as usual crowded, hot, stuffy and smelling of unwashed linen and prisoners' lunch. "people versus mathusek? what do you want done with this case, mr. o'brien?" "ready!" chanted the red-headed o'brien, and, just as he had expected, the hon. raphael hogan limbered up in his slow, genial way and said: "if your honor please, the defendant would like a few days longer to get his witnesses. will your honor kindly adjourn the case for one week?" he did not notice that the stenographer was taking down everything that he said. "i observe," remarked judge watkins with apparent amiability, "that you have had five adjournments already. if the people's witnesses are here i am inclined to direct you to proceed. the defendant has been under indictment for six weeks. that ought to be long enough to prepare your defense." "but, your honor," returned hogan with pathos, "the witnesses are very hard to find. they are working people. i have spent whole evenings chasing after them. moreover, the defendant is perfectly satisfied to have the case go over. he is anxious for an adjournment!" "when did you last see him?" "yesterday afternoon." the judge unfolded the papers and appeared to be reading them for the first time. he wasn't such a bad old actor himself, for he had already learned from mr. tutt that hogan had not been near tony for three weeks. "um--um! did you represent the defendant in the police court?" "yes, your honor." "why did you waive examination?" hogan suddenly felt a lump swelling in his pharynx. what in hell was it all about? "i--er--there was no use in fighting the case there. i hoped the grand jury would throw it out," he stammered. "did anybody ask you to waive examination?" the swelling in hogan's fat neck grew larger. suppose mcgurk or delany were trying to put something over on him! "no! certainly not!" he replied unconvincingly. he didn't want to make the wrong answer if he could help it. "you have an--associate, have you not? a mr. simpkins?" "yes, your honor." hogan was pale now and little beads were gathering over his eyebrows. "where is he?" "downstairs in the magistrate's court." "officer," ordered the judge, "send for mr. simpkins. we will suspend until he can get here." then his honor occupied himself with some papers, leaving hogan standing alone at the bar trying to work out what it all meant. he began to wish he had never touched the damn case. everybody in the courtroom seemed to be looking at him and whispering. he was most uncomfortable. suppose that crooked cop had welshed on him! at the same instant in the back of the room a similar thought flashed through the mind of delany. suppose hogan should welsh on him! coincidentally both scoundrels turned sick at heart. then came to each the simultaneous realization that neither could gain anything by giving the other away, and that the only thing possible for either was to stand pat. no, they must hang together or assuredly hang separately. then the door opened and a tall officer entered, followed by a very nervous mr. joey simpkins. "come up here!" directed the judge. "you are mr. hogan's assistant, are you not?" "yes, sir!" quavered the anxious simpkins. "how much money have you taken from mrs. mathusek?" "four hundred and thirty-five dollars." "for what?" sharply. "for protecting her son." "where? how?" "why--from his arrest to the present time--and for his defense here in general sessions." "have either you or mr. hogan done anything as yet--except to waive examination in the police court?" mr. simpkins turned hastily to mr. hogan, who realized that things were going badly. "your honor," he interposed thickly, "this money was an agreed fee for my services as counsel. this examination seems to me somewhat uncalled for and unfair." "call tony mathusek to the bar!" suddenly ordered the judge. it was a dangerous play, but hogan decided to bluff it through. "in view of the fact that i have not received my fee i shall refuse to appear for the defendant!" he announced brazenly. "indeed!" retorted the judge with sarcasm. "then i will assign mr. ephraim tutt to the defense. you two gentlemen will please sit down--but not leave the courtroom. we may need you." at that moment, just as the defendant was led to the bar, mr. tutt emerged from behind the jury box and took his stand at tony's side. nothing much to look at before, the boy was less so now, with the prison pallor on his sunken little face. there was something about the thin neck, the half-open mouth and the gaunt, blinking, hollow eyes that suggested those of a helpless fledgling. "impanel a jury!" continued the judge, and mr. tutt conducted tony inside the rail and sat down beside him at the table reserved for the defendant. "it's all right, tony!" he whispered. "the frame-up isn't on you this time, my lad." cowering in the back of the room delany tried to hide himself among the spectators. some devilish thing had gone wrong. he hadn't heard all that had passed between the judge and hogan, but he had caught enough to perceive that the whole case had gone blooey. judge watkins was wise! he was going after hogan just as old tutt would go after him, delany. there was a singing in his head and the blood smarted in his eyes. he'd better beat it! half bent over he started sneaking for the door. "who is that man trying to go out?" shouted the judge in terrifying tones that shook delany to the ankles. hastily he tried to sit down. "bring that man to the bar!" half blind with fear delany attempted to make a show of bravado and swagger to the rail. "what is your name?" "delany. officer attached to the second precinct." "what were you leaving the room for?" delany could not answer. his wits were befogged, his throat numb. he simply stared vacuously at judge watkins, his lips vibrating with fear. "sit down. no; take the stand!" cried judge watkins. "i'll try this case myself." as if his foot were already attached to a ball and chain delany dragged himself up--up--hundreds of feet up, it seemed--to the witness chair. as if from a mountain side he saw dim forms moving into the jury box, heard the judge and mr. tutt exchanging meaningless remarks. the faces before him grinned and gibbered at him like a horde of monkeys. they had got him at last--all for a few pieces of rotten beef! that lean, hungry wolfhound would tear his tongue out by the roots if he even opened his mouth; claw wide open his vitals. and old tutt was fixing him with the eye of a basilisk and slowly turning him to stone. somebody sure had welshed! he had once been in a side show at coney island where the room simulated the motion of an ocean steamer. the courtroom began to do the same--slanting this way and that and spinning obliquely round and round. through the swirl of its gyrations he could see old tutt's vulture eyes, growing bigger, fiercer, more sinister every instant. it was all up with him! it was an execution, and the crowd down below were thirsting for his blood, waiting to tear him to bits! "you saw this boy throw a brick through mr. froelich's window, didn't you?" coaxed judge watkins insinuatingly. delany sensed that the old white fox was trying to trick him--get him for perjury. no! he wouldn't perjure himself again! no! but what could he do? his head swung stupidly, swaying like a dazed bull's. the sweat poured from every pore in his vast bulk. a hoarse noise--like a death rattle--came from his throat. the room dissolved in waves of white and black. then in a vertigo he toppled forward and pitched headlong to the floor. * * * * * deacon terry, star reporter for the _tribune_, who happened to be there, told his city editor at noon that he had never passed such a pleasant morning. what he saw and heard really constituted, he alleged, a great big full front-page story "in a box"--though it got only four sticks on the eleventh page--being crowded out by the armistice. why, he said, it was the damnedest thing ever! there had been no evidence against the defendant at all! and after the cop had collapsed judge watkins had refused to dismiss the case and directed mr. tutt to go on in his own way. the proceeding had resolved itself into a criminal trial of hogan and simpkins. tony's good character had been established in three minutes, and then half a dozen reputable witnesses had testified that the brick had been thrown by an entirely different boy. finally, sussman and his assistant both swore positively that delany had been in the back of the tobacco shop with his back to the door, holding them up for cigars, when the crash came. terry wanted two columns; he almost cried when they cut his great big full-page story to: shysters accused of extortion a dramatic scene was enacted at the conclusion of a minor case in part i of the general sessions yesterday, when upon the motion of ephraim tutt, of the firm of tutt & tutt, judge simeon watkins, sitting as a committing magistrate, held for the action of the grand jury raphael b. hogan and joseph p. simpkins, his assistant, for the crime of extortion, and directed that their case be referred to the grievance committee of the county lawyers' association for the necessary action for their disbarment. earlier in the trial a police officer named delany, the supposed chief witness for the prosecution, fainted and fell from the witness chair. upon his recovery he was then and there committed for perjury, in default of ten thousand dollars bail. it is understood that he has signified his willingness to turn state's evidence, but that his offer has not been accepted. so far as can be ascertained this is the first time either hogan or simpkins has been accused of a criminal offense. district attorney peckham stated that in addition to separate indictments for extortion and perjury he would ask for another, charging all three defendants with the crime of conspiracy to obstruct the due administration of the law. at the conclusion of the proceedings judge watkins permitted a voluntary collection to be taken up by mr. tutt on behalf of the accused among the jury, the court attendants and the spectators, which amounted to eleven hundred and eighty-nine dollars. in this connection the judge expressed the opinion that it was unfortunate that persons falsely accused of crime and unjustly imprisoned should have no financial redress other than by a special act of the legislature. the defendant in the case at bar had been locked up for six weeks. among the contributions was found a new one-thousand-dollar bill. "talk about crime!" quoth the deacon savagely to charlie still, of the _sun_. "that feckless fool at the city desk committed assault, mayhem and murder on that story of mine!" then he added pensively: "if i thought old man tutt would slip me a thousand to soothe my injured feelings i'd go down and retain his firm myself!" the kid and the camel breathes there the man with soul so dead who never to himself hath said, this is my own, my native land! --lay of the last minstrel. the shortest street in the world, edgar street, connects new york's financial center with the levant. it is less than fifty feet through this tiny thoroughfare from the back doors of the great broadway office buildings to greenwich street, where the letters on the window signs resemble contorted angleworms and where one is as likely to stumble into a man from bagdad as from boston. one can stand in the middle of it and with his westerly ear catch the argot of gotham and with his easterly all the dialects of damascus. and if through some unexpected convulsion of nature broadway should topple over, mr. zimmerman, the stockbroker, whose office is on the sixth story, might easily fall clear of the greek restaurant in the corner of greenwich street, roll twenty-five yards more down morris street, and find himself on washington street reading a copy of al-hoda and making his luncheon off _baha gannouge_, _majaddarah_ and _milookeiah_, which, after all, are only eggplant salad, lentils and rice, and the popular favorite known as egyptian combination. to most new yorkers this is a section of the city totally unknown and unsuspected, yet existing as in a fourth dimension within a stone's throw--and nearer--of our busiest metropolitan artery--and there within one hundred yards of the aforesaid mr. zimmerman's office above the electric cars of broadway, and within earshot of the hoots of many a multimillionaire's motor, on a certain evening something of an oriental character was doing in the hallway of a house on washington street that subsequently played a part in the professional lives of tutt & tutt. out of the literally egyptian darkness of the tenement owned by abadallah shanin khaldi issued curious smothered sounds, together with an unmistakable, pungent, circuslike odor. "whack!" there came an indignant grunt, followed by a flabby groan and a straining and squeaking of the jerry-built staircase as kasheed hassoun vigorously applied a lath to the horny backsides of eset el gazzar. "ascend, dog of a dog!" panted kasheed. "move thy accursed feet, o wizened hump! daughter of satan, give me room! thou art squeezing out my life! only go on, child of my heart! it is but a step upward, o queen of the nile. hold the rope tight, kalil!" the camel obediently surged forward, breaking off a section of banister. through the racket from the hallway above faintly came the voice of kalil majdalain. "her head is free of the ceiling. quick, kasheed! turn her, thou, upon the landing!" "whack!" responded the lath in the hand of kasheed hassoun. step by step the gentle shaggy brute felt her way with feet, knees and nozzle up the narrow staircase. what was this but another of those bizarre experiences which any camel-of-the-world must expect in a land where the water wells squirted through a tube and men rode in chariots driven by fire? "whack!" "go on, darling of my soul!" whispered kasheed. "curses upon thy father and upon the mother that bore thee! wilt thou not move?" "whack!" "ouch! she devil! thou hast trod upon my foot!" outside, that the western world might not suspect what was going on, shaheen mahfous and shanin saba unloaded with as much noise as possible a dray of paper for meraat-ul-gharb, the daily mirror. by and by a window on the fourth floor opened and the head of kalil majdalain appeared. "_mahabitcum!"_ he grinned; which, being interpreted, means "good fellowship to all!" then presently he and kasheed joined the others upon the sidewalk, and, the rolls of paper having been delivered inside the pressroom, the four syrians climbed upon the truck and drove to the restaurant of ghabryel & assad two blocks farther north, where they had a bit of _awamat_, coffee and cigarettes, and then played a game of cards, while in the attic of the tenement house eset el gazzar munched a mouthful of hay and tapped her interior reservoir for a drink of clear water, as she sighed through her valvelike nostrils and pouted with her cushioned lips, pondering upon the vagaries of quadrupedal existence. willie toothaker, the office boy of tutt & tutt, had perfected a catapult along the lines of those used in the siege of carthage--form derived from the appendix of allen and greenough's latin grammar--which boded ill for the truck drivers of lower gotham. since his translation from pottsville center, willie's inventive genius had worked something of a transformation in the tutt & tutt offices, for he had devised several labor-saving expedients, such as a complicated series of pulleys for opening windows and automatically closing doors without getting up; which, since they actually worked, mr. tutt, being a pragmatist, silently, patiently and good-naturedly endured. to-day both partners were away in court and willie had the office to himself with the exception of old scraggs. "bet it'll shoot a block!" asserted willie, replacing his gum, which he had removed temporarily to avert the danger of swallowing it in his excitement. "caesar used one just like this--only bigger, of course. see that scuttle over on washington street? bet i can hit it!" "bet you can't come within two hundred feet of it!" retorted the watery-eyed scrivener. "it's a lot further'n you think." "'tain't neither!" declared willie. "i know how far it is! what can we shoot?" scraggs' eye wandered aimlessly round the room. "oh, i don't know." "got to be something with heft to it," said willie. "'s got to overcome the resistance of the atmosphere." "how about that paperweight?" "'s too heavy." "well--" "i know!" exclaimed william suddenly. "gimme that little bottle of red ink. 's just about right. and when it strikes it'll make a mark so's we can tell where we hit--like a regular target." scraggs hesitated. "ink costs money," he protested. "but it's just the thing!" insisted willie. "besides, you can charge me for it in the cash account. give it here!" conscience being thus satisfied the two eagerly placed the ink bottle in the proper receptacle, which willie had fashioned out of a stogy box, twisted back the bow and aimed the apparatus at the slanting scuttle, which projected from a sort of penthouse upon the roof of the tenement house across the street. "now!" he exclaimed ecstatically. "stand from under, scraggs!" he pressed a lever. there was a whang, a whistle--and the ink bottle hurtled in a beautiful parabola over greenwich street. "gee! look at her go!" cried willie in triumph. "straight's a string." at exactly that instant--and just as the bottle was about to descend upon the penthouse--the scuttle opened and there was thrust forth a huge yellow face with enormous sooty lips wreathed in an unmistakable smile. on the long undulating neck the head resembled one of the grotesque manikins carried in circus parades. eset el gazzar in a search for air had discovered that the attic scuttle was slightly ajar. "gosh! a camel!" gasped willie. "lord of love!" ejaculated scraggs. "it sure is a camel!" there was a faint crash and a tinkle of glass as the bottle of red ink struck the penthouse roof just over the beast's head and deluged it with its vermilion contents. eset reared, shook her neck, gave a defiant grunt and swiftly withdrew her head into the attic. sophie hassoun, the wife of kasheed, seeing the violent change in eset's complexion, wrung her hands. "what hast thou done, o daughter of devils? thou art bleeding! thou hast cut thyself! alack, mayhap thou wilt die, and then we shall be ruined! improvident! careless one! cursed be thy folly! hast thou no regard? and i dare not send for doctor koury, the veterinary, for then thy presence would be discovered and the gendarmes would come and take thee away. would that we had left thee at coney island! o, great-granddaughter of al adha--sacred camel of the prophet--why hast thou done this? why hast thou brought misery upon us? _awar! awar!_" she cast herself upon the improvised divan in the corner, while eset, blinking, licked her big yellow hind hump, and tumbled forward upon her knees preparatory to sitting down herself. "a camel!" repeated willie, round-eyed. he counted the roofs dividing the penthouse from where morris street bisected the block. "whoop!" he cried and dashed out of the office. in less than four minutes patrolman dennis patrick murphy, who was standing on post on washington street in front of nasheen zereik's embroidery bazaar talking to sardi babu, saw a red-headed, pug-nosed urchin come flying round the corner. "one--two--three--four--five. that's the house!" cried willie toothaker. "that's it!" "what yer talkin' 'bout?" drawled murphy. "there's a camel in there!" shouted willie, dancing up and down. "camel--yer aunt!" sneered the cop. "they couldn't get no camel in there!" "there is! i seen it stick its head out of the roof!" sardi babu, the oily-faced little dealer in pillow shams, smiled slyly. he had thick black ringlets, parted exactly down the middle of his scalp, hanging to his shoulders, and a luxuriant black curly beard reaching to his middle; in addition to which he wore a blue blouse and carpet slippers. he was a maronite from lebanon, and he and his had a feud with hassoun, majdalain, and all others who belonged to the sect headed by the patriarch of antioch. "_belki!"_ he remarked significantly. "perhaps his words are true! i have heard it whispered already by lillie nadowar, now the wife of butros the confectioner. moreover, i myself have seen hay on the stairs." "huh?" exclaimed murphy. "we'll soon find out. come along you, babu! show me where you was seein' the hay." by this time those who had been lounging upon the adjacent doorstep had come running to see what was the matter, and a crowd had gathered. "it is false--what he says!" declared gadas maloof the shoemaker. "i have sat opposite the house day and night for ten--fifteen years--and no camel has gone in. camel! how could a camel be got up such narrow stairs?" "but thou art a friend of hassoun's!" retorted fajala mokarzel the grocer. "and," he added in a lower tone, "of sophie tadros, his wife." there was a subdued snicker from the crowd, and murphy inferred that they were laughing at him. "but this man," he shouted wrathfully, pointing at sardi babu, "says you all know there's a camel up there. an' this kid's seen it! come along now, both of you!" there was an angry murmur from the crowd. sardi babu turned white. "i said nothing!" he declared, trembling. "i made no complaint. the gendarme will corroborate me. what care i where kasheed hassoun stables his camel?" maloof shouldered his way up to him, and grasping the maronite by the beard muttered in arabic: "thou dog! go confess thy sins! for by the holy cross thou assuredly hast not long to live!" murphy seized babu by the arm. "come on!" he ordered threateningly. "make good now!" and he led him up the steps, the throng pressing close upon his heels. * * * * * "what's all this?" inquired magistrate burke bewilderedly an hour later as officer murphy entered the police court leading a tall syrian in a heavy overcoat and green fedora hat, and followed by several hundred black-haired, olive-skinned levantines. "don't let all those dagos in here! keep 'em out! this ain't a moving-picture palace!" "them ain't dagos, judge," whispered roony the clerk. "them's turks." "they ain't neither turks!" contradicted the stenographer, whose grammar was almost sublimated by comparison with roony's. "they're armenians--you can tell by their complexions." "well, i won't have 'em in here, whatever they are!" announced burke. "i don't like 'em. what have you got, murphy?" "shoo! get out of here!" ordered the officer on duty. the crowd, however, not understanding, only grinned. "_avanti! alley! mouch_! beat it!" continued the officer, waving his arms and hustling those nearest toward the door. the throng obediently fell back. they were a gentle, simple-minded lot, used in the old country to oppression, blackmail and tyranny, and burning with a religious fervor unknown to the pale heterodoxy of the occident. "this here," began murphy, "is a complaint by sardi babu"--he swung the cowering little man with a twist before the bench--"against one kasheed hassoun for violating the health ordinances." "no, no! i do not complain! i am not one who complains. it is nothing whatever to me if kasheed hassoun keeps a camel! i care not," cried babu in arabic. "what's he talkin' about?" interrupted burke. "i don't understand that sort of gibberish." "he makes the complaint that this here hassoun"--he indicated the tall man in the overcoat--"is violating section d of the regulations by keeping a camel in his attic." "camel!" ejaculated the magistrate. "in his attic!" murphy nodded. "it's there all right, judge!" he remarked. "i've seen it." "is that straight?" demanded his honor. "how'd he get it up there? i didn't suppose--" suddenly sardi babu threw himself fawning upon hassoun. "oh, kasheed hassoun, i swear to thee that i made no complaint. it is a falsification of the gendarme! and there was a boy--a red and yellow boy--who said he had seen thy camel's head above the roofs! i am thy friend!" he twisted his writhing snakelike fingers together. hassoun regarded him coldly. "thou knowest the fate of informers and provocateurs--of spies--thou infamous turk!" he answered through his teeth. "a turk! a turk!" shrieked sardi babu frantically, beating the breast of his blue blouse. "thou callest me a turk! me, the godson of sarkis babu and of elias stephan--whose fathers and grandfathers were christians when thy family were worshipers of mohammed. blasphemy! me, the godson of a bishop!" "i also am godson of a bishop!" sneered kasheed. "a properly anointed bishop! without tartar blood." sardi babu grew purple. "ptha! i would spit upon the beard of such a bishop!" he shrieked, beside himself. hassoun slightly raised his eyebrows. "spit, then, infamous one--while thou art able!" "here, here!" growled burke in disgust. "keep 'em still, can't you? now, what's all this about a camel?" * * * * * "that's the very scuttle, sir," asseverated scraggs to the firm, as tutt & tutt, including miss wiggin, gazed down curiously out of their office windows at the penthouse upon the washington street roof which had been willie's target of the day before. "i don't say," he continued by way of explanation, "that the camel stuck his head out because willie hit the roof with the bottle--it was probably just a circumstance--but it looked that way. 'bing!' went the ink bottle on the scuttle; and then--pop!--out came the camel like a jack-in-the-box." "what became of the camel?" inquired miss wiggin, cherishing a faint hope that--pop!--it might suddenly appear again in the same way. "the police took it away last night--lowered it out of the window with a block and tackle," answered the scrivener. "a sort of breeches buoy." "i've heard of camel's-hair shawls but not of camel's-hair breeches!" murmured tutt. "i suppose if a camel wore pants--well, my imagination refuses to contemplate the spectacle! where's willie?" "he hasn't been in at all this morning!" said miss wiggin. "i'll warrant--" "what?" demanded mr. tutt suspiciously. "--he's somewhere with that camel," she concluded. * * * * * now, miss minerva, as her name connoted, was a wise woman; and she had reached an unerring conclusion by two different and devious routes, to wit, intuition and logic, the same being the high road and low road of reason--high or low in either case as you may prefer. thus logic: camel--small boy. intuition: small boy--camel. but there was here an additional element--a direct personal relationship between this particular small boy and this particular camel, rising out of the incident of the ink bottle. she realized that that camel must have acquired for william a peculiar quality--almost that of a possession--in view of the fact that he had put his mark upon it. she knew that willie could no more stay away from the environs of that camel than said camel could remain in that attic. indeed we might go on at some length expounding further this profound law of human nature that where there are camels there will be small boys; that, as it were, under such circumstances nature abhors an infantile vacuum. "if i know him, he is!" agreed mr. tutt, referring to william's probable proximity to eset el gazzar. "speaking of camels," said tutt as he lit a cigarette, "makes me think of brass beds." "yes," nodded his partner. "of course it would, naturally. what on earth do you mean?" "i mean this," began tutt, clearing his throat as if he were addressing twelve good and true men--"a camel is obviously an unusual--not to say peculiar--animal to be roosting over there in that attic. it is an exotic--if i may use that term. it is as exotic as a brass bed from connecticut would be, or is, in damascus or lebanon. now, therefore, a camel will as assuredly give cause for trouble in new york as a brass bed in bagdad!" "the right thing often makes trouble if put in the wrong place," pondered mr. tutt. "or the wrong thing in the right place!" assented tutt. "now all these unassimilated foreigners--" "what have they got to do with brass beds in lebanon?" challenged miss wiggin. "why," continued tutt, "i am credibly informed that the american brass bed--particularly the double bed--owing to its importation into asia minor was the direct cause of the armenian massacres." "tosh!" said miss wiggin. "for a fact!" asserted tutt. "it's this way--an ambassador told me so himself--the turks, you know, are nuts on beds--and they think a great big brass family bed such as--you know--they're in all the department-store windows. well, every turk in every village throughout asia minor saves up his money to buy a brass bed--like a nigger buys a cathedral clock. sign of superiority. you get me? and it becomes his most cherished household possession. if he meets a friend on the street he says to him naturally and easily, without too much conscious egotism, just as an american might say, 'by the way, have you seen my new limousine?'--he says to the other turk, 'oh, i say, old chap, do you happen to have noticed my new brass bed from connecticut? they just put it off the steamer last week at aleppo. fatima's taking a nap in it now, but when she wakes up--'" "what nonsense!" sniffed miss wiggin. "it's not nonsense!" protested the junior partner. "now listen to what happens. some armenian--the armenians are the pawnbrokers of asia minor--moves into that village and in three months he has a mortgage on everything in it, including that brass bed. then the turkish government, which regards him as an undesirable citizen, tells him to move along; and mister armenian piles all the stuff the inhabitants have mortgaged to him into an oxcart and starts on his way, escorted by the sultan's troops. on top of the load is yusuf bulbul ameer's brass bed. yusuf looks out of his doorway and sees the bed moving off and rushes after it to protect his property. "'look here!' he shouts. 'where are you going with my brass bed?' "'it isn't yours!' retorts mister pawnbroker. 'it's mine. i loaned you eighty-seven piasters on it!' "'but i've got an equity in it! you can't take it away!' "'of course i can!' replies the armenian. 'where i goeth it will go. the turkish government is responsible.' "'not much,' says yusuf, grabbing hold of it, trying to pull it off the cart. "'hands off there!' yells the armenian. "then there is a mix-up and everybody piles in--and there is a massacre!" "that's a grand yarn!" remarked mr. tutt. "still, it may be--" "bunk!" declared miss wiggin. "and what has that got to do with camels?" "my point is," affirmed tutt, waving his index finger--"my point is that just as a yankee brass bed in turkey will make certain trouble, so a turkish camel in new york is bound to do the same thing." a door slammed behind them and willie's voice interrupted the conversation. "mr. tutt! mr. tutt!" he cried hysterically. "there's been a murder down there--and we--i'm--partly responsible. i spent the night with the camel and he's--she's--all right--in regan's boarding stable. but kasheed is in the tombs, and i told them you'd defend him. you will, won't you?" mr. tutt looked at the excited boy. "who killed whom?" he asked correctly. "and where does the camel come in?" "somebody killed sardi babu," explained willie. "i don't know exactly who did it--but they've arrested kasheed hassoun, the owner of eset el gazzar." "who?" roared tutt. "the camel. you see, nobody knew she was in the attic until i saw her stick her head out of the hole in the roof. then i told murphy and he went up and found her there. but kasheed thought sardi had told on him, you see, and nobody would believe him when he said he hadn't. the judge fined kasheed twenty-five dollars, and he--kasheed--accused sardi of being a turk and they had a big row right there in court. nothing happened until the cops had got eset out of the window and she was over at regan's. i stayed there. her head is bright red from the ink, you know. then somebody went over to the restaurant where sardi was and killed him. so you see, in a way, i'm to blame, and i didn't think you'd mind defending kasheed, because he's a corker and if they electrocute him eset will starve to death." "i see," said. mr. tutt thoughtfully. "you think that by rights if anybody was going to get killed it ought to have been you?" willie nodded. "yes, sir," he assented. and that is how a camel was the moving cause of the celebrated firm of tutt & tutt appearing as counsel in the case of the people against kasheed hassoun, charged with the crime of murder in the first degree for having taken the life of sardi babu with deliberation and premeditation and malice aforethought and against the peace of the people of the state of new york. * * * * * "and then there's this here syrian murder case," groaned the chief clerk of the district attorney's office plaintively to his chief. "i don't know what to do with it. the defendant's been six months in the tombs, with all the syrian newspapers hollering like mad for a trial. he killed him all right, but you know what these foreign-language murder cases are, boss! they're lemons, every one of 'em!" "what's the matter with it?" inquired the d.a. "it's a regular knock-down-and-drag-out case, isn't it? killed him right in a restaurant, didn't he?" "sure! that part of it's all right," assented the chief clerk. "he killed him--yes! but how are you going to get an american jury to choose between witnesses who are quite capable of swearing that the corpse killed the defendant. how in hell can you tell what they're talking about, anyway?" "you can't!" said the d.a. "send the papers in to pepperill and tell him on the side it'll make him famous. he'll believe you." "but it'll take ten weeks to try it!" wailed the chief clerk. "well, send it down to old wetherell, in part thirteen. he's got the sleeping sickness and it will be sort of soothing for him to listen to." "might wake him up?" suggested the other. "you couldn't!" retorted the d.a. "what's the case about, anyhow?" "it's about a camel," explained the subordinate hesitatingly. the d.a. grinned. said he: "it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a just prosecutor to convict a syrian of murder. well, old top, send for a couple of dozen korans and hire rooms for the jury over kaydoub, salone & dabut's and turn 'em loose on _kibbah arnabeiah, kashtah_ and _halawee_." mr. william montague pepperill was a very intense young person, twenty-six years old, out of boston by harvard college. he had been born beneath the golden dome of the state house on beacon street, and from the windows of the pepperill mansion his infant eyes had gazed smugly down upon the mall and frog pond of the historic common. there had been an aloof serenity about his life within the bulging front of the paternal residence with its ancient glass window panes--faintly tinged with blue, just as the blood in the pepperill veins was also faintly tinged with the same color--his unimpeachable social position at hoppy's and later on at harvard--which he pronounced haavaad--and the profound respect in which he was held at the law school in cambridge, that gave mr. w. montague pepperill a certain confidence in the impeccability of himself, his family, his relatives, his friends, his college, his habiliments and haberdashery, his deportment, and his opinions, political, religious and otherwise. for w.m.p. the only real americans lived on beacon hill, though a few perhaps might be found accidentally across charles street upon the made land of the back bay. a real american must necessarily also be a graduate of harvard, a unitarian, an allopath, belong to the somerset club and date back ancestrally at least to king philip's war. w. montague had, however, decided early in life that boston was too small for him and that he owed a duty to the rest of the country. so he had condescended to new york, where through his real american connections in law, finance and business he had landed a job in a political office where the aristocrats were all either irish, jews or italians, who regarded him as an outlandish animal. it had been a strange experience for him. so had the discovery that graft, blackmail, corruption, vice and crime were not mere literary conventions, existing only for the theoretical purposes of novelists and playwrights, but were actualities frequently dealt with in metropolitan society. he had secured his appointment from a reform administration and he had been retained as a holdover by peckham, the new district attorney, by reason of the fact that his uncle by marriage was a wall street banker who contributed liberally without prejudice to both political parties. this, however, w.m.p. did not know, and assumed that he was allowed to keep his four-thousand-dollar salary because the county could not get on without him. he was slender, wore a mouse-colored waistcoat, fawn tie and spats, and plastered his hair neatly down on each side of a glossy cranium that was an almost perfect sphere. "ah! mr. william montague pepperill, i believe?" inquired mr. tutt with profound politeness from the doorway of w.m.p.'s cubicle, which looked into the gloomy light shaft of the criminal courts building. mr. pepperill finished what he was writing and then looked up. "yes," he replied. "what can i do for you?" he did not ask mr. tutt his name or invite him to sit down. the old lawyer smiled. he liked young men, even conceited young men; they were so enthusiastic, so confident, so uncompromising. besides, w.m.p. was at heart, as mr. tutt perceived, a high-class sort of chap. so he smiled. "my name is tutt," said he. "i am counsel for a man named hassoun, whom you are going to try for murder. you are, of course, perfectly familiar with the facts." he fumbled in his waistcoat, produced two withered stogies and cast his eye along the wall. "would you--mind--if i sat down? and could i offer you a stogy?" "sit down--by all means," answered w.m.p. "no, thanks!"--to the stogy. mr. tutt sat down, carefully placed his old chimney pot upside down on the window ledge, and stacked in it the bundle of papers he was carrying. "i thought you might forgive me if i came to talk over the case a little with you. you see, there are so many things that a prosecutor has to consider--and which it is right that he should consider." he paused to light a match. "now in this case, though in all probability my client is guilty there is practically no possibility of his being convicted of anything higher than manslaughter in the first degree. the defense will produce many witnesses--probably as many as the prosecution. both sides will tell their stories in a language unintelligible to the jury, who must try to ascertain the true inwardness of the situation through an interpreter. they will realize that they are not getting the real truth--i mean the syrian truth. as decent-minded men they won't dare to send a fellow to the chair whose defense they cannot hear and whose motives they do not either know or understand. they will feel, as i do and perhaps you do, that the only persons to do justice among syrians are syrians." "well," replied mr. pepperill politely, "what have you to propose?" "that you recommend the acceptance of a plea of manslaughter in the second degree." deputy assistant district attorney william montague pepperill drew himself up haughtily. he regarded all criminal practitioners as semicrooks, ignorant, illiterate, rather dirty men--not in the real american class. "i can do nothing of the kind," he answered sternly and very distinctly. "if these men seek the hospitality of our shores they must be prepared to be judged by our laws and by our standards of morality. i do not agree with you that our juridical processes are not adequate to that purpose. moreover, i regard it as unethical--un-eth-i-cal--to accept a plea for a lesser degree of crime than that which the defendant has presumptively committed." mr. tutt regarded him with undisguised admiration. "your sentiments do you honor, mr. pepperill!" he returned. "you are sure you do not mind my smoke? but of course my client is presumed innocent. i am very hopeful--almost confident--of getting him off entirely. but rather than take the very slight chance of a conviction for murder i am letting discretion take the place of valor and offer to have him admit his guilt of manslaughter." "i guess," answered pepperill laconically, indulging in his only frequent solecism, "that you wouldn't offer to plead to manslaughter unless you felt pretty sure your client was going to the chair! now--" mr. tutt suddenly rose. "my young friend," he interrupted, "when ephraim tutt says a thing man to man--as i have been speaking to you--he means what he says. i have told you that i expected to acquit my client. my only reason for offering a plea is the very slight--and it is a very slight--chance that an arabian quarrel can be made the basis of a conviction for murder. when you know me better you will not feel so free to impugn my sincerity. are you prepared to entertain my suggestion or not?" "most certainly not!" retorted w.m.p. with the shadow of a sneer. "then i will bid you good-day," said mr. tutt, taking his hat from the window ledge and turning to the door. "and--you young whippersnapper," he added when once it had closed behind him and he had turned to shake his lean old fist at the place where w.m.p. presumably was still sitting, "i'll show you how to treat a reputable member of the bar old enough to be your grandfather! i'll take the starch out of your darned puritan collar! i'll harry you and fluster you and heckle you and make a fool of you, and i'll roll you up in a ball and blow you out the window, and turn old hassoun loose for an egyptian holiday that will make old rome look like thirty piasters! you pinheaded, pretentious, pompous, egotistical, niminy-piminy--" "well, well, mr. tutt, what's the matter?" inquired peckham, laying his hand on the old lawyer's shoulder. "what's peppy been doing to you?" "it isn't what he's been doing to me; it's what i'm going to do to him!" returned mr. tutt grimly. "just wait and see!" "go to it!" laughed the d.a. "eat him alive! we're throwing him to the lions!" "no decent lion would want him!" retorted mr. tutt. "he might maul him a little, but i won't. i'm just going to give him a full opportunity to test his little proposition that the institutions of these jolly old united states are perfectly adapted to settle quarrels among all the polyglot prevaricators of the world and administer justice among people who are still in a barbarous or at least in a patriarchal state. he's young, and he don't understand that a new york merchant is entirely too conscientious to find a man guilty on testimony that he would discount heavily in his own business." "go as far as you like," laughed peckham. "oh, i'm only going as far as bagdad," answered mr. tutt. deputy assistant district attorney pepperill complacently set about the preparation of his case, utterly unconscious of the dangers with which his legal path was beset. as he sat at his shiny oaken desk and pressed the button that summoned the stenographer it seemed to him the simplest thing in the world to satisfy any jury of what had taken place and the summit of impudent audacity on the part of mr. tutt to have suggested that hassoun should be dealt with otherwise than a first-degree murderer. and it should be added parenthetically that w.m.p., in spite of his new england temperament, had a burning ambition to send somebody to the electric chair. in truth, on its face the story as related by fajala mokarzel and the other friends of sardi babu the deceased pillow-sham vender was simplicity itself. besides sardi babu and mokarzel there had been nicola abbu, the confectioner; menheem shikrie, the ice-cream vendor; habu kahoots, the showman; and david elias, a pedler. all six of them, as they claimed, had been sitting peacefully in ghabryel & assad's restaurant, eating _kibbah arnabeiah_ and _mamoul_. sardi had ordered _sheesh kabab_. it was about nine o'clock in the evening, and they were talking politics and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. suddenly kasheed hassoun, accompanied by a smaller and much darker man, had entered and striding up to the table exclaimed in a threatening manner: "where is he who did say that he would spit upon the beard of my bishop?" thereupon sardi babu had risen and answered: "behold, i am he." immediately kasheed hassoun, and while his accomplice held them at bay with a revolver, had leaned across the table and grabbing sardi by the throat had broken his neck. then the smaller man had fired off his pistol and both of them had run away. the simplest story ever told. there was everything the law required to send any murderer to the chair, and little mr. pepperill had a diagram made of the inside of the restaurant and a photograph of the outside of it, and stamped the indictment in purple ink: ready for trial. contemporaneously mr. tutt was giving his final instructions to mr. bonnie doon, his stage manager, director of rehearsals and general superintendent of arrangements in all cases requiring an extra-artistic touch. "it's too bad we can't cart a few hundred cubic feet of the sahara into the court room and divert the nile down center street, but i guess you can produce sufficient atmosphere," he said. "i could all right--if i had a camel," remarked bonnie. "atmosphere is necessary," continued mr. tutt. "real atmosphere! have 'em in native costume--beads, red slippers, hookahs, hoochi-koochis." "i get you," replied mr. doon. "you want a regular turkish village. well, we'll have it all right. i'll engage the entire streets of cairo production from coney and have franklin street crowded with goats, asses and dromedaries. i might even have a caravan pitch its tents alongside the tombs." "you can't lay it on too strong," declared mr. tutt. "but you don't need to go off washington street. and, bonnie, remember--i want every blessed turk, greek, armenian, jew, arab, egyptian and syrian that saw sardi babu kill kasheed hassoun." "you mean who saw kasheed hassoun kill sardi babu," corrected bonnie. "well--whichever way it was," agreed mr. tutt. when at length the great day of the trial arrived judge wetherell, ascending the bench in part thirteen, was immediately conscious of a subtle oriental smell that emanated from no one could say where, but which none the less permeated the entire court room. it seemed to be a curious compound of incense, cabbage, garlic and eau de cologne, with a suggestion of camel. the room was entirely filled with syrians. one row of benches was occupied by a solemn group of white-bearded patriarchs who looked as if they had momentarily paused on a pilgrimage to mecca. all over the room rose the murmur of purring arabic. the stenographer was examining a copy of meraat-ul-gharb, the clerk a copy of el zeman, and in front of the judge's chair had been laid a copy of al-hoda. his honor gave a single sniff, cast his eye over the picturesque throng, and said: "pst! captain! open that window!" then he picked up the calendar and read: "'people versus kasheed hassoun--murder.'" the stenographer was humming to himself: _bagdad is a town in turkey on a camel tall and jerky_. "are both sides ready to try this case?" inquired judge wetherell, choking a yawn. he was a very stout judge and he could not help yawning. deputy assistant district attorney pepperill and mr. tutt rose in unison, declaring that they were. at or about this same moment the small door in the rear of the room opened and an officer appeared, leading in kasheed hassoun. he was an imposing man, over six feet in height, of dignified carriage, serious mien, and finely chiseled features. though he was dressed as a european there was nevertheless something indefinably suggestive of the east in the cut of his clothes; he wore no waistcoat and round his waist was wound a strip of crimson cloth. his black eyes glinted through lowering brows, wildly, almost fiercely, and he strode haughtily beside his guard like some unbroken stallion of the desert. "well, you may as well proceed to select a jury," directed the court, putting on his glasses and studying his copy of al-hoda with interest. presently he beckoned to pepperill. "have you seen this?" he asked. "no, your honor. what is it?" "it's a newspaper published by these people," explained his honor. "rather amusing, isn't it?" "i didn't know they had any special newspaper of their own," admitted pepperill. "they've got eight right in new york," interjected the stenographer. "i notice that this paper is largely composed of advertisements," commented wetherell. "but the advertisers are apparently scattered all over the world--chicago; pittsburgh; canton; winnipeg; albuquerque; brooklyn; tripoli; greenville, texas; pueblo; lawrence, massachusetts; providence, rhode island; fall river; detroit--" "here's one from roxbury, massachusetts, and another from mexico city," remarked the clerk delightedly. "and here's one from paris, france," added the stenographer. "say! some travelers!" "well, go on getting the jury," said the judge, yawning again and handing the paper to the clerk. at that moment mr. salim zahoul, the interpreter procured by mr. pepperill, approached, bowed and, twisting his purple mustache, addressed the court: "your excellence: i haf to zay dat dees papaire eet haf articles on zis affair--ze _memkaha_--zat are not diplomatique." judge wetherell blinked at him. "who's this man?" he demanded. "that's the interpreter," explained w.m.p. "interpreter!" answered the court. "i can't understand a word he says!" "he was the best i could get," apologized pepperill, while the countenance of mr. zahoul blazed with wrath and humiliation. "it's very difficult to get a fluent interpreter in arabic." "well, just interpret what _he_ says to _me_, will you?" kindly requested his honor. "i zay," suddenly exploded zahoul--"dees papaire eet half contemptuous article on ze _menkaha_ zat dees kasheed hassoun not kill dees sardi babu!" "he says," translated pepperill, "that the newspaper contains an indiscreet article in favor of the defense. i had no idea there would be any improper attempt to influence the jury." "what difference does it make, anyway?" inquired his honor. "you don't expect any juryman is going to read that thing, do you? why, it looks as if a bumblebee had fallen into an ink bottle and then had a fit all over the front page." "i don't suppose--" began pepperill. "go on and get your jury!" admonished the court. so the lion and the lamb in the shape of mr. tutt and pepperill proceeded to select twelve gentlemen to pass upon the issue who had never been nearer to syria than the boardwalk at atlantic city and who only with the utmost attention could make head or tail of what mr. salim zahoul averred that the witnesses were trying to say. moreover, most of the talesmen evinced a profound distrust of their own ability to do justice between the people and the defendant and a curious desire to be relieved from service. however, at last the dozen had been chosen and sworn, the congestion of the court room slightly relieved, mr. zahoul somewhat appeased, and mr. william montague pepperill rose to outline his very simple case to the jury. there was, he explained, no more difficulty in administering justice in the case of a foreigner than of anyone else. all were equal in the eyes of the law--equally presumed to be innocent, equally responsible when proved guilty. and he would prove kasheed hassoun absolutely guilty--guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, beyond any doubt. he would produce five--five reputable witnesses who would swear that hassoun had murdered sardi babu; and he prophesied that he would unhesitatingly demand at the end of the trial such an unequivocal, fearless, honest expression of their collective opinion as would permanently fix mr. kasheed hassoun so that he could do no more harm. he expressed it more elegantly but that was the gist of it. he himself was as sincere and honest in his belief in his ability to establish the truth of his claim as he was in the justice of his cause. alas, he was far too young to realize that there is a vast difference between knowing the truth and being able to demonstrate what it is! in proper order he called the photographer who had taken the picture of the restaurant, the draftsman who had made the diagram of the interior, the policeman who had arrested hassoun, the doctor who had performed the official autopsy upon the unfortunate babu, and the five syrians who had been present when the crime was perpetrated. each swore by all that was holy that kasheed hassoun had done exactly as outlined by assistant district attorney pepperill--and swore it word for word, _verbatim et literatim, in iisdem verbis, sic_, and yet again exactly. their testimony mortised and tenoned in a way to rejoice a cabinet-maker's heart. and at first to the surprise and later to the dismay of mr. pepperill, old man tutt asked not one of them a single question about the murder. instead he merely inquired in a casual way where they came from, how they got there, what they did for a living, and whether they had ever made any contradictory statement as to what had occurred, and as his cross-examination of mr. habu kahoots was typical of all the rest it may perhaps be set forth as an example, particularly as mr. kahoots spoke english, which the others did not. "and den," asserted mr. kahoots stolidly, "kasheed hassoun, he grab heem by ze troat and break hees neck." he was a short, barrel-shaped man with curly ringlets, fat, bulging cheeks, heavy double chin and enormous paunch, and he wore a green worsted waistcoat and his fingers were laden with golden rings. "ah!" said mr. tutt complaisantly. "you saw all that exactly as you have described it?" "yes, sair!" "where were you born?" "acre, syria." "how long have you been in the united states?" "tirty years." "where do you live?" "augusta, georgia." "what's your business?" mr. kahoots visibly expanded. "i have street fair and carnival of my own. i have electric theater, old plantation, oriental show, snake exhibit and merry-go-round." "well, well!" exclaimed mr. tutt. "you are certainly a capitalist! i hope you are not financially overextended!" mr. pepperill looked pained, not knowing just how to prevent such jocoseness on the part of his adversary. "i object," he muttered feebly. "quite properly!" agreed mr. tutt. "now, mr. kahoots, are you a citizen of the united states?" mr. kahoots looked aggrieved. "me? no! me no citizen. i go back sometime acre and build moving-picture garden and ice-cream palace." "i thought so," commented mr. tutt. "now what, pray, were you doing in the washington street restaurant?" "eating _kibbah arnabeiah_ and _mamoul_." "i mean if you live in augusta how did you happen to be in new york at precisely that time?" "eh?" "how you come in new york?" translated mr. tutt, while the jury laughed. "just come." "but why?" "just come." "yes, yes; but you didn't come on just to be present at the murder, did you?" kahoots grinned. "i just come to walk up and down." "where--walk up and down?" "on washington street. i spend the winter. i do nothing. i rich man." "how long did you stay when you just came on?" "tree days. then i go back." "why did you go back?" "i dunno. just go back." mr. tutt sighed. the jury gave signs of impatience. "look here!" he demanded. "how many times have you gone over your story with the district attorney?" "nevvair." "what?" "i nevvair see heem." "never see whom?" "dees man--judge." "i'm not talking about the judge." "i nevvair see no one." "didn't you tell the grand jury that hassoun stabbed babu with a long knife?" "i dunno heem!" "who?" "gran' jury." "didn't you go into a big room and put your hand on a book and swear?" "i no swear--ever!" "and tell what you saw?" "i tell what i saw." "what did you see?" "i saw hassoun break heem hees neck." "didn't you say first that hassoun stabbed babu?" "no--nevvair!" "then didn't you come back and say he shot him?" "no--nevvair!" "and finally, didn't you say he strangled him--after you had heard that the coroner's physician had decided that that was how he was killed?" "yes--he break heem hees neck." mr. kahoots was apparently very much bored, but he was not bored in quite the same way as the judge, who, suddenly rousing himself, asked mr. tutt if he had any basis for asking such questions. "why, certainly," answered the old lawyer quietly. "i shall prove that this witness made three absolutely contradictory statements before the grand jury." "is that so, mister district attorney?" "i don't know," replied pepperill faintly. "i had nothing to do with the proceedings before the grand jury." judge wetherell frowned. "it would seem to me," he began, "as if a proper preparation of the case would have involved some slight attention to--well, never mind! proceed, mr. tutt." "kahoots!" cried the lawyer sternly. "isn't it a fact that you have been convicted of crime yourself?" the proprietor of the merry-go-round drew himself up indignantly. "me? no!" "weren't you convicted of assault on a man named rafoul rabyaz?" "me? look here, sir! i tell you 'bout dat! this rafoul rabyaz he my partner, see, in pool, billiard and cigar business on greenwich street. this long time ago. years ago. we split up. i sell heem my shares, see. i open next door--pool table, café and all. but i not get full half the stock. i not get the tablecloth, see. i was of the tablecloth you know short. it don't be there. i go back there that time. i see heem. i say, 'we don't count those tablecloth.' he say, 'yes.' i say,'no.' he say,'yes.' i say 'no.' he say, 'yes.' i say, 'no'--" "for heaven's sake," exclaimed judge wetherell, "don't say that again!" "yes, sair," agreed the showman. "all right. i say, 'no.' i say, 'you look in the book.' he say, 'no.' we each take hold of the cloth. i have a knife. i cut cloth in two. i give heem half. i take half. i say, 'you take half; i take half.' he say, 'go to hell!'" he waved his hand definitively. "well?" inquired mr. tutt anxiously. "dat's all!" answered mr. kahoots. one of the jurymen suddenly coughed and thrust his handkerchief into his mouth. "then you stuck your knife into him, didn't you?" suggested mr. tutt. "me? no!" mr. tutt shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips. "you were convicted, weren't you?" "i call twenty witness!" announced mr. kahoots with a grand air. "you don't need to!" retorted mr. tutt. "now tell us why you had to leave syria?" "i go in camel business at coney island," answered the witness demurely. "what!" shouted the lawyer. "didn't you run away from home because you were convicted of the murder of fatima, the daughter of abbas?" "me? no!" mr. kahoots looked shocked. mr. tutt bent over and spoke to bonnie doon, who produced from a leather bag a formidable document on parchment-like paper covered with inscriptions in arabic and adorned with seals and ribbons. "i have here, your honor," said he, "the record of this man's conviction in the criminal court in beirut, properly exemplified by our consuls and the embassy at constantinople. i have had it translated, but if mr. pepperill prefers to have the interpreter read it--" "show it to the district attorney!" directed his honor. pepperill looked at it helplessly. "you may read your own translation," said the court drowsily. mr. tutt bowed, took up the paper and faced the jury. "this is the official record," he announced. "i will read it. "'in the name of god. "'on a charge of the murder of the gendarmes nejib telhoon and abdurrahman and ibrahim aisha and fatima, daughter of hason abbas, of the attack on certain nomads, of having fired on them with the intent of murder, of participation and assistance in the act of murder, of having shot on the regular troops, of assisting in the escape of some offenders and of having drawn arms on the regular troops, during an uprising on sunday, january , --mohammedan style--between the inhabitants of the mezreatil-arab quarter in beirut and the nomads who had pitched their tents near by, the following arrested persons, namely--metri son of habib eljemal and habib son of mikael nakash and hanna son of abdallah elbaitar and elias esad shihada and tanous son of jerji khedr and habib son of aboud shab and elias son of metri nasir and khalil son of mansour maoud and nakhle son of elias elhaj and nakhle son of berkat minari and antoon son of berkat minari and lutfallah son of jerji-kefouri and jabran habib bishara and kholil son of lutf dahir and nakhle yousif eldefoumi, all residents of the said quarter and turkish subjects, and their companions, sixty-five fugitives, namely--isbir bedoon son of abdallah zerik and elias son of kanan zerik and amin matar and jerji ferhan alias baldelibas and habu son of hanna kahoots and--'" deputy assistant district attorney pepperill started doubtfully to his feet. "if the court please," he murmured in a sickly voice, "i object. in the first place i don't know anything about this record--and i object to it on that ground; and in the second place a trial and conviction in the absence of a defendant under our law is no conviction at all." "but this man is a turkish subject and it's a good conviction in turkey," argued mr. tutt. "well, it isn't here!" protested pepperill. "you're a little late, aren't you?" inquired his honor. "it has all been read to the jury. however, i'll entertain a motion to strike out--" "i should like to be heard on the question," said mr. tutt quickly. "this is an important matter." unexpectedly a disgruntled-looking talesman in the back row held up his hand. "i'd like to ask a question myself," he announced defiantly, almost arrogantly, after the manner of one with a grievance. "i'm a hard-working business man. i've been dragged here against my will to serve on this jury and decide if this defendant murdered somebody or other. i don't see what difference it makes whether or not this witness cut a tablecloth in two or murdered fatima, the daughter of what's his name. i want to go home--sometime. if it is in order i'd like to suggest that we get along." judge wetherell started and peered with a puzzled air at this bold shatterer of established procedure. "mister juryman," said he severely, "these matters relate directly to the credibility of the witness. they are quite proper. i--i--am--surprised--" "but, your honor," expostulated the iconoclast upon the back row, "i guess nobody is going to waste much time over this turkish snake charmer! ain't there a policeman or somebody we can believe who saw what happened?" "bang!" went the judicial gavel. "the juryman will please be silent!" shouted judge wetherell. "this is entirely out of order!" then he quickly covered his face with his handkerchief. "proceed!" he directed in a muffled tone. "where were we?" asked mr. tutt dreamily. "fatima, the daughter of abbas," assisted the foreman, sotto voce. "and i objected to fatima, the daughter of abbas!" snapped pepperill. "well, well!" conceded mr. tutt. "she's dead, poor thing! let her be. that is all, mr. kahoots." it is difficult to describe the intense excitement these digressions from the direct testimony occasioned among the audience. the reference to the billiard-table cover and the murder of the unfortunate fatima apparently roused long-smoldering fires. a group of syrians by the window broke into an unexpected altercation, which had to be quelled by a court officer, and when quiet was restored the jury seemed but slightly attentive to the precisely similar yarns of nicola abbu, menheem shikrie, fajal mokarzel and david elias, especially as the minutes of the grand jury showed that they had sworn to three entirely different sets of facts regarding the cause of babu's death. yet when the people rested it remained true that five witnesses, whatever the jury may have thought of them, had testified that hassoun strangled sardi babu. the jury turned expectantly to mr. tutt to hear what he had to say. "gentlemen," he said quietly, "the defense is very simple. none of the witnesses who have appeared here was in fact present at the scene of the homicide at all. i shall call some ten or twelve reputable syrian citizens who will prove to you that kasheed hassoun, my client, with a large party of friends was sitting quietly in the restaurant when sardi babu came in with a revolver in his hand, which he fired at hassoun, and that then, and only then, a small dark man whose identity cannot be established--evidently a stranger--seized babu before he could fire again, and killed him--in self-defense." mr. william montague pepperill's jaw dropped as if he had seen the ghost of one of his colonial ancestors. he could not believe that he had heard mr. tutt correctly. why, the old lawyer had the thing completely turned round! sardi babu hadn't gone to the restaurant. he had been in the restaurant, and it had been kasheed hassoun who had gone there. yet, one by one, placidly, imperturbably, the dozen witnesses foretold by mr. tutt, and gathered in by bonnie doon, marched to the chair and swore upon the holy bible that it was even as mr. tutt had said, and that no such persons as mokarzel, kahoots, abbu, shikrie and elias had been in the restaurant at any time that evening, but on the contrary that they, the friends of hassoun, had been there eating turkish pie--a few might have had mashed beans with _taheenak_--when sardi babu, apparently with suicidal intent, entered alone to take vengeance upon the camel owner. "that is all. that is our case," said mr. tutt as the last syrian left the stand. but there was no response from the bench. judge wetherell had been dozing peacefully for several hours. even pepperill could not avoid a decorous smile. then the clerk pulled out the copy of al-hoda and rustled it, and his honor, who had been dreaming that he was riding through the narrow streets of bagdad upon a jerky white dromedary so tall that he could peek through the latticed balconies at the plump, black-eyed odalisques within the harems, slowly came back from turkey to new york. "gentlemen of the jury," said he, pulling himself together, "the defendant here is charged by the grand jury with having murdered fatima the daughter of abbas--i beg your pardon! i mean--who was it?--one sardi babu. i will first define to you the degrees of homicide--" * * * * * one day three months later, after kasheed hassoun had been twice tried upon the same testimony and the jury had disagreed--six to six, each time--mr. tutt, who had overstayed his lunch hour at the office, put on his stovepipe hat and strolled along washington street, looking for a place to pick up a bite to eat. it was in the middle of the afternoon and most of the stores were empty, which was all the more to his liking. he had always wanted to try some of that turkish pie that they had all talked so much about at the trial. presently a familiar juxtaposition of names caught his eye--ghabryel & assad. the very restaurant which had been the scene of the crime! curiously, he turned in there. like all the other places it was deserted, but at the sound of his footsteps a little syrian boy not more than ten years old came from behind the screen at the end of the room and stood bashfully awaiting his order. mr. tutt smiled one of his genial weather-beaten smiles at the youngster and glancing idly over the bill of fare ordered _biklama_ and coffee. then he lit a stogy and stretched his long legs comfortably out under the narrow table. yes, this was the very spot where either sardi babu and his friends had been sitting the night of the murder or kasheed hassoun and his friends--one or the other; he wondered if anybody would ever know which. was it possible that in this humdrum little place human passions had been roused to the taking of life on account of some mere difference in religious dogma? was this new york? was it possible to americanize these people? a door clattered in the rear, and from behind the screen again emerged the boy carrying a tray of pastry and coffee. "well, my little man," said mr. tutt, "do you work here?" "oh, yes," answered the embryonic citizen. "my father, he owns half the store. i go to school every day, but i work here afterward. i got a prize last week." "what sort of a prize?" "i got the english prize." the lawyer took the child's hand and pulled him over between his knees. he was an attractive lad, clean, responsive, frank, and his eyes looked straight into mr. tutt's. "sonny," he inquired his new friend, "are you an american?" "me? sure! you bet i'm an american! the old folks--no! you couldn't change 'em in fifty years. they're just what they always were. they don't want anything different. they think they're in syria yet. but me--say, what do you think? of course i'm an american!" "that's right!" answered mr. tutt, offering him a piece of pastry. "and what is your name?" "george nasheen assad," answered the boy, showing a set of white teeth. "well, george," continued the attorney, "what has become of kasheed hassoun?" "oh, he's down at coney island. he runs a caravan. he has six camels. i go there sometimes and he lets me ride for nothing. i know who you are," said the little syrian confidently, as he took the cake. "you're the great lawyer who defended kasheed hassoun." "that's right. how did you know that, now?" "i was to the trial." "do you think he ought to have been let off?" asked mr. tutt whimsically. "i don't know," returned the child. "i guess you did right not to call me as a witness." mr. tutt wrinkled his brows. "eh? what? you weren't a witness, were you?" "of course i was!" laughed george. "i was here behind the screen. i saw the whole thing. i saw kasheed hassoun come in and speak to sardi babu, and i saw sardi draw his revolver, and i saw kasheed tear it out of his hand and strangle him." mr. tutt turned cold. "you saw that?" he challenged. "sure." "how many other people were there in the restaurant?" inquired mr. tutt. "nobody at all," answered george in a matter-of-fact tone. "only kasheed and sardi. nobody else was in the restaurant." contempt of court the court can't determine what is honor.--chief baron bowes, . i know what my code of honor is, my lord, and i intend to adhere to it.--john o'conner, m.p., in parnell commission's proceedings, d day; times rep. pt. , pp. _ff_. well, honor is the subject of my story.--julius caesar, act i, sc . "what has become of katie--the second waitress?" asked miss althea beekman of dawkins, her housekeeper, as she sat at her satinwood desk after breakfast. "i didn't see her either last night or this morning." dawkins, who was a mid-victorian, flushed awkwardly. "i really had to let the girl go, ma'am!" she explained with an outraged air. "i hardly know how to tell you--such a thing in this house! i couldn't possibly have her round. i was afraid she might corrupt the other girls, ma'am--and they are such a self-respecting lot--almost quite ladylike, ma'am. so i simply paid her and told her to take herself off." miss beekman looked pained. "you shouldn't have turned her out into the street like that, dawkins!" she expostulated. "where has she gone?" dawkins gazed at her large feet in embarrassment. "i don't know, ma'am," she admitted. "i didn't suppose you'd want her here so i sent her away. it was quite inconvenient, too--with the servant problem what it is. but i'm hoping to get another this afternoon from miss healey's." miss beekman was genuinely annoyed. "i am seriously displeased with you, dawkins!" she returned severely. "of course, i am shocked at any girl in my household misbehaving herself, but--i--wouldn't want her to be sent away--under such circumstances. it would be quite heartless. yes, i am very much disturbed!" "i'm sorry, ma'am," answered the housekeeper penitently. "but i was only thinking of the other girls." "well, it's too late to do anything about it now," repeated her mistress. "but i'm sorry, dawkins; very sorry, indeed. we have responsibilities toward these people! however--this is thursday, isn't it?--we'll have veal for lunch as usual--and she was so pretty!" she added inconsequently. "h'm. that was the trouble!" sniffed the housekeeper. "we're well rid of her. you'd think a girl would have some consideration for her employer--if nothing else. in a sense she is a guest in the house and should behave herself as such!" "yes, that is quite true!" agreed her employer. "still--yes, brown betty is very well for dessert. that will do, dawkins." behind the curtain of this casual conversation had been enacted a melodrama as intensely vital and elemental as any of shakespeare's tragedies, for the day dawkins had fired katie o'connell--"for reasons," as she said--and told her to go back where she came from or anywhere she liked for that matter, so long as she got out of her sight, katie's brother shane in the back room of mcmanus' gin palace gave red mcgurk--for the same "reasons"--a certain option and, the latter having scornfully declined to avail himself of it, had then and there put a bullet through his neck. but this, naturally, miss beekman did not know. as may have been already surmised miss althea was a gracious, gentle and tender-hearted lady who never knowingly would have done a wrong to anybody and who did not believe that simply because god had been pleased to call her into a state of life at least three stories higher than her kitchen she was thereby relieved from her duty toward those who occupied it. nevertheless, from the altitude of those three stories she viewed them as essentially different from herself, for she came of what is known as "a long line of ancestors." as, however, katie o'connell and althea beekman were practically contemporaries, it is somewhat difficult to understand how one of them could have had a succession of ancestors that was any longer than that of the other. indeed, miss beekman's friend, prof. abelard samothrace, of columbia university, probably would have admitted that just as the two had lived in the same house--albeit at different levels--on fifth avenue, so their forebears at some prehistoric period had, likely as not, occupied the same cave and had in company waded on frosty mornings the ice-skimmed swamps of mittel europa in pursuit of the cave bear, the mastodon and the woolly rhinoceros, and for afternoon relaxation had made up twosomes for hunting wives with stone clubs instead of mashies in their hairy prehensile hands. it would seem, therefore, that--whatever of tradition might have originated in the epoch in question--glimmerings of sportsmanship, of personal pride, of tribal duty or of conscience ought to have been the common heritage of them both. for it was assuredly true that while miss katie's historic ancestors had been celtiberians, clad on occasion only in a thin coating of blue paint, miss althea's had dwelt in the dank marshes of the elbe and had been unmistakably teutonic, though this curse had been largely removed by racial intermarriage during subsequent thousands of years. indeed, it may well have been that in the dimmer past some beekman serf on bended knee had handed a gilded harp to some king o'connell on his throne. if the o'connells were foreigners the beekmans, from the point of view of the aboriginal american, were no less so simply because they had preceded them by a couple of hundred years. tradition is not a matter of centuries but of ages. if katie inherited some of hers from the peat bogs adjacent to tara's halls in that remote period when there were still snakes in ireland, miss althea had vicariously acquired others from the fur-clad barbarians described by tacitus who spent their leisure time in drinking, gambling or splitting each other's skulls with stone mallets. on this subject see spencer's "data of ethics" and lecky's "history of european morals." but all this entirely escaped miss althea, who suffered from the erroneous impression that because she was a beekman and lived in a stone mansion facing central park she differed fundamentally not only from the o'connells but from the smiths, the pasquales, the ivanovitches and the ginsbergs, all of whom really come of very old families. upon this supposed difference she prided herself. because she was, in fact, mistaken and because the o'connells shared with the beekmans and the ginsbergs a tradition reaching back to a period when revenge was justice, and custom of kinsfolk the only law, shane o'connell had sought out red mcgurk and had sent him unshriven to his god. the only reason why this everyday bowery occurrence excited any particular attention was not that shane was an o'connell but that mcgurk was the son of a political boss of much influence and himself one of the leaders of a notorious cohort of young ruffians who when necessary could be relied upon to stuff a ballot box or otherwise to influence public opinion. as red was a mighty man in gideon, so his taking off was an event of moment, and he was waked with an elegance unsurpassed in the annals of cherry hill. "an' if ye don't put the son-of-a----- who kilt me b'y in th' chair, ye name's mud--see?" the elder mcgurk had informed district attorney peckham the next morning. "i've told the cops who done it. now you do the rest--understand?" peckham understood very well. no one seeing the expression on mcgurk's purple countenance could have failed to do so. "we'll get him! don't you worry!" peckham had assured the desolated father with a manner subtly suggesting both the profoundest sympathy and the prophetic glories of a juridical revenge in which the name of mcgurk would be upon every lip and the picture of the deceased, his family, and the home in which they dwelt would be featured on the front page of every journal. "we'll get him, all right!" "see to it that ye do!" commented his visitor meaningly. therefore, though no one had seen him commit the crime, word was passed along the line to pick up shane o'connell for the murder of red mcgurk. it mattered not there was no evidence except the report of a muttered threat or two and the lie passed openly the week before. everybody knew that shane had done it, and why; though no one could tell how he knew it. and because everybody knew, it became a political necessity for peckham to put him under arrest with a great fanfare of trumpets and a grandiose announcement of the celerity with which the current would be turned through his body. the only fly in the ointment was the fact that o'connell had walked into the district attorney's office as soon as the rumor reached him and quietly submitted to being arrested, saying merely: "i heard you wanted me. well, here i am!" but though they badgered him for hours, lured him by every pretext to confess, put a stool pigeon in the same cell with him, and resorted to every trick, device and expedient known to the prosecutor's office to trap him into some sort of an admission, they got nothing for their pains. it was just one of those cases where the evidence simply wasn't forthcoming. and yet peckham was aware that unless he convicted o'connell his name would indeed be mud--or worse. this story, however, is concerned less with the family honor of the o'connells than with that of the beekmans. miss althea was the last surviving member of her branch of the family. though she would probably have regarded it as slightly vulgar to have been referred to as "one hundred per cent american" she was so nearly so--except for a reminiscent affection for "the late dear queen"--that the phrase in her case would have been substantially correct. her mother had been the daughter of a distinguished revolutionary statesman who had been a signer of the declaration of independence, an ambassador and justice of the supreme court as well; her father a celebrated newspaper editor. she had been born in the prue and i period in gramercy park near what is now the players' club, and the old colonial house with its white trimmings and ornamental ironwork had been the scene of many a modest gayety at a time when emerson, lowell, and george william curtis were viewed less as citizens than as high priests of culture, sharing equally in sanctity with the goddess thereof. she could just remember those benign old gentlemen, as well as the many veterans of the civil war who dined at her father's decorous mahogany and talked of the preservation of the constitution and those other institutions to found which it is generally assumed the first settlers landed on the atlantic seaboard and self-sacrificingly accepted real estate from the wily native in return for whisky and glass beads. she was forty-seven years of age, a colonial dame, a daughter of the american revolution, a member of the board of directors of several charitable institutions, and she was worth a couple of million dollars in railroad securities. on sundays she always attended the church in stuyvesant square frequented by her family, and as late as did so in the famous beekman c-spring victoria driven by an aged negro coachman. but besides being full of rectitude and good works--which of themselves so often fail of attraction--miss althea was possessed of a face so charming even in its slightly faded prettiness that one wondered how it was possible that she could successfully have withstood the suitors who must have crowded about her. her house on fifth avenue was full of old engravings of american patriots, and the library inherited from her editorial parent was replete with volumes upon subjects which would have filled a bolshevik with disgust. briefly, if ever trotzky had become commissar of the soviet of manhattan, miss althea and those like her would have been the first candidates for a drumhead court-martial. she prided herself equally upon her adherence to religious principle and the acts of congress. for the law, merely as law, she had the profoundest veneration, viewing the heterogeneous statutes passed from time to time by desultory legislators much as if they had in some mysterious way been handed down from mount sinai along with the ten commandments. for any violator of the law she had the uttermost abhorrence, and the only weakness in her ethics arose out of her failure to discriminate between relative importances, for she undoubtedly regarded the sale of a glass of beer after the closing hour as being quite as reprehensible as grand larceny or the bearing of false witness. to her every judge must be a learned, wise and honorable man because he stood for the enforcement of the law of the land, and she never questioned whether or not that law was wise or otherwise, which latter often--it must be confessed--it was not. in a word, though there was nothing progressive about miss althea she was one of those delightful, cultivated, loyal and enthusiastic female citizens who are rightfully regarded as vertebrae in the backbone of a country which, after it has got its back up, can undoubtedly lick any other nation on earth. it was characteristic of her that carefully folded inside the will drawn for her by her family solicitor was a slip of paper addressed to her heirs and next of kin requesting that at her funeral the national anthem should be played and that her coffin should be draped with the american flag. but there was a somewhat curious if not uncommon inconsistency in miss beekman's attitude toward lawbreakers in that once they were in prison they instantly became objects of her gentlest solicitude. thus she was a frequent visitor at the tombs, where she brought spiritual, and more often, it must be frankly admitted, bodily comfort to those of the inmates who were recommended by the district attorney and prison authorities as worthy of her attention; and prosecutor peckham being not unmindful of the possible political advantage that might accrue from being on friendly terms with so well-known a member of the distinguished family of beekman, lost no opportunity to ingratiate himself with her and gave orders, to his subordinates to make her path as easy as possible. thus quite naturally she had heard of tutt & tutt, and had a casual acquaintance with the senior partner himself. "that o'connell is a regular clam--won't tell me anything at all!" remarked mr. tutt severely, hanging up his hat on the office tree with one hand while he felt for a match in his waistcoat pocket with the other, upon the afternoon of the day that miss beekman had had the conversation with dawkins with which this story opens. "national temperament," answered bonnie doon, producing the desired match. "it's just like an irishman to refuse point-blank to talk to the lawyer who has been assigned to defend him. he's probably afraid he'll make some admission from which you will infer he's guilty. no irishman ever yet admitted that he was guilty of anything!" "well, i've never met a defendant of any other nationality who would, either," replied mr. tutt, pulling vigorously at his stogy. "even so, this chap o'connell is a puzzle to me. 'go ahead and defend me,' said he today, 'but don't ask me to talk about the case, because i won't.' i give it up. he wouldn't even tell me where he was on the day of the murder." bonnie grunted dubiously. "there may be a very good reason for that!" he retorted. "if what rumor says is true he simply hunted for mcgurk until he found him and put a lead pellet back of his ear." "and also, if what rumor says is true," supplemented tutt, who entered at this moment, "a good job it was, too. mcgurk was a treacherous, dirty blackguard, the leader of a gang of criminals, even if he was, as they all agree, a handsome rascal who had every woman in the district on tenterhooks. any girl in this case?" bonnie shrugged his shoulders. "they claim so; only there's nothing definite. the o'connells are well spoken of." "if there was, that would explain why he wouldn't talk," commented mr. tutt. "that's the devil of it. you can't put in a defense under the unwritten law without besmirching the very reputation you are trying to protect." the senior partner of tutt & tutt wheeled his swivel chair to the window and crossing his congress boots upon the sill gazed contemplatively down upon the shipping. "unwritten law!" sarcastically exclaimed tutt from the doorway. "there ain't no such animal in these parts!" "you're quite wrong!" retorted his elder partner. "most of our law--ninety-nine per cent of it, in fact--is unwritten." "excuse me!" interjected bonnie doon, abandoning his usual flippancy. "what is that you said, mr. tutt?" "that ninety-nine per cent of the laws by which we are governed are unwritten laws, just as binding as the printed ones upon our statute books, which after all are only the crystallization of the sentiments and opinions of the community based upon its traditions, manners, customs and religious beliefs. for every statute in print there are a hundred that have no tangible existence, based on our sense of decency, of duty and of honor, which are equally controlling and which it has never been found necessary to reduce to writing, since their infraction usually brings its own penalty or infringes the more delicate domain of private conscience where the crude processes of the criminal law cannot follow. the laws of etiquette and fair play are just as obligatory as legislative enactments--the ten commandments as efficacious as the penal code." "don't you agree with that, tutt?" demanded bonnie. "every man's conscience is his own private unwritten law." tutt looked skeptical. "did you say every man had a conscience?" he inquired. "and it makes a lot of trouble sometimes," continued mr. tutt, ignoring him. "you remember when old cogswell was on the bench and a man was brought before him for breaking his umbrella over the head of a fellow who had insulted the defendant's wife, he said to the jury: 'gentlemen, if this plaintiff had called my wife a name like that i'd have smashed my umbrella over his head pretty quick. however, that's not the law! take the case, gentlemen!'" "well, i guess i was wrong," admitted tutt. "of course, that is unwritten law. people don't like to punish a man for resenting a slur upon his wife's reputation." "but you see where that leads you?" remarked his partner. "the so-called unwritten law is based on our inherited idea of chivalry. a lady's honor and reputation were sacred, and her knight was prepared instantly to defend it with the last drop of his blood. a reflection on her honesty was almost as unbearable as one upon her virtue. logically, the unwritten law ought to permit women to break their contracts and do practically anything they see fit." "they do, don't they--the dear things!" sighed bonnie. "i remember," interjected tutt brightly, "when it was the unwritten law of cook county, illinois--that's chicago, you know--that any woman could kill her husband for the life-insurance money. seriously!" "there's no point of chivalry that i can see involved in that--it's merely good business," remarked mr. doon, lighting another cigarette. "all the same it's obvious that the unwritten law might be stretched a long way. it's a great convenience, though, on occasion!" "we should be in an awful stew if nowadays we substituted ideas of chivalry for those of justice," declared mr. tutt. "fortunately the danger is past. as someone has said, 'the women, once our superiors, have become our equals!'" "we don't even give 'em our seats in the subway," commented tutt complacently. "no, we needn't worry about the return of chivalry--in new york at any rate." "i should say not!" exclaimed miss wiggin, entering at that moment with a pile of papers, as nobody rose. "but," insisted bonnie, "all the same there are certainly plenty of cases where if he had to choose between them any man would obey his conscience rather than the law." "of course, there are such cases," admitted mr. tutt. "but we ought to discourage the idea as much as possible." "discourage a sense of honor?" exclaimed miss wiggin. "why, mr. tutt!" "it depends on what you mean by honor," he retorted. "i don't take much stock in the kind of honor that makes an heir apparent 'perjure himself like a gentleman' about a card game at a country house." "neither do i," she returned, "any more than i do in the kind of honor that compels a man to pay a gambling debt before he pays his tailor, but i do believe that there may be situations where, though it would not be permissible to perjure oneself, honor would require one to refuse to obey the law." "that's a pretty dangerous doctrine," reflected mr. tutt. "for everybody would be free to make himself the judge of when he ought to respect the law and when he oughtn't. we can easily imagine that the law would come out at the small end of the horn." "in matters of conscience--which, i take it, is the same thing as one's sense of honor--one has got to be one's own judge," declared miss wiggin firmly. "the simplest way," announced tutt, "is to take the position that the law should always be obeyed and that the most honorable man is he who respects it the most." "yes, the safest and also the most cowardly!" retorted miss wiggin. "supposing the law required you to do something which you personally regarded not only as morally wrong but detestable, would you do it?" "it wouldn't!" protested tutt with a grimace. "the law is the perfection of reason." "but i am entitled, am i not, to suppose, for purposes of argument, that it might?" she inquired caustically. "and i say that our sense of honor is the most precious thing we've got. it's our duty to respect our institutions and obey the law whether we like it or not, unless it conflicts with our conscience, in which case we ought to defy it and take the consequences!" "dear me!" mocked tutt. "and be burned at the stake?" "if necessary; yes!" "i don't rightly get all this!" remarked bonnie. "me for the lee side of the law, every time!" "it's highly theoretical," commented tutt. "as usual with our discussions." "not so theoretical as you might think!" interrupted his senior, hastening to reenforce miss wiggin. "nobody can deny that to be true to oneself is the highest principle of human conduct, and that ''tis man's perdition to be safe when for the truth he ought to die.' that's why we reverence the early christian martyrs. but when it comes to choosing between what we loosely call honor and what the law requires--" "but i thought the law embodied our ideas of honor!" replied tutt. "didn't you say so--a few hours earlier in this conversation? as our highest duty is to the state, it is a mere play on words, in my humble opinion, to speak of honor as distinguished from law or the obligation of one's oath in a court of justice. i bet i can find plenty of authorities to that effect in the library!" "of course you can," countered miss wiggin. "you can find an authority on any side of any proposition you want to look for. that's why one's own sense of honor is so much more reliable than the law. what is the law, anyhow? it's what some judge says is the law--until he's reversed. do you suppose i'd surrender my own private ideas of honor to a casual ruling from a judge who very likely hadn't the remotest idea of what i think is honorable?" "you'll be jailed for contempt before you get through!" tutt warned her. "the fact of the matter is," concluded mr. tutt, "that honor and law haven't anything to do with one another. the courts have constantly pointed that out from the earliest days, though judges like, when they can, to make the two seem one and the same. chief baron bowes, i remember, said in some case in , 'the court can't determine what is honor.' no, no; the two are different, and that difference will always make trouble. isn't it nearly tea time?" * * * * * miss beekman was just stepping off the elevator on the first floor of the tombs the next afternoon on one of her weekly visits when she came face to face with mr. tutt. she greeted him cordially, for she had taken rather a fancy to the shabby old man, drawn to him, in spite of her natural aversion to all members of the criminal bar, by the gentle refinement of his weather-beaten face. "i hope you have had a successful day." the lawyer shook his head in a pseudo-melancholy manner. "unfortunately, i have not," he answered whimsically. "my only client refuses to speak to me! perhaps you could get something out of him for me." "oh, they all talk to me readily enough!" she replied. "i fancy they know i'm harmless. what is his name?" "shane o'connell." "what is his offense?" "he is charged with murder." "oh!" miss althea recoiled. her charitable impulses did not extend to defendants charged with homicide. there was too much notoriety connected with them, for one thing; there was nothing she hated so much as notoriety. "seriously," he went on with earnestness, "i wish you'd have a word with him. it's pretty hard to have to defend a man and not to know a thing about his side of the case. it's almost your duty, don't you think?" miss althea hesitated, and was lost. "very well," she answered reluctantly, "i'll see what i can do. perhaps he needs some medicine or letter paper or something. i'll get an order from the warden and go right back and see him." twenty minutes later shane o'connell faced miss beekman sullenly across the deal table of the counsel room. a ray of late sunshine fell through the high grating of the heavily barred window upon a face quite different from those which miss althea was accustomed to encounter in these surroundings, for it showed no touch of depravity or evil habits, and confinement had not yet deprived its cheeks of their rugged mantle of crimson or its eyes of their bold gleam. he was little more than a boy, this murderer, as handsome a lad as ever swaggered out of county kerry. "an' what may it be that leads you to send for such as me, miss beekman!" he demanded, glowering at her. she felt suddenly unnerved, startled and rather shocked at his use of her name. where could he have discovered it? from the keeper, probably, she decided. all her usual composure, her quiet self-possession, her aloof and slightly condescending sweetness--had deserted her. "i thought," she stammered--"i might--possibly--be of help to you." "'tis too late to make up for the harm ye've done!" his coal-black eyes reached into her shrinking body as if to tear out her heart. "i!" she gasped. "i--do harm! what do you mean?" "did not my sister katie work for yez?" he asked, and his words leaped and curled about her like hissing flames. "did you see after her or watch her comings and goings, as she saw after you--she a mere lass of sixteen? arrah! no!" with a sensation of horror miss althea realized that at last she was in a murder case in spite of herself! this lad, the brother of katie, the waitress whom she had discharged! how curious! and how unfortunate! his charge was preposterous; nevertheless a faint blush stole to her cheek and she looked away. "how ridiculous!" she managed to say. "it was no part of my obligation to look after her! how could i?" his hawk's eyes watched her every tremor. "did ye not lock her out the night of the ball when she went wid mcgurk?" "i--how absurd!" suddenly she faltered. an indistinct accusing recollection turned her faint--of the housekeeper having told her that one of the girls insisted on going to a dance on an evening not hers by arrangement, and how she had given orders that the house should be closed the same as usual at ten o'clock for the night. if the girl couldn't abide by the rules of the beekman ménage she could sleep somewhere else. what of it? supposing she had done so? she could not be held responsible for remote, unreasonable and discreditable consequences! and then by chance shane o'connell made use of a phrase that indirectly saved his life, a phrase curiously like the one used on a former occasion by dawkins to miss althea: "katie was a member of your household; ye might have had a bit of thought for her!" he asserted bitterly. dawkins had said: "you'd think a girl would have some consideration for her employer, if nothing else. in a sense she is a guest in the house and should behave herself as such." there was no sense in it! there was no parallel, no analogy. there was no obligation to treat the girl as a guest, even though the girl should have acted like one. miss beekman knew it. and yet there was--something! didn't she owe some sort of duty at any rate toward those in her employment--those who slept under her roof? "'twould have been better to have been kind to her then than to be kind to me now!" said he with sad conviction. the proud miss althea beekman, the dignified descendant of a long line of ancestors, turned red. heretofore serenely confident of her own personal virtue and her own artificial standards of democracy, she now found herself humiliated and chagrined before this rough young criminal. "you--are--quite right!" she confessed, her eyes smarting with sudden tears. "my position is quite--quite illogical. but of course i had no idea! please, please let me try to help you--if i can--and katie, too--if it isn't too late." shane o'connell experienced contrition. after all it was not seemly that the likes of him should be dictating to the likes of her. and he could never abide seeing a woman--particularly a pretty woman--cry. "forgive me, madam!" he begged, lowering his head. "you were quite justified in all you said!" she assured him. "please tell me everything that has happened. i have influence with the district attorney and--in other places. no doubt i can be of assistance to you. of course, you can absolutely trust me!" shane o'connell, looking into her honest gray eyes, knew that he could trust her. slowly--brokenly--tensely, he told her how he had killed red mcgurk, and why. the corridors were full of shadows when althea beekman put her hands on shane o'connell's shoulders and bade him good night. though she abominated his crime and loathed him for having committed it she felt in some way partially responsible, and she also perceived that, by the code of the o'connells, shane had done what he believed to be right. he had taken the law into his own hands and he was ready to pay the necessary penalty. he would have done the same thing all over again. to this extent at least he had her respect. she found mr. tutt waiting for her on the bench by the warden's office. "well?" he asked with a smile, rising to greet her and tossing away his stogy. "i haven't very good news for you," she answered regretfully. "he's confessed to me--told me everything--why he shot him and where he bought the pistol. he's a brave boy, though! it's a sad case! but what can you do with people who believe themselves justified in doing things like that?" she did not notice detective eddie conroy, of the d.a.'s office, standing behind an adjacent pillar, ostentatiously lighting a cigar; nor see him smile as he slowly walked away. * * * * * "talk about luck!" exulted o'brien, the yellow dog of the district attorney's office, an hour later to his chief. "what do you think, boss? eddie conroy heard miss beekman telling old man tutt over in the tombs that o'connell had confessed to her! say, how's that? some evidence--what?" "what good will that do us?" asked peckham, glancing up with a scowl from his desk. "she won't testify for us." "but she'll have to testify if we call her, won't she?" demanded his assistant. the district attorney drummed on the polished surface before him. "we--ell, i suppose so," he admitted hesitatingly. "but you can't just subpoena a woman like that without any warning and put her on the stand and make her testify. it would be too rough!" "it's the only way to do it!" retorted o'brien with a sly grin. "if she knew in advance that we were thinking of calling her she'd beat it out of town." "that's true," agreed his chief. "that's as far as she'd go, too, in defying the law. but i don't much like it. those beekmans have a lot of influence, and if she got sore she could make us a heap of trouble! besides it's sort of a scaly trick making her give up on him like that." o'brien raised his brows. "scaly trick! he's a murderer, isn't he? and he'll get off if we don't call her. it's a matter of duty, as i see it." "all the same, my son, your suggestion has a rotten smell to it. we may have to do it--i don't say we won't--but it's risky business!" replied peckham dubiously. "it's a good deal less risky than not doing it, so far as your candidacy next autumn is concerned!" retorted his assistant. "we won't let her suspect what we're goin' to do; and the last minute i'll call her to the stand and cinch the case! she won't even know who called her! perhaps i can arrange with judge babson to call her on some other point and then pretend to sort of stumble onto the fact of the confession and examine her himself. that would let us out. i can smear it over somehow." "you'd better," commented peckham, "unless you want a howl from the papers! it would make quite a story if miss althea beekman got on the rampage. she could have your scalp, my boy, if she wanted it!" "and mcgurk could have yours!" retorted o'brien with the impudence born of knowledge. the prosecution of shane o'connell, which otherwise might have slowly languished and languishing died, took on new life owing to the evidence thus innocently delivered into the hands of the district attorney; in fact it became a _cause célèbre_. the essential elements to convict were now all there--the _corpus delicti_, evidence of threats on the part of the defendant, of motive, of opportunity, and--his confession. the law which provides that the statement of an accused "is not sufficient to warrant his conviction without additional proof that the crime charged has been committed" would be abundantly satisfied--though without his confession there would have been no proof whatever that the crime charged had been committed by him. thus, without her knowing it, miss beekman was an essential witness and, in fact, the pivot upon which the entire case turned. the day of the great sporting event came. with it arrived in full panoply the mcgurks, their relatives and followers. all cherry hill seemed to have packed itself into part i of the supreme court. there was an atmosphere somehow suggestive of the races or a prize fight. but it was a sporting event which savored of a sure thing--really more like a hanging. they were there to make holiday over the law's revenge for the killing of the darling of the pearl button kids. peckham personally assured mcgurk that everything was copper-fastened. "he's halfway up the river already!" he said jocularly. and mcgurk, swelling with importance and emotion, pulled a couple of cigars from his pocket and the two smoked the pipe of peace. but the reader is not particularly concerned with the progress of the trial, for he has already attended many. it is enough to say that a jury with undershot jaws, who had proved by previous experience their indifference to capital punishment and to all human sympathy, were finally selected and that the witnesses were duly called, and testified to the usual facts, while the pearl button kids and the rest, spitting surreptitiously beneath the benches, eagerly drank in every word. there was nothing for mr. tutt to do; nothing for him to deny. the case built itself up, brick by brick. and shane o'connell sat there unemotionally, hardly listening. there was nothing in the evidence to reflect in any way upon the honor of the o'connells in general or in particular. he had done that which that honor demanded and he was ready to pay the penalty--if the law could get him. he assumed that it would get him. so did the tutts. but when toward the end of the third day nothing had yet been brought forward to connect him with the crime tutt leaned over and whispered to mr. tutt, "d'ye know, i'm beginning to have a hunch there isn't any case!" mr. tutt made an imperceptible gesture of assent. "looks that way," he answered out of the corner of his mouth. "probably they'll spring the connecting evidence at the end and give us the _coup de grâce_." at that moment a police witness was released from the stand and o'brien stepped to the bench and whispered something to the judge, who glanced at the clock and nodded. it was twenty minutes of four, and the jury were already getting restless, for the trial had developed into a humdrum, cut-and-dried affair. miss beekman sitting far back in the rear of the court room suddenly heard o'brien call her name, and a quiver of apprehension passed through her body. she had never testified in any legal proceeding, and the idea of getting up before such a crowd of people and answering questions filled her with dismay. it was so public! still, if it was going to help o'connell-- "althea beekman," bellowed cap. phelan, "to the witness chair!" althea beekman! the gentle lady felt as if she had been rudely stripped of all her protective clothing. althea! did not the law do her the courtesy of calling her even "miss"? nerving herself to the performance of her duty she falteringly made her way between the crowded benches, past the reporters' table, and round back of the jury box. the judge, apparently a pleasant-faced, rather elderly man, bowed gravely to her, indicated where she should sit and administered the oath to her himself, subtly dwelling upon the phrase "the whole truth," and raising his eyes heavenward as he solemnly pronounced the words "so help you god!" "i do!" declared miss beekman primly but decidedly. behind her upon the court-room wall towered in its flowing draperies the majestic figure of the goddess of the law, blindfolded and holding aloft the scales of justice. beside her sat in the silken robes of his sacred office a judge who cleverly administered that law to advance his own interests and those of his political associates. in front of her, treacherously smiling, stood the cynical, bullet-headed o'brien. at a great distance mr. tutt leaned on his elbows at a table beside shane o'connell. to them she directed her gaze and faintly smiled. "miss beekman," began o'brien as courteously as he knew how, "you reside, do you not, at number fifth avenue, in this city and county?" "i do," she answered with resolution. "your family have always lived in new york, have they not?" "since ," she replied deprecatingly and with more confidence. "you are prominent in various philanthropic, religious and civic activities?" "not prominent; interested," she corrected him. "and you make a practise of visiting prisoners in the tombs?" she hesitated. what could this be leading to? "occasionally," she admitted. "do you know this defendant, shane o'connell?" "yes." "did you see him on the twenty-third day of last month?" "i think so--if that was the day." "what day do you refer to?" "the day i had the talk with him." "oh, you had a talk with him?" "yes." "where did you have that talk with him?" "in the counsel room of the tombs." o'brien paused. even his miserable soul revolted at what he was about to do. "what did he say?" he asked, nervously looking away. something in his hangdog look warned miss beekman that she was being betrayed, but before she could answer mr. tutt was on his feet. "one moment!" he cried. "may i ask a preliminary question?" the court signified acquiescence. "was that conversation which you had with the defendant a confidential one?" "i object to the question!" snapped o'brien. "the law recognizes no confidential communications as privileged except those made to a priest, a physician or an attorney. the witness is none of these. the question is immaterial and irrelevant." "that is the law," announced the judge, "but under all the circumstances i will permit the witness to answer." miss beekman paused. "why," she began, "of course it was confidential, mr. tutt. o'connell wouldn't have told me anything if he had supposed for one moment i was going to repeat what he said. besides, i suggested that i might be able to help him. yes, certainly our talk was confidential." "i am sorry," gloated o'brien, "but i shall have to ask you what it was." "that is not a question," said mr. tutt calmly. "what did the defendant say to you in the counsel room of the tombs on the twenty-third of last month?" cautiously revised o'brien. "i object!" thundered mr. tutt, his form towering until seemingly it matched that of the blind goddess in height. "i object to the answer as requiring a breach of confidence which the law could not tolerate." judge babson turned politely to miss beekman. "i regret very much that i shall be obliged to ask you to state what the defendant said to you. you will recall that you yourself volunteered the information that you had had the talk in question. otherwise"--he coughed and put up his hand--"we might possibly never have learned of it. a defendant cannot deprive the people of the right to prove what he may have divulged respecting his offense merely by claiming that it was in confidence. public policy could never allow that. it may be unpleasant for you to answer the question but i must ask you to do so." "but," she protested, "you certainly cannot expect me to betray a confidence! i asked o'connell to tell me what he had done so that i could help him--and he trusted me!" "but you are not responsible for the law! he took his chance!" admonished the judge. slowly miss althea's indignation rose as she perceived the dastardly trick which o'brien had played upon her. already she suspected that the judge was only masquerading in the clothing of a gentleman. with a white face she turned to mr. tutt. "does the law require me to answer, mr. tutt?" she inquired. "do not ask questions--answer them," ordered babson brusquely, feeling the change in her manner. "you are a witness for the people--not the defendant." "i am not a witness against o'connell!" she declared. "this man"--indicating o'brien scornfully--"has in some way found out that i--oh, surely the law doesn't demand anything so base as that!" there was silence. the wheels of justice hung on a dead center. "answer the question," remarked his honor tartly. all miss beekman's long line of ancestors turned in their graves. in her beekman blood the chief justice, the ambassador, the great editor, the signer of the declaration of independence, stirred, awoke, rubbed their eyes and sternly reared themselves. and that blood--blue though it was instead of scarlet like the o'connells'--boiled in her veins and burned through the delicate tissue of her cheeks. "my conscience will not permit me to betray a confidence!" she cried angrily. "i direct you to answer!" ordered the judge. "i object to the court's threatening the witness!" interjected mr. tutt. "i wish it to appear upon the record that the manner of the court is most unjudicial and damaging to the defendant." "take your seat, sir!" barked babson, his features swelling with anger. "your language is contemptuous!" the jury were leaning forward intently. trained militiamen of the gibbet, they nevertheless admired this little woman's fearlessness and the old lawyer's pugnacity. on the rear wall the yellow face of the old self-regulating clock, that had gayly ticked so many men into the electric chair, leered shamelessly across at the blind goddess. "answer the question, madam! if, as you claim, you are a patriotic citizen of this commonwealth, having due respect for its institutions and for the statutes, you will not set up your own ideas of what the law ought to be in defiance of the law as it stands. i order you to answer! if you do not i shall be obliged to take steps to compel you to do so." in the dead silence that followed, the stones in the edifice of miss beekman's inherited complacency, with each beat of the clock, fell one by one to the ground until it was entirely demolished. vainly she struggled to test her conscience by her loyalty to her country's laws. but the task was beyond her. tightly compressing her lips she sat silent in the chair, while the delighted reporters scribbled furious messages to their city editors that miss althea beekman, one of the four hundred, was defying judge babson, and to rush up a camera man right off in a taxi, and to look her up in the morgue for a front-page story. o'brien glanced uneasily at babson. possible defiance on the part of this usually unassuming lady had not entered into his calculations. the judge took a new tack. "you probably do not fully understand the situation in which you are placed," he explained. "you are not responsible for the law. neither are you responsible in any way for the consequences to this defendant, whatever they may be. the matter is entirely out of your hands. you are compelled to do as the court orders. as a law-abiding citizen you have no choice in the matter." miss althea's modest intellect reeled, but she stood her ground, the ghost of the signer at her elbow. "i am sorry," she replied, "but my own self-respect will not allow me to answer." "in that case," declared babson, playing his trump card, "it will be my unpleasant duty to commit you for contempt." there was a bustle of excitement about the reporters' table. here was a story! "very well," answered miss beekman proudly. "do as you see fit, and as your own duty and conscience demand." the judge could not conceal his annoyance. the last thing in the world that he wished to do was to send miss althea to jail. but having threatened her he must carry out his threat or forever lose face. "i will give the witness until tomorrow morning at half after ten o'clock to make up her mind what she will do," he announced after a hurried conference with o'brien. "adjourn court!" miss beekman did not go to bed at all that night. until a late hour she conferred in the secrecy of her fifth avenue library with her gray-haired solicitor, who, in some mysterious way, merely over the telephone, managed to induce the newspapers to omit any reference to his client's contemptuous conduct in their morning editions. "there's no way out of it, my dear," he said finally as he took his leave--he was her father's cousin and very fond of her--"this judge has the power to send you to jail if he wants to--and dares to! it's an even chance whether he will dare to or not. it depends on whether he prefers to stand well with the mcgurks or with the general public. of course i respect your attitude, but really i think you are a little quixotic. points of honor are too ephemeral to be debated in courts of justice. to do so would be to open the door to all kinds of abuses. dishonest witnesses would constantly avail themselves of the opportunity to avoid giving evidence." "dishonest witnesses would probably lie in the first place!" she quavered. "true! i quite overlooked that!" he smiled, gazing down at her in an avuncular manner. "but to-day the question isn't open. it is settled, whether we like it or not. no pledge of privacy, no oath of secrecy--can avail against demand in a court of justice. even confessions obtained by fraud are admissible--though we might wish otherwise." miss beekman shrugged her shoulders. "nothing you have said seems to me to alter the situation." "very well," he replied. "i guess that settles it. knowing you and the beekman breed! there's one thing i must say," he added as he stood in the doorway after bidding her good night--"that old fellow tutt has behaved pretty well, leaving you entirely alone this way. i always had an idea he was a sort of shyster. most attorneys of that class would have been sitting on your doorstep all the evening trying to persuade you to stick to your resolution not to give their client away, and to do the square thing. but he's done nothing of the sort. rather decent on the whole!" "perhaps he recognizes a woman of honor when he sees one!" she retorted. "honor!" he muttered as he closed the door. "what crimes are sometimes committed in thy name!" but on the steps he stopped and looked back affectionately at the library window. "after all, althea's a good sport!" he remarked to himself. * * * * * at or about the same moment a quite dissimilar conference was being held between judge babson and assistant district attorney o'brien in the café of the passamaquoddy club. "she'll cave!" declared o'brien, draining his glass. "holy mike! no woman like her is going to stay in jail! besides, if you don't commit her everybody will say that you were scared to--yielded to influence. you're in the right and it will be a big card for you to show that you aren't afraid of anybody!" babson pulled nervously on his cigar. "maybe that's so," he said, "but i don't much fancy an appellate court sustaining me on the law and at the same time roasting hell out of me as a man!" "oh, they won't do that!" protested o'brien. "how could they? all they're interested in is the law!" "i've known those fellows to do queer things sometimes," answered the learned judge. "and the beekmans are pretty powerful people." "well, so are the mcgurks!" warned o'brien. * * * * * "now, miss beekman," said judge babson most genially the next morning, after that lady had taken her seat in the witness chair and the jury had answered to their names, "i hope you feel differently to-day about giving your testimony. don't you think that after all it would be more fitting if you answered the question?" miss althea firmly compressed her lips. "at least let me read you some of the law on the subject," continued his honor patiently. "originally many people, like yourself, had the mistaken idea that what they called their honor should be allowed to intervene between them and their duty. and even the courts sometimes so held. but that was long ago--in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. to-day the law wisely recognizes no such thing. let me read you what baron hotham said, in hill's trial in , respecting the testimony of a witness who very properly told the court what the accused had said to him. it is very clearly put: "'the defendant certainly thought him his friend, and he'--the defendant--'therefore did disclose all this to him. gentlemen, one has only to say further that if this point of honor was to be so sacred as that a man who comes by knowledge of this sort from an offender was not to be at liberty to disclose it the most atrocious criminals would every day escape punishment; and therefore it is that the wisdom of the law knows nothing of that point of honor.'" miss beekman listened politely. "i am sorry," she replied with dignity. "i shall not change my mind. i refuse to answer the question, and--and you can do whatever you like with me." "do you understand that you are in contempt of this court? do you intend to show contempt for this court?" he demanded wrathfully. "i do," answered miss althea. "i have contempt for this court." a titter danced along the benches and some fool in the back of the room clapped his hands. judge babson's face grew hard and his eyes narrowed to steel points. "the witness stands committed for contempt," he announced bitingly. "i direct that she be confined in the city prison for thirty days and pay a fine of two hundred and fifty dollars. madam, you will go with the officer." miss althea rose while the ghost of the signer encircled her with his arm. mr. tutt was already upon his feet. he knew that the ghost of the signer was there. "may i ask the court if the witness, having been committed for the contemptuous conduct of which she is obviously guilty, may remain in your chambers until adjournment, in order that she may arrange her private affairs?" "i will grant her that privilege," agreed judge babson with internal relief. "the request is quite reasonable. captain phelan, you may take the witness into my robing room and keep her there for the present." with her small head erect, her narrow shoulders thrown back, and with a resolute step as befitted the descendant of a long line of ancestors miss althea passed behind the jury box and disappeared. the twelve looked at one another dubiously. both babson and o'brien seemed nervous and undecided. "well, call your next witness," remarked the judge finally. "but i haven't any more witnesses!" growled o'brien. "and you know it almighty well, you idiot!" he muttered under his breath. "if that is the people's case i move for the defendant's immediate discharge," cried mr. tutt, jumping to his feet. "there is no evidence connecting him with the crime." mcgurk, furious, sprang toward the bar. "see here! wait a minute! hold on, judge! i can get a hundred witnesses--" "sit down!" shouted one of the officers, thrusting him back. "keep quiet!" babson looked at o'brien and elevated his forehead. then as o'brien gave a shrug the judge turned to the expectant jury and said in apologetic tones: "gentlemen of the jury, where the people have failed to prove the defendant's guilt beyond a reasonable doubt it is the duty of the court to direct a verdict. in this case, though by inference the testimony points strongly toward the prisoner, there is no direct proof against him and i am accordingly constrained--much as i regret it--to instruct you to return a verdict of not guilty." in the confusion which followed the rendition of the verdict a messenger entered breathlessly and forcing his way through the crowd delivered a folded paper to mr. tutt, who immediately rose and handed it to the clerk; and that official, having hurriedly perused it and pursed his lips in surprise, passed it over the top of the bench to the judge. "what's this?" demanded babson. "don't bother me now with trifles!" "but it's a writ of habeas corpus, your honor, signed by judge winthrop, requiring the warden to produce miss beekman in part i of the supreme court, and returnable forthwith," whispered mr. mcguire in an awe-stricken voice. "i can't disregard that, you know!" "what!" cried babson. "how on earth could he have issued a writ in this space of time? the thing's impossible!" "if your honor please," urbanely explained mr. tutt, "as--having known miss beekman's father--i anticipated that the witness would pursue the course of conduct which, in fact, she has, i prepared the necessary papers early this morning and as soon as you ordered her into custody my partner, who was waiting in judge winthrop's chambers, presented them to his honor, secured his signature and brought the writ here in a taxicab." nobody seemed to be any longer interested in o'connell. the reporters had left their places and pushed their way into the inclosure before the dais. in the rear of the room o'brien was vainly engaged in trying to placate the pearl button kids, who were loudly swearing vengeance upon both him and peckham. it was a scene as nearly turbulent as the old yellow clock had ever witnessed. even the court officers abandoned any effort to maintain order and joined the excited group about mr. tutt before the bench. "does your honor desire that this matter be argued before the supreme court?" inquired mr. tutt suavely. "if so i will ask that the prisoner be paroled in my custody. judge winthrop is waiting." babson had turned pale. facing a dozen newspapermen, pencils in hand, he quailed. to hell with "face." why, if he went on any longer with the farce the papers would roast the life out of him. with an apology for a smile that was, in fact, a ghastly grin, he addressed himself to the waiting group of jurymen, lawyers and reporters. "of course, gentlemen," he said, "i never had any real intention of dealing harshly with miss beekman. undoubtedly she acted quite honestly and according to her best lights. she is a very estimable member of society. it will be unnecessary, mr. tutt, for you to argue the writ before judge winthrop. the relator, althea beekman, is discharged." "thank you, your honor!" returned mr. tutt, bowing profoundly, and lowering an eyelid in the direction of the gentlemen of the press. "you are indeed a wise and upright judge!" the wise and upright judge rose grandly and gathered his robes about the judicial legs. "good morning, gentlemen," he remarked from his altitude to the reporters. "good morning, judge," they replied in chorus. "may we say anything about the writ?" judge babson paused momentarily in his flight. "oh! perhaps you might as well let the whole thing go," he answered carelessly. "on the whole i think it better that you should." as they fought their way out of the doorway charley still, of the _sun_, grinned at "deacon" terry, of the _tribune_, and jocosely inquired: "say, deac., did you ever think why one calls a judge 'your honor'?" the deacon momentarily removed his elbow from the abdomen of the gentleman beside him and replied sincerely though breathlessly, "no! you can search me!" and "cap." phelan, who happened to be setting his watch at just that instant, affirms that he will make affidavit that the old yellow clock winked across the room at the goddess of justice, and that beneath her bandages she unmistakably smiled. by advice of counsel "kotow! kotow! to the great yen-how, and wish him the longest of lives! with his one-little, two-little, three-little, four-little, five-little, six-little wives!" "the fact is i've been arrested for bigamy," said mr. higgleby in a pained and slightly resentful manner. he was an ample flabby person, built like an isosceles triangle with a smallish head for the apex, slightly expanded in the gangliar region just above the nape of the neck--medical students and phrenologists please note--and habitually wearing an expression of helpless pathos. instinctively you felt that you wanted to do something for mr. higgleby--to mother him, maybe. "then you should see my partner, mr. tutt," said mr. tutt severely. "he's the matrimonial specialist." "i want to see mr. tutt, the celebrated divorce lawyer," explained mr. higgleby. "you mean my partner, mr. tutt," said mr. tutt. "willie, show the gentleman in to mr. tutt." "thank you, sir," said mr. higgleby, and followed willie. "is this mr. higgleby?" chirped tutt as higgleby entered the adjoining office. "delighted to see you, sir! what can we--i--do for you?" "the fact is, i've been arrested for bigamy," repeated mr. higgleby. now the tutt system--demonstrated effective by years of experience--for putting a client in a properly grateful and hence liberal frame of mind was, like the method of some physicians, first to scare said client, or patient, out of his seven senses; second, to admit reluctantly, upon reflection, that in view of the fact that he had wisely come to tutt & tutt there might still be some hope for him; and third, to exculpate him with such a flourish of congratulation upon his escape that he was glad to pay the modest little fee of which he was then and there relieved. tutt & tutt had only two classes of clients: those who paid as they came in, and those who paid as they went out. therefore upon hearing mr. higgleby's announcement as to the nature of his trouble tutt registered horror. "what? what did you say?" he demanded. "i said," repeated mr. higgleby with a shade of annoyance, "'the fact is, i've been arrested for bigamy.' i don't see any reason for making such a touse about it," he added plaintively. "who's making a--a--a touse about it?" inquired tutt, perceiving that he had taken the wrong tack. "i'm not. i was just a little surprised at a man of your genteel appearance--" "oh, rot!" expostulated mr. higgleby weakly. "you're just like all of 'em! i suppose you were going to say i didn't look like a bigamist--and all that. well, cut it! let's start fair. i _am_ a bigamist!" tutt regarded him with obvious curiosity. "you don't say!" he ejaculated, much as if he wished to add: "how does it feel?" "i do say!" retorted mr. higgleby. "well," exclaimed tutt cheerily, passing into the second phase of the tutt-tutt treatment, "after all, bigamy isn't so bad! it's only five years at the worst. generally it's not more than six months." "get wise!" snapped mr. higgleby. "i didn't come here to have you throw cold chills into me. i came here to find out how to beat it!" "why, certainly! of course!" protested tutt hastily. "i was--" "and i expect you to get me off!" "yes, yes!" murmured tutt, his usual style completely cramped. "no matter what!" "yes," faintly tuttered tutt. "well," continued higgleby, taking out a cigar that in shape and looseness of wrapping closely resembled its owner, "now that's settled, let's get down to brass tacks. here's a copy of the indictment." he produced a document bearing a large gold seal. "those robbers made me pay a dollar-sixty for certification!" he remarked peevishly, indicating the ornament. "what good is certification to me? as if i wanted to pay to make sure i was accused in exact language! anybody can draw an indictment for bigamy!" court of general sessions of the peace in and for the county of new york the people of the state of new york against theophilus higgleby the grand jury of the county of new york, by this indictment, accuse theophilus higgleby of the crime of bigamy, committed as follows: the said theophilus higgleby, late of the borough of manhattan of the city of new york in the county of new york, aforesaid, on the eleventh day of may in the year of our lord one thousand nine hundred and nineteen, at cook county and the city of chicago in the state of illinois, did marry one tomascene startup, and her, the said tomascene startup, did then and there have for his wife; and afterward, to wit, on the seventeenth day of december in the year of our lord one thousand nine hundred and nineteen, at the borough of manhattan of the city of new york in the county of new york aforesaid, did feloniously marry and take as his wife one alvina woodcock, and to the said alvina woodcock was then and there married, the said tomascene startup being then and there living and in full life, against the form of the statute in such case made and provided, and against the peace of the people of the state of new york and their dignity. jeremiah peckham, district attorney. such was the precise accusation against the isosceles-triangular client, who now sat so limply and disjointedly on the opposite side of tutt's desk with a certain peculiar air of assurance all his own, as if, though surprised and somewhat annoyed at the grand jury's interference with his private affairs, he was nevertheless--being captain of his own soul--not particularly disturbed about the matter. "and--er--did you marry these two ladies?" inquired tutt apologetically. "sure!" responded higgleby without hesitation. "may i ask why?" "why not?" returned higgleby. "i'm a traveling man." "look here," suddenly demanded tutt. "were you ever a lawyer?" "sure i was!" responded mr. higgleby. "i was a member of the bar of osceola county, florida." "you don't say!" gasped tutt. "and what, may i ask, are you now?" "now i'm a bigamist!" answered mr. higgleby. we forget precisely who it was that so observantly said to another, "much learning doth make thee mad." at any rate the point to be noted is that overindulgence in erudition has always been known to have an unfortunate effect upon the intellectual faculty. too much wine--though it must have required an inordinate quantity in certain mendacious periods--was regarded as provocative of truth; and too many books as clearly put bats in a man's belfry. the explanation is of course simple enough. if one overweights the head the whole structure is apt to become unbalanced. this is the reason why we hold scholars in such light esteem. they are an unbalanced lot. and after all, why should they get paid more than half the wage of plumbers or locomotive firemen? what is easier than sitting before a comfortable steam radiator and reading an etymological dictionary or the laws of hammurabi? they toil not even if their heads spin. only in germany has the pedagogue ever received full meed of gold and of honor--and look at germany! pedants have never been much considered by men of action. they never will be. experience is the only teacher, which, in the language of amos eno, who left two millions to the institute of mechanics and tradesmen, is "worth a damn." we americans abhor any affectation of learning; hence our weakness for slang. i should apologize for the word "weakness." on the contrary it is a token of our virile independence, our scorn for the delicatessen of education, mere dilettanteism. and this has its practical side, for if we don't know how to pronounce the words "evanescent persiflage" we can call it "bunk" or "rot." we suspect all college graduates. we don't want them in our business. they slink through our lives like pickpockets fearful of detection. what has all this to do with anything? it has to do, dear reader, with mr. caput magnus, the assistant of the district attorney of the county of new york, whose duty it was to present the evidence in all criminal cases to the grand jury and make ready the instruments of torture known as bills of indictment for that august body's action thereon. for by all the lights of the five points, chinatown--mulberry, canal, franklin, lafayette and centre streets--pontin's restaurant, moe levy's one price tailoring establishment, and even by those of the glorious days of howe & hummel, by the nine gods of law--and more--caput magnus was a learned savant. he and he alone of all the members of the bar on the pay roll of the prosecutor's office, housed in their smoke-hung cubicles in the criminal courts building, knew how to draw up those complicated and awful things with their barbed-wire entanglements of "saids," "then and there beings," "with intents," "dids," "to wits," and "aforesaids" in all the verbal chaos with which the law requires those accused of crime to be "simply, clearly and directly" informed of the nature of the offense charged against them, in order that they may know what to do about it and prepare their defense. and while we are on it--and in order that the reader may be fully instructed and qualified to pursue tutt & tutt through their various adventures hereafter--we may as well add that herein lies one of the pitfalls of crime; for the simple-minded burglar or embezzler may blithely make way with a silver service or bundle of bank notes only to find himself floundering, horse, foot and dragoons, in a quagmire of phraseology from which he cannot escape, wriggle as he will. many such a one has thrown up his hands--and with them silver service, bank notes and all--in horror at what the grand jury has alleged against him. indeed there is a well-authenticated tradition that a certain gentleman of color who had inadvertently acquired some poultry belonging to another, when brought to the bar and informed that he theretofore, to wit, in a specified year of our lord in the night time of the day aforesaid, the outhouse of one jones then and there situate, feloniously, burglariously did break into and enter with intent to commit a crime therein, to wit, the goods, chattels and personal property of the said jones then and there being found, then and there feloniously and burglariously by force of arms and against the peace of the people to seize, appropriate and carry away, raised his voice in anguish and cried: "fo de lawd sake, jedge, ah didn't do none ob dem tings--all ah done was to take a couple ob chickens!" thus to annihilate a man by pad and pencil is indeed an art worthy of admiration. the pen of an indictment clerk is oft mightier than the sword of a lionheart, the brain behind the subtle quill far defter than said swordsman's skill. moreover, the ingenuity necessary to draft one of these documents is not confined to its mere successful composition, for having achieved the miraculous feat of alleging in fourteen ways without punctuation that the defendant did something, and with a final fanfare of "saids" and "to wits" inserted his verb where no one will ever find it, the indicter must then be able to unwind himself, rolling in and out among the "dids" and "thens" and "theres" until he is once more safely upon the terra firma of foolscap at the head of the first page. mr. caput magnus could do it--with the aid of a volume of printed forms devised in the days of jeremy bentham. in fact, like a camel who smells water afar off, he could in a desert of verbal sand unerringly find an oasis of meaning. therefore was caput magnus held in high honor among the pack of human hounds who bayed at the call of huntsman peckham's horn. others might lose the scent of what it was all about in the tropical jungle of an indictment eleven pages long, but not he. like the old dog in masefield's "reynard the fox," mr. magnus would work through ditches full of legal slime, nose through thorn thickets of confusion, dash through copses and spinneys of words and phrases, until he snapped close at the heels of intelligibility. the honorable peckham couldn't have drawn an indictment to save his legal life. neither could any of the rest. neither could caput without his book of ancient forms--though he didn't let anybody know it. shrouded in mystery on a salary of five thousand dollars a year, caput sat in the shrine of his inner office producing literature of a clarity equaled only by that of george meredith or mr. henry james. he was the great accuser. he could call a man a thief in more different ways than any deputy assistant district attorney known to memory--with the aid of his little book. he could lasso and throw any galloping criminal, however fierce, with a gracefully uncoiling rope of deadly adjectives. on all of which he properly prided himself until he became unendurable to his fellows and insufferable to peckham, who would have cheerfully fired him months gone by had he had a reason or had there been any other legal esoteric to take his place. yet pride goeth before a fall. and i am glad of it, for magnus was a conceited little ass. this yarn is about the fall of caput magnus almost as much as it is about the uxorious higgleby, though the two are inextricably entwined together. * * * * * "mr. tutt," remarked tutt after higgleby's departure, "that new client of ours is certainly _sui generis_." "that's no crime," smiled the senior partner, reaching for the malt-extract bottle. "his knowledge of matrimony and the laws governing the domestic relations is certainly exhaustive--not to say exhausting. i look like a piker beside him." "for which," replied mr. tutt, "you may well be thankful." "i am," replied tutt devoutly. "but you could put what i know about bigamy in that malt-extract bottle." "i prefer the present contents!" retorted mr. tutt. "bigamy is a fascinating crime, involving as it does such complicated subjects as the history of the institution of marriage, the ecclesiastical or canonical law governing divorce and annulment, the interesting doctrines of affinity and consanguinity, suits for alienation of affection and criminal conversation, the conflict of laws, the white slave act--" "interstate commerce, so to speak?" suggested tutt mischievously. "condonation, collusion and connivance," continued mr. tutt, brushing him aside, "reinstitution of conjugal rights, the law of feme sole, the married woman's act, separation _a mensa et thoro_, abandonment, jurisdiction, alimony, custody of children, precontract--" "help! you're breaking my heart!" cried tutt. "no little lawyer could know all about such things. it would take a big lawyer." "not at all! not at all!" soothed mr. tutt, sipping his eleven-o'clock nourishment and fingering for a stogy. "when it comes to divorce one lawyer knows as much about the law as another. not even the supreme court is able to tell whether a man and woman are really married or not without calling in outside assistance." "well, who can?" asked tutt anxiously. "nobody," replied his partner with gravity, biting off the end of a last year's stogy salvaged from the bottom of the letter basket. "once a man's married his troubles not only begin but never end." "by the way," said tutt, "speaking of this sort of thing, i see that that frenchman whom we referred to our paris correspondent has just been granted a divorce from his american wife." "you mean the french diplomat who married the yankee vaudeville artist in china?" "yes," answered tutt. "you recall they met in shanghai and took a flying trip to mongolia, where they were married by a belgian missionary. the court held that the marriage was invalid, as the french statutes require a native of that country marrying abroad to have the ceremony performed either before a french diplomatic official or 'according to the usages of the country in which the marriage is performed.'" "wasn't the belgian missionary a diplomatic official?" asked mr. tutt. "evidently not sufficiently so," replied his partner. "anyhow, in mongolia there are only two methods sanctified by tradition by which a man may secure a wife--capture or purchase." "well, didn't our client capture the actress?" "only with her consent--which i assume would be collusion under the french law," said tutt. "and he certainly didn't buy her--though he might have. it appears that in that happy land a wife costs from five camels up; five camels for a flapper and so on up to thirty or forty camels for an old widow, who invariably brings the highest quotation." "in mongolia age evidently ripens and mellows women as it does wine in other countries," reflected mr. tutt. "but you can buy some women for five pounds of rice," added tutt. "queer country, isn't it?" "not at all!" declared his senior. "even in america every man pays and pays and pays for his wife--through the nose!" tutt grinned appreciatively. "however that may be," he ventured, "a man who enters into a marriage contract--" "marriage isn't a contract," interrupted mr. tutt. "what is it?" "it's a status--something entirely different--like slavery." "it's like slavery all right!" agreed tutt. "but we always speak of a contract of marriage, don't we?" "quite inaccurately. the only contract in a marriage is what we commonly refer to as the engagement; that is a real contract and is governed by the laws of contracts. the marriage itself is an entirely different thing. when a marriage is performed and consummated the parties have changed their condition; they bear an entirely new relationship to society, which, as represented by the state, acquires an interest in the transaction, and all you can say about it is that whereas they were both single before, they are married now, and that in the eyes of the law their status has been altered to one as distinct and clearly defined as that which exists between father and son, guardian and ward or master and slave." "hear! hear!" remarked tutt. "but i don't see why it isn't a contract--or very much like one," he persisted. "it is like one in that its validity, like that of civil contracts generally, is determined by the law governing the place where it was entered into," went on mr. tutt oracularly, as if addressing the court of appeals. "but it differs from a contract for the reason that the parties are not free to fix its terms, which are determined for them by the state; that they cannot modify or rescind it by mutual consent; that the nature of the marriage status changes with the state and the laws of the state where the parties happen to be domiciled; and that damages cannot be recovered for a breach of marital duty." "do you know i never thought of that before," admitted tutt. "but it's perfectly true." "it is to the interest of society to have the relationship orderly and permanent," continued his partner. "that is why the state is so alert with regard to divorce proceedings and vigilant to prevent fraud or collusion. you may say that the state is always a party to every matrimonial action--even if it is not actually interpleaded--and that such proceedings are triangular and minus many of the characteristics of the ordinary civil suit." "i suppose another reason for that is that originally marriage and divorce were entirely in the hands of the church, weren't they?" ruminated tutt. "exactly. from very early days in england the church claimed jurisdiction of all matters pertaining to marriage, on the ground that it was a sacrament." "did the ecclesiastical courts take the position that all marriages were made in heaven?" mr. tutt shrugged his shoulders. "'once married, always married,' was their doctrine." "then how did people who were unhappily married get rid of one another?" "they didn't--if the courts ruled that they had actually been married--but that left a loophole. when was a marriage not a marriage? answer: when the parties were closely enough related by blood or marriage, or either of them was mentally incapable, under age, victims of duress, fraud, mistake, previously contracted for, or--already married." "ah!" breathed tutt, thinking of mr. higgleby. "the ecclesiastical law remained without any particular variation until after the american revolution and the colonies separated from great britain, and as there was no union of church and state on this side of the water, and so no church to take control of the subject or ecclesiastical courts to put its doctrines into effect, for a while there was no divorce law at all over here, and then one by one the states took the matter up and began to make such laws about it as each saw fit. hence the jolly old mess we are in now!" "jolly for us," commented tutt. "it means dollars per year to us. well," he remarked, stretching his legs and yawning, "divorce is sure an evil." "that's no news," countered mr. tutt. "it was just as much of an evil in the time of moses, of julius caesar, and of edward the confessor as it is now. there hasn't been anything approaching the flagrancy of roman divorce in modern history." "thank heaven there's still enough to pay our office rent--anyhow!" said tutt contentedly. "i hope they won't do anything so foolish as to pass a national divorce law." "they won't," mr. tutt assured him. "most congressmen are lawyers and are not going to take the bread out of their children's mouths. besides, the power to regulate the domestic relations of the united states, not being delegated under the constitution to the federal government, is expressly retained by the states themselves." "you've given me a whole lot of ideas," admitted tutt. "if i get you rightly, as each state is governed by its own independent laws, the status of married persons must be governed by the law of the state where they are; otherwise if every couple on some theory of exterritoriality carried the law of the state where they happened to have been joined together round with them we would have the spectacle of every state in the union interpreting the divorce laws of every other state--confusion worse confounded." "on the other hand," returned mr. tutt, "the law is settled that a marriage valid when made is valid everywhere; and conversely, if invalid where made is invalid everywhere--like our mongolian case. if that were not so every couple in order to continue legally married would have to go through a new ceremony in every state through which they traveled." "right-o!" whistled tutt. "a parson on every pullman!" "it follows," continued mr. tutt, lighting a fresh stogy and warming to his subject, "that as each state has the right to regulate the status of its own citizens it has jurisdiction to act in a divorce proceeding provided one of the parties is actually domiciled within its borders. naturally this action must be determined by its own laws and not by those of any other state. the great divergence of these laws makes extraordinary complications." "hallelujah!" cried tutt. "now, in the words of the psalmist, you've said a mouthful! i know a man who at one and the same time is legally married to one woman in england, to another in nevada, is a bigamist in new york, and--" "what else could he be except a widower in pittsburgh?" pondered the elder tutt. "but it's quite possible. there's a case going on now where a woman in new york city is suing her ex-husband for a divorce on the usual statutory ground, and naming his present wife as co-respondent, though the plaintiff herself divorced him ten years ago in reno, and he married again immediately after on the strength of it." "i'm feeling stronger every minute!" exclaimed tutt. "surely in all this bedlam we ought to be able to acquit our new client mr. higgleby of the charge of bigamy. at least _you_ ought to be able to. i couldn't." "what's the difficulty?" queried mr. tutt. "the difficulty simply is that he married the present mrs. higgleby on the seventeenth of last december here in the city of new york, when he had a perfectly good wife, whom he had married on the eleventh of the preceding may, living in chicago." "what on earth is the matter with him?" inquired mr. tutt. "he simply says he's a traveling man," replied his partner, "and--he happened to be in new york." "well, the next time he calls, you send him in to see me," directed mr. tutt. "what was the present lady's name?" "woodcock," answered tutt. "alvina woodcock." "and she wanted to change to higgleby?" muttered his partner. "i wonder why." "oh, there's something sort of appealing about him," acknowledged tutt. "but he don't look like a bigamist," he concluded. "what does a bigamist look like?" meditated mr. tutt as he lit another stogy. * * * * * "good morning, mr. tutt," muttered the honorable peckham from behind the imitation rubber plant in his office, where he was engaged in surreptitiously consuming an apple. "um--be with you in a minute. what's on your mind?" mr. tutt simultaneously removed his stogy with one hand and his stovepipe with the other. "i thought we might as well run over my list of cases," he replied. "i can offer you a plea or two if you wish." "do i!" ejaculated the d.a., rolling his eyes heavenward. "let's hear the roll of honor." mr. tutt placed his hat, bottom side up, on the carpet and lowered himself into a huge leather armchair, furnished to the county by a political friend of mr. peckham and billed at four hundred per cent of the regular retail price. then he reinserted the stogy between his lips and produced from his inside pocket a typewritten sheet. "there's watkins--murdered his stepmother--indicted seven months ago. give you murder in the second?" "i'll take it," assented peckham, lighting a cigar in a businesslike manner. "what else you got?" "joseph goldstein--burglary. will you give him grand larceny in the second?" the honorable peckham shook his head. "sorry i can't oblige you, old top," he said regretfully. "he's called the king of the fences. if i did, the papers would holler like hell. i'll make it any degree of burglary, though." "very well. burglary in the third," agreed mr. tutt, jotting it down. "then here's a whole bunch--five--indicted together for assault on a bartender." "what degree?" "second--brass knuckles." "you can have third degree for the lot," grunted peckham laconically. "all right," said mr. tutt. "now for the ones that are going to trial. here's jennie smith, indicted for stealing a mandarin chain valued at sixty-five dollars up at monahaka's. the chain's only worth about six-fifty and i can prove it. monahaka don't want to go to trial because he knows i'll show him up for the oriental flimflammer that he is. but of course she took it. what do you say? i'll plead her to petty and you give her a suspended sentence? that's a fair trade." peckham pondered. "sure," he said finally. "i'm agreeable. only tell jennie that next time i'll have her run out of town." mr. tutt nodded. "i'll whisper it to her. now then, here's higgleby--" "higgle who?" inquired peckham dreamily. "bee--by--higgleby," explained mr. tutt. "for bigamy. i want you to dismiss the indictment for me." "what for?" "you'll never convict him." "why not?" "just because you never will!" mr. tutt assured him with earnestness. "and you might as well wipe him off the list." "anything the matter with the indictment?" asked the d.a. "caput magnus drew it. he's a good man, you know." mr. tutt drew sententiously on his stogy. "i would like to tell you all my secrets," he replied after a pause, "but i can't afford to. the indictment is in the usual form. but just between you and me, you'll never convict higgleby as long as you live." "didn't he marry two joint and several ladies?" "he did." "and one of 'em right here in new york county?" "he did." "well, how in hell can i dismiss the indictment?" "oh, easily enough. lack of proof as to the first marriage in chicago, for instance. how are you going to prove he wasn't divorced?" "that's matter of defense," retorted peckham. "what's a little bigamy between friends, anyway?" ruminated the old lawyer. "it's a kind of sumptuary offense. people will marry. and it's good policy to have 'em. if they happen to overdo it a little--" "well, if i do chuck the darn thing out what will you give me in return?" asked peckham. "of course, bigamy isn't my favorite crime or anything like that. i'm no bloodhound on matrimonial offenses. how'll you trade?" "if you'll throw out higgleby i'll plead angelo ferrero to manslaughter," announced mr. tutt with a grand air of bestowing largess upon an unworthy recipient. "cock-a-doodle-do!" chortled peckham. "a lot you will! angelo's halfway to the chair already yet!" "that's the best i'll do," replied mr. tutt, feeling for his hat. peckham hesitated. mr. tutt was a fair dealer. and he wanted to get rid of angelo. "give you murder in the second," he urged. "manslaughter." "nothing doing," answered the d.a. definitely. "your mr. higglebigamy'll have to stand trial." "oh, very well!" replied mr. tutt, unjointing himself. "we're ready--whenever you are." the old lawyer's lank figure had hardly disappeared out of the front office when peckham rang for caput magnus. "look here, caput," he remarked suspiciously to the indictment clerk, "is there anything wrong with that higgledy indictment?" "higgleby, you mean, i guess," replied mr. magnus, regarding the d.a. in a superior manner over the tops of his horn-rimmed spectacles. "nothing is the matter with the indictment. i have followed my customary form. it has stood every test over and over again. why do you ask?" the honorable peckham turned away impatiently. "oh--nothing. look here," he added unexpectedly, "i think i'll have you try that indictment yourself." "me!" ejaculated caput in horror. "why, i never tried a case in my life!" "well, 's time you began!" growled the d.a. "i--i--shouldn't know what to do!" protested mr. magnus in agony at the mere suggestion. "where the devil would we be if everybody felt like that?" demanded his master. "you're supposed to be a lawyer, aren't you?" "but i--i--can't! i--don't know how!" "hang it all," cried peckham furiously, "you go ahead and do as i say. you indicted higgledy; now you can try higgledy!" he was utterly unreasonable, but his anger was genuine if baseless. "oh, very well, sir," stammered mr. magnus. "of course i'll--i must--do whatever you say." "you better!" shouted peckham after his retreating figure. "you little blathering shrimp!" then he threw himself down in his swivel chair with a bang. "judas h. priest!" he roared at the rubber plant. "i'd give a good deal for a decent excuse to fire that blooming nincompoop!" meantime, as the object of his ire slunk down the corridor darkness descended upon the soul of caput magnus. for caput was what is known as an office lawyer and had never gone into court save as an onlooker or--as he would have phrased it--an _amicus curiae_. he was a perfect pundit--"a hellion on law," according to the honorable peckham--a strutting little cock on his own particular dunghill, but, stripped of his goggles, books, forms and foolscap, as far as his equanimity was concerned he might as well have been in face, figure and general objectionability. no longer could he be heard roaring for his stenographer. instead, those of his colleagues who paused stealthily outside his door on their way over to pont's for "five-o'clock tea" heard dulcet tones floating forth from the transom in varying fluctuations: "ahem! h'm! gentlemen of the jury--h'm! the defendant is indicted for the outrageous crime of bigamy! no, that won't do! gentlemen of the jury, the defendant is indicted for the crime of bigamy! h'm! the crime of bigamy is one of those atrocious offenses against the moral law--" "oh! oh!" choked the legal assistants as they embraced themselves wildly. "oh! oh! caput's practisin'! just listen to 'im! ain't he the little cuckoo! bet he's takin' lessons in elocution! but won't old tutt just eat him alive!" and in the stilly hours of the early dawn those sleeping in tenements and extensions adjacent to the hall bedroom occupied by caput were roused by a trembling voice that sought vainly to imitate the nonchalance of experience, declaiming: "gentlemen of the jury, the defendant is indicted for the crime of bigamy! this offense is one repugnant to the instincts of civilization and odious to the tenets of religion!" and thereafter they tossed until breakfast time, bigamy becoming more and more odious to them every minute. no form of diet, no physical exercise, no "reducicle" could have achieved the extraordinary alteration in mr. magnus' appearance that was in fact induced by his anxiety over his prospective prosecution of higgleby. whereas erstwhile he had been smug and condescending, complacent, lethargic and ponderous, he now became drawn, nervous, apprehensive and obsequious. moreover, he was markedly thinner. he was obviously on a decline, caused by sheer funk. speak sharply to him and he would shy like a frightened pony. the honorable peckham was enraptured, claiming now to have a system of getting even with people that beat the invention of torquemada. when it was represented to him that caput might die, fade away entirely, in which case the office would be left without any indictment clerk, the honorable peckham profanely declared that he didn't care a damn. caput magnus was going to try higgleby, that was all there was to it! and at last the day came. gathered in judge russell's courtroom were as many of the office assistants as could escape from their duties, anxious to officiate at the legal demise of caput magnus. even the honorable peckham could not refrain from having business there at the call of the calendar. it resembled a regular monthly conference of the d.a.'s professional staff, which for some reason tutt and mr. tutt had also been invited to attend. yea, the spectators were all there in the legal colosseum waiting eagerly to see caput magnus enter the arena to be gobbled up by tutt & tutt. they thirsted for his blood, having been for years bored by his brains. they would rather see caput magnus made mincemeat of than ninety-nine criminals convicted, even were they guilty of bigamy. but as yet caput magnus was not there. it was ten-twenty-nine. the clerk was there; mr. higgleby, isosceles, flabby and acephalous as ever, was there; tutt and mr. tutt were there; and bonnie doon, and the stenographer and the jury. and on the front bench the two wives of higgleby sat, side by side, so frigidly that had that gentleman possessed the gift of prevision he would never have married either of them; mrs. tomascene startup higgleby and mrs.--or miss--alvina woodcock (higgleby)--depending upon the action of the jury. the entire cast in the eternal matrimonial triangular drama was there except the judge and the prosecutor in the form of caput magnus. and then, preceding the judge by half a minute only, his entrance timed histrionically to the second, he came, like eudoxia, like a flame out of the east. in swept caput magnus with all the dignity and grace of an irving playing cardinal wolsey. haggard, yes; pale, yes; tremulous, perhaps; but nevertheless glorious in a new cutaway coat, patent-leather shoes, green tie, a rosebud blushing from his lapel, his hair newly cut and laid down in beautiful little wavelets with pomatum, his figure erect, his chin in air, a book beneath his arm, his right hand waving in a delicate gesture of greeting; for caput had taken o'leary's suggestion seriously, and had purchased that widely known and authoritative work to which so many eminent barristers owe their entire success--"how to try a case"--and in it he had learned that in order to win the hearts of the jury one should make oneself beautiful. "what in hell's he done to himself?" gasped o'leary to o'brien. "he'll make a wonderful corpse!" whispered the latter in response. "order in the court! his honor the judge of general sessions!" bellowed an officer at this moment, and the judge came in. everybody got up. he bowed. everybody bowed. everybody sat down again. a few, deeply affected, blew their noses. then his honor smiled genially and asked what business there was before the court, and the clerk told him that they were all there to try a man named higgleby for bigamy, and the judge, nodding at caput, said to go ahead and try him. in the bottom of his peritoneum mr. magnus felt that he carried a cold stone the size of a grapefruit. his hands were ice, his lips bloodless. and there was a niagara where his hearing should have been. but he rose, just as the book told him to do, in all his beauty, and enunciated in the crystal tones he had learned during the last few weeks at madam winterbottom's school of acting and elocution--in syllables chiseled from the stone of eloquence by the lapidary of culture: "if your honor please, i move the cause of the people of the state of new york against theophilus higgleby, indicted for bigamy." peckham and the rest couldn't believe their ears. it wasn't possible! that perfect specimen of tonsorial and sartorial art, warbling like a legal caruso, conducting himself so naturally, easily and casually, couldn't be old caput magnus! they pinched themselves. "say!" ejaculated peckham. "what's happened to him? when did sir henry sign up with us?" mr. tutt across the inclosure in front of the jury box raised his bushy eyebrows and looked whimsically at the d. a. over his spectacles. "are you ready, mr. tutt?" inquired the judge. "entirely so, your honor," responded the lawyer. "then impanel a jury." the jury was impaneled, mr. caput magnus passing through that trying ordeal with great éclat. "you may proceed to open your case," directed the judge. the staff saw a very white caput magnus rise and bow in the direction of the bench. then he stepped to the jury box and cleared his throat. his official associates held their breath expectantly. would he--or wouldn't he? there was a pause. then: "mister foreman and gentlemen of the jury," declaimed caput in flutelike tones: "the defendant is indicted for the crime of bigamy, an offense alike repugnant to religion, civilization and to the law." the words flowed from him like a rippling sunlit stream; encircled him like a necklace of verbal jewels, a rosary, each word a pearl or a bead or whatever it is. with perfect articulation, enunciation and gesticulation mr. caput magnus went on to inform his hearers that mr. higgleby was a bigamist of the deepest dye, that he had feloniously, wilfully and knowingly married two several females, and by every standard of conduct was utterly and entirely detestable. mr. higgleby, flanked by tutt and mr. tutt, listened calmly. caput warmed to his task. the said higgleby, said he, had as aforesaid in the indictment committed the act of bigamy, to wit, of marriage when he had one legal wife already, in new york city on the seventeenth of last december, by marrying in grace church chantry the lady whom they saw sitting by the other lady--he meant the one with the red feather in her bonnet--that is to say, her hat, whereas the other lady, as he had said aforesaid, had been lawfully and properly married to the defendant the preceding may, to wit, in chicago as aforesaid-- "pardon me!" interrupted the foreman petulantly. "which is the lady you mean was married to the defendant in new york? you said she was sitting by the other lady and that you meant the one with the red feather, but you didn't say whether the one with the red feather was the other lady or the one you were talking about." caput gagged and turned pink. "i--i--" he stammered. "the lady in the red bonnet is--the--new york lady." "you mean she isn't his wife although the defendant went through the form of marriage with her, because he was already married to another," suggested his honor. "you might, i think, put things a little more simply. however, do it your own way." "ye-es, your honor." "go on." but caput was lost--hopelessly. every vestige of the composure so laboriously acquired at madam winterbottom's salon had evaporated. he felt as if he were swinging in midair hitched to a scudding aeroplane by a rope about his middle. the mucous membranes of his throat were as dry and as full of dust as the entrails of a carpet sweeper. his vision was blurred and he had no control over his muscles. weakly he leaned against the table in front of the jury, the room swaying about him. the pains of hell gat hold upon him. he was dying. even the staff felt compunction--all but the honorable peckham. judge russell quickly sensed the situation. he was a kindly man, who had pulled many an ass out of the mire of confusion. so with a glance at mr. tutt he came to caput's rescue. "let us see, mr. magnus," he remarked pleasantly; "suppose you prove the illinois marriage first. is mrs. higgleby in court?" both ladies started from their seats. "mrs. tomascene higgleby," corrected his honor. "step this way, please, madam!" the former miss startup made her way diffidently to the witness chair and in a faint voice answered the questions relative to her marriage of the preceding spring as put to her by the judge. mr. tutt waved her aside and caput magnus felt returning strength. he had expected and prepared for a highly technical assault upon the legality of the ceremony performed in cook county. he had anticipated every variety and form of question. but mr. tutt put none. he merely smiled benignly upon caput in an avuncular fashion. "have you no questions, mr. tutt?" inquired his honor. "none," answered the lawyer. "then prove the bigamous marriage," directed judge russell. then rose at the call of justice, militantly and with a curious air of proprietorship in the overmarried defendant, the wife or maiden who in earlier days had answered to the name of alvina woodcock. though she was the injured party and though the blame for her unfortunate state rested entirely upon higgleby, her resentment seemed less directed toward the offending male than toward the chicago lady who was his lawful wife. there was no question as to the circumstances to which she so definitely and aggressively testified. no one could gainsay the deplorable fact that she had, as she supposed, been linked in lawful wedlock to mr. tutt's isosceles client. but there was that in her manner which suggested that she felt that being the last she should be first, that finding was keeping, and that possession was nine points of matrimonial law. and, as before, mr. tutt said nothing. neither he nor tutt nor bonnie doon nor yet higgleby showed any the least sign of concern. caput's momentarily returning self-possession forsook him. what portended his ominous silence? had he made some horrible mistake? had he overlooked some important jurisdictional fact? was he now to be hoist for some unknown reason by his own petard? he was, poor innocent--he was! "that is the case," he announced faintly. "the people rest." judge russell looked down curiously at mr. tutt. "well," he remarked, "how about it, mr. tutt?" but the old lawyer only smiled. "come here a minute," directed his honor. and when mr. tutt reached the bench the judge said: "have you any defense in this case? if not, why don't you plead guilty and let me dispose of the matter?" "but, your honor," protested mr. tutt, "of course i have a defense--and a most excellent one!" "you have?" "certainly." the judged elevated his forehead. "very well," he remarked; "if you really have one you had better go on with it. and," he added beneath his breath, but in a tone clearly audible to the clerk, "the lord have mercy on your soul!" the assistants saw caput subside into his chair and simultaneously mr. tutt slowly raise his lank form toward the ceiling. "gentlemen of the jury," said he benignly: "my client, mr. higgleby, is charged in this indictment with the crime of bigamy committed here in new york, in marrying alvina woodcock--the strong-minded lady on the front row of benches there--when he already had a lawful wife living in chicago. the indictment alleges no other offense and the district attorney has not sought to prove any, my learned and eloquent adversary, mr. magnus, having a proper regard for the constitutional rights of every unfortunate whom he brings to the bar of justice. if therefore i can prove to you that mr. higgleby was never lawfully married to tomascene startup in chicago on the eleventh of last may or at any other time, the allegation of bigamy falls to the ground; at any rate so far as this indictment is concerned. for unless the indictment sets forth a valid prior marriage it is obvious that the subsequent marriage cannot be bigamous. am i clear? i perceive by your very intelligent facial expressions that i am. well, my friends, mr. higgleby never was lawfully married to tomascene startup last may in chicago, and you will therefore be obliged to acquit him! come here, mr. smithers." caput magnus suddenly experienced the throes of dissolution. who was smithers? what could old tutt be driving at? but smithers--evidently the reverend sanctimonious smithers--was already placidly seated in the witness chair, his limp hands folded across his stomach and his thin nose looking interrogatively toward mr. tutt. "what is your name?" asked the lawyer dramatically. "my name is oswald garrison smithers," replied the reverend gentleman in canton-flannel accents, "and i reside in pantuck, iowa, where i am pastor of the reformed lutheran church." "do you know the defendant?" "indeed i do," sighed the reverend smithers. "i remember him very well. i solemnized his marriage to a widow of my congregation on july , ; in fact to the relict of our late senior warden, deacon pellatiah higgins. sarah maria higgins was the lady's name, and she is alive and well at the present time." he gazed deprecatingly at the jury. if meekness had efficacy he would have inherited the earth. "what?" ejaculated the foreman. "you say this man is married to _three_ women?" "trigamy--not bigamy!" muttered the clerk, _sotto voce_. "you have put your finger upon the precise point, mister foreman!" exclaimed mr. tutt admiringly. "if mr. higgleby was already lawfully married to a lady in iowa when he married miss--or mrs.--startup in chicago last may, his marriage to the latter was not a legal marriage; it was in fact no marriage at all. you can't charge a man with bigamy unless you recite a legal marriage followed by an illegal one. therefore, since the indictment fails to set forth a legal marriage anywhere followed by a marriage, legal or otherwise, in new york county, it recites no crime, and my client must be acquitted. is not that the law, your honor?" judge russell quickly hid a smile and turned to the moribund caput. "mr. magnus, have you anything to say in reply to mr. tutt's argument?" he asked. "if not--" but no response came from caput magnus. he was past all hearing, understanding or answering. he was ready to be carried out and buried. "well, all i have got to say is--" began the foreman disgustedly. "you do not have to say anything!" admonished the judge severely. "i will do whatever talking is necessary. a little more care in the preparation of the indictment might have rendered this rather absurd situation impossible. as it is, i must direct an acquittal. the defendant is discharged upon this indictment. but i will hold him in bail for the action of another grand jury." "in which event we shall have another equally good defense, your honor," mr. tutt assured him. "i don't doubt it, mr. tutt," returned the judge good-naturedly. "your client seems to have loved not wisely but too well." and they all poured out happily into the corridor--that is, all of them except caput and the two ladies, who remained seated upon their bench gazing fiercely and disdainfully at each other like two tabby cats on a fence. "so you're not married to him, either!" sneered miss woodcock. "well, i'm as much married to him as you are!" retorted miss startup with her nose in the air. then instinctively they both turned and with one accord looked malevolently at caput, who, seeing in their glance something which he did not like, slipped stealthily from his chair and out of the room, leaving ignominiously behind him upon the floor his precious volume entitled "how to try a case"! "that sort of woman" "judge not according to the appearance."--john vii: . "tutt," said mr. tutt, entering the offices of tutt & tutt and hanging his antediluvian stovepipe on the hat-tree in the corner, "i see by the morning paper that payson clifford has departed this life." "you don't say!" replied the junior tutt, glancing up from the letter he was writing. "which one,--payson, senior, or payson, junior?" "payson, senior," answered mr. tutt as he snipped off the end of a stogy with the pair of nail scissors which he always carried in his vest pocket. "in that case, it's too bad," remarked tutt regretfully. "why 'in that case'?" queried his partner. "oh, the son isn't so much of a much!" replied the smaller tutt. "i don't say the father was so much of a much, either. payson clifford was a good fellow--even if he wasn't our first citizen--or likely to be a candidate for that position in the hereafter. but that boy--" "shh!" reproved mr. tutt, slowly shaking his head so that the smoke from his rat-tailed cigar wove a gray scroll in the air before his face. "remember that there's one thing worse than to speak ill of the dead, and that's to speak ill of a client!" mr. payson clifford, the client in question, was a commonplace young man who had been carefully prepared for the changes and chances of this mortal life first at a fifth avenue day school in new york city, afterwards at a select boarding school among the rock-ribbed hills of the granite state, and finally at cambridge, massachusetts, in the cultured atmosphere of harvard college, through whose precincts, in the dim, almost forgotten past, we are urged to believe that the good and the great trod musingly in their beautiful prime. he emerged with a perhaps almost prudish distaste for the ugly, the vulgar, and the unclean,--and with distinct delusions of grandeur. he was still in that state not badly described by the old saw--"you can always tell a harvard man,--but you can't tell him much." his mother had died when he was still a child and he preserved her memory as the most sacred treasure of his inner shrine. he could just recall her as a gentle and dignified presence, in contrast with whom his burly, loud-voiced father had always seemed crass and ordinary. and although it was that same father who had, for as long as he could remember, supplied him with a substantial check upon the first day of every month and thus enabled him to achieve that exalted state of intellectual and spiritual superiority which he had in fact attained, nevertheless, putting it frankly in the vernacular, payson rather looked down on the old man, who palpably suffered from lack of the advantages which he had furnished to his son. payson, sr., had never taken any particular pains to alter his son's opinion of himself. on the whole he was more proud of him than otherwise, recognizing that while he obviously suffered from an overdevelopment of the ego and an excessive fastidiousness in dress, he was, at bottom, clearly all right and a good sort. still, he was forced to confess that there wasn't much between them. his son expressed the same thought by regretting that his father "did not speak his language." so, in the winter vacation when payson, sr., fagged from his long day at the office sought the "frolics" or the "folies," payson, jr., might be seen at a concert for the harpsichord and viola, or at an evening of palestrina or the earlier gregorian chants. had he been less supercilious about it this story would never have been written--and doubtless no great loss at that. but it is the prerogative of youth to be arrogantly merciless in its judgment of the old. its bright lexicon has no verdict "with mitigating circumstances." youth is just when it is right; it is cruel when it is wrong; and it is inexorable in any case. if we are ever to be tried for our crimes let us have juries of white whiskered old boys who like tobacco, crab flakes, light wines and musical comedy. all of which leads up to the sad admission upon our part that payson, jr., was a prig. and in the very middle of his son's priggishness payson, sr., up and died, and tutt and mr. tutt were called upon to administer his estate. there may be concealed somewhere a few rare human beings who can look back upon their treatment of their parents with honest satisfaction. i have never met any. it is the fate of those who bring others into the world to be chided for their manners, abused for their mistakes, and pilloried for their faults. twenty years difference in age turns many an elegance into a barbarism; many a virtue into a vice-versa. i do not perform at breakfast for the edification of my offspring upon the mustache cup, but i chew my strawberry seeds, which they claim is worse. my grandpapa and grandmama used to pour the coffee from their cups and drink it from their saucers and they were--nevertheless--rated aa in boston's back bay blue book. and now my daughters, who smoke cigarettes, object loudly to my pipe smoke! _autre temps autres manières_. and no man is a hero to his children. he has a hanged-sight more chance with his valet--if in these days he can afford to keep one. his father's death was a shock to payson, jr., because he had not supposed that people in active business like that ever did die,--they "retired" instead, and after a discreet period of semi-seclusion gradually disintegrated by appropriate stages. but payson, sr., simply died right in the middle of everything--without any chance of a spiritual understanding--"reconciliation" would be inaccurate--with his son. so, payson, jr., protestingly acquired by part cash and balance credit a complete suit of what he scathingly described as "the barbarous panoply of death" and, turning himself into what he similarly called a "human catafalque," followed payson, sr., to the grave. perhaps, after all, we have been a bit hard on payson, jr. he was fundamentally, as his father had perceived, good stuff, and wanted to do the right thing. but what is the right thing? really it isn't half as hard to be good as to know how. as the orphaned payson, ensconced in lonely state in one of the funeral hacks, was carried at a fast trot down broadway towards the offices of tutt & tutt, he consoled himself for his loss with the reflection that this was, probably, the last time he would ever have to see any of his relatives. never in his short life had he been face to face with such a gathering of unattractive human beings. he hadn't imagined that such people existed. they oughtn't to exist. the earth should be a lovely place, its real estate occupied only by cultured and lovely people. these aesthetic considerations reminded him with a shock that, just as he had been an utter stranger to them, so he had been a stranger to his father--his poor, old, widowed father. what did he really know about him?--not one thing! and he had never tried to find out anything about him,--about his friends, his thoughts, his manner of life,--content merely to cash his checks, under the unconscious assumption that the man who drew them ought to be equally content to be the father of such a youth as himself. but those rusty relatives! they must have been his father's! certainly his mother's wouldn't have been like that,--and he felt confident he took after his mother. still, those relatives worried him! up at harvard he had stood rather grandly on his name--"payson clifford, jr.,"--with no questions asked about the "senior" or anybody else. he now perceived that he was to be thrown out into the world of fact where who and what his father had been might make a lot of difference. rather anxiously he hoped the old gentleman would turn out to have been all right;--and would have left enough of an estate so that he could still go on cashing checks upon the first day of every month! it was one of the unwritten laws of the office of tutt & tutt that mr. tutt was never to be bothered about the details of a probate matter, and it is more than doubtful whether, even if he had tried, he could have correctly made out the inventory of an estate for filing in the surrogate's court. for be it known that, while the senior member of the firm was long on the philosophy of the law and the subtleties of "restraints on alienation," "powers," "perpetuities" and the mysteries of "the next eventual estate," he was frankly short on the patience to add and subtract. so while mr. tutt drew their clients' wills, it was tutt who attempted to probate and execute them. then, if by any chance, there was any trouble or some ungrateful relative thought he hadn't got enough, it was mr. tutt who reluctantly tossed away his stogy, strolled over to court and defended the will which he had drawn,--usually with success. so it was the lesser tutt who wrung the hand of payson clifford and gave him the leathern armchair by the window. "and now about the will!" chirped tutt, as after a labored encomium upon the virtues of payson, senior, deceased, he took the liberty of lighting a cigarette before he commenced to read the instrument which lay in a brown envelope upon the desk before him. "and now about the will! i suppose you are already aware that your father has made you his executor and, after a few minor legacies, the residuary legatee of his entire estate?" payson shook his head mutely. he felt it more becoming to pretend to be ignorant of these things under the circumstances. "yes," continued tutt cheerfully, taking up the envelope, "mr. tutt drew the will--nearly fifteen years ago--and your father never thought necessary to change it. it's lain right there in our 'will box' without being disturbed more than once,--and that was seven or eight years ago when he came in one day and asked to be allowed to look at it,--i think he put an envelope containing a letter in with it. i found one there the other day." payson languidly took the will in his hand. "how large an estate did he leave?" he inquired. "as near as i can figure out about seventy thousand dollars," answered tutt. "but the transfer tax will not be heavy, and the legacies do not aggregate more than ten thousand." the instrument was a short one,--drawn with all mr. tutt's ability for compression--and filling only a single sheet. payson's father had bequeathed seventy-six hundred dollars to his three cousins and their children, and everything else he had left to his son. payson rapidly computed that after settling the bills against the estate, including that of tutt & tutt, he would probably get at least sixty thousand out of it. at the current rate he would continue to be quite comfortable,--more so in fact than heretofore. still, it was less than he had expected. perhaps his father had had expensive habits. "here's the letter," went on tutt, handing it to payson who took out his pen-knife to open it the more neatly. "probably a suggestion as to the disposal of personal effects--remembrances or something of the sort. it's often done." the envelope was a cheap one, ornamented in the upper left hand corner with a wood cut showing a stout goddess in a night dress, evidently meant for proserpina--pouring a niagara of grain out of a cornucopia of plenty over a farmland stacked high with apples, corn, and pumpkins, and flooded by the beams of a rising sun with a real face. beneath were the words: "if not delivered in five days return to clifford, cobb & weng, grain dealers and produce water street, n.y. city, n.y." even as his eye fell upon it payson was conscious of its coarse vulgarity. and "weng"! whoever heard of such a name? he certainly had not,--hadn't even known that his father had a partner with such an absurd cognomen! "--& weng!" there was something terribly plebeian about it. as well as about the obvious desire for symmetry which had led to the addition of that superfluous "n.y." below the entirely adequate "n.y. city." but, of course, he'd be glad to do anything his father requested in a letter. he forced the edge of the blade through the tough fiber of the envelope, drew forth the enclosed sheet and unfolded it. in the middle of the top was a replica of the wood cut upon the outside, only minus the "if not delivered in five days return to." then payson read in his father's customary bold scrawl the simple inscription, doomed to haunt him sleeping and waking for many moons:-- "in case of my sudden death i wish my executor to give twenty-five thousand dollars to my very dear friend sadie burch, of hoboken, n.j. "payson clifford." for a brief--very brief--moment, a mist gathered over the letter in the son's hand. "my dear friend sadie burch!" he choked back the exclamation of surprise that rose unconsciously to his lips and endeavored to suppress any facial evidence of his inner feelings. "twenty-five thousand!" then he held out the letter more or less casually to tutt. "wee-e-ll!" whistled the lawyer softly, with a quick glance from under his eyebrows. "oh, it isn't the money!" remarked payson in a sickly tone--although of course he was lying. it _was_ the money. the idea of surrendering nearly half his father's estate to a stranger staggered him; yet to his eternal credit, in that first instant of bewildered agony no thought of disregarding his father's wishes entered his mind. it was a hard wallop, but he'd got to stand it. "oh, that's nothing!" remarked tutt. "it's not binding. you don't need to pay any attention to it." "do you really mean that that paper hasn't any legal effect?" exclaimed the boy with such a reaction of relief that for the moment the ethical aspect of the case was entirely obscured by the legal. "none whatever!" returned tutt definitely. "but it's part of the will!" protested payson. "it's in my father's own handwriting." "that doesn't make any difference," declared the lawyer. "not being witnessed in the manner required by law it's not of the slightest significance." "not even if it is put right in with the will?" "not a particle." "but i've often heard of letters being put with wills." "no doubt. but i'll wager you never heard of any one of them being probated." payson's legal experience in fact did not reach to this technical point. "look here!" he returned obstinately. "i'll be hanged if i understand. you say this paper has no legal value and yet it is in my father's own hand and practically attached to his will. now, apart from any--er--moral question involved, just why isn't this letter binding on me?" tutt smiled leniently. "have a cigarette?" he asked, and when payson took one, he added sympathetically as he held a match for him, "your attitude, my dear sir, does you credit. it is wholly right and natural that you should instinctively desire to uphold that which on its face appears to be a wish of your father. but all the same that letter isn't worth the paper it's written on--as matter of law." "but why not?" demanded payson. "what better evidence could the courts desire of the wishes of a testator than such a letter?" "the reason is simple enough!" replied tutt, settling himself in a comfortable position. "in the eye of the law no property is ever without an owner. it is always owned by somebody, although the ownership may be in dispute. when a man dies his real property instantly passes to his heirs and his personal property descends in accordance to the local statute of distributions or, if there isn't any, to his next of kin; but if he leaves a will, to the extent to which it is valid, it diverts the property from its natural legal destination. thus, in effect, the real purpose of a will is to prevent the laws operating on one's estate after death. if your father had died intestate, you would have instantly become, in contemplation of law, the owner of all his property. his will--his legal will--deprives you of a small part of it for the benefit of others. but the law is exceedingly careful about recognizing such an intention of a testator to prevent the operation of the statutes and requires him to demonstrate the sincerity and fixity of that intention by going through various established formalities, such as putting his intention in due form in a written instrument which he must sign and declare to be his last will before a certain number of competent witnesses whom he requests to sign as such and who actually do sign as such in his presence and in the presence of each other. your father obviously did none of these things when he placed this letter with his will." "but isn't a letter ever enough--under any circumstances?" inquired payson. "well," said tutt. "it is true that under certain exceptional circumstances a man may make what is known as a nuncupative will." "what is a--a--nuncupative will?" asked his client. "technically it is an oral will, operating on personality only, made in extremis--that is, actually in fear of death--and under our statutes limited to soldiers in active military service or to mariners at sea. under the old common law it was just as effective to pass personal estate as a written instrument." "but father wasn't either a soldier or a sailor," commented payson, "and anyhow a letter isn't an oral will; if it's anything at all, it's a written one, isn't it?" "that is the attitude the law takes," nodded tutt. "of course, one could argue that it made no difference whether a man uttered his wishes orally in the presence of witnesses or reduced them to writing and signed them, but the law is very technical in such matters and it has been held that a will reduced to writing and signed by the testator, or a memorandum of instructions for making a will, cannot be treated as a nuncupative will; nor is a written will, drawn up by an attorney, but not signed, owing to the sickness of the testator to be treated as a nuncupative will; but upon requisite proof--in a proper case--a paper, not perfected as a written will, may be established as a nuncupative will when its completion is prevented by act of god, or any other cause than an intention to abandon or postpone its consummation. the presumption of the law is against validity of a testamentary paper not completed. there must be in the testator the _animus testandi_, which is sometimes presumed from circumstances in such cases and in such places as nuncupative wills are recognized. now, your father being as you point out, neither a soldier nor a sailor, couldn't have made a nuncupative will under any circumstances, even if a letter would legally be treated as such a will instead of as an ineffectual attempt to make a written one--upon which point i confess myself ignorant. therefore"--and he tossed away his cigarette butt with an air of finality--"this letter bequeathing twenty-five thousand dollars to sadie burch--whoever and whatever she may be--is either an attempt to make a will or a codicil to a will in a way not recognized by the statute, or it is an attempt to add to, alter or vary a will already properly executed and witnessed by arbitrarily affixing to or placing within it an extraneous written paper." "well," commented payson, "i understand what you've said about nun--nuncupative wills, all right,--that is, i think i do. but leaving them out of consideration i still don't see why this letter can't be regarded as _part_ of the original will." "for the reason that when your father executed the original document he went through every form required by the statute for making a will. if he hadn't, it wouldn't have been a will at all. if this paper, which never was witnessed by a single person, could be treated as a supplement or addition to the will, there would have been no use requiring the original will to be witnessed, either." "that seems logical," agreed payson. "but isn't it often customary to incorporate other papers by referring to them in a will?" "it is sometimes done, and usually results in nothing but litigation. you see for yourself how absurd it would be to treat a paper drawn or executed after a will was made as part of it, for that would render the requirements of the statute nugatory." "but suppose the letter was already in existence or was written at the same time as the will,--wouldn't that make a difference?" hesitated payson. "not a bit! not one bit!" chirped tutt. "the law is settled that such a paper writing can be given effect only under certain very special conditions and only to a limited extent. anyhow that question doesn't arise here." "why not?" queried the residuary legatee. "how do you know this letter wasn't written and placed inside the will when it was made?--and that my father supposed that of course it would be given effect?" "in that case why shouldn't he have incorporated the legacy in the will?" countered tutt sharply. "he--er--may not have wished mr. tutt to know about it," murmured payson, dropping his eyes. "oh,--hardly!" protested tutt. "we can be morally certain that this letter was written and placed with the will that time your father came in here and asked to be allowed to see it, seven odd years ago. mr. tutt would have noticed it if your father had placed it with the will in the first instance and would have warned him that nothing of the sort could possibly be effective." "but," insisted payson, "assuming for argument's sake that this letter was in fact written at the time the will was originally executed, what is the reason the law won't recognize it as a valid bequest?" tutt smiled and fumbled in an open box for another cigarette. "my dear sir," he replied, "no paper could possibly be treated as part of a will--even if extant at the time the will was executed--unless distinctly referred to in the will itself. in a word, there must be a clear and unmistakable intention on the part of the testator to attempt to incorporate the extraneous paper by reference. now, here, there is no reference to the paper in the will at all." "that is true!" admitted payson. "but--" "but even if there were," went on tutt, eagerly, "the law is settled in this state that where a testator--either through carelessness or a desire to economize space or effort, has referred in his will to extraneous papers or memoranda, either as fixing the names of beneficiaries of particular devises or bequests, or as fixing the amount or the manner in which the amount of such devises or bequests is to be ascertained, such a paper must not contain any testamentary disposition of property. in a word the testator having willed something can _identify_ it by means of an extraneous paper if properly designated, but he cannot _will_ the thing away by an extraneous paper no matter how referred to. for example, if a wills to b 'all the stock covered by my agreement of may , with x' it merely describes and identifies the thing bequeathed,--and that is all right. the law will give effect to the identifying agreement, although it is separate from the will and unattested. but, if a's will read 'and i give such further bequests as appear in a paper filed herewith' and the paper contained a bequest to b of 'all the stock covered by my agreement of may , with x' it would be an attempted bequest outside of the will and so have no legal effect." "thanks," said payson. "i understand. so in no event whatever could this letter have any legal effect?" "absolutely none whatever!--you're perfectly safe!" and tutt leaned back with a comfortable smile. but payson did not smile in return. neither was he comfortable. be it said for him that, however many kinds of a fool he may have been, while momentarily relieved at knowing that he had no legal obligation to carry out his father's wishes so far as sadie burch was concerned, his conscience was by no means easy and he had not liked at all the tone in which the paunchy little lawyer had used the phrase "you're perfectly safe." "what do you mean by 'perfectly safe'," he inquired rather coldly. "why, that sadie burch could never make you pay her the legacy--because it isn't a legal legacy. you can safely keep it. it's yours, legally and morally." "well, is it?" asked payson slowly. "morally, isn't it my duty to pay over the money, no matter who she is?" tutt, who had tilted backward in his swivel chair, brought both his feet to the floor with a bang. "of course it isn't!" he cried. "you'd be crazy to pay the slightest attention to any such vague and unexplained scrawl. listen, young man! in the first place you haven't any idea when your father wrote that paper--except that it was at least seven years ago. he may have changed his mind a dozen times since he wrote it. it may have been a mere passing whim or fancy, done in a moment of weakness or emotion or temporary irrationality. indeed, it may have been made under duress. nobody but a lawyer who has the most intimate knowledge of his clients' daily life and affairs has the remotest suspicion of--oh, well, we won't go into that! but, the first proposition is that in no event is it possible for you to say that the request in that letter was the actual wish of your father at the time of his death. all you can say is that at some time or other it may have been his wish." "i see!" agreed payson. "well, what other points are there?" "secondly," continued tutt, "it must be presumed that if your father took the trouble to retain a lawyer to have his will properly drawn and executed he must have known first, that it was necessary to do so in order to have his wishes carried out, and second, that no wish not properly incorporated in the will itself could have any legal effect. in other words, inferentially, he knew that this paper had no force and therefore it must be assumed that if he made it that way he intended that it should have no legal effect and did not intend that it should be carried out. get me?" "why, yes, i think i do. your point is that if a man knows the law and does a thing so it has no legal effect he should be assumed to intend that it have no legal effect." "exactly," tutt nodded with satisfaction. "the law is wise, based on generations of experience. it realizes the uncertainties, vagaries, and vacillations of the human mind--and the opportunities afforded to designing people to take advantage of the momentary weaknesses of others--and hence to prevent fraud and insure that only the actual final wishes of a man shall be carried out it requires that those wishes shall be expressed in a particular, definite and formal way--in writing, signed and published before witnesses." "you certainly make it very clear!" assented payson. "what do executors usually do under such circumstances?" "if they have sense they leave matters alone and let the law take its course," answered tutt with conviction. "i've known of more trouble--! several instances right here in this office. a widow found a paper with her husband's will expressing a wish that a certain amount of money should be given to a married woman living out in duluth. there was nothing to indicate when the paper was written, although the will was executed only a month before he died. apparently the deceased hadn't seen the lady in question for years. i told her to forget it, but nothing would suit her but that she should send the woman a money order for the full amount--ten thousand dollars. she kept it, all right! well, the widow found out afterwards that her husband had written that paper thirty years before at a time when he was engaged to be married to that woman, that they had changed their minds and each had married happily and that the paper with some old love letters had, as usually happens, got mixed up with the will instead of having been destroyed as it should have been. you know, it's astonishing, the junk people keep in their safe deposit boxes! i'll bet that ninety-nine out of a hundred are half full of valueless and useless stuff, like old watches, grandpa's jet cuff buttons, the letters uncle william wrote from the holy land, outlawed fire insurance and correspondence that nobody will ever read,--everything always gets mixed up together,--and yet every paper a man leaves after his death is a possible source of confusion or trouble. and one can't tell how or why a person at a particular time may come to express a wish in writing. it would be most dangerous to pay attention to it. suppose it was _not_ in writing. morally, a wish is just as binding if spoken as if incorporated in a letter. would you waste any time on sadie burch if she came in here and told you that your father had expressed the desire that she should have twenty-five thousand dollars? not much!" "i don't suppose so!" admitted payson. "another thing!" said tutt. "remember this, the law would not _permit_ you as executor of your father's will to pay over this money, if any other than yourself were the residuary legatee. you'd have no right to take twenty-five thousand dollars out of the estate and give it to miss burch at the expense of anybody else!" "then you say the law won't let me pay this money to sadie burch whether i am willing to or not?" asked payson. "not as executor. as executor you're absolutely obliged to carry out the terms of the will and disregard anything else. you must preserve the estate intact and turn it over unimpaired to the residuary legatee!" repeated tutt. "but i am the residuary legatee!" said payson. "as executor you've got to pay it over in full to yourself as residuary legatee!" repeated tutt stubbornly, evading the issue. "well, where does that leave me?" asked his client. "it gets you out of your difficulty, doesn't it?" asked tutt. "don't borrow trouble! don't--if you'll pardon my saying so--be an idiot!" there was silence for several minutes, finally broken by the lawyer who came back again to the charge with renewed vigor. "why, this sort of thing comes up all the time. take this sort of a case, for instance. the law only lets a man will away a certain proportion of his property to charity--says it isn't right for him to do so, if he leaves a family. now suppose your father had given all his property to charity, would you feel obliged to impoverish yourself for the benefit of a home for aged mariners?" "really," replied the bewildered payson. "i don't know. but anyway i'm satisfied you're quite right and i'm tremendously obliged. however," he added musingly, "i'd rather like to know who this sadie burch is!" "if i were you, young man," advised the lawyer sagely, "i wouldn't try to find out!" mr. payson clifford left the offices of tutt & tutt more recalcitrant against fate and irritated with his family than when he had entered them. he had found himself much less comfortably provided for than he had expected, and the unpleasant impression created by the supposed paternal relatives at his father's funeral had been heightened by the letter regarding sadie burch. there was something even more offensively plebeian about them than that of the vulgar weng. it would have been bad enough to have had to consider the propriety of paying over a large sum to a lady calling herself by an elegant or at least debonair name like claire desmond or lillian lamar,--but sadie! and burch! ye gods! it was ignoble, sordid. that was a fine discovery to make about one's father! as he walked slowly up fifth avenue to his hotel it must be confessed that his reflections upon that father's memory were far from filial. he told himself that he'd always suspected something furtive about the old man, who must have been under most unusual and extraordinary obligations to a woman to whom he desired his son to turn over twenty-five thousand dollars. it was pretty nearly half of his entire fortune! would cut down his income from around four thousand to nearly two thousand! the more he pondered upon the matter the more the lawyer's arguments seemed absolutely convincing. lawyers knew more than other people about such things, anyway. you paid them for their advice, and he would doubtless have to pay tutt for his upon this very subject, which, somehow, seemed to be rather a good reason for following it. no, he would dismiss sadie burch and the letter forever from his mind. very likely she was dead anyway, whoever she was. four thousand a year! not a bad income for a bachelor! and while our innocent young launcelot trudging uptown hardened his heart against sadie burch, by chance that lady figured in a short but poignant conversation between mr. ephraim tutt and miss minerva wiggin on the threshold of the room from which he had just departed. miss wiggin never trusted anybody but herself to lock up the offices, not even mr. tutt, and upon this particular evening she had made this an excuse to linger on after the others had gone home and waylay him. such encounters were by no means infrequent and usually had a bearing upon the ethical aspect of some proposed course of legal procedure on the part of the firm. miss minerva regarded samuel tutt as morally an abandoned and hopeless creature. mr. ephraim tutt she loved with a devotion rare among a sex with whom devotion is happily a common trait, but there was a maternal quality in her affection accounted for by the fact that although mr. tutt was, to be sure, an old man in years, he had occasionally an elfin, puck-like perversity which was singularly boyish, at which times she felt it obligatory for her own self-respect to call him to order. thus, whenever tutt seemed to be incubating some evasion of law which seemed more subtly plausible than ordinary she made it a point to call it to mr. tutt's attention. also, whenever, as in the present case, she felt that by following the advice given by the junior member of the firm a client was about to embark upon some dubious enterprise or questionable course of conduct she endeavored to counteract his influence by appealing to the head of the firm. during the interview between tutt and payson clifford the door had been open and she had heard all of it; moreover, after payson had gone away tutt had called her in and gone over the situation with her. and she regarded tutt's advice to his client,--not the purely legal aspect of it, but the personal and persuasive part of it,--as an interference with that young gentleman's freedom of conscience. "dear me!--i didn't know you were still here, minerva!" exclaimed her employer as she confronted him in the outer office. "is anything worrying you?" "not dangerously!" she replied with a smile. "and perhaps it's none of my business--" "my business is thy business, my dear!" he answered. "without you tutt & tutt would not be tutt & tutt. my junior partner may be the eyes and legs of the firm and i may be some other portion of its anatomy, but you are its heart and its conscience. out with it! what rascality portends? what bird of evil omen hovers above the offices of tutt & tutt? spare not an old man bowed down with the sorrows of this world! has my shrewd associate counseled the robbing of a bank or the kidnapping from a widowed mother of her orphaned child?" "nothing quite so bad as that!" she retorted. "it's merely that mr. samuel tutt used his influence this afternoon to try to persuade a young man not to carry out his father's wishes--expressed in a legally ineffective way--and i think he succeeded--although i'm not quite sure." "that must have been payson clifford," answered mr. tutt. "what were the paternal wishes?" "mr. tutt found a letter with the will in which the father asked the son to give twenty-five thousand dollars to a miss sadie burch." "miss sadie burch!" repeated mr. tutt. "and who is she?" "nobody knows," said miss wiggin. "but whoever she is, our responsibility stops with advising mr. payson clifford that the letter has no legal effect. mr. tutt went further and tried to induce mr. clifford not to respect the request contained in it. that, it seems to me, is going too far. don't you think so?" "are you certain you never heard of this miss burch?" suddenly asked mr. tutt, peering at her sharply from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. "never," she replied. "h'm!" ejaculated mr. tutt. "a woman in the case!" "what sort of a young fellow is this payson clifford?" inquired miss wiggin after a moment. "oh, not so much of a much!" answered mr. tutt whimsically. "and what was the father like?" she continued with a woman's curiosity. "he wasn't so much of a much, either, evidently," answered mr. tutt. we have previously had occasion to comment upon the fact that no client, male or female, consults a lawyer with regard to what he ought to do. women, often having decided to do that which they ought not to do, attempt to secure counsel's approval of the contemplated sin; but while a lawyer is sometimes called upon to bolster up a guilty conscience, rarely is he sincerely invited to act as spiritual adviser. most men being worse than their lawyers, prefer not to have the latter find them out. if they have made up their minds to do a mean thing they do not wish to run the chance of having their lawyer shame them out of it. that is their own business. and it should be! the law presents sufficiently perplexing problems for the lawyer without his seeking trouble in the dubious complexities of his client's morals! anyhow, that is the regulation way a lawyer looks at it and that is the way to hold one's clients. do what you are instructed to do--so long as it isn't too raw! question the propriety of his course and while your client may follow your advice in this single instance he probably will not return again. the paradoxical aspect of the matter with mr. tutt was that while he was known as a criminal lawyer whenever he was asked for advice he concerned himself quite as much with his client's moral as his legal duty. the rather subtle reason for this was probably to be found in the fact that since he found the law so easy to circumvent he preferred to disregard it entirely as a sanction of conduct and merely to ask himself "now is this what a sportsman and a gentleman would do?" the fact that a man was a technical criminal meant nothing to him at all; what interested him was whether the man was or was not a "mean" man. if he was, to hell with him! in a word, he applied to any given situation the law as it ought to be and not the law as it was. a very easy and flexible test! say you, sarcastically. do you really think so? there may be forty different laws upon the same subject in as many different states of our political union, but how many differing points of view upon any single moral question would you find among as many citizens? the moral code of decent people is practically the same all over the terrestrial ball, and fundamentally it has not changed since the days of hammurabi. the ideas of gentlemen and sportsmen as to what "is done" and "isn't done" haven't changed since fabius tullius caught snipe in the pontine marshes. mr. tutt was a crank on this general subject and he carried his enthusiasm so far that he was always tilting like don quixote at some imaginary windmill, dragging a very unwilling sancho panza after him in the form of his reluctant partner. moreover, he had a very keen sympathy for all kinds of outcasts, deeming most of them victims of the sins of their own or somebody's else fathers. so when he learned from miss wiggin that tutt had presumed to interfere with the financial prospects of the unknown miss sadie burch he was distinctly aggrieved, less on her account to be sure than upon that of his client's whom he regarded more or less in his keeping. and, as luck would have it, the object of his grievance, having forgotten something, at that moment unexpectedly reentered the office to retrieve it. "hello, mr. tutt!" he exclaimed. "not gone yet!" his senior partner glanced at him sharply, while miss wiggin hastily sidestepped into the corridor. "look here, tutt!" said mr. tutt. "i don't know just what you've been telling young clifford, or how you've been interfering in his private affairs, but if you've been persuading him to disregard any wish of his father plainly expressed in his own handwriting and incorporated with his will you've gone further than you've any right to go." "but," expostulated tutt, "you know how dangerous it is to meddle with things like that. our experience certainly shows that it's far wiser to let the law settle all doubtful questions than to try to guess what the final testamentary intention of a dead testator really was. don't you remember the dodworth case? a hypersensitive conscience cost our widowed client ten thousand dollars! i say, leave well enough alone." "'well enough'! 'well enough'!" snarled mr. tutt. "are you going to constitute yourself the judge of what is well enough for a young man's soul? i give you fair warning, tutt: he's heard your side of it, but before he gets through he's going to hear mine as well!" samuel tutt turned a faint pink in the region of his collar. "why, certainly, mr. tutt!" he stammered. "do so, by all means!" "you jolly well bet i will!" replied mr. tutt, jamming on his stovepipe. several days passed, however, without the subject being mentioned further, while the proper steps to probate the will were taken as usual. payson clifford's dilemma had no legal reaction. he had made up his mind and he was going to stick to it. he had taken the opinion of counsel and was fully satisfied with what he had done. nobody was going to know anything about it, anyway. when the proper time came he would burn the sadie burch letter and forget sadie burch. that is, he thought he was going to and that he could. but--as plautus says: "_nihil est miserius quam animus hominis conscius_." you see, payson clifford, having been sent to a decent school and a decent college, irrespective of whether his father was a rotter or not, had imbibed something of a sense of honor. struggle as he would against it, the shadow of sadie burch kept creeping athwart his mind. there were so many possibilities! suppose she was in desperate straits? hadn't he better look her up, anyhow? no, he most definitely didn't want to know anything about her! supposing she really had rendered some service to his father for which she ought to be repaid as he had sought to repay her? these thoughts obtruded themselves upon payson's attention when he least desired it, but they did not cause him to alter his intention to get his hooks into his father's whole residuary estate and keep it for himself. he had, you observe, a conscience, but it couldn't stand up against twenty-five thousand dollars reinforced by perfectly sound legal arguments. no, he had a good excuse for not being a gentleman and a sportsman and he did not purpose to look for any reasons for doing differently. then unexpectedly he was invited to dinner by mr. ephraim tutt in a funny old ramshackle house on west twenty-third street with ornamented iron piazza railings all covered with the withered stalks of long dead wistarias, and something happened to him. "payson clifford's twenty-five thousand dollar dinner." he had no suspicion, of course, what was coming to him when he went there,--went, merely because mr. tutt was one of the very few friends of his father that he knew. and he held towards the old lawyer rather the same sort of patronizing attitude that he had had towards the old man. it would be a rotten dinner probably followed by a deadly dull evening with a snuffy old fossil who would tell him long-winded, rambling anecdotes of what new york had been like when there were wild goats in central park. the snuffy old fossil, however, made no reference whatever to either old new york or wild goats,--the nearest he came to it being wild oats. instead he began the dreary evening by opening a cupboard on his library wall and disclosing three long bottles, from which he partially filled a shining silver receptacle containing cracked ice. this he shook with astonishing skill and vigor, meantime uttering loud outcries of "miranda! fetch up the mint!" then a buxom colored lady in calico--with a grin like that which made aunt sallie famous--having appeared, panting, with two large glasses and a bundle of green herbage upon a silver salver, the old fossil poured out a seething decoction--of which like only the memory remains--performed an incantation over each glass with the odoriferous greens, smiled fondly upon the work of his hands and remarked with amiable hospitality, "well, my son! glad to see you!--here's how!" almost immediately a benign animal magnetism pervaded the bosom of payson clifford, and from his bosom reached out through his arteries and veins, his arterioles and venioles, to the uttermost ends of his being. he perceived in an instant that mr. tutt was no ordinary man and his house no ordinary house; and this impression was intensified when, seated at his host's shining mahogany table with its heavy cut glass and queer old silver, he discovered that miranda was no ordinary cook. he began to be inflated over having discovered this mr. tutt, who pressed succulent oysters and terrapin stew upon him, accompanied by a foaming bottle of krug ' . he found himself possessed of an astounding appetite and a prodigious thirst. the gas lights in the old bronze chandelier shone like a galaxy of radiant suns above his head and warmed him through and through. and after the terrapin miranda brought in a smoking wild turkey with two quail roasted inside of it, and served with currant jelly, rice cakes, and sweet potatoes fried in melted sugar. then, as in a dream, he heard a soul-satisfying pop and miranda placed a tall, amber glass at his wrist and filled it with the creaming redrose wine of ancient burgundy. he heard himself telling mr. tutt all about himself,--the most intimate secrets of his heart,--and saw mr. tutt listening attentively, almost reverently. he perceived that he was making an astonishing impression upon mr. tutt who obviously thought him a great man; and after keeping him in reasonable doubt about it for awhile he modestly admitted to mr. tutt that this was so. then he drank several more glasses of burgundy and ate an enormous pile of waffles covered with maple syrup. "i'se in town, honey!" mr. tutt had grown several sizes larger--the whole room was full of him. lastly he had black coffee and some port. it was an occasion, he asserted,--er--always goo' weather,--or somethin'--when goo' fellows got together! he declared with an emphasis which was quite unnecessary, but which, however, did not disturb him, that there were too few men like themselves in the world,--men with the advantage of education,--men of ideals. he told mr. tutt that he loved him. he no longer had a father, and, evidently relying on further similar entertainments, he wanted mr. tutt for one. mr. tutt generously assented to act in that capacity and as the first step assisted his guest upstairs to the library where he opened the window a few inches. presently, payson did not know how exactly, they got talking all about life,--and mr. tutt said ruminatively that after all the only things that really counted were loyalty and courage and kindness,--and that a little human sympathy extended even in what sometimes seemed at first glance the wrong direction often did more good--made more for real happiness--than the most efficient organized charity. he spoke of the loneliness of age--the inevitable loneliness of the human soul,--the thirst for daily affection. and then they drifted off to college, and mr. tutt inquired casually if payson had seen much of his father, who, he took occasion to remark, had been a good type of straightforward, honest, hard-working business man. payson, smoking his third cigar, and taking now and then a dash of cognac, began to think better of his old dad. he really hadn't paid him quite the proper attention. he admitted it to mr. tutt--with the first genuine tears in his eyes since he had left cambridge;--perhaps, if he had been more to him--. but mr. tutt veered off again--this time on university education; the invaluable function of the university being, he said, to preserve intact and untarnished in a materialistic age the spiritual ideals inherited from the past. in this rather commonplace sentiment payson agreed with him passionately. he further agreed with equal enthusiasm when his host advanced the doctrine that after all to preserve one's honor stainless was the only thing that much mattered. absolutely! declared payson, as he allowed mr. tutt to press another glass of port upon him. payson, in spite of the slight beading of his forehead and the blurr about the gas jets, began to feel very much the man of the world,--not a "six bottle man" perhaps, but--and he laughed complacently--a "two bottle man." if he'd lived back in the good old sporting days very likely he could have done better. but he's taken care of two full bottles, hadn't he? mr. tutt replied that he'd taken care of them very well indeed. and with this opening the old lawyer launched into his favorite topic,--to wit, that there were only two sorts of men in the world--gentlemen, and those who were not. what made a man a gentleman was gallantry and loyalty,--the readiness to sacrifice everything--even life--to an ideal. the hero was the chap who never counted the cost to himself. that was why people revered the saints, acclaimed the cavalier, and admired the big-hearted gambler who was ready to stake his fortune on the turn of a card. there was even, he averred, an element of spirituality in the gambler's carelessness about money. this theory greatly interested payson, who held strongly with it, having always had a secret, sneaking fondness for gamblers. on the strength of it he mentioned charles james fox--there was a true gentleman and sportsman for you! no mollycoddle--but a roaring, six bottle fellow--with a big brain and a scrupulous sense of honor. yes, sir! charley fox was the right sort! he managed to intimate successfully that charley and he were very much the same breed of pup. at this point mr. tutt, having carefully committed his guest to an ethical standard as far removed as possible from one based upon self-interest, opened the window a few more inches, sauntered over to the mantel, lit a fresh stogy and spread his long legs in front of the sea-coal fire like an elongated colossus of rhodes. he commenced his dastardly countermining of his partner's advice by complimenting payson on being a man whose words, manner and appearance proclaimed him to the world a true sport and a regular fellow. from which flattering prologue he slid naturally into said regular fellow's prospects and aims in life. he trusted that payson clifford, senior, had left a sufficient estate to enable payson, junior, to complete his education at harvard?--he forgot, he confessed just what the residue amounted to. then he turned to the fire, kicked it, knocked the ash off the end of his stogy and waited--in order to give his guest a chance to come to himself,--for mr. payson clifford had suddenly turned a curious color, due to the fact that he was unexpectedly confronted with the necessity of definitely deciding then and there whether he was going to line up with the regular fellows or the second raters, the gentlemen or the cads, the c.j. foxes or the benedict arnolds of mankind. he wasn't wholly the real thing, a conceited young ass, if you choose, but on the other hand he wasn't by any means a bad sort. in short, he was very much like all the rest of us. and he wasn't ready to sign the pledge just yet. he realized that he had put himself at a disadvantage, but he wasn't going to commit himself until he had had a good chance to think it all over carefully. in thirty seconds he was sober as a judge--and a sober judge at that. "mr. tutt," he said in quite a different tone of voice. "i've been talking pretty big, i guess,--bigger than i really am. the fact is i've got a problem of my own that's bothering me a lot." mr. tutt nodded understandingly. "you mean sadie burch." "yes." "well, what's the problem? your father wanted you to give her the money, didn't he?" payson hesitated. what he was about to say seemed so disingenuous, even though it had originated with tutt & tutt. "how do i know really what he wanted? he may have changed his mind a dozen times since he put it with his will." "if he had he wouldn't have left it there, would he?" asked mr. tutt with a smile. "but perhaps he forgot all about it,--didn't remember that it was there," persisted the youth, still clinging desperately to the lesser tutt. "and, if he hadn't would have torn it up." "that might be equally true of the provisions of his will, might it not?" countered the lawyer. "but," squirmed payson, struggling to recall tutt's arguments, previously so convincing, "he knew how a will ought to be executed and as he deliberately neglected to execute the paper in a legal fashion, isn't it fair to presume that he did not intend it to have any legal force?" "yes," replied mr. tutt with entire equanimity, "i agree with you that it is fair to assume that he did not intend it to have any legal effect." "well, then!" exclaimed payson exultantly. "but," continued the lawyer, "that does not prove that he did not intend it to have a moral effect,--and expect you to honor and respect his wishes, just as if he had whispered them to you with his dying breath." there was something in his demeanor which, while courteous, had a touch of severity, that made payson feel abashed. he perceived that he could not afford to let mr. tutt think him a cad,--when he was really a c.j. fox. and in his mental floundering his brain came into contact with the only logical straw in the entire controversy. "ah!" he said with an assumption of candor. "in that case i should know positively that they were in fact my father's wishes." "exactly!" replied mr. tutt. "and you'd carry them out without a moment's hesitation." "of course!" yielded payson. "then the whole question is whether or not this paper does express a wish of his. that problem is a real problem, and it is for you alone to solve,--and, of course, you're under the disadvantage of having a financial interest in the result, which makes it doubly hard." "all the same," maintained the boy, "i want to be fair to myself." "--and to him," added mr. tutt solemnly. "the fact that this wish is not expressed in such a way as to be legally obligatory makes it all the more binding. in a way, i suppose, that is your hard luck. you might, perhaps, fight a provision in the will. you can't fight this--or disregard it, either." "i don't exactly see why this is any _more_ binding than a provision in the will itself!" protested payson. mr. tutt threw his stogy into the fire and fumbled for another in the long box on the library table. "maybe it isn't," he conceded, "but i've always liked that specious anecdote attributed to sheridan who paid his gambling debts and let his tailor wait. you remember it, of course? when the tailor demanded the reason for this sheridan told him that a gambling debt was a debt of honor and a tailor's bill was not, since his fortunate adversary at the card table had only his promise to pay, whereas the tailor possessed an action for an account which he could prosecute in the courts. "'in that case!' declared the tailor, 'i'll tear up my bill!' which he did, and sheridan thereupon promptly paid him. have another nip of brandy?" "no, thank you!" answered payson. "it's getting late and i must be going. i've--i've had a perfectly--er--ripping time!" "you must come again soon!" said mr. tutt warmly, from the top of the steps outside. as payson reached the sidewalk he looked back somewhat shamefacedly and said: "do you think it makes any difference what sort of a person this sadie burch is?" in the yellow light of the street lamp it seemed to the collegian as if the face of the old man bore for an instant a fleeting resemblance to that of his father. "not one particle!" he answered. "good night, my boy!" but payson clifford did not have a good night by any manner of means. instead of returning to his hotel he wandered aimless and miserable along the river front. he no longer had any doubt as to his duty. mr. tutt had demolished tutt in a breath,--and put the whole proposition clearly. tutt had given, as it were, and mr. tutt had taken away. however, he told himself, that wasn't all there was to it; the money was his in law and no one could deprive him of it. why not sit tight and let mr. tutt go to the devil? he need never see him again! and no one else would ever know! twenty-five thousand dollars? it would take him years to earn such a staggering sum! besides, there were two distinct sides to the question. wasn't tutt just as good a lawyer as mr. tutt? couldn't he properly decide in favor of himself when the court was equally divided? and tutt had said emphatically that he would be a fool to surrender the money. as payson clifford trudged along the shadows of the docks he became obsessed with a curious feeling that tutt and mr. tutt were both there before him; mr. tutt--a tall, benevolent figure carrying a torch in the shape of a huge, black, blazing stogy that beckoned him onward through the darkness; and behind him tutt--a little paunchy red devil with horns and a tail--who tweaked him by the coat and twittered, "don't throw away twenty-five thousand dollars! the best way is to leave matters as they are and let the law settle everything. then you take no chances!" but in the end--along about a quarter to seven a.m.--mr. tutt won. exhausted, but at peace with himself, payson clifford stumbled into the harvard club on forty-fourth street, ordered three fried eggs done on one side, two orders of bacon and a pot of coffee, and then wrote a letter which he dispatched by a messenger to tutt & tutt. "gentlemen," it read: "will you kindly take immediate steps to find miss sarah burch and pay over to her twenty-five thousand dollars from my father's residuary estate. i am entirely satisfied that this was his wish. i am returning to cambridge to-day. if necessary you can communicate with me there. "yours very truly, "payson clifford." * * * * * one might suppose that a legatee to twenty-five thousand dollars could be readily found; but miss sadie burch proved a most elusive person. no burches grew in hoboken--according to either the telephone or the business directory--and mr. tutt's repeated advertisements in the newspapers of that city elicited no response. three months went by and it began to look as if the lady had either died or permanently absented herself--and that payson clifford might be able to keep his twenty-five thousand with a clear conscience. then one day in may came a letter from a small town in the central part of new jersey from sadie burch. she had, she said, only just learned entirely by accident that she was an object of interest to messrs. tutt & tutt. unfortunately, it was not convenient for her to come to new york city, but if she could be of any service to them she would be pleased, etc. "i think i'll give the lady the once-over!" remarked mr. tutt, as he looked across the glittering bay to the shadowy hills of new jersey. "it's a wonderful day, and there isn't much to do here...." * * * * * "sadie burch? sadie burch? sure, i know her!" answered the lanky man driving the flivver tractor nearby, as he inspected the motor carrying mr. tutt. "she lives in the second house beyond the big elm--" and he started plowing again with a great clatter. the road glared white in the late afternoon sun. on either side stretched miles of carefully cultivated fields, the country drowsed, the air hot, but sweet with magnolia, lilac and apple blossoms. miss burch had obviously determined that when she retired from the world of men she would make a thorough job of it and expose herself to no temptation to return--eight miles from the nearest railroad. just beyond the elms they slowed up alongside a white picket fence enclosing an old-fashioned garden whence came to mr. tutt the busy murmur of bees. then they came to a gate that opened upon a red-tiled, box-bordered, moss-grown walk, leading to a small white house with blue and white striped awnings. a green and gold lizard poked its head out of the hedge and eyed mr. tutt rather with curiosity than hostility. "does miss sadie burch live here?" asked mr. tutt of the lizard. "yes!" answered a cheerful female voice from the veranda. "won't you come up on the piazza?" the voice was not the kind of voice mr. tutt had imagined as belonging to sadie burch. but neither was the lady on the piazza that kind of lady. in the shadow of the awning in a comfortable rocking chair sat a white-haired, kindly-faced woman, knitting a baby jacket. she looked up at him with a friendly smile. "i'm miss burch," she said. "i suppose you're that lawyer i wrote to? won't you come up and sit down?" "thanks," he replied, drawing nearer with an answering smile. "i can only stay a few moments and i've been sitting in the motor most of the day. i might as well come to the point at once. you have doubtless heard of the death of mr. payson clifford, senior?" miss burch laid down the baby-jacket and her lips quivered. then the tears welled in her faded blue eyes and she fumbled hastily in her bosom for her handkerchief. "you must excuse me!" she said in a choked voice. "--yes, i read about it. he was the best friend i had in the world,--except my brother john. the kindest, truest friend that ever lived!" she looked out across the little garden and wiped her eyes again. mr. tutt sat down upon the moss-covered door-step beside her. "i always thought he was a good man," he returned quietly. "he was an old client of mine--although i didn't know him very well." "i owe this house to him," continued miss burch tenderly. "if it hadn't been for mr. clifford i don't know what would have become of me. now that john is dead and i'm all alone in the world this little place--with the flowers and the bees--is all i've got." they were silent for several moments. then mr. tutt said: "no, it isn't all. mr. clifford left a letter with his will in which he instructed his son to pay you twenty-five thousand dollars. i'm here to give it to you." a puzzled look came over her face, and then she smiled again and shook her head. "that was just like him!" she remarked. "but it's all a mistake. he paid me back that money five years ago. you see he persuaded john to go into some kind of a business scheme with him and they lost all they put into it--twenty-five thousand apiece. it was all we had. it wasn't his fault, but after john died mr. clifford made me--simply made me--let him give the money back. he must have written the letter before that and forgotten all about it!" you're another! "we have strict statutes, and most biting laws." measure for measure, act i, scene . "i am further of opinion that it would be better for us to have [no laws] at all than to have them in so prodigious numbers as we have." montaigne. of experience, chapter xiii. mrs. pierpont pumpelly, lawful spouse of vice president pumpelly, of cuban crucible, erstwhile of athens, ohio, was fully conscious that even if she wasn't the smartest thing on fifth avenue, her snappy little car was. it was, as she said, a "perfec' beejew!" the two robes of silver fox alone had cost eighty-five hundred dollars, but that was nothing; mrs. pumpelly--in her stockings--cost pierpont at least ten times that every year. but he could afford it with cruce at . so, having moved from athens to the metropolis, they had a glorious time. out home the pierpont had been simply a p. and no questions asked as to what it stood for; p. pumpelly. but whatever its past the p. had now blossomed definitely into pierpont. though the said pierpont produced the wherewithal, it was his wife, edna, who attended to the disbursing of it. she loved her husband, but regarded him socially as somewhat of a liability, and society was now, as she informed everybody, her "meal yure." she had eaten her way straight through the meal--opera box, pew at st. simeon stylites, crystal room, musicales, carusals, hospital entertainments, malted milk for freezing france, inns for indigent italians, biscuits for bereft belgians, dinner parties, lunch parties, supper parties, the whole thing; and a lot of the right people had come, too. the fly in the ointment of her social happiness--and unfortunately it happened to be an extremely gaudy butterfly indeed--was her next-door neighbor, mrs. rutherford wells, who obstinately refused to recognize her existence. at home, in athens, edna would have resorted to the simple expedient of sending over the hired girl to borrow something. but here there was nothing doing. mrs. rutherford had probably never seen her own chef and mrs. pumpelly was afraid of hers. besides, even edna recognized the lamentable fact that it was up to mrs. wells to call first, which she didn't. once when the ladies had emerged simultaneously from their domiciles mrs. pumpelly had smilingly waddled forward a few steps with an ingratiating bow, but mrs. wells had looked over her head and hadn't seen her. thereupon the iron had entered into mrs. pumpelly's soul and her life had become wormwood and gall, ashes in her mouth and all the rest of it. she proposed to get even with the cat at the very first chance, but somehow the chance never seemed to come. she hated to be living on the same street with that kind of nasty person. and who was this wells woman? her husband never did a thing except play croquet or something at a club! he probably was a drunkard--and a roo-ay. mrs. pumpelly soon convinced herself that mrs. wells also must be a very undesirable, if not hopelessly immoral lady. anyhow, she made up her mind that she would certainly take nothing further from her. even if mrs. wells should have a change of heart and see fit to call, she just wouldn't return it! so when she rolled up in the diminutive car and found mrs. wells' lumbering limousine blocking the doorway she was simply furious. "make that man move along!" she directed, and jules honked and honked, but the limousine did not budge. then mrs. pumpelly gave way to a fit of indignation that would have done her proud even in athens, ohio. fire-breathing, she descended from her car and, approaching the limousine, told the imperturbable chauffeur that even if he did work for mrs. rutherford wells, mrs. rutherford wells was no better than anybody else, and that gave him no right to block up the whole street. she spoke loudly, emphatically, angrily, and right in the middle of it the chauffeur, who had not deigned to look in her direction, slyly pressed the electric button of his horn and caused it to emit a low scornful grunt. then a footman opened the door of the wells mansion and mrs. rutherford wells herself came down the steps, and mrs. pumpelly told her to her face exactly what she thought of her and ordered her to move her car along so her own could get in front of the vestibule. mrs. wells ignored her. deliberately--and as if there were no such person as mrs. pumpelly upon the sidewalk--she stepped into her motor and, the chauffeur having adjusted the robe, she remarked in a casual, almost indifferent manner that nevertheless made mrs. pumpelly squirm, "go to mr. hepplewhite's, william. pay no attention to that woman. if she makes any further disturbance call a policeman." and the limousine rolled away with a sneer at mrs. pumpelly from the exhaust. more than one king has been dethroned for far less cause! * * * * * "you telephone mr. edgerton," she almost shrieked at simmons, the butler, "that he should come right up here as fast as he can. i've got to see him at once!" "very good, madam," answered simmons obsequiously. and without more ado, in less than forty minutes, the distinguished mr. wilfred edgerton, of edgerton & edgerton, attorneys for cuban crucible and hence alert to obey the behests of the wives of the officers thereof, had deposited his tall silk hat on the marble renaissance table in the front hall and was entering mrs. pumpelly's louis quinze drawing-room with the air of a sir walter raleigh approaching his queen elizabeth. "sit down, mr. edgerton!" directed the lady impressively. "no, you'll find that other chair more comfortable; the one you're in's got a hump in the seat. as i was saying to the butler before you came, i've been insulted and i propose to teach that woman she can't make small of me no matter what it costs--and pierpont says you're no slouch of a charger at that." "my dear madam!" stammered the embarrassed attorney. "of course, there are lawyers and lawyers. but if you wish the best i feel sure my firm charges no more than others of equal standing. in any event you can be assured of our devotion to your interests. now what, may i ask, are the circumstances of the case?" "mr. edgerton," she began, "i just want you should listen carefully to what i have to say. this woman next door to me here has--" at this point, as paper is precious and the lady voluble, we will drop the curtain upon the first act of our legal comedy. * * * * * "i suppose we'll have to do it for her!" growled mr. wilfred edgerton to his brother on his return to their office. "she's a crazy idiot and i'm very much afraid we'll all get involved in a good deal of undesirable publicity. still, she's the wife of the vice president of our best paying client!" "what does she want us to do?" asked mr. winfred, the other edgerton. "we can't afford to be made ridiculous--for anybody." this was quite true since dignity was edgerton & edgerton's long suit, they being the variety of wall street lawyers who are said to sleep in their tall hats and cutaways. "if you can imagine it," replied his brother irritably, "she insists on our having mrs. wells arrested for obstructing the street in front of her house. she asked me if it wasn't against the law, and i took a chance and told her it was. then she wanted to start for the police court at once, but as i'd never been in one i said we'd have to prepare the papers; i didn't know what papers." "but we can't arrest mrs. wells!" expostulated mr. winfred edgerton. "she's socially one of our most prominent people. i dined with her only last week!" "that's why mrs. pumpelly wants to have her arrested, i fancy!" replied mr. wilfred gloomily. "mrs. wells has given her the cold shoulder. it's no use; i tried to argue the old girl out of it, but i couldn't. she knows what she wants and she jolly well intends to have it." "i wish you joy of her!" mournfully rejoined the younger edgerton. "but it's your funeral. i can't help you. i never got anybody arrested and i haven't the least idea how to go about it." "neither have i," admitted his brother. "luckily my practise has not been of that sort. however, it can't be a difficult matter. the main thing is to know exactly what we are trying to arrest mrs. wells for." "why don't you retain tutt & tutt to do it for us?" suggested winfred. "criminal attorneys are used to all that sort of rotten business." "oh, it wouldn't do to let pumpelly suspect we couldn't handle it ourselves. besides, the lady wants distinguished counsel to represent her. no, for once we've got to lay dignity aside. i think i'll send maddox up to the criminal courts building and have him find out just what to do." it may seem remarkable that neither of the members of a high-class law firm in new york city should ever have been in a police court, but such a situation is by no means infrequent. the county or small-town attorney knows his business from the ground up. he starts with assault and battery, petty larceny and collection cases and gradually works his way up, so to speak, to murder and corporate reorganizations. but in wall street the young student whose ambition is to appear before the supreme court of the united states in some constitutional matter as soon as possible is apt to spend his early years in brief writing and then become a specialist in real estate, corporation, admiralty or probate law and perhaps never see the inside of a trial court at all, much less a police court, which, to the poor and ignorant, at any rate, is the most important court of any of them, since it is here that the citizen must go to enforce his everyday rights. mr. wilfred edgerton suspected that a magistrate's court was a dirty sort of hole, full of brawling shyster lawyers, and he didn't want to know any more about such places than he could help. theoretically he was aware that on a proper complaint sworn to by a person supposing himself or herself criminally aggrieved the judge would issue a warrant to an officer, who would execute it on the person of the criminal and hale him or her to jail. the idea of mrs. wells being dragged shrieking down fifth avenue or being carted away from her house in a black maria filled him with dismay. yet that was what mrs. pumpelly proposed to have done, and unfortunately he had to do exactly what mrs. pumpelly said; quickly too. "maddox," he called to a timid youth in a green eye-shade sitting in lonely grandeur in the spacious library, "just run up to the--er--magistrate's court on blank street and ascertain the proper procedure for punishing a person for obstructing the highway. if you find an appropriate statute or ordinance you may lay an information against mrs. rutherford wells for violating it this afternoon in front of the residence next to hers; and see that the proper process issues in the regular way." to hear him one would have thought he did things like that daily before breakfast--such is the effect of legal jargon. "yes, sir," answered maddox respectfully, making a note. "do you wish to have the warrant held or executed?" mr. wilfred edgerton bit his mustache doubtfully. "we-ell," he answered at length, perceiving that he stood upon the brink of a legal rubicon, "you may do whatever seems advisable under all the circumstances." in his nervous condition he did not recall what, had he stopped calmly to consider the matter, he must have known very well--namely, that no warrant could possibly issue unless mrs. pumpelly, as complainant, signed and swore to the information herself. "very well, sir," answered maddox, in the same tone and manner that he would have used had he been a second footman at mrs. pumpelly's. thereafter both edgertons, but particularly wilfred, passed a miserable hour. they realized that they had started something and they had no idea of where, how or when what they had started would stop. indeed they had terrifying visions of mrs. wells being beaten into insensibility, if not into a pulp, by a cohort of brutal police officers, and of their being held personally responsible. but before anything of that sort actually happened maddox returned. "well," inquired wilfred with an assumption of nonchalance, "what did you find out?" "the magistrate said that we would have to apply at the court in the district where the offense occurred and that mrs. pumpelly would have to appear there in person. obstructing a highway is a violation of section two of article two of the police department regulations for street traffic, which reads: 'a vehicle waiting at the curb shall promptly give way to a vehicle arriving to take up or set down passengers.' it is not usual to issue a warrant in such cases, but a summons merely." "ah!" sighed both edgertons in great relief. "upon which the defendant must appear in default of fine or imprisonment," continued maddox. the two lawyers looked at one another inquiringly. "did they treat you--er--with politeness?" asked wilfred curiously. "oh, well enough," answered the clerk. "i can't say it's a place i hanker to have much to do with. it's not like an afternoon tea party. but it's all right. do you wish me to do anything further?" "yes!" replied wilfred with emphasis, "i do. i wish you would go right up to mrs. pumpelly's house, conduct that lady to the nearest police court and have her swear out the summons for mrs. wells herself. i'll telephone her that you are coming." which was a wise conclusion, in view of the fact that edna pumpelly, née haskins, was much better equipped by nature to take care of mr. wilfred edgerton in the hectic environs of a police court than he was qualified to take care of her. and so it was that just as mrs. rutherford wells was about to sit down to tea with several fashionable friends her butler entered, bearing upon a salver a printed paper, which he presented to her, in manner and form the following: city magistrate's court, city of new york in the name of the people of the state of new york to "jane" wells, the name "jane" being fictitious: you are hereby summoned to appear before the ------ district magistrate's court, borough of manhattan, city of new york, on the eighth day of may, , at ten o'clock in the forenoon, to answer the charge made against you by edna pumpelly for violation of section two, article two of the traffic regulations providing that a vehicle waiting at the curb shall promptly give way to a vehicle arriving to take up or set down passengers, and upon your failure to appear at the time and place herein mentioned you are liable to a fine of not exceeding fifty dollars or to imprisonment of not exceeding ten days or both. dated th day of may, . james cuddahey, police officer, police precinct ------, new york city. attest: john j. jones, chief city magistrate. "heavens!" cried mrs. wells as she read this formidable document. "what a horrible woman! what shall i do?" mr. john de puyster hepplewhite, one of the nicest men in new york, who had himself once had a somewhat interesting experience in the criminal courts in connection with the arrest of a tramp who had gone to sleep in a pink silk bed in the hepplewhite mansion on fifth avenue, smiled deprecatingly, set down his dresden-china cup and dabbed his mustache decorously with a filigree napkin. "dear lady," he remarked with conviction, "in such distressing circumstances i have no hesitation whatever in advising you to consult mr. ephraim tutt." * * * * * "i have been thinking over what you said the other day regarding the relationship of crime to progress, mr. tutt, and i'm rather of the opinion that it's rot," announced tutt as he strolled across from his own office to that of his senior partner for a cup of tea at practically the very moment when mr. hepplewhite was advising mrs. wells. "in the vernacular--bunk." "what did he say?" asked miss wiggin, rinsing out with hot water tutt's special blue-china cup, in the bottom of which had accumulated some reddish-brown dust from mason & welsby's admiralty and divorce reports upon the adjacent shelf. "he made the point," answered tutt, helping himself to a piece of toast, "that crime was--if i may be permitted to use the figure--part of the onward urge of humanity toward a new and perhaps better social order; a natural impulse to rebel against existing abuses; and he made the claim that though an unsuccessful revolutionary was of course regarded as a criminal, on the other hand, if successful he at once became a patriot, a hero, a statesman or a saint." "a very dangerous general doctrine, i should say," remarked miss wiggin. "i should think it all depended on what sort of laws he was rebelling against. i don't see how a murderer could ever be regarded as assisting in the onward urge toward sweetness and light, exactly." "wouldn't it depend somewhat on whom you were murdering?" inquired mr. tutt, finally succeeding in his attempt to make a damp stogy continue in a state of combustion. "if you murdered a tyrant wouldn't you be contributing toward progress?" "no," retorted miss wiggin, "you wouldn't; and you know it. in certain cases where the laws are manifestly unjust, antiquated or perhaps do not really represent the moral sense of the community their violation may occasionally call attention to their absurdity, like the famous blue laws of connecticut, for example; but as the laws as a whole do crystallize the general opinion of what is right and desirable in matters of conduct a movement toward progress would be exhibited not by breaking laws but by making laws." "but," argued mr. tutt, abandoning his stogy, "isn't the making of a new law the same thing as changing an old law? and isn't changing a law essentially the same thing as breaking it?" "it isn't," replied miss wiggin tartly. "for the obvious and simple reason that the legislators who change the laws have the right to do so, while the man who breaks them has not." "all the same," admitted tutt, slightly wavering, "i see what mr. tutt means." "oh, i see what he means!" sniffed miss wiggin. "i was only combating what he said!" "but the making of laws does not demonstrate progress," perversely insisted mr. tutt. "the more statutes you pass the more it indicates that you need 'em. an ideal community would have no laws at all." "there's a thought!" interjected tutt. "and there wouldn't be any lawyers either!" "as king hal said: 'the first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers,'" commented mr. tutt. "awful vision!" ejaculated miss wiggin. "luckily for us, that day has not yet dawned. however, mr. tutt's argument is blatantly fallacious. of course, the making of new laws indicates an impulse toward social betterment--and therefore toward progress." "it seems to me," ventured tutt, "that this conversation is more than usually theoretical--not to say specious! the fact of the matter is that the law is a part of our civilization and the state of the law marks the stage of our development--more or less." mr. tutt smiled sardonically. "you have enunciated two great truths," said he. "first, that it is a 'part'; and second, 'more or less.' the law is a very small part of our protection against what is harmful to us. it is only one of our sanctions of conduct, and a very crude one at that. did you ever stop to think that compared with religion the efficacy of the law was almost _nil_? the law deals with conduct, but only at a certain point. we are apt to find fault with it because it makes what appear to us to be arbitrary and unreasonable distinctions. that in large measure is because law is only supplementary." "how do you mean--supplementary?" queried tutt. "why," answered his partner, "as james c. carter pointed out, ninety-nine per cent of all law is unwritten. what keeps most people straight is not criminal statutes but their own sense of decency, conscience or whatever you may choose to call it. doubtless you recall the famous saying of diogenes laertius: 'there is a written and an unwritten law. the one by which we regulate our constitutions in our cities is the written law; that which arises from custom is the unwritten law.' i see that, of course you do! as i was saying only the other day, infractions of good taste and of manners, civil wrongs, sins, crimes--are in essence one and the same, differing only in degree. thus the man who goes out to dinner without a collar violates the laws of social usage; if he takes all his clothes off and walks the streets he commits a crime. in a measure it simply depends on how many clothes he has on what grade of offense he commits. from that point of view the man who is not a gentleman is in a sense a criminal. but the law can't make a man a gentleman." "i should say not!" murmured miss wiggin. "well," continued mr. tutt, "we have various ways of dealing with these outlaws. the man who violates our ideas of good taste or good manners is sent to coventry; the man who does you a wrong is mulcted in damages; the sinner is held under the town pump and ridden out of town on a rail, or the church takes a hand and threatens him with the hereafter; but if he crosses a certain line we arrest him and lock him up--either from public spirit or for our own private ends." "hear! hear!" cried tutt admiringly. "fundamentally there is only an arbitrary distinction between wrongs, sins and crimes. the meanest and most detestable of men, beside whom an honest burglar is a sympathetic human being, may yet never violate a criminal statute." "that's so!" said tutt. "take badger, for instance." "how often we defend cases," ruminated his partner, "where the complainant is just as bad as the prisoner at the bar--if not worse." "and of course," added tutt, "you must admit there are a lot of criminals who are criminals from perfectly good motives. take the man, for instance, who thrashes a bystander who insults his wife--the man's wife, i mean, naturally." "only in those cases where we elect to take the law into our own hands we ought to be willing to accept the consequences like gentlemen and sportsmen," commented the senior partner. "this is all very interesting, no doubt," remarked miss wiggin, "but as a matter of general information i should like to know why the criminal law doesn't punish the sinners--as well as the criminals." "i guess one reason," replied tutt, "is that people don't wish to be kept from sinning." "thou hast spoken!" agreed mr. tutt. "and another reason is that the criminal law was not originally devised for the purpose of eradicating sin--which, after all, is the state into which it is said man was born--but was only intended to prevent certain kinds of physical violence and lawlessness--murder, highway robbery, assault, and so on. the church was supposed to take care of sin, and there was an elaborate system of ecclesiastical courts. in point of fact, though there is a great deal of misconception on the subject, the criminal law does not deal with sin as sin at all, or even with wrongs merely as wrongs. it has a precise and limited purpose--namely, to prevent certain kinds of acts and to compel the performance of other acts. "the state relies on the good taste and sense of decency, duty and justice of the individual citizen to keep him in order most of the time. it doesn't, or anyhow it shouldn't, attempt to deal with trifling peccadillos; it generally couldn't. it merely says that if a man's conscience and idea of fair play aren't enough to make him behave himself, why, then, when he gets too obstreperous we'll lock him up. and different generations have had entirely different ideas about what was too obstreperous to be overlooked. in the early days the law only punished bloodshed and violence. later on, its scope was increased, until thousands of acts and omissions are now made criminal by statute. but that explains why the fact that something is a sin doesn't necessarily mean that it is a crime. the law is artificial and not founded on any general attempt to prohibit what is unethical, but simply to prevent what is immediately dangerous to life, limb and property." "which, after all, is a good thing--for it leaves us free to do as we choose so long as we don't harm anybody else," said miss wiggin. "yet," her employer continued, "unfortunately--or perhaps fortunately from our professional point of view--our lawmakers from time to time get rather hysterical and pass such a multiplicity of statutes that nobody knows whether he is committing crime or not." "in this enlightened state," interposed tutt, "it's a crime to advertise as a divorce lawyer; to attach a corpse for payment of debt; to board a train while it is in motion; to plant oysters without permission; or without authority wear the badge of the patrons of husbandry." "really, one would have to be a student to avoid becoming a criminal," commented miss wiggin. mr. tutt rose and, looking along one of the shelves, took down a volume which he opened at a point marked by a burned match thrust between the leaves. "my old friend joseph h. choate," he remarked, "in his memorial of his partner, charles h. southmayde, who was generally regarded as one of the greatest lawyers of our own or any other generation, says, 'the ever-growing list of misdemeanors, created by statute, disturbed him, and he even employed counsel to watch for such statutes introduced into the legislature--mantraps, as he called them--lest he might, without knowing it, commit offenses which might involve the penalty of imprisonment.'" "we certainly riot in the printed word," said miss wiggin. "do you know that last year alone to interpret all those statutes and decide the respective rights of our citizens the supreme court of this state wrote five thousand eight hundred pages of opinion?" "good lord!" ejaculated tutt. "is that really so?" "of course it is!" she answered. "but who reads the stuff?" demanded the junior partner. "i don't!" "the real lawyers," replied miss wiggin innocently. "the judges who write them probably read them," declared mr. tutt. "and the defeated litigants; the successful ones merely read the final paragraphs." "but coming back to crime for a moment," said miss wiggin, pouring herself out a second cup of tea; "i had almost forgotten that the criminal law was originally intended only to keep down violence. that explains a lot of things. i confess to being one of those who unconsciously assumed that the law is a sort of official mrs. grundy." "not at all! not at all!" corrected mr. tutt. "the law makes no pretense of being an arbiter of morals. even where justice is concerned it expects the mere sentiment of the community to be capable of dealing with trifling offenses. the laws of etiquette and manners, devised for 'the purpose of keeping fools at a distance,' are reasonably adapted to enforcing the dictates of good taste and to dealing with minor offenses against our ideas of propriety." "i wonder," hazarded miss wiggin thoughtfully, "if there isn't some sociological law about crimes, like the law of diminishing returns in physics?" "the law of what?" "why, the law that the greater the force or effort applied to anything," she explained a little vaguely, "the greater the resistance becomes, until the effort doesn't accomplish anything; increased speed in a warship, for instance." "what's that got to do with crime?" "why, the more statutes you pass and more new crimes you create the harder it becomes to enforce obedience to them, until finally you can't enforce them at all." "that is rather a profound analogy," observed mr. tutt. "it might well repay study." "miss wiggin has no corner on analogies," chirped tutt. "passing statutes creating new crimes is like printing paper money without anything back of it; in the one case there isn't really any more money than there was before and in the other there isn't really any more crime either." "only it makes more business for us." "i've got another idea," continued tutt airily, "and that is that crime is a good thing. not because it means progress or any bunk like that, but because unless you had a certain amount of crime, and also criminal lawyers to attack the law, the state would never find out the weaknesses in its statutes. therefore the more crime there is the more the protective power of the state is built up, just as the fever engendered by vaccine renders the human body immune from smallpox! eh, what?" "i never heard such nonsense!" exclaimed miss wiggin. "do let me give you some more tea! eh, what?" but at that moment willie announced that mr. rutherford wells was calling to see mr. tutt and tea was hastily adjourned. half an hour later the old lawyer rang for bonnie doon. "bonnie," he said, "one of our clients has been complained against by her next-door neighbor, a got-rich-quick lady, for obstructing the street with her motor. it's obviously a case of social envy, hatred and malice. just take a run up there in the morning, give mrs. pierpont pumpelly and her premises the once-over and let me know of any violations you happen to observe. i don't care how technical they are, either." "all right, mr. tutt," answered bonnie. "i get you. isn't there a new ordinance governing the filling of garbage cans?" "i think there is," nodded mr. tutt. "and meantime i think i'll drop over and see judge o'hare." * * * * * "i'll settle her hash for her, the hussy!" declared mrs. pumpelly to her husband at dinner the following evening. "i'll teach her to insult decent people and violate the law. just because her husband belongs to a swell club she thinks she can do as she likes! but i'll show her! wait till i get her in court to-morrow!" "well, of course, edna, i'll stand back of you and all that," pierpont assured her. "no, thank you, simmons, i don't wish any more 'voly vong.' but i'd hate to see you get all messed up in a police court!" "me--messed up!" she exclaimed haughtily. "i guess i can take care of myself most anywheres--good and plenty!" "of course you can, dearie!" he protested in a soothing tone. "but these shyster lawyers who hang around those places--you 'member jim o'leary out home to athens? well, they don't know a lady when they see one, and they wouldn't care if they did; and they'll try and pry into your past life--" "i haven't got any past life, and you know it too, pierpont pumpelly!" she retorted hotly. "i'm a respectable, law-abidin' woman, i am. i never broke a law in all my days--" "excuse me, madam," interposed simmons, with whom the second footman had just held a whispered conference behind the screen, "but james informs me that there is a police hofficer awaiting to see you in the front 'all." "to see me?" ejaculated mrs. pumpelly. "yes, madam." "i suppose it's about to-morrow. tell him to call round about nine o'clock in the morning." "'e says 'e must see you to-night, ma'am," annotated james excitedly. "and 'e acted most hobnoxious to me!" "oh, he acted obnoxious, did he?" remarked mrs. pumpelly airily. "what was he obnoxious about?" "'e 'as a paper 'e says 'e wants to serve on you personal," answered james in agitation. "'e says if you will hallow 'm to step into the dining-room 'e won't take a minute." "perhaps we'd better let him come in," mildly suggested pierpont. "it's always best to keep on good terms with the police." "but i haven't broken any law," repeated mrs. pumpelly blankly. "maybe you have without knowin' it," commented her husband. "why, pierpont pumpelly, you know i never did such a thing!" she retorted. "well, let's have him in, anyway," he urged. "i can't digest my food with him sitting out there in the hall." mrs. pumpelly took control of the situation. "have the man in, simmons!" she directed grandly. and thereupon entered officer patrick roony. politely officer roony removed his cap, politely he unbuttoned several yards of blue overcoat and fumbled in the caverns beneath. eventually he brought forth a square sheet of paper--it had a certain familiarity of aspect for mrs. pumpelly--and handed it to her. "sorry to disturb you, ma'am," he apologized, "but i was instructed to make sure and serve you personal." "that's all right! that's all right!" said pierpont with an effort at bonhomie. "the--er--butler will give you a highball if you say so." "oh, boy, lead me to it!" murmured roony in the most approved manner of east fourteenth street. "which way?" "come with me!" intoned simmons with the exalted gesture of an archbishop conducting an ecclesiastical ceremonial. "what does it say?" asked her husband hurriedly as the butler led the cop to it. "sh-h!" warned mrs. pumpelly. "james, kindly retire!" james retired, and the lady examined the paper by the tempered light of the shaded candles surrounding what was left of the "voly vong." "who ever heard of such a thing?" she cried. "just listen here, pierpont!" "city magistrate's court, city of new york "in the name of the people of the state of new york "to 'maggie' pumpelly, the name 'maggie' being fictitious: "you are hereby summoned to appear before the ------ district magistrate's court, borough of manhattan, city of new york, on the tenth day of may, , at ten o'clock in the forenoon, to answer to the charge made against you by william mulcahy for violation of section one, article two, of the police traffic regulations in that on may , , you permitted a vehicle owned or controlled by you to stop with its left side to the curb on a street other than a one-way traffic street; and also for violation of section seventeen, article two of chapter twenty-four of the code of ordinances of the city of new york in that on the date aforesaid, being the owner of a vehicle subject to subdivision one of said section and riding therein, you caused or permitted the same to proceed at a rate of speed greater than four miles an hour in turning corner of intersecting highways, to wit, park avenue and seventy-third street; and upon your failure to appear at the time and place herein mentioned you are liable to a fine of not exceeding fifty dollars or to imprisonment of not exceeding ten days or both. "dated th day of may, . "patrick roony, police officer, "police precinct ----, "new york city. "attest: john j. jones, "chief city magistrate." "well, i never!" she exploded. "what rubbish! four miles an hour! and 'maggie'--as if everybody didn't know my name was edna!" "the whole thing looks a bit phony to me!" muttered pierpont, worried over the possibility of having wasted a slug of the real thing on an unreal police officer. "perhaps that feller wasn't a cop at all!" "and who's william mul-kay-hay?" she continued. "i don't know any such person! you better call up mr. edgerton right away and see what the law is." "i hope he knows!" countered mr. pumpelly. "four miles an hour--that's a joke! a baby carriage goes faster than four miles an hour. you wouldn't arrest a baby!" "well, call him up!" directed mrs. pumpelly. "tell him he should come right round over here." the summons from his client interrupted mr. edgerton in the middle of an expensive dinner at his club and he left it in no good humor. he didn't like being ordered round like a servant the way mrs. pumpelly was ordering him. it wasn't dignified. moreover, a lawyer out of his office was like a snail out of its shell--at a distinct disadvantage. you couldn't just make an excuse to step into the next office for a moment and ask somebody what the law was. the edgertons always kept somebody in an adjoining office who knew the law--many lawyers do. on the pumpelly stoop the attorney found standing an evil-looking and very shabby person holding a paper in his hand, but he ignored him until the grilled iron _cinquecento_ door swung open, revealing james, the retiring second man. then, before he could enter, the shabby person pushed past him and asked in a loud, vulgar tone: "does edna pumpelly live here?" james stiffened in the approved style of erect vertebrata. "this is madame pierpont pumpelly's residence," he replied with hauteur. "madam or no madam, just slip this to her," said the shabby one. "happy days!" mr. wilfred edgerton beneath the medieval tapestry of the pumpelly marble hall glanced at the dirty sheet in james' hand and, though unfamiliar with the form of the document, perceived it to be a summons issued on the application of one henry j. goldsmith and returnable next day, for violating section two hundred and fifteen of article twelve of chapter twenty of the municipal ordinances for keeping and maintaining a certain bird, to wit, a cockatoo, which by its noise did disturb the quiet and repose of a certain person in the vicinity to the detriment of the health of such person, to wit, henry j. goldsmith, aforesaid, and upon her failure to appear, and so on. wilfred had some sort of vague idea of a law about keeping birds, but he couldn't exactly recall what it was. there was something incongruous about mrs. pierpont pumpelly keeping a cockatoo. what did anybody want of a cockatoo? he concluded that it must be an ancestral hereditament from athens, ohio. nervously he ascended the stairs to what edna called the saloon. "so you've come at last!" cried she. "well, what have you got to say to this? is it against the law to go round a corner at more than four miles an hour?" now, whereas mr. wilfred edgerton could have told mrs. pumpelly the "rule in shelly's case" or explained the doctrine of _cy pres_, he had never read the building code or the health ordinances or the traffic regulations, and in the present instance the latter were to the point while the former were not. thus he was confronted with the disagreeable alternative of admitting his ignorance or bluffing it through. he chose the latter, unwisely. "of course not! utter nonsense!" replied he blithely. "the lawful rate of speed is at least fifteen miles an hour." "excuse me, madam," said james, appearing once more in the doorway. "a man has just left this--er--paper at the area doorway." mrs. pumpelly snatched it out of his hand. "well, of all things!" she gasped. "to 'bridget' pumpelly," it began, "said first name 'bridget' being fictitious: "you are hereby summoned to appear ... for violating section two hundred and forty-eight of article twelve of chapter twenty of the health ordinances in that you did upon the seventh day of may, , fail to keep a certain tin receptacle used for swill or garbage, in shape and form a barrel, within the building occupied and owned by you until proper time for its removal and failed to securely bundle, tie up and pack the newspapers and other light refuse and rubbish contained therein, and, further, that you caused and permitted certain tin receptacles, in the shape and form of barrels, containing such swill or garbage, to be filled to a greater height with such swill or garbage than a line within such receptacle four inches from the top thereof." "now what do you know about that?" remarked the vice president of cuban crucible to the senior partner of edgerton & edgerton. "i don't know anything about it!" answered the elegant wilfred miserably. "i don't know the law of garbage, and there's no use pretending that i do. you'd better get a garbage lawyer." "i thought all lawyers were supposed to know the law!" sniffed mrs. pumpelly. "what's that you got in your hand?" "it's another summons, for keeping a bird," answered the attorney. "a bird? you don't suppose it's moses?" she exclaimed indignantly. "the name of the bird isn't mentioned," said wilfred. "but very likely it is moses if moses belongs to you." "but i've had moses ever since i was a little girl!" she protested. "and no one ever complained of him before." "beg pardon, madam," interposed simmons, parting the flemish arras, upon which was depicted the sinking of the spanish armada. "officer roony is back again with two more papers. 'e says it isn't necessary for him to see you again, as once is enough, but 'e was wondering whether being as it was rather chilly--" "lead him to it!" hastily directed pierpont, who was beginning to get a certain amount of enjoyment out of the situation. "but tell him he needn't call again." "give 'em here!" snapped mrs. pumpelly, grasping the documents. "this is a little too much! 'lulu' this time. fictitious as usual. who's julius aberthaw? he says i caused a certain rug to be shaken in such place and manner that certain particles of dust passed therefrom into the public street or highway, to wit, east seventy-third street, contrary to section two hundred and fifty-three of article twelve of chapter twenty of the municipal ordinances. huh!" "what's the other one?" inquired her husband with a show of sympathy. "for violating section fifteen of article two of chapter twenty, in that on may , , i permitted a certain unmuzzled dog, to wit, a pekingese brown spaniel dog, to be on a public highway, to wit, east seventy-third street in the city of new york. but that was randolph!" "was randolph muzzled?" inquired mr. edgerton maliciously. "of course not! he only weighs two pounds and a quarter!" protested mrs. pumpelly. "he can bite all right, just the same!" interpolated pierpont. "but what shall i do?" wailed mrs. pumpelly, now thoroughly upset. "guess you'll have to take your medicine, same's other violators of the law," commented her husband. "i never heard of such ridiculous laws!" "ignorance of the law excuses no one!" murmured wilfred. "it don't excuse a lawyer!" she snorted. "i have an idea you don't know much more about the law--this kind of law, anyway--than i do. i bet it is against the law to go round a corner at more than four miles! do you want to bet me?" "no, i don't!" snapped edgerton. "what you want is a police-court lawyer--if you're goin' in for this sort of thing." "my lord! what's this now, simmons?" she raved as the butler deprecatingly made his appearance again with another paper. "i think, madam," he answered soothingly, "that it's a summons for allowing the house man to use the hose on the sidewalk after eight a.m. roony just brought it." "h'm!" remarked mr. pumpelly. "don't lead him to it again!" "but i wouldn't have disturbed you if it hadn't been for a young gentleman who 'as called with another one regardin' the window boxes." "what about window boxes?" moaned mrs. pumpelly. "'e says," explained simmons, "'e 'as a summons for you regardin' the window boxes, but that if you'd care to speak to him perhaps the matter might be adjusted--" "let's see the summons!" exclaimed wilfred, coming to life. "'to edna pumpelly,'" he read. "they're gettin' more polite," she commented ironically. "'for violating section two hundred and fifty of article eighteen of chapter twenty-three in that you did place, keep and maintain upon a certain window sill of the premises now being occupied by you in the city of new york a window box for the cultivation or retention of flowers, shrubs, vines or other articles or things without the same being firmly protected by iron railings--'" "heavens," ejaculated mr. pumpelly, "there'll be somebody here in a minute complaining that i don't use the right length of shaving stick." "i understand," remarked mr. edgerton, "that in a certain western state they regulate the length of bed sheets!" "what's that for?" asked edna with sudden interest. "about seeing this feller?" hurriedly continued mr. pumpelly. "seems to me they've rather got you, edna!" "but what's the use seein' him?" she asked. "i'm summoned, ain't i?" "why not see the man?" advised mr. edgerton, gladly seizing this possibility of a diversion. "it cannot do any harm." "what is his name?" "mr. bonright doon," answered simmons encouragingly. "and he is a very pleasant-spoken young man." "very well," yielded mrs. pumpelly. two minutes later, "mr. doon!" announced simmons. though the friends of tutt & tutt have made the acquaintance of bonnie doon only casually, they yet have seen enough of him to realize that he is an up-and-coming sort of young person with an elastic conscience and an ingratiating smile. indeed the pumpellys were rather taken with his breezy "well, here we all are again!" manner as well as impressed by the fact that he was arrayed in immaculate evening costume. "i represent mr. ephraim tutt, who has been retained by your neighbor, mrs. rutherford wells, in connection with the summons which you caused to be issued against her yesterday," he announced pleasantly by way of introduction. "mrs. wells, you see, was a little annoyed by being referred to in the papers as jane when her proper name is beatrix. besides, she felt that the offense charged against her was--so to speak--rather trifling. however--be that as it may--she and her friends in the block are not inclined to be severe with you if you are disposed to let the matter drop." "inclined to be severe with me!" ejaculated mrs. pumpelly, bristling. "edna!" cautioned her husband. "mr. doon is not responsible." "exactly. i find after a somewhat casual investigation that you have been consistently violating a large number of city ordinances--keeping parrots, beating rugs, allowing unmuzzled dogs at large, overfilling your garbage cans, disregarding the speed laws and traffic regulations, using improperly secured window boxes--" "anything else?" inquired pierpont jocularly. "don't mind us." bonnie carelessly removed from the pocket of his dress coat a sheaf of papers. "one for neglecting to have your chauffeur display his metal badge on the outside of his coat--section ninety-four of article eight of chapter fourteen. "one for allowing your drop awnings to extend more than six feet from the house line--section forty-two of article five of chapter twenty-two. "one for failing to keep your curbstone at a proper level--section one hundred and sixty-four of article fourteen of chapter twenty-three. "one for maintaining an ornamental projection on your house--a statue, i believe, of the goddess venus--to project more than five feet beyond the building line--section one hundred and eighty-one of article fifteen of chapter twenty-three. "one for having your area gate open outwardly instead of inwardly--section one hundred and sixty-four of article fourteen of chapter twenty-three. "and one for failing to affix to the fanlight or door the street number of your house--section one hundred and ten of article ten of chapter twenty-three. "i dare say there are others." "i'd trust you to find 'em!" agreed mr. pumpelly. "now what's your proposition? what does it cost?" "it doesn't cost anything at all! drop your proceedings and we'll drop ours," answered bonnie genially. "what do you say, edgerton?" said pumpelly, turning to the disgruntled wilfred and for the first time in years assuming charge of his own domestic affairs. "i should say that it was an excellent compromise!" answered the lawyer soulfully. "there's something in the bible, isn't there, about pulling the mote out of your own eye before attempting to remove the beam from anybody's else?" "i believe there is," assented bonnie politely. "'you're another' certainly isn't a statutory legal plea, but as a practical defense--" "tit for tat!" said mr. edgerton playfully. "ha, ha! ha!" "ha, ha! ha!" mocked mrs. pumpelly, her nose high in air. "a lot of good you did me!" "by the way, young man," asked mr. pumpelly, "whom do you say you represent?" "tutt & tutt," cooed bonnie, instantly flashing one of the firm's cards. "thanks," said pumpelly, putting it carefully into his pocket. "i may need you sometime--perhaps even sooner. now, if by any chance you'd care for a highball--" "lead me right to it!" sighed bonnie ecstatically. "me, too!" echoed wilfred, to the great astonishment of those assembled. beyond a reasonable doubt "for twelve honest men have decided the cause, who are judges alike of the fact and the laws." --the honest jury. "lastly," says stevenson in his letter to a young gentleman who proposes to embrace the career of art, "we come to those vocations which are at once decisive and precise; to the men who are born with the love of pigments, the passion of drawing, the gift of music, or the impulse to create with words, just as other and perhaps the same men are born with the love of hunting, or the sea, or horses, or the turning lathe. these are predestined; if a man love the labor of any trade, apart from any question of success or fame, the gods have called him." had anybody told danny lowry that the gods had called him he would have stigmatized his informant as a liar--yet they had. for apart from any question of success or fame he had loved horses from the day when as a baby he had first sprawled in the straw of his uncle mike aherne's livery and hitching stable in dublin city. he had grown up to the scrape and whiffle of the currycomb, breathing ammonia, cracking the skin of his infantile knuckles with harness soap. out of the love that he bore for the beautiful dumb brutes grew an understanding that in time became almost uncanny. all the jockeys and hostlers said there was magic in the lad's hands. he could ride anything on hoofs with a slack rein; and the worst biter in the stable would take a bridle from him as it were an apple. "oft, now, i hear him talkin' to 'em, so i do." mike aherne was wont to say between spits. "an' they know what he says, i'm tellin' ye. he's a charmer, he is; like the whisperin' blacksmith. you've heard tell of him, belike? well, danny can spake to 'em widout even a whisper, so he can that!" that was near seventy years agone, and now danny was a shrunken little white-haired old wastrel who haunted mulqueen's livery over on twenty-fourth street near tenth avenue, disappearing in and out of the cellar and loft and stalls like a leprechaun haunts a hollow tree. nobody knew where he had come from or where he lived except that he could always be found wherever there was a suffering animal, be it dog, cat or squirrel, and the rest of the time at mulqueen's, with whom he had an understanding about the telephone. he was short, wiry, unshaven, with the legs of a jockey; and when he could get it he drank. that, however, was not why he had left ireland, which had had something to do with phoenix park; nor was it the cause of the decline of his fortunes, which had been the coming of the motor. some day a story must be written called the hitching post, about those thousands of little cast-iron negro boys who stand so patiently on the green grass strips along village streets waiting to hold long-forgotten bridle reins. they lost their usefulness a decade or more ago, and so, by the same token and at the same time, did all that army of people who lived and moved and had their being by ministering to the needs of the horse. the gas engine was to them what the mechanical bobbin was to the spinners of liverpool and belfast. with the coming of the motor the race of coachmen, grooms and veterinaries began to perish from the earth. among the last was danny lowry, at the very zenith of his fortunes an unofficial vet to most of the swell stables belonging to the carriage people of fifth avenue. one by one these stables had been converted into garages, and the broughams and c-spring victorias, the landaus and basket phaetons had been dragged to the auction room or shoved into dim corners to make room for snappy motors; and the horses danny knew and loved so well had been sold or turned out to grass. but there was nobody to turn danny out to grass. he had to keep going. so he had drifted lower and lower, passing from the private stable to the trucking stable, and from the trucking stable to the last remaining decrepit boarding and liveries of the remote west side. the tragedy of the horse is the tragedy of all who loved them. danny was one of these tragedies, but he still picked up a precarious living by doing odd jobs at mulqueen's and acting as a veterinary when called upon, and he could generally be found either loafing in the smelly little office or smoking his t d pipe on the steps outside. he and mr. ephraim tutt, the lawyer, who lived in the rickety old house with the tall windows and piazzas protected by railings of open ironwork round which twisted the stems of extinct wistarias, had long been friends. many a summer evening the two old men had sat together and discoursed of famous jockeys and still more famous horses, of epsom and ascot, until mr. tutt's cellaret was empty and never a stogy left in the box at all. probably no one save the odd lanky old attorney, who himself seemed to belong to a bygone era, knew the story of danny's glorious past--how he had risen from his uncle aherne's livery in dublin first to being paddock groom to lord ashburnham and then to jockey, finally to ride the derby under the farringdon gold and crimson, and to carry away katherine brady, the second housemaid, as mrs. lowry when he went back to dublin with a goodly pile of money to take over his uncle's business; and how thereafter had come babies, and fever, and the epizootic, and hard times; and danny, a heartbroken man, had fled from bereavement and pauperism and possibly from prison to seek his fortune in america. and then the motor! lastly, now, a hand-to-mouth, furtive, ignorant old age, a struggle for bare existence and to keep the tiny flat going for his seventeen-year-old granddaughter, katie, who kept house for him and of whose existence few, even of danny's friends, were aware excepting mr. tutt. there was, in fact, a striking parallel between these two old men, the one so ignorant, the other so essentially a man of culture, in that they were both humanitarians in a high sense. it is improbable that ephraim tutt was conscious of what drew him to danny lowry, but drawn he was; and the reason for it was that the fundamental mainspring of the life of each was love--in the case of the man of law for those of his fellow men who suffered through foolishness or poverty or weaknesses or misfortune; and in that of his more humble counterpart, whose limitations precluded his understanding of more endowed human beings, for the dumb animals, who must mutely suffer through the foolishness or poverty or weakness or misfortune of their owners and masters. danny had sat up all night with only a horse blanket drawn over his legs, taking care of a roan mare with the croup. the helpless thing had lain flat on her side in the straw struggling for breath, and danny, his heart racked with pity, had sat in the stall beside her, every hour giving her steam and gently pouring his own secret mixture down her throat. nobody but danny cared what became of the mare, left there two weeks before by a stranger who had not returned for it; stolen, probably. cramped, stiff with rheumatism, half dead from fatigue and suffering from a bad cough himself, he left the stable at eight o'clock next morning, hopeful that the miserable beast would pull through, and stepped round to salvatore's lunch cart for a bowl of coffee and a hot dog. he was just lighting his pipe preparatory to going back to the stable when a stranger pulled up to the curb in a mud-splashed depot wagon. "'morning," he remarked pleasantly. "can you tell me if mulqueen's livery stable is anywhere about here?" danny removed his pipe and spat politely. "sure," he replied, taking in the horse, which besides being lame and having a glaring spavin on its off hind leg was a mere bone bag fit only for the soap factory. "'tis just forninst the corner. i'm after goin' there meself." the stranger, a heavy-faced man with a thick neck, nodded. "all right. you go along and i'll follow." mulqueen was not yet at the stable and danny helped unharness the animal, which, as soon as relieved of the shafts, hung its head between its legs, evidently all in. the stranger handed danny a cigar. "i'm lookin' for a vet," said he. "my horse ought to have something done for him." "i can well see that!" agreed danny. "he needs a poultice and hot bandages. a bit of rest wouldn't do him no harm, neither." "well, i'm no vet," returned the stranger with an apologetic grin, "but it don't take much to know that he's a sick horse. i'm a doctor, myself, but not a horse doctor. have you got one here?" "some calls me a horse doctor," modestly answered danny. "i can treat a spavin and wind a bandage as well as the next. how long will you be leavin' him?" "oh, a day or two, i guess. well, if you're a veterinary i leave him in your care. my name's simon--dr. joseph r. simon, of hempstead, long island." danny worked all the morning over the horse, doing his best to make it comfortable. indeed, before he had concluded his treatment the animal was probably more comfortable than he, for the night in the cold stall had given him a chill and when he left the stable to go home for lunch he was in a high fever. doctor simon was outside on the sidewalk talking to mulqueen. "well, doctor," said he, "what did you find was the matter with my horse?" "spavin, lame in three legs, sore eyes, underfed," replied danny, shivering. "sure an' he's a sick animal." "how much do i owe you?" inquired doctor simon. danny was about to answer that a couple of dollars would be all right when the thought occurred to him that here was an opportunity to secure medical treatment for himself. "if you'll give me something to stop a fever we'll call it even," he suggested. "that's easy!" returned doctor simon heartily. "come into the office and i'll take your temperature and write you out a prescription." so they sat down by the stove and the doctor took danny's pulse and put a thermometer under his tongue, chatting amicably meanwhile, and when he had completed his examination he wrote something on a piece of paper. "how long have you been practicing veterinary medicine?" he inquired. "all my life," answered danny truthfully. "but i don't get near so much to do as i used. these be hard times for those as have to do with horses." he got up painfully. "well, now," said doctor simon, "i'd feel better if i paid you for treating my horse. just put this five-dollar bill in your pocket. i guess you need it more than i do." danny shook his head. "that's all right!" he said weakly, for he was feeling very ill. "it's a stand-off." "oh, go ahead, take it!" urged doctor simon, shoving the bill into the pocket of danny's overcoat. "by the way, have you got your card? i might be able to send a little business your way." when his magic skill with horses was matter of common knowledge among the upper circle of long island grooms and coachmen danny had had a few cards struck off by a friendly printer. a couple of fly-blown specimens still lingered in the drawer of mulqueen's desk. danny searched until he found one: daniel lowry veterinary west d street new york city "here, sor," said he, his head swimming, "that's my name, but the address is wrong." doctor simon put it in his pocketbook. "thanks," he remarked. "much obliged for fixing up my horse." then in a businesslike manner, he threw back his coat and displayed a glittering badge. "now," he added brusquely, "i must arrest you for practising veterinary medicine without a license. just come along with me to the nearest police station." * * * * * when mr. tutt returned home that evening after attending one of the weekly sessions at the colophon club, where he had reluctantly contributed the sum of fifty-seven dollars to relieve the immediate needs of certain impecunious persons gathered there about a green-baize-covered table in a remote corner of the card room, he perceived by the light of an adjacent street lamp that someone was sitting upon the top of the steps leading to his front door. "are you mr. tutt?" inquired katie lowry, getting up and making a timid curtsy. "the great lawyer?" "that is my name, child," he answered. "what do you want of me?" she was but a wisp of a girl and her eyes shone like a cat's from under a gray shawl gathered over a pair of narrow, pinched shoulders. "they've taken grandfather away to prison," she replied with a catch in her throat. "he didn't come in to lunch nor to supper, and when i went to the stable mr. mulqueen said a detective had arrested grandfather for doctoring horses without a license and he had pleaded guilty and they'd locked him up. i went to the police station, but they said he wasn't there any more, but that he was in the tombs." "who is your grandfather?" demanded mr. tutt as he unlocked the door. "danny lowry," she replied. "oh, sir, won't you try to do something for him, sir? he thinks so much of you! he often has told me what a grand man you were and so kind, besides being such a clever lawyer and all the judges afraid of you!" "danny lowry in the tombs!" cried mr. tutt. "what an outrage! of course i'll do what i can for him. but first come inside and warm yourself. miranda!" he shouted to the colored maid of all work. "make us some hot toast and tea and bring it up to the library. now, my dear, take off your shawl and sit down and tell me all about it." so with her frayed kid shoes upturned on the fender, little katie lowry, confident that she had found an all-powerful friend in this queer long man who smoked such queer long cigars, sipping her tea only when she had to pause for breath, poured out the story of her grandfather's fight with poverty and misfortune, while her auditor's wrinkled face grew soft and hard by turns as he watched her through the gray clouds from his stogy. an hour later he left her at the door of her flat, happy and encouraged, with a twenty-dollar bill crumpled in her hand. * * * * * "but what do you expect me to do about it?" retorted district attorney peckham in his office next morning when mr. tutt had explained to him the perversion of justice to accomplish which the law had been invoked. "i'm sorry! no doubt he's a good feller. but he's guilty, isn't he? admitted it in the police court, didn't he?" "i expect you to temper justice with mercy," replied mr. tutt earnestly. "this old man's whole life has been devoted to relieving the sufferings of animals. he's a genuine samaritan." "that's like saying that a thief has done good with his plunder, isn't it?" commented peckham. "look here, tutt, of course i hope you get your man off and all that, but if i personally threw the case out i'd have all the vets in the city on my neck. you see the motors have pretty nearly put 'em all out of business. there aren't enough sick horses to go round, so they've been conducting a sort of crusade. tough luck--but the law is the law. and i have to enforce it--ostensibly, anyway." "very well," answered the old lawyer amiably but defiantly. "then if you've got to enforce the law against a fine old chap like that i've got to do my darnedest to smash that law higher than a kite. and i'll tell you something, peckham--which is that the human heart is a damn sight bigger than the human conscience." * * * * * danny lowry had lived for years in fear of the blow which had so suddenly struck him down, for there had never been any blinking of the obvious fact that in acting as an unlicensed veterinary he was brazenly violating the law. on the other hand, not being able to read or write, and having no technical knowledge of medicine, all his experience, all his skill, all his love of animals could avail him nothing so far as securing a license was concerned. he could not read an examination paper, but he could interpret the symptoms seen in a trembling neck and a lack-luster eye. danny had no choice but to break the law or abandon the only career for which he had an aptitude, or by which he could hope to earn a living at his age. his crime was _malum prohibitum_, not _malum in se_, but it was, nevertheless, a violation of a most necessary law. certainly none of us wish to be doctored by tyros or humbugs, or to have our animals treated by them. only danny was neither a tyro nor a humbug, and had he not been a lawbreaker the world would have been to some extent the loser. yet by all the canons of ethics and justice it was most improper for mr. tutt to hurry off to the tombs and bail out old danny lowry, a self-confessed lawbreaker, giving his own bond and the house on twenty-third street as security. still more so, as more unblushingly ostentatious, was his taking the criminal over to pont's and giving him the very best dinner that signor faccini, proprietor of that celebrated hostelry, could purvey. hard cases are said to make bad law; i wonder if they make bad people. if "conscience makes cowards of us all" does human sympathy play ducks and drakes with conscience? does it blind the eye of reason? rather, does it not illumine and expose the fallacies of logic and the falsities of the syllogism? do two and two make four in human polity as in mathematics? sometimes it would not seem so. certainly you would have picked mr. bently gibson, of the gibson woolen mills, as a model juror. one look at him as a prospective talesman in a murder case and you would have unhesitatingly murmured, "the defense challenges peremptorily!" his broad forehead, large well-shaped nose, firm chin and clear calm eye evidenced his common sense, his conscientiousness and his uncompromising adherence to principle. his customs declarations were complete to the smallest item, his income-tax returns models of self-sacrifice, he was patriotic and civic, he belonged to the welfare league and the citizens' union, and--i hesitate to confess it--he subscribed to the annual deficit of the society for the suppression of sin. on the face of it, he was the kind of man the district attorney tries to select as foreman of a jury when he has to prosecute a woman who had kidnaped her own child out of a foundling asylum. the heelers and hangers-on of the criminal courts would have described him as a highbrow and as a holier-than-thou; perhaps he might in a moment of jocularity have even so described himself--for he had his human--perhaps i should have said, his weaker--side. surely he seemed human enough when he kissed eleanor good-by at the door of their country place on the sound the morning he had been subpoenaed to serve as a juryman in part five of the general sessions. he had planned to take a week's holiday that spring, and he had gone to infinite trouble to arrange his business in order to have it, for they had become engaged eleven years before at the moment when the apple blossoms and the dogwoods were at the height of their glory, even as they were now. when, however, he found the brown subpoena at his office directing him to present himself for service the following monday he simply gave a half sigh, half grunt of disgust, and let the longed-for vacation go; for one of his pet theories was that the jury system was the chief bulwark of the constitution, the cornerstone of liberty. had he only been disingenuous enough he need never have served on any jury, for no lawyer for the defense hearing him enlarge on what he considered the duties of a juryman to be, would ever have allowed him in the box. but when other chaps on the panel presented their excuses to the judge and managed to persuade him of the imperative needs of family or business, and slipped--grinning discreetly--out of the court room, he merely inaudibly called them welshers and pikers. no, he regarded jury service as a duty and a privilege, one not to be lightly avoided--the one common garden governmental function in which uncle sam expected every citizen to do his duty. "i won't let any of the rogues get by me!" he shouted gaily to his wife over the back of the motor. "and anyhow i shan't be locked up all night. there aren't any murder cases on the calendar. i'll be out on the five-fifteen as usual." alas, poor bently! alas for human frailty and all those splendid visions in which he pictured himself as the anchor of the ship of justice, a prop and stay of the structure of democracy. his train was a trifle late and the roll of the jury had already been called, and the perennial excuses heard, when he entered the court room; but the clerk, who knew him, nodded in a welcoming manner, checked him off as present and dropped his name card in the revolving wheel. it was a well-known scene to bently, a veteran of fifteen years' service. even the actors were familiar friends--the pink-faced judge with his snow-white whiskers, who at times suggested to bently an octogenarian angel, and, at others, a certain ancient baboon once observed in the primates cage at the bronz zoo; the harried, anxious little clerk with his paradoxically grandiloquent intonation; the comedy assistant district attorney with his wheezy voice emanating from a falstaffian body, who suffered from a soporific malady and was accustomed to open a case and then let it take care of itself while he slumbered audibly beneath the dais; even ephraim tutt, the gaunt, benignly whimsical-looking attorney, in his rusty-black frock coat and loose-hanging tie; his rotund partner, whose birdlike briskness and fat paunch inevitably brought to mind a distended robin in specs; and the _dégagé_ bonnie doon in his cut-in-at-the-waist checked suit--he knew them all of old. "well, call your first case, mister district attorney!" directed the judge, nodding encouragingly at bently, well knowing that in him he had a staunch upholder of the law-as-it-is, who could be depended upon to bolster up his weaker or more sentimental brother talesmen into the proper convicting attitude of mind. then--as per the schedule in force for at least an epoch--good-natured, pot-bellied tom hingman, the oldest a.d.a. in the office, rose heavily, fumbled with his stubby fingers among the blue indictments on the table, drew one forth, panted a few times, gasped out "people against daniel lowry," and looked round in a pseudo-helpless way as if not knowing exactly what to do. there was a slight stir, and from the back of the court room came forward a funny little bow-legged old man, carrying in both hands a funny little flat-topped derby hat, and took his seat timidly at the bar of justice beside mr. tutt, who smiled down at him affectionately and put his arm about the threadbare shoulders as if to protect him from the evils of the world. they made a quaint and far from unpleasing picture, thought bently gibson, the ideal juror, and he wondered what the poor old devil could be up for. a jury was impaneled, bently among them; the balance of the panel was excused until two o'clock; the court room was cleared of loafers; the judge perused the indictment with a practised eye; tom hingman rose again, wheezed and grinned at the embattled jury; and the mill of justice began to grind. now the mill of justice, at least in the general sessions of new york county, grinds exceeding fine, so far as the number of convictions is concerned. of those brought to the bar for trial few escape; for modern talesmen, being hard-headed men, regard the whole thing as a matter of business and try to get through with it as quickly and as efficiently as possible. the bombastic spread-eagle orator, the grandiloquent gas bag, the highfaluting stump speaker gain few verdicts and win small applause except from their clients. and district attorneys who ape the bloodhound in their mien and tactics win scant approval and less acquiescence from the bored gentlemen who are forced to listen to them. nowadays--whatever may have been the case two generations ago--each side briefly states its claims and tries to win on points. people were apt to wonder why each succeeding administration inevitably retained stuffy old tom hingman at seventy-five hundred dollars a year to handle the calendar in part five. yet those on the inside knew why very well. it was because tom long ago, in his prehistoric youth, had learned that the way to secure verdicts was to appear not to care a tinker's dam whether the jury found the defendant guilty or not. he pretended never to know anything about any case in advance, to be in complete ignorance as to who the witnesses might be and to what they were going to testify, and to be terribly sorry to have to prosecute the unfortunate at the bar, though he wasn't to blame for that any more than the jury were for having to find him guilty if proven to be so, which, it seemed to him, he had been clearly proven to be. i say tom pretended all this, yet it was more than half true, for tom was a kind-hearted old bird. but the point was that, whether true or not, it got convictions. the jury sucking it all up in its entirety felt sorrier for the simple-minded old softy of a tom, which they believed him to be, than they did for the defendant, who they concluded was a good deal cleverer than the assistant district attorney. in a word, it put them on their honor as public officers not to let the administration of justice suffer merely because the a.d.a. was too old and easy-going and generally slab-sided to be really on his job. thus, they became prosecuting attorneys themselves--in all, thirteen to one. so tom, having thus delegated his functions to the jury, calmly left it all to them and went to sleep, which was the best thing that he did. worth seventy-five hundred a year? rather, seventy-five thousand! "gentlemen of the jury," he began haltingly, "this defendant seems to have been indicted for the crime of practising medicine without a license--a misdemeanor. i don't see exactly how he gets into this court, which is supposed to try only felony cases, but i assume my old friend tutt made a motion to transfer the case from the special to the general sessions on the theory that he would stand more chance with a jury than three--er--hardened judges. well, maybe he will--i don't know! i gather from the papers that mr. lowry here, after holding himself out to be a properly licensed veterinary, treated a horse belonging to the complainant. it is not a very serious offense, and you and i have no great interest in the case, but of course the public has got to be protected from charlatans, and the only way to do it is to brand as guilty those who pretend they are duly licensed to practise medicine when they are not. if you had a sick baby, mr. foreman, and you saw a sign 'a.s. smith, m.d., children's specialist,' you would want to be sure you were not going to hire a plumber, eh? you see! that's all there is to this case!" "all there is to this case!" murmured mr. tutt audibly, raising his eyes ceilingward. "step up here, mr. brown." mr. brown, the supposed doctor simon whose horse danny had attended, seated himself complacently in the witness chair and bowed to the jury in a professional manner. he had, he told them, been a detective employed by the state board of health for over sixteen years. it was his duty to go round and arrest people who pretended to be licensed practitioners of medicine and assumed to doctor other people and animals. there were a lot of 'em, too; the jury would be surprised-- mr. tutt objected to their surprise and it was stricken out by order of the court. "i'll strike out 'and there are a lot of 'em, too,' if you say so, mr. tutt," offered the court, smiling, but mr. tutt shook his head. "no; let it stand!" said he significantly. "let it stand!" "well, anyway," continued mr. brown, "this here defendant lowry, as he calls himself, is well known--" objected to and struck out. "well, this here defendant makes a practise--" "strike it out! what did he do?" snapped the octogenarian baboon on the bench. "i'm tellin' you, judge," protested brown vigorously. "this here defendant--" "you've said that three times!" retorted the baboon. "get along, can't you? what did he do?" "he treated my horse for spavin here in new york at west th street at my request on the twentieth of last march and i paid him five dollars. he said he was a licensed veterinary and he gave me his card. here it is." "well, why didn't you say so before?" remarked the judge more amiably. "let me see the card. all right! anything more, mr. hingman?" but mr. hingman had long before this subsided into his chair and was emitting sounds like those from a saxophone. "that is plain, simple testimony, mr. tutt," remarked the judge. "go ahead and cross-examine." ephraim tutt slowly unjointed himself, the quintessence of affability, though mr. brown clearly held him under suspicion. "how long have you earned your living, my dear sir, by going round arresting people?" "sixteen years." "under what name--your own?" "i use any name i feel like." mr. tutt nodded appreciatively. "let us see, then. you go about pretending to be somebody you are not?" "put it that way, if you choose." "and pretending to be what you are not?" mr. brown eyed mr. tutt savagely. "what do you mean by that?" "didn't you tell this old gentleman beside me that you were a doctor of medicine but not a doctor of veterinary medicine--and beg him to treat your horse for that reason?" "sure i did. certainly." "well, are you a licensed medical practitioner?" "look here! what's that got to do with it?" snarled mr. brown, looking about for aid from the sleeping hingman. "the question is a proper one. answer it," directed the judge. "no, i'm not a licensed doctor." "well, didn't you treat mr. lowry?" the jury by this time had caught the drift of the examination and were listening with intent appreciation. mr. brown leaned forward, a sickening smile of sneering superiority curling about his yellow molars. "ah!" he cried. "that's where i have you, sir! i only pretended to treat him. i didn't really. i only scribbled something on a piece of paper." "you knew he couldn't read, of course?" "sure." mr. tutt turned to the uplifted faces of the twelve. "so," he retorted, pursing his wrinkled lips and placing his fingers together in that attitude of piety which we frequently observe upon effigies of defunct ecclesiastics--"so you did the very thing for which you threw this old man at my side into jail--and for which he is now on trial! you lied to him about being a doctor! you deceived him about giving him the medical treatment he so much needed! and you arrested him after he had worked for hours to relieve the sufferings of a sick animal. by the way, it was a sick animal, wasn't it?" "the sickest i could find," replied brown airily. "and he did relieve its sufferings, did he not?" continued mr. tutt gently. "very likely. i wasn't particularly interested in that end of it." mr. tutt's meager frame seemed suddenly to expand until he hung over the witness chair like the genii who mushroomed so unexpectedly out of the fisherman's bottle in the arabian nights entertainments. "you were not interested in ministering to a poor horse, so sick it could hardly stand! you were only interested in imprisoning and depriving of his only form of livelihood this old man whose heart was not hardened like yours! may i ask at whose instance you went and lied to him?" "mr. tutt! mr. tutt!" interjected the octogenarian angel. "your examination is exceeding the bounds of judicial propriety." ephraim tutt bowed low. "a thousand pardons, your honor! my emotions swept me away! i most humbly apologize! but when this witness so unblushingly confesses how he played the scoundrel's part, aged case hardened practitioner as i am, my heart cries out against such infamous treachery--" bang! went the judge's gavel. "you are only making it worse!" declared the court severely. "proceed with your examination." "very well, your honor!" replied mr. tutt, his lips trembling with well-simulated indignation. "now, sir, who instigated this miserable deception--i beg your honor's pardon! who put you up to this game--i mean, this course of conduct?" "nobody," replied brown in a surly tone. "did you ever hear of the united association of veterinaries of the greater city of new york--sometimes referred to as the horse leeches' union?" asked mr. tutt insinuatingly. mr. brown hesitated. "i've heard of some such organization," he admitted. "but i never heard it was called a horse leeches' union." "didn't one of its officers come to you and say that unless something was done to reduce competition they'd have to go out of business--owing to the decrease in horses in new york?" "i don't remember," answered brown slowly. "one of 'em may have said something of the sort to me. but that's my business!" "yes!" roared mr. tutt suddenly. "it's your business to pretend you're a doctor when you're not, and you walk the streets a free man; and you want to send my client to sing sing for the same offense! that is all! i am done with you! get down off the stand! do not let me detain you from the practise of your unlicensed profession!" "mr. tutt!" again admonished his honor as the lawyer threw himself angrily into his chair. "this really won't do at all!" "i beg your honor's pardon--a thousand times!" said mr. tutt in tones so humble and sincere that he almost made the angel-faced baboon believe him. i should like to go on and describe the whole course of danny lowry's trial item by item, witness by witness, and tell what mr. tutt did to each. but i can't; there isn't room. i can only dwell upon the tactics of mr. tutt long enough to state that at the conclusion of the case against daniel lowry, wherein it was clearly, definitely and convincingly established that danny had been practising veterinary medicine for a long time without the faintest legal right, the lawyer rose and declared emphatically to the jury that his client was absolutely, totally and unquestionably innocent, as they would see by giving proper attention to the evidence he would produce--so that he would not take up any more of their valuable time in talk. and having made this opening statement with all the earnestness and solemnity of which he was capable mr. tutt called to prove the defendant's good reputation, first, father plunkett, the priest to whom danny made his monthly confession and who told the jury that he knew no better man in all his parish; second, mulqueen, who described danny's love of horses, his knowledge of them, his mysterious intuition concerning their hidden ailments, which, being as they could not speak, it was given to few to know, and how night after night he would sit up with a sick or dying animal to relieve its pain without thought of himself or of any earthly reward; then, man after man and woman after woman from the neighborhood of west twenty-third street who gave danny the best of characters, including policemen, firemen, delicatessens, hotel keepers, and salvatore, the proprietor of the night lunch frequented by mr. tutt. and last of all little katie lowry. it was she who found the crack in bently's moral armor. for eleanor his wife was of irish ancestry and of the colleen type, like katie; and bently had always played up to her irish side when courting her as a humorous short cut to a quasi familiarity, for you may call a girl "acushla" and "ellin darlint" when otherwise you are fully aware, but for the irish of it, she would have to be referred to as miss dodworth. and this wisp of a girl with her big black-fringed gray eyes peering up and out over her gray knitted shawl, but for the holes in her white stockings and the fact that the alabaster of her neck was a shade off color--faith, an' it might have been eleanor hersilf! it is obvious that any juryman who allows his mind to be influenced by the mere fact that one of the witnesses for the defense is a pretty woman--even if she recalls to him his wife or sweet-heart--is a poor weakling, a silly ass. otherwise all a crook need do would be to hire a half dozen of ziegfeld's midnight beauties to testify for him by day; and the slender darlings could work in double shifts and be whisked in auto busses from roof garden to court room. bently was no weakling, but katie--perhaps because it was the moment of apple blossoms and dogwood and the anniversary of his wedding day--katie got him. kathleen mavourneen, and all! no man could have brought up a fatherless and motherless girl like that and keep her so simple, frank and innocent unless there was something fine about him. you see, highbrows and lowbrows are all alike below the collar bone. and here's the catch in it. bently had told eleanor that very morning that none of the rogues would get by him, and he had meant it. none of them ever had--in all his years of jury service. time and again he had been the one stubborn man to hang out all night for a verdict of guilty against eleven outraged and indignant fellow talesmen who wanted to acquit. but quite unconsciously he found himself saying that this old fellow at the bar wasn't a rogue at all. if he was a criminal he was so at most only in a pickwickian sense. all the previous cases in which he had sat had been for murder or arson, robbery or theft, burglary, blackmail or some other outrageous offense against common morals or decency. but here was a man who had never done anything but good in his life, and was at the bar of justice charged with crime merely because some cold-blooded mercenaries thought he was interfering with their business! bently was in a recalcitrant and indignant frame of mind against the prosecution long before the defense began. the whole proceeding seemed to him an outrageous farce. that wasn't what they were there for at all! so swiftly does the acid of sympathy corrode and weaken the stoutest conscience, the most logical of minds! mr. tutt did not put danny on the stand--why should he?--and the octogenarian judge declared the case closed on both sides. then everybody made a speech, in which he told the jury to disregard everything everybody else said. mr. tutt spoke first. he thanked the gaping jury for their attention and courtesy and kindness and intelligence and for taking the trouble to listen to him. he told them what a wise and upright judge the old baboon on the bench was; and what a sterling, honest, kindly chap the fat assistant district attorney really was. they were the highest type of public officers--but paid--he accentuated the "paid" very slightly--to do their duty as they interpreted it. now, mr. hingman would have to claim that danny lowry was a criminal; whereas, thank heaven! they all of them--every man of them--knew he was nothing of the kind! criminal--that old man? mr. tutt raised his eyes and his arms to heaven in protest. why, one look at him would create a reasonable doubt! but the case against him failed absolutely for the following reasons: daniel lowry had not practised veterinary medicine without a license in taking care of brown's sick horse, because he had not claimed to be a veterinary; he had not been paid for his services; and because all he had done was to help a suffering animal, as any man who called himself a christian and had a heart would have done, and as it was his duty to do. who "shall have an ass or an ox fallen into a pit"? and so on. it was in holy writ! the highest law! there was no evidence against danny at all, because brown was an accomplice and his testimony was not corroborated; at any rate he was a procurer and instigator of crime, an _agent provocateur_, a despicable liar, hypocrite and violator of the very law he was paid to uphold; and as he had held himself out as a physician to danny lowry everything that passed between them was privileged as a confidential communication and must be disregarded as if it had never been said. daniel lowry was a man of the highest reputation, of such character that he never had been guilty of an unkind or selfish act in his entire life, much less commit crime; which alone, taken by itself, was quite enough to interject and raise a reasonable doubt--upon which they must acquit. then tom hingman got up and grimaced and said he had known mr. tutt all his professional life and he was a peach, but they mustn't believe what he said or let him put anythin' over on 'em, for he was pretty slick even if he was a fine old feller. now the plain fact was, as they all knew perfectly well, that this old boy had been caught with the goods. it might be tough luck, but the law was the law and they were all there to enforce it--much as they hated to do so--and there was nothing to it but to convict and let the judge deal with the defendant with that mercy and leniency and forbearance for which he was so justly famous. he panted a few times and sat down. then the judge took his crack. he told the jury, in so many words, to pay no attention to either the a.d.a. or to mr. tutt, and to listen only to him, because he was the whole thing. the question was: had the defendant assumed to give medical treatment to brown's horse, for any kind of valuable consideration? in determining this they should consider all the evidence, including the fact that the prisoner had claimed to be a veterinary, had been paid for treating brown's horse as such, had pleaded guilty in the police court, and that none of the alleged facts upon which the charge was based had been denied before them in present trial. as he said this the pink-and-white baboon looked at them steadily and significantly for several seconds over his eyeglasses. they should consider the business card which the defendant had given to the complaining witness and in which he held himself out as a veterinary. the testimony of the complainant stood uncontradicted. the complainant was not an accomplice and his testimony did not have to be corroborated. a decoy wasn't an accomplice. that was the law. neither was what had passed between the complainant and defendant privileged as a confidential communication, because the complainant was not a physician. that was all there was to that! they should ask themselves what in fact the defendant had done if not practise veterinary medicine without a license? it was not controverted but that he had said he was a veterinary, administered medicine to a sick horse, offered to compound payment for medical treatment for himself, finally taken five dollars, and admitted his guilt before the magistrate. if they had any reasonable doubt--and such a doubt might of course be raised by evidence of previous good character--they would of course give it to the defendant and acquit him, but such a doubt must be no mere whim, guess or conjecture that the defendant might not after all be guilty even if the evidence seemed so to demonstrate; it must be a substantial doubt based on the evidence and such a one as would influence them in the important matters of their own daily, domestic and business lives. that was all there was to it! let them take the case and decide it! it should not take 'em very long. the question of how the defendant should be punished, if at all, did not concern them. he would take care of that. they might safely leave it to him! he bowed and turned to his papers. the jury gathered up their coats and straggled after cap phelan out of the court room. "y'd be all right, counselor," remarked the second court officer, suspending momentarily the delights of mastication, "if 'twasn't fer that son of a gun on the back row, gibson! he's a bad one! i've known him for years! he'd convict his own mother of petit larceny!" "so? so?" murmured mr. tutt, producing a leather case the size of a doctor's instrument bag from his inside pocket and removing a couple of stogies therefrom. "well, it's too late now to do anything about it. i'm going out to stretch my legs and have a smoke." mr. tutt loitered into the corridor, stepped unostentatiously behind a pillar, slipped into the adjoining court room--which happened to be empty--and thence back into the passage upon which the jury rooms opened. he found cap phelan standing before one of these with a finger to his lips. "pst! they're at it a-ready!" whispered phelan as mr. tutt slipped him a stogy. the transom above was open and through it drifted out a faint blue cloud. a great hubbub was going on inside. suddenly above it a harsh voice rang out: "that ain't a reasonable doubt! i tell you, that ain't a reasonable doubt! aw, you give me a pain, you do!" "i've got 'em!" grinned mr. tutt contentedly. "phelan, bring me a chair!" now right here is where this story begins--only here. "vell, gen'l'muns," said the foreman, who was a glove merchant and looked like sam bernard, as they took their seats round the battered oak table. "vot you say? shall we disguss or take a vote?" "let's take a smoke!" amended a real-estate broker. "no use goin' back right off and getting stuck onto another damn case! where's that cuspidor?" "speakin' of veterinaries," chuckled a man with three rolls of fat on his neck, "did y'ever hear the story of the negro and the mule with the cough?" none of them apparently ever had, so the stout brother told all about how--ha, ha!--the mule coughed first. "i remember that story now," remarked one of the jury reminiscently while the fat man glared at him. "if i had my way all these veterinaries would be in jail! they're a dangerous lot. i had a second cousin once who'd paid a hundred dollars--a hundred dollars!--for a horse and it got the colic. so he called in a veterinary and it died." "well, the vet didn't kill it, did he?" inquired the fat man scornfully. "my cousin always claimed he did!" replied the other solemnly. "there was some mistake about what he gave the horse--wood alcohol or something--i forget what it was. anyhow, i think they're all a dangerous lot. they all ought to be locked up. i move to convict!" "but neither of these fellers is a veterinary!" retorted a sad-looking gentleman in black. "the charge is that one of 'em pretended to be--but wasn't. so if he wasn't how could you convict him of being a veterinary?" "well, if he had been i'd have convicted him all right," asserted the first. "they're dangerous--like all these clairvoyants and soothsayers." "will somebody tell me?" requested a tall man who had been looking intently out of the window, "whether a veterinary is the same thing as a veterinarian? i always supposed a veterinarian was a sort of religion, like a unitarian. veteran means old--i thought it was some old form of religion; or a feller who didn't believe in eatin' meat." "lead that nut out!" shouted somebody. "let's get busy. the question is: did this old guy pretend he was a horse doctor when he wasn't? i say he did." "let's take a vote," suggested bently. "vell, let's understand vat we're doin'," admonished the foreman. "do you gen'l'muns all understand that we're tryin' to convict this feller for doctoring a horse without a prescription?" "you mean a license, don't you?" inquired bently. "sure--a license. all right! let's get a vote." the first ballot resulted in seven for acquittal, four for conviction, and one blank--bently's. "i don't know who the fellers are that voted for acquittal!" suddenly announced a juror with a red face. "but i know this brown personally, and he's all right. you can rely on him absolutely. he goes to the same place as me in the summer--cottage point. if any of you gentlemen want a good quiet place--" "any mosquitoes?" inquired an unknown irreverently. "no more'n anywheres else near new york." they took another ballot and found that the juryman who knew brown had brought over two others to conviction, so that the jury was now evenly divided, bently voting irresponsibly for acquittal. "look here!" proposed the man in black. "let's argue this out. suppose i put the various propositions and you vote on 'em each separately." "shoot ahead!" adjured somebody. "now, first, all who think this defendant claimed to be a veterinary say aye." "wait a minute!" interposed the tall man, who was still standing by the window. "maybe i am a nut. but i wish someone would explain to me which is the defender. i thought mr. tutt was the defender." "oh, my lord!" groaned a flabby salesman in a pink tie. "defend-ant--a-n-t--remember your ant! he's the man we're trying! the other one is the complainant!" "the only one that had any complaint was the horse", protested the tall man. "but i understand now--we're tryin' the defendant. i've never served on a jury before. now, what's the question?" "did the defendant--ant--claim to be a licensed veterinary--when he wasn't?" "now wait a second," objected the tall man again. "i want to get this straight. is it the point that if this old man pretended he was a horse doctor when he wasn't he has to go to jail?" "sure." "but the other man pretended he was a doctor." "but he was trying to trick the defendant." "but the first feller wasn't a doctor any more than the other feller. why not convict the first feller?" there was a chorus of groans from about the table. "you ought not to be here at all!" remarked the salesman acidly. "you're simple-minded, you are! you keep still now and vote with the majority, or we'll tell the judge on you!" the tall man subsided. "vell," suddenly interjected the foreman, "he admitted he was guilty in the bolice gourt." "sure!" "that's so!" "pass the box again!" came from all hands. when the foreman had counted the ballots bently was horrified to discover that ten jurors now thought the defendant guilty, and only two believed him innocent. "may i suggest," said he earnestly, "that perhaps this old man did not understand in the magistrate's court the elements that went to make up the offense charged against him? he merely stood ready to admit freely whatever the facts were. his opinion on the purely legal question of his own guilt was not of much value. anyhow, his subsequent plea of not guilty to the indictment neutralizes the significance of the original plea." there was a murmur of surprise and admiration from bently's companions. "that's true, too!" declared the salesman. "i never thought of that! you're some talker--you are, i must say! but how about that business card?" "it seems to me," argued bently, "that the card plays no particular part in this case. in the first place the question before us is not whether lowry ever did--in the past--hold himself out as a veterinary, but whether he did so on the day alleged in the indictment. the fact that he gave the detective a card which he had had printed perhaps years before only tends to show that at some time or other he may have pretended to be a licensed veterinary. and you will recall, gentlemen, that the testimony is merely that he said to the detective in reference to the card: 'that is my name.' he did not say anything to him about being a veterinary." this somewhat disingenuous argument created a profound impression. "say, now you've said something!" declared the salesman. "you'd oughta been a lawyer yourself. let's take another vote." curiously enough bently's argument seemed to have had a revolutionary effect, for the jury now stood ten to two for acquittal. he began to feel encouraged. if ever there was a case-- then he heard an altercation going on fiercely between the salesman and brown's summer friend, the latter insisting loudly that the detective was a perfect gentleman and entirely all right. "nobody questions mr. brown's entire honesty," interposed bently hastily, in a friendly way. "the question before us is the sufficiency of the evidence. upon this, it seems to me, there is what might fairly be called a reasonable doubt." "and you have to give that to the defendant--it's the law!" shouted the salesman in fury. it was at this point that mr. tutt and phelan had taken up their positions outside the door, and the friend of brown had told the salesman that he gave him a pain; that his doubt wasn't a reasonable doubt. "gentlemen! gentlemen!" protested bently. "let us discuss this matter calmly." "but i'm a reasonable man!" shouted the salesman. "and so, if i have any doubt, my doubt is bound to be reasonable." "you--a reasonable man?" sneered brown's friend. "you're nothin' but a damn fool!" "i am, am i?" yelled the salesman, starting to remove his coat. "i'll show you--" "oh, cut it out!" expostulated the fat man complacently. "settle all that afterward! we ain't interested." "vell, take annoder vote," mildly suggested the foreman. this time it stood eleven to one for acquittal. all concentrated upon the friend of brown, over whose face had settled a look of grim determination. but a similar expression occupied the features of mr. bently gibson, erstwhile the exponent of the-law-as-it-is, the bulwark of the jury system, now adrift upon the ship of justice, blindly determined that no matter what--law or no law, principles or no principles--that old man was going to be acquitted. "my friend," he remarked solemnly, taking the floor, "of course you want to do justice in this case. we have nothing against mr. brown at all. he is doubtless a very honest and efficient officer. but surely the good character of this defendant may well create a reasonable doubt--and the rest of us feel that it does." "sure! 'course it does!" came from all sides. mr. brown's red-faced friend having escaped the salesman's wrath began to show somewhat less aggressiveness. "i don't care a damn about brown!" he assured them. "he can go to hell for all of me! but i don't see how you can acquit this feller when the evidence is uncontradicted that he told brown he was a veterinary and treated his horse. i'd be violating my oath if i voted for acquittal after that testimony. i ain't going to commit perjury for nobody! i'd like to oblige you gentlemen, too, and vote your way, but i just can't with that evidence stickin' in my crop. if it wasn't for that--" "he could 'a' treated the horse without doing it as a veterinary, just as mr. tutt said!" interjected the tall man. "good for you!" said the salesman, fully restored to equanimity. "you're gettin' intelligent. serve on a few more juries--" "but he said he was a veterinary," insisted brown's friend. "how could he have treated the horse as anything else but as a veterinary when he said he was treating him as a veterinary?" "maybe he just thought he was doing it as a veterinary", commented the gloom in black. "he may have tried to do it as a veterinary and failed. in that case he didn't do it as a veterinary but just as a plain man. get me?" "no, i don't!" snorted the red-faced one. "that's all bull. he said he was a vet and he treated the horse as a vet and got five dollars for it." "how do you know he did?" unexpectedly asked bently. "because he said so himself. that was part of the conversation between brown and lowry," declared the obstinate summer friend of brown. "if it wasn't for that--" "if it wasn't for that you'd acquit?" demanded bently sharply. "yes. sure i would!" "then i say you should disregard all that conversation because it was a privileged communication between a doctor--brown--and his patient--lowry!" declared bently heatedly. "but the judge said it wasn't privileged!" retorted the other. "mr. tutt said it was, though," shot back the salesman. "well, the judge said--" "let's go in and find out who said what," proposed the tall man. "i'd like to know myself. i don't remember who said anything any longer." so they filed back into court. "your honor," stuttered the foreman, licking his lips in embarrassment, "some of the gen'l'muns vant to inguire veder the gonversation between mr. brown and mr. lowry is privileged or veder we haf to belief it?" the judge, who had evidently expected that the return of the jury was for the purpose of declaring the defendant guilty, scowled. "the rule is," said he wearily, "that conversations between a doctor and his patient are privileged and cannot be testified to without the consent of the patient. if brown had been a doctor--which he is not--it is possible that i might have sustained mr. tutt's objection on the ground and struck out the conversation. but he only pretended to be a doctor, and no privilege exists under those circumstances even if in some cases it seems to work a hardship upon the one who is deceived. the conversation in this instance is part of the record. you may retire." but bently, with a light upon his countenance such as theretofore had ne'er been seen on sea or land, suddenly held up his hand. "one question, your honor. if brown had been a doctor you would have excluded the testimony?" the aged angel raised his eyebrows deprecatingly. "perhaps; i might have considered the suggestion." "thank you," said bently, and they all traipsed out. "that cooks him!" whispered phelan to mr. tutt at the keyhole. "wait and see! wait and see!" muttered the lawyer. "we're not dead yet." once back in their room the jury took another vote. eleven to one again. then bently rose. "gentlemen," he cried, "i think i have the key to this case." they all gazed at him expectantly. "we are obliged by law to give every reasonable doubt to the defendant. now the only obstacle to our acquitting this poor old man is the fact that there is in evidence a conversation in which lowry is claimed to have said that he was a veterinary and had been acting as such all his life. mr. tutt says that that conversation is privileged and should be disregarded because it was a confidential communication between a doctor and a patient. the judge says it is not privileged for the reason that mr. brown was not in fact a doctor--but he says further that if brown were a doctor we should have to disregard that part of the evidence--which would, as we all agree, leave us free to acquit. "now then, how do we know brown is _not_ a doctor? he says he isn't; but he lied about everything else he told lowry, and he may have been lying about that too. and if he lied to lowry he may have been lying to us here to-day. i say that there is a reasonable doubt right there as to whether brown is really a doctor or not. such a doubt belongs to the defendant. he is entitled to it and it is our duty to acquit him!" "hear! hear!" "that's so!" "bully for you!" "what yer got to say now, eh?" "take a vote!" "pass the box!" resounded through the transom amid a tremendous scuffling of feet and scraping of chairs. "phelan!" gasped mr. tutt. "who shall ever again have the temerity to suggest that the jury system is not the greatest of our institutions?" "pst!" answered cap. "listen! sh-h. by god! they've acquitted him!" * * * * * "so you caught the five-fifteen after all!" was eleanor's greeting as the model juror jumped off the train. "i was terribly afraid you wouldn't! i hope you didn't let any rascal get away from you?" "no!" he laughed as he leaped into the motor beside her. "not a rascal! and i've got a surprise for you! i'm going to have my vacation after all!" "really!" she cried, delighted. "you clever boy! how did you manage it?" "well," he answered a little shamefacedly as he lit a cigarette, "the fact is that when the jury i was on returned their verdict this afternoon the judge said he wouldn't require our services any longer." * * * * * it was at about the same moment that two other good and true friends stood at the foot of the steps leading up to mr. tutt's ramshackle front door. "sorr!" danny was saying in a trembling voice, the tears in his faded eyes. "sorr! i would go to jail a hundred years and more, so i would, could i but hear again what they all said of me! sure, i niver knew i was any account at all, at all! and them sayin' what a fine man i was, an' all! god bless ye, sorr! and whin ye stand, sorr, at the bar of heaven before god, the judge, and the jury of all his holy angels, if there be none else to defend ye, sure old danny lowry'll be there to do that same." ignorance of the law can so be a valid excuse--and the result is this hilarious but legal.... license to steal by louis newman illustrated by wood [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy magazine august . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the history of man becomes fearfully and wonderfully confusing with the advent of interstellar travel. of special interest to the legally inclined student is the famous skrrgck affair, which began before the galactic tribunal with the case of _citizens vs. skrrgck_. the case, and the opinion of the court, may be summarized as follows: skrrgck, a native of sknnbt (altair iv), where theft is honorable, sanctioned by law and custom, immigrated to earth (sol iii) where theft is contrary to both law and custom. while residing in chicago, a city in a political subdivision known as the state of illinois, part of the united states of america, one of the ancient nation-states of earth, he overheard his landlady use the phrase "a license to steal," a common colloquialism in the area, which refers to any special privilege. [illustration: fig. : actual scene of license issue (skrrgck superimposed)] skrrgck then went to a police station in chicago and requested a license to steal. the desk sergeant, as a joke, wrote out a document purporting to be a license to steal, and skrrgck, relying on said document, committed theft, was apprehended, tried and convicted. on direct appeal allowed to the galactic tribunal, the court held: ( ) all persons are required to know and obey the law of the jurisdiction in which they reside. ( ) public officials must refrain from misrepresenting to strangers the law of the jurisdiction. ( ) where, as here, a public official is guilty of such misrepresentation, the requirement of knowledge no longer applies. ( ) where, as here, it is shown by uncontradicted evidence that a defendant is law-abiding and willing to comply with the standards of his place of residence, misrepresentation of law by public officials may amount to entrapment. ( ) the doctrine of entrapment bars the state of illinois from prosecuting this defendant. ( ) the magnitude of the crime is unimportant compared with the principle involved, and the fact that the defendant's unusual training on sknnbt enabled him to steal a large building in chicago, known as the merchandise mart, is of no significance. ( ) the defendant, however, was civilly liable for the return of the building, and its occupants, or their value, even if he had to steal to get it, provided, however, that he stole only on and from a planet where theft was legal. [illustration: fig. : the moment of decision, case of _citizens vs. skrrgck_] * * * * * the skrrgck case was by no means concluded by the decision of the galactic tribunal, but continued to reverberate down the years, a field day for lawyers, and "a lesson to all in the complexities of modern intergalactic law and society," said winston, harold c, herman prof, of legal history, harvard. though freed on the criminal charge of theft, skrrgck still faced some , charges of kidnapping, plus the civil liability imposed upon him by the ruling of the court. the kidnapping charges were temporarily held in abeyance. not that the abductions were not considered outrageous, but it was quickly realized by all concerned that if skrrgck were constantly involved in lengthy and expensive defenses to criminal prosecutions, there would be no chance at all of obtaining any restitution from him. first things first, and with terrans that rarely means justice. skrrgck offered to pay over the money he had received for the building and its occupants, but that was unacceptable to the terrans, for what they really wanted, with that exaggerated fervor typical of them, provided it agrees with their financial interests, was the return of the original articles. not only were the people wanted back, but the building itself had a special significance. its full title was "the new merchandise mart" and it had been built in the exact style of the original and on the exact spot on the south side of the chicago river where the original had stood prior to its destruction in the sack of chicago. it was more than just a large commercial structure to the terrans. it was also a symbol of terra's unusually quick recovery from its empire chaos into its present position of leadership within the galactic union. the terrans wanted that building back. so skrrgck, an obliging fellow at heart, tried first to get it back, but this proved impossible, for he had sold the building to the aldebaranian confederacy for use in its annual "prosperity fiesta." the dominant culture of the aldebaranian system is a descendant of the "conspicuous destruction" or "potlatch" type, in which articles of value are destroyed to prove the wealth and power of the destroyers. it was customary once every aldebaranian year--about six terran--for the aldebaranian government to sponsor a token celebration of this destructive sort, and it had purchased the merchandise mart from skrrgck as part of its special celebration marking the first thousand years of the confederacy. consequently, the building, along with everything else, was totally destroyed in the "bonfire" that consumed the entire fourth planet from the main aldebaranian sun. nor was skrrgck able to arrange the return to terra of the occupants of the building, some , in number, because he had sold them as slaves to the boötean league. * * * * * it is commonly thought slavery is forbidden throughout the galaxy by the terms of article of the galactic compact, but such is not the case. what is actually forbidden is "involuntary servitude" and this situation proved the significance of that distinction. in the case of _sol v. boötes_, the galactic tribunal held that terra had no right to force the "slaves" to give up their slavery and return to terra if they did not wish to. and, quite naturally, none of them wished to. it will be remembered that the boöteans, a singularly handsome and good-natured people, were in imminent danger of racial extinction due to the disastrous effects of a strange nucleonic storm which had passed through their system in . the physiological details of the "boötean effect," as it has been called, was to render every boötean sterile in relation to every other boötean, while leaving each boötean normally capable of reproduction, provided one of the partners in the union had not been subjected to the nucleonic storm. faced with this situation, the boöteans immediately took steps to encourage widespread immigration by other humanoid races, chiefly terrans, for it was terrans who had originally colonized boötes and it was therefore known that interbreeding was possible. but the boöteans were largely unsuccessful in their immigration policy. terra was peaceful and prosperous, and the boöteans, being poor advertisers, were unable to convince more than a handful to leave the relative comforts of home for the far-off boötean system where, almost all were sure, some horrible fate lay behind the boöteans' honeyed words. so when skrrgck showed up with some , terrans, the boöteans, in desperation, agreed to purchase them in the hope of avoiding the "involuntary servitude" prohibition of article by making them like it. in this, they were spectacularly successful. the "slaves" were treated to the utmost luxury and every effort was made to satisfy any reasonable wish. their "duties" consisted entirely of "keeping company" with the singularly attractive boöteans. under these circumstances it is, perhaps, hardly surprising that out of the , occupants, all but flatly refused to return to terra. the who did wish to return, most of whom were borderline psychotics, were shipped home, and boötes sued skrrgck for their purchase price, but was turned down by the galactic quadrant court on the theory of, basically, caveat emptor--let the buyer beware. * * * * * the court in _sol v. boötes_ had held that although adults could not be required to return to terra, minors under the age of could be, and an additional were returned under this ruling, to the vociferous disgust of the post-puberty members of that group. since there was apparently some question of certain misrepresentations by skrrgck as to the ages or family affiliations of some members of this minor group, he agreed to an out-of-court settlement of boötes' claim for their purchase price, thus depriving the legal profession of further clarification of the rights of two "good faith" dealers in this peculiar sort of transaction. the terran people, of course, were totally unsatisfied with this result. led by some demagogues and, to a milder degree, by most of the political opposition to the existing terran government, and reminded of certain actual examples from terra's own history, many became convinced that some form of nefarious "brainwashing" had been exercised upon the "unfortunate" terran expatriates. excitement ran high, and there was even some agitation for withdrawal from the galactic union. confronted with such unrest, the terran government made efforts to reach some settlement with boötes despite the decision of the court in _sol v. boötes_, and was finally able to gain in the centaurian agreement a substantial reparation, it being specifically stipulated in the agreement that the money was to be paid to the dependents who suffered actual financial loss. in a suit against the terran government by one of the excluded families, to obtain for that family a share of the reparation, the validity of the treaty, as it applied to exclude the suing family and others in like position, was upheld by the united states supreme court. the suit was begun before the agreement had been ratified by the general assembly, and the court indicated that the plaintiff would have lost on the strength of a long line of cases giving the world president certain inherent powers over the conduct of foreign affairs. since, however, the matter came up for decision after ratification, the court said that the "inherent powers" question was moot, and that the agreement, having been elevated to the status of a treaty by ratification, must be held valid under the "supremacy of treaties" section of article of the united terran charter. although this failed to satisfy the terran people--and their anger may have contributed to the fall of the solarian party administration in the following election--the treaty is generally considered by students of the subject as a triumph of solarian diplomacy, and an outstanding example of intergalactic good faith on the part of boötes. * * * * * of course, neither the demagogy nor the anger could hide forever the true facts about how the boöteans were treating their "slaves," and when the true facts became known, there was a sudden flood of migration from terra to boötes, which threatened to depopulate the solarian empire and drown boötes. the flood was quickly dammed by the treaty of deneb restricting migration between the two systems. this treaty was held to be a valid police-powers exception to the "free migration" principle of article of the galactic compact in _boleslaw v. sol and boötes_. all this left skrrgck with liabilities of some forty million credits and practically no assets. like most altairians, he was a superb thief but a poor trader. the price he had received for the merchandise mart and the "slaves," while amounting to a tidy personal fortune, was less than half the amount of the claims against him, and due to an unfortunate predilection for slow _aedrils_ and fast _flowezies_, he only had about half of that left. skrrgck, who had by this time apparently developed a love of litigation equal to his love of thievery, used part of what he did have left in a last effort to evade liability by going into bankruptcy, a move which was naturally met with howls of outrage by his creditors and a flood of objections to his petition, a flood which very nearly drowned the federal district court in chicago. it would be difficult to imagine a more complex legal battle than might have taken place, nor one more instructive to the legal profession, had the situation been carried to its logical conclusion. on the one hand was the age-old policy of both terran and galactic bankruptcy law. a man becomes unable to pay his debts. he goes into bankruptcy. whatever he does have is distributed to his creditors, who must be satisfied with what they can get out of his present assets. they cannot require him to go to work to earn additional funds with which to pay them more. it is precisely to escape this form of mortgage on one's future that bankruptcy exists. yet here were over seven thousand creditors claiming that skrrgck's debts should not be discharged in bankruptcy, because skrrgck could be required to steal enough to satisfy them fully. could the creditors require skrrgck to exert such personal efforts to satisfy their claims? a lawyer would almost certainly say "no," citing the bankruptcy act as sufficient grounds alone, not to mention the anomaly of having terrans, in a terran court, ask that skrrgck, for their benefit, commit an act illegal on terra and punishable by that terran court. the idea of a terran court giving judicial sanction to theft is novel, to say the least. indeed, judge griffin, who was presiding, was overheard to remark to a friend on the golf course that he "would throw the whole d--n thing out" for that reason alone. * * * * * yet, in spite of this undeniable weight of opinion, it is difficult to say just what the final decision would have been had the matter been carried to the galactic tribunal, for in the original case of _skrrgck v. illinois_, that august body, it will be remembered, had specifically stated that skrrgck was liable for the value of the building and its occupants, "even if he must steal to obtain it." now that hasty and ill-advised phrase was certainly dicta, and was probably intended only as a joke, the opinion having been written by master adjudicator stsssts, a member of that irrepressible race of saurian humorists, the sirians. but if the case had actually come before them, the court might have been hoist on its own petard, so to speak, and been forced to rule in accord with its earlier "joke." unfortunately for the curiosity of the legal profession, the question was never to be answered, for skrrgck did a remarkable thing which made the whole controversy irrelevant. what his motives were will probably never be known. his character makes it unlikely that he began the bankruptcy proceedings in good faith and was later moved by conscience. it is possible that the bankruptcy was merely an elaborate piece of misdirection. more probably, however, he simply seized on the unusual opportunity the publicity gave him. whatever the motives, the facts are that skrrgck used the last of his waning resources to purchase one of the newly developed terran motors' "timebirds" in which he traveled secretly to altair. even this first model of the timebird, with its primitive meson exchange discoordinator, cut the trip from sol to altair from weeks to days, and skrrgck, landing secretly on his home planet while his bankruptcy action was still in the turmoil stage, was able to accomplish the greatest "coup" in altairian history. he never could have done it without the publicity of the legal proceedings. in a culture where theft is honorable, the most stringent precautions are taken against its accomplishment, but who could have expected skrrgck? he was light-years away, trying to go into bankruptcy. and so, while all eyes on altair, as well as throughout the rest of the galaxy, were amusedly fixed on the legal circus shaping up on terra, skrrgck was able to steal the altairian crown jewels, and the altairian crown prince as well, and flee with them to sol. * * * * * the reaction was violent. the galaxy was gripped by an almost hysterical amusement. skrrgck's creditors on terra were overjoyed. the altairians made one effort to regain their valuables in the courts, but were promptly turned down by the galactic tribunal which held, wisely, that a society which made a virtue of theft would have to take the consequences of its own culture. so skrrgck's creditors were paid in full. the jewels alone were more than sufficient for that, containing as they did no less than seven priceless "wanderstones," those strange bits of frozen fire found ever so rarely floating in the interstellar voids, utterly impervious to any of the effects of gravitation. altair paid a fantastic price for the return of the collection, and skrrgck also demanded, and got, a sizable ransom for the prince, after threatening to sell him to boötes, from whence, of course, he would never return. being a prince in a democratic, constitutional monarchy is not as glamorous as you might think. his creditors satisfied, skrrgck returned to sknnbt, dragging with him an angry crown prince--angry at having lost the chance to go to boötes, that is. at altair, skrrgck was received as a popular hero. he had accomplished something of which every altairian had dreamed, almost from the moment of his birth, and he was widely and joyously acclaimed. riding on this wave of popular adulation, he entered politics, ran for the office of premier, and was elected by an overwhelming majority. as soon as he took office, he took steps, in accordance with altairian custom, to wipe out the "stain" on his honor incurred by allowing the chicago police sergeant to fool him with the now famous license to steal. he instituted suit against the sergeant for the expenses of his defense to the original theft charge. the case was carried all the way to the galactic tribunal, which by this time was heartily sick of the whole mess. feeling apparently that the sergeant was the original cause of said mess, the court overruled his plea that he had merely been joking. the court cited an ancient case from west virginia, u.s.a.--_plate v. durst_, w. va. , se , l.r.a. . (note: the date of this case is invariably given as , which is most confusing, since the present date is only . the , however, refers to the eighteen hundred and ninety-sixth year of the pre-atomic era, which we, of course, style a.a.--ante atomica. since the present era begins with the first atomic explosion, the case actually occurred in approximately the year a.a.) the court quoted the opinion in this ancient case as follows: "jokes are sometimes taken seriously by ... the inexperienced ... and if such is the case, and the person thereby deceived is led to (incur expenses) in the full belief and expectation that the joker is in earnest, the law will also take the joker at his word, and give him good reason to smile." * * * * * accordingly, the sergeant was charged with a very large judgment. although the city of chicago paid this judgment, the sergeant had become the laughing-stock of the planet, so he applied for, and was granted, a hardship exception to the treaty of deneb and migrated to boötes. there, regarded as the real savior of the boötean race, and a chosen instrument of the god of boötes, he was received as a saint. he died in , surrounded by his children and grandchildren, having made himself wealthy by becoming the leader of a most excessive fertility cult, which is only now being forcibly suppressed by the boötean government. in p.a., someone on earth remembered the kidnapping indictments still outstanding against skrrgck and attempted to prosecute them. by this time, however, skrrgck was premier, the chief executive officer of altair, and all extradition matters were within his sole discretion. in the exercise of this power, he refused to extradite himself, and the prosecutor on earth, whose constituents were beginning to laugh at him, had the indictments quashed "in the interest of interstellar harmony." the story has an interesting sequel. during skrrgck's unprecedented six consecutive terms as premier (no one else had ever served less than seven), he was able, by dint of unremitting political maneuvering, to have theft outlawed in the altairian system. it was, he said, "a cultural trait that is more trouble than it is worth." toppleton's client or _a spirit in exile_ by john kendrick bangs new york charles l. webster & company to f. d. s. contents. chapter i. page introducing mr. hopkins toppleton chapter ii. mr. hopkins toppleton leases an office chapter iii. mr. hopkins toppleton encounters a weary spirit chapter iv. the weary spirit gives some account of himself chapter v. hopkins becomes better acquainted with the weary spirit chapter vi. the spirit unfolds a horrid tale chapter vii. a chapter of profit and loss chapter viii. further developments in the making of a name chapter ix. the crowning act of infamy chapter x. the spirit's story is concluded chapter xi. toppleton consults the law and forms an opinion chapter xii. toppleton makes a fair start chapter xiii. at barncastle hall chapter xiv. the dinner and its result chapter xv. barncastle confides in hopkins chapter xvi. mr. hopkins toppleton makes a discovery chapter xvii. epilogue toppleton's client. chapter i. introducing mr. hopkins toppleton. mr. hopkins toppleton, barrister of london and new york, was considered by his intimates a most fortunate young man. he was accounted the happy possessor of an income of something over fifty thousand dollars a year, derived from investments which time had shown to be as far removed from instability, and as little influenced by the fluctuations of the stock market, as the pyramids of egypt themselves. better than this, however, better even than personal beauty, with which he was plentifully endowed, mr. hopkins toppleton was blessed with a great name, which he had received ready-made from his illustrious father, late head of the legal firm of toppleton, morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers and hicks. the value of the name to hopkins was unquestionable, since it enabled him, at his father's death, to enter that famous aggregation of legal talent as a special partner, although his knowledge of law was scant, receiving a share of the profits of the concern for the use of his patronymic, which, owing to his father's pre-eminent success at the bar, messrs. morley, harkins, _et al._, were anxious to retain. this desire of mr. toppleton's late associates was most natural, for such was the tremendous force exerted by the name he bore, that plaintiffs when they perceived it arrayed in opposition to their claims, not infrequently withdrew their suits, or offered terms upon which any defendant of sense might be induced to compromise. on the other hand, when a defendant found himself confronted with the fact that hopkins toppleton, sen., had joined forces with the plaintiff, he usually either settled the claim against him in full or placed himself beyond the jurisdiction of the courts. when toppleton, sen., died, it was very generally believed that the firm, whose name has already been mentioned at some length, lost not only its head, but also a very large proportion of its brains,--a situation quite as logical as it was unfortunate for the gentlemen with whom mr. toppleton had been associated. nor was this feeling, that with the departure of toppleton, the illustrious, for other worlds the firm was deprived of a most considerable portion of its claims to high standing, confined to cavilling outsiders. no one recognized the unhappy state of affairs at the busy office on broadway more quickly than did messrs. morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers, and hicks themselves, and at the first meeting of the firm, after the funeral of their dead partner, these gentlemen unanimously resolved that something must be done. it was at this meeting that mr. hicks suggested that the only course left for the bereaved firm to pursue, if it desired to remain an aggressive force in its chosen profession, was to retain the name of toppleton at the mast-head, and, as mr. mawson put it, "to bluff it out." mr. perkins agreed with mr. hicks, and suggested that the only honest way to do this was to induce mr. toppleton's only son, known to all--even to the clerks in the office--as hoppy, to enter the firm as a full partner. "i do not think," mr. perkins said, "that it is quite proper for us to assume a virtue that we do not possess, and while hoppy--i should say hopkins--has never studied law, i think he could be induced to do so, in which event he could be taken in here, and we should have a perfectly equitable claim to all the business which the name of toppleton would certainly bring to us." "i am afraid," mr. bronson put in at this point, "i am very much afraid that such a course would require the entire reorganization of the firm's machinery. it would never do for the member whose name stands at the head of our partnership designation, to be on such terms of intimacy with the office boys, for instance, as to permit of his being addressed by them as hoppy; nor would it conduce toward good discipline, i am convinced, for the nominal head of the concern to be engaged in making pools on baseball games with our book-keepers and clerks, which, during his lamented father's life, i understand was one of the lad's most cherished customs. now, while i agree with my friend perkins that it is desirable that the firm should have an unassailable basis for its retention of the name of toppleton, i do not agree with him that young hopkins should be taken in here if we are to retain our present highly efficient force of subordinates. they would be utterly demoralized in less than a month." "but what do you suggest as an alternative?" inquired mr. morley. "i believe that we should make hopkins a special partner in the firm, and have him travel abroad for his health," returned mr. bronson after a moment's reflection. "i regret to say," objected mr. hicks, "that hoppy's health is distressingly good. your point in regard to the probable demoralization of our office force, however, is well taken. hopkins must go abroad if he becomes one of us; but i suggest that instead of sending him for his health, we establish a london branch office, and put him in charge on a salary of, say, , dollars. we have no business interests outside of this country, so that such a course, in view of his absolute ignorance of law, would be perfectly safe, and we could give hoppy to understand in the event of his acceptance of our proposition that he shall be free to take a vacation whenever he pleases, for as long a period of time as he pleases, and the oftener the better." "that's the best plan, i think," said mr. mawson. "in fact, if hoppy declines that responsible office, i wouldn't mind taking it myself." and so it happened. the proposition was made to hopkins, and he accepted it with alacrity. he did not care for the practice of the law, but he had no objection to receiving an extra ten thousand dollars a year as a silent partner in a flourishing concern with headquarters in london, particularly when his sole duties were to remain away from the office on a perpetual vacation. "i was born with a love of rest," hoppy once said in talking over his prospects with his friends some time before the proposition of his father's partners had been submitted to him. "even as a baby i was fond of it. i remember my mother saying that i slept for nearly the whole of my first year of existence, and when i came to my school days my reputation with my teachers was, that in the enjoyment of recess and in assiduous devotion to all that pertained to a life of elegant leisure, there was not a boy in school who could approach me." the young man never railed at fate for compelling him to lead a life which would have filled others of robuster ideas with ennui, but he did on occasions find fault with the powers for having condemned him to birth in a country like the united states, where the man of leisure is regarded with less of reverence than of derision. "it is a no harder fate for the soul of an artist to dwell in the body of a pork-packer," he had said only the night before the plan outlined by mr. hicks was brought to his attention, "than for a man of my restful tendencies to be at home in a land where the hustler alone inspires respect. what the fates should have done in my case was clearly to have had me born a rich duke or a prince, whose chief duty it would be to lead the fashionable world and to set styles of dress for others to follow. i'd have made a magnificent member of the house of lords, or proprietor of a rich estate somewhere in england, with nothing to do but to spend my income and open horse shows; but in new york there is no leisure class of recognized standing, excepting, of course, the messenger-boys and the plumbers, and even they do not command the respect which foreign do-nothings inspire. it's hard luck. the only redeeming feature of the case is that owing to a high tariff i can spend my money with less effort here than i could abroad." then came the proposition from the firm, and in it hoppy recognized the ingredients of the ideal life--a life of rest in a country capable of understanding the value to society of the drones, a life free from responsibility, yet possessing a semblance of dignity bound to impress those unacquainted with the real state of affairs. added to this was the encouragement which an extra ten thousand a year must invariably bring to the man appointed to receive it. "it's just what i needed," he said to mr. hicks, "to make my income what it ought to be. fifty thousand dollars is, of course, a handsome return from investments, but it is an awkward sum to spend. it doesn't divide up well. but sixty thousand a year is simply ideal. twelve goes into sixty five times, and none over--five thousand a month means something, and doesn't complicate accounts. besides, the increase will pay the interest on a yacht nicely." "you are a great boy, hoppy," said mr. hicks, when the young man had thus unbosomed himself, "but i doubt if you will ever be a great man." "oh, i don't know," said hoppy; "there's no telling what may develop. of course, mr. hicks, i shall go into the study of the law very seriously; i couldn't think of accepting your offer without making some effort to show that i deserved it. i shall give up the reading of my irresponsible days, and take to reading law. i shall stop my subscription to the sporting papers, and take the _daily register_ and _court calendar_ instead, and if you think it would be worth while i might also subscribe to the _albany law journal_, with which interesting periodical i am already tolerably familiar, having kept my father's files in order for some years." "no, hoppy," said mr. hicks, with a smile, "i don't think you'd better give up the sporting papers; 'all work and no play makes jack a dull boy.'" "perhaps you are right," said hopkins, in reply to this. "but i _shall_ read blackstone, and accumulate a library on legal subjects, mr. hicks. in that i am firm. i am a good deal of a book-lover anyhow, and since law is to be my profession i might as well suit my books to my needs. i'll order a first edition of blackstone at once." "you'd better get the comic blackstone," said mr. hicks, gravely. "you will find it a very interesting book." "very well, mr. hicks," returned the amiable head-partner-elect of the famous legal firm, "i'll make a note of that. i will also purchase the 'newgate calendar,' and any other books you may choose to recommend,--and i tell you what, mr. hicks, when my collection gets going it will be the talk of the town. i'll have 'em all in absolute firsts, and as for the bindings, your old yellow-backed tomes at the office will be cast utterly in the shade by my full crushed levant morocco books in rich reds and blues. just think of the hundred or more volumes of new york reports in russia leather, mr. hicks!" "it takes my breath away, hoppy," returned the lawyer. "every one of the volumes will be absolutely uncut, i suppose, eh?" "never you mind about that," retorted hopkins; "you think i'm joking, but you'll find your mistake some day. i'm serious in this business, though i think i'll begin my labours by taking a winter at nice." "that is wise," said mr. hicks, approvingly; "and then you might put in the summer in norway, devoting the spring and autumn to rest and quiet." "i'll think about that," hopkins answered; "but the first step to take, really, is to pack up my things here, and sail for london and secure an office." "a very proper sentiment, my dear boy," returned mr. hicks; "but let me advise you, do not be rash about plunging into the professional vortex. remember that at present your knowledge of the law is limited entirely to your theories as to what it ought to be, and law is seldom that; nor must you forget that in asking you to represent us in london, it is not our desire to inflict upon you any really active work. we simply desire you to live in an atmosphere that, to one of your tastes, is necessarily broadening, and if you find it advisable to pursue intellectual breadth across the continent of europe to the uttermost parts of the earth, you will find that the firm stands ready to furnish you with material assistance, and to remove all obstacles from your path." "thanks for your kindness, mr. hicks," said hopkins. "i shall endeavour to prove myself worthy of it." "i have no doubt of it, my boy," rejoined mr. hicks, rising. "and, in parting with you, let me impress upon you the importance, both to you and to ourselves in the present stage of your legal development, of the maxim, that to a young lawyer not sure of his law, and devoid of experience, there is nothing quite so dangerous as a client. avoid clients, hoppy, as you would dangerous explosives. many a young lawyer has seemed great until fate has thrown a client athwart his path." with these words, designed quite as much for the protection of the firm, as for the edification of that concern's new head, mr. hicks withdrew, and hopkins turned his attention to preparations for departure; paying his bills, laying in a stock of cigars, and instructing his valet as to the disposition of his lares and penates. four weeks later he sailed for london, arriving there in good shape early in june, ready for all the delights of the season, then at its height. it was not until hopkins had been four days at sea, that the firm of toppleton, morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers, and hicks learned that the new partner had presided at a coney island banquet, given by himself to the office-boys, clerks, book-keepers, and stenographers of the firm, on the saturday half-holiday previous to his departure. it is doubtful if this appalling fact would have come to light even then, had not mr. mawson, in endeavouring to discharge one of the office-boys for insubordination, been informed by the delinquent that he defied him; the senior member of the firm, the departed hoppy, having promised to retain the youth in his employ at increased wages, until he was old enough to go to london, and assist him in looking after the interests of his clients abroad. an investigation, which followed, showed that hopkins had celebrated his departure in the manner indicated, and also divulged the interesting fact that the running expenses of the office, according to the new partner's promises, were immediately to be increased at least twenty-five per cent. per annum in salaries. chapter ii. mr. hopkins toppleton leases an office. it did not take hopkins many days to discover that a life of elegant leisure in london approximates labour of the hardest sort. nor was it entirely easy for him to spend his one thousand pounds a month, with lodgings for his headquarters. this fact annoyed him considerably, for he valued money only for what it could bring him, and yet how else to live than in lodgings he could not decide. hotel life he abhorred, not only because he considered its excellence purely superficial, but also because it brought him in contact with what he called his "flash-light fellow countrymen, with wagnerian voices and frontier manners"--by which i presume he meant the diamond studded individuals who travel on cook's tickets, and whose so-called americanism is based on the notion that britons are still weeping over the events of ' , and who love to send patriotic allusions to the star-spangled banner echoing down through the corridors of the hotels, out and along the thames embankment, to the very doors of parliament itself. "why don't you buy a house-boat?" asked one of his cronies, to whom he had confided his belief that luxurious ease was hard on the constitution. "then you can run off up the thames, and loaf away the tedious hours of your leisure." "that's an idea worth considering," he replied, "and perhaps i'll try it on next summer. i do not feel this year, however, that i ought to desert london, considering the responsibilities of my position." "what are you talking about?" said the other with a laugh. "responsibilities! why, man, you haven't been to your office since you arrived." "no," returned hoppy, "i haven't. in fact i haven't got an office to 'be to.' that's what bothers me so like thunder. i've looked at plenty of offices advertised as for rent for legal firms, but i'll be hanged if i can find anything suitable. your barristers over here have not as good accommodations as we give obsolete papers at home. our pigeon-holes are palatial in comparison with your office suites, and accustomed as i am to breathing fresh air, i really can't stand the atmosphere i have been compelled to take into my lungs in the rooms i have looked at." "but, my dear fellow, what more than a pigeon-hole do you need?" asked his friend. "you are not called upon to attend to any business here. a post-office box would suffice for the receipt of communications from america." "that's all true enough," returned hopkins, "but where am i to keep my law library? and what am i to do in case i should have a client?" "keep your books in your lodgings, and don't count your clients before they get into litigation," replied the other. "my dear tutterson," hopkins said in answer to this, "you are the queerest mixture of common sense and idiotcy i have ever encountered. my library at home, indeed! haven't you any better sense than to suggest my carrying my profession into my home life? do you suppose i want to be reminded at every step i take that i am a lawyer? must my business be rammed down my throat at all hours? am i never to have relaxation from office cares? indeed, i'll not have a suggestion of law within a mile of my lodgings! i must have an office; but now that i think of it, not having to go to the office from one year's end to another, it makes no difference whether it consists of the ground floor of buckingham palace or a rear cell three flights up, in newgate prison." "except," returned tutterson, "that if you had the office at newgate you might do more business than if you shared buckingham palace with the royal family." "yes; and on the other hand, the society at the palace is probably more desirable than that of newgate; so each having equal advantages, i think i'd better compromise and take an office out near the tower," said hopkins. "the location is quite desirable from my point of view. it would be so inaccessible that i should have a decent excuse for not going there, and besides, i reduce my chances of being embarrassed by a client to a minimum." "that is where you are very much mistaken," said tutterson. "if you hang your shingle out by the tower, you will be one lawyer among a hundred beef-eaters, and therefore distinguished, and likely to be sought out by clients. on the other hand, if you behave like a sensible man, and take chambers in the temple, you'll be an unknown attorney among a thousand q.c's. and as for the decent excuse for not attending to business, you simply forget that you are no longer in america but in england. here a man needs an excuse for going to work. trade is looked down upon. it is the butterfly we esteem, not the grub. a man who _will_ work when he doesn't need to work, is looked upon with distrust. society doesn't cultivate him, and the million regard him with suspicion,--and the position of both is distinctly logical. he who serves is a servant, and society looks upon him as such, and when he insists upon serving without the necessity to serve, he diminishes by just so much the opportunities of some poor devil to whom opportunity is bread and butter, which sets the poor devil against him. you do not need an excuse for neglecting business, toppleton, and, by jove, if it wasn't for your beastly american ideas, you'd apologize to yourself for even thinking of such a thing." "well, i fancy you are right," replied toppleton. "to tell you the truth, i never thought of it in that light before. there is value in a leisure class, after all. it keeps the peach-blow humanity from competing with the earthenware, to the disadvantage of the latter. i see now why the lower and middle classes so dearly love the lords and dukes and other noble born creatures nature has set above them. it is the generous self-denial of the aristocracy in the matter of work, and the consequent diminution of competition, that is the basis of that love. i'll do as you say, and see what i can do in the temple. even if a client should happen to stray in at one of those rare moments when i am on duty, i can assume a weary demeanour and tell him that i have already more work on my hands than i can accomplish with proper deference to my health, and request him to take his quarrel elsewhere." so the question was settled. an office was taken in the temple. hopkins bought himself a wig and a gown, purchased a dozen tin boxes, each labelled with the hypothetical name of some supposititious client, had the room luxuriously fitted up, arranged his law library, consisting of the "comic blackstone," "bench and bar," by sergeant ballantyne, the "newgate calendar," and an absolute first of "parsons on contracts," on the mahogany shelves he had had constructed there; hung out a shingle announcing himself and firm as having headquarters within, and, placing beneath it a printed placard to the effect that he had gone out to lunch, he turned the key in the door and departed with tutterson for a trip to the land of the midnight sun. now it so happened, that the agent having in charge the particular section of the temple in which hopkins' new office was located, had concealed from the young american the fact that for some twenty-five or thirty years, the room which toppleton had leased had remained unoccupied--that is, it had never been occupied for any consecutive period of time during that number of years. tenants had come but had as quickly gone. there was something about the room that no one seemed able to cope with. luxuriously furnished or bare, it made no difference in the fortunes of number , from the doors of which now projected the sign of toppleton, morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers, and hicks. just what the trouble was, the agent had not been able to determine in a manner satisfactory to himself until about a year before hopkins happened in to negotiate with him for a four years' lease. departing tenants, when they had spoken to him at all on the subject, had confined themselves to demands for a rebate on rents paid in advance, on the rather untenable ground that the room was uncanny and depressing. "we can't stand it," they had said, earnestly. "there must be some awful mystery connected with the room. there has been a murder, or a suicide, or some equally dreadful crime committed within its walls at some time or another." this, of course, the agent always strenuously denied, and his books substantiated his denial. the only possible crime divulged by the books, was thirty-three years back when an occupant departed without paying his rent, but that surely did not constitute the sort of crime that would warrant the insinuation that the room was haunted. "and as for your statement that the room makes you feel weird and depressed," the agent had added with the suggestion of a sneer, "i am sure there is nothing in the terms of the lease which binds me to keep tenants in a natural and cheerful frame of mind. i can't help it, you know, if you get the blues or eat yourselves into a state that makes that room seem to you to be haunted." "but," one expostulating tenant had observed, "but, my dear sir, i am given to understand that the five tenants preceding my occupancy left for precisely the same reason, that the office at times is suffocatingly weird; and that undefined whispers are to be heard playing at puss in the corner with heart-rending sighs at almost any hour of the day or night throughout the year, cannot be denied." "well, all i've got to say about that," was the agent's invariable reply, "is that _i_ never saw a sigh or heard a whisper of a supernatural order in that room, and if you want to go to law with a case based on a welsh rarebit diet, just do it. if the courts decide that i owe you money, and must forfeit my lease rights because you have dyspepsia, i'll turn over the whole business to you and join the army." of course this independent attitude of the agent always settled the question at once. his tenants, however insane they might appear to the agent's eyes, were invariably sane enough not to carry the matter to the courts, where it was hardly possible that a plaintiff could be relieved of the conditions of his contract, because his office gave him a megrim, super-induced by the visit of a disembodied sigh. judges are hard-headed, practical persons, who take no stock in spirits not purely liquid, realizing which the tenants of number , without exception, wisely resolved to suffer in silence, invariably leaving the room, however, in a state of disuse encouraging to cobwebs, which would have delighted the soul of a connoisseur in wines. "if i can't make the rent of the room, i can at least raise cobwebs for innkeepers to use in connection with their wine cellars," said the agent to himself with a sad chuckle, which showed that he was possessed of a certain humorous philosophy which must have been extremely consoling to him. at the end of three years of abortive effort to keep the room rented, impelled partly by curiosity to know if anything really was the matter with the office, partly by a desire to relieve the building of the odium under which the continued emptiness of one of its apartments had placed it, the agent moved into number himself. his tenancy lasted precisely one week, at the end of which time he moved out again. he, too, had heard the undefined whispers and disembodied sighs; he, too, had trembled with awe when the uncanny quality of the atmosphere clogged up his lungs and set his heart beating at a galloping pace; he, too, decided that so far as he was concerned life in that office was intolerable, and he acted accordingly. he departed, and from that moment no. was entered on his books no longer as for rent as an office, but was transferred to the list of rooms mentioned as desirable for storage purposes. to the agent's credit be it said that when hopkins toppleton came along and desired to rent the apartment for office use his first impulse was to make a clean breast of the matter, and to say to him that in his own opinion and that of others the room was haunted and had been so for many years; but when he reflected that his conscience, such as it was, along with the rest of his being, was in the employ of the proprietors of the building, he felt that it was his duty to hold his peace. toppleton had been informed that the room was useful chiefly for storage purposes, and if he chose to use it as an office, it was his own affair. in addition to this, the agent had a vague hope that hopkins, being an american and used to all sorts of horrible things in his native land--such as boa-constrictors on the streets, buffaloes in the back yard, and indians swarming in the suburbs of the cities,--would be able to cope with the invisible visitant, and ultimately either subdue or drive the disembodied sigh into the spirit vale. in view of these facts, therefore, it was not surprising that when hopkins had finally signed a four years' lease and had taken possession, the agent should give a sigh of relief, and, on his return home, inform his wife that she might treat herself to a new silk dress. during the few weeks which elapsed between the signing of the lease and hopkins' ostensible departure on a three months' lunching tour, he was watched with considerable interest by the agent, but, until the "gone to lunch" placard was put up, the latter saw no sign that hopkins had discovered anything wrong with the office, and even then the agent thought nothing about it until the placard began to accumulate dust. then he shook his head and silently congratulated himself that the rent had been paid a year in advance; "for," he said, "if he hasn't gone to new york to lunch, the chances are that that sigh has got to work again and frightened him into an unceremonious departure." neither of which hypotheses was correct, for as we have already heard, hopkins had departed for norway. as for the sigh, the young lawyer had heard it but once. that was when he was about leaving the room for his three months' tour, and he had attributed it to the soughing of the wind in the trees outside of his window, which was indeed an error, as he might have discovered at the time had he taken the trouble to investigate, for there were no trees outside of his window through whose branches a wind could have soughed even if it had been disposed to do so. chapter iii. mr. hopkins toppleton encounters a weary spirit. it was well along in october when hopkins returned to london, and he got back to his office in the temple none too soon. the agent had fully made up his mind that he was gone for good, and was about taking steps to remove his effects from number , and gain an honest penny by sub-letting that light and airy apartment for his own benefit, a vision of profit which toppleton redivivus effectually dispelled. the return, for this reason, was of course a grave disappointment to mr. stubbs, but he rose to the occasion when the long lost lessee appeared on the scene, and welcomed him cordially. "good morning, sir," he said. "glad to see you back. didn't know what had become of you or should have forwarded your mail. have a pleasant trip?" "very," said toppleton, shortly. "it seems to have agreed with you,--you've a finer colour than you had." "yes," replied hopkins, drily. "that's natural. i've been to norway. the sun's been working day and night, and i'm tanned." "i hope everything is--er--everything was all right with the room, sir?" the agent then said somewhat anxiously. "i found nothing wrong with it," said hopkins; "did you suspect that anything was wrong there?" "oh, no!--indeed not. of course not," returned the agent with some confusion. "i only asked--er--so that in case there was anything you wanted, you know, it might be attended to at once. there's nothing wrong with the room at all, sir. nothing. absolutely nothing." "well, that's good," said toppleton, turning to his table. "i'm glad there's nothing the matter. it will take a very small percentage of the rental to remedy that. good morning, mr. stubbs." "good morning, sir," said mr. stubbs, and then he departed. "now for the mail," said hopkins, grasping his letter-opener, and running it deftly through the flap of a communication from mr. morley, written two months previously. "dear hoppy," he read. "we have just been informed of your singular act on the saturday previous to your departure for london." "hm! what the deuce did i do then?" said hopkins, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. "let me see. 'singular act.' i've done quite a number of singular things on saturdays, but what--oh, yes! ha, ha! that coney island dinner. oh, bosh!--what nonsense! as if my giving the boys a feast were going to hurt the prospects of a firm like ours. by george, it'll work just the other way. it'll fill the force with an enthusiasm for work which--" here hopkins stopped for a moment to say, "come in!" somebody had knocked, he thought. but the door remained closed. "come in!" he cried again. still there was no answer, and on walking to the door and opening it, toppleton discovered that his ears had deceived him. there was no one there, nor was there any sign of life whatever in the hallway. "i'm glad," he said, returning to his chair and taking up mr. morley's letter once more. "it might have been a client, and to a man at the head of a big firm who has never been admitted to practice in any court or country, that would be an embarrassment to say the least. it's queer though, about that knock. i certainly heard one. maybe there is some telepathic influence between morley and me. he usually punctuates his complaints with a whack on a table or back of a chair. that's what it must have been; but let's see what else he has to say." "of course," he read, "if you desire to associate with those who are socially and professionally your inferiors, we have nothing to say. that is a matter entirely beyond our jurisdiction, but when you commit the firm to outrageous expenditures simply to gratify your own love of generosity, it is time to call a halt." "what the devil is he talking about?" said hopkins, putting the letter down. "i paid for that dinner out of my own pocket, and never charged the firm a cent, even though it does indirectly reap all the benefits. i'll have to write morley and call his attention to that fact. how vulgar these disputes--" at this point he was again interrupted by a sound which, in describing it afterwards, he likened to a ton of aspirates sliding down a coal chute. "this room appears to be an asylum for strange noises," said he, looking about him to discover, if possible, whence this second interruption came. "i don't believe morley feels badly enough about my behaviour for one of his sighs to cross the ocean and greet my ears, but i'm hanged if i know how else to account for it, unless there's a speaking tube with a whistle in it somewhere hereabouts. i wonder if that's what stubbs meant!" he added, reflecting. "bah!" he said in answer to his own question, picking up mr. morley's letter for a third time. "this is the nineteenth century. weird sounds are mortal-made these days, and i'm not afraid of them. if there were anything supernatural about them, why didn't the air get blue, and where's my cold chill and my hair standing erect? i fancy i'll retain my composure until the symptoms are a little more strongly developed." here he returned to his reading. "we desire to have you explain to us, at your earliest convenience," the letter went on to say, "why you have so extravagantly raised the salary of every man, woman and child in our employ, utterly regardless of merit, and without consultation with those with whom you have been associated, to such a figure that the firm has been compelled to reduce its autumn dividend to meet the requirements of the pay roll. your probable answer will be, i presume,--knowing your extraordinary resources in the matter of explanations--that you cannot consent to be a mere figure-head, and that you considered it your duty to impress upon our clerks the fact that you are not what they might suspect under the circumstances, but a vital, moving force in the concern; but you may as well spare yourself the trouble of making any such explanation, since it will not be satisfactory either to myself or to the other members of the firm, with the possible exception of our friend mawson, who, with his customary about-town manners, is disposed to make light of the matter. we desire to have you distinctly understand that your duties are to be confined entirely to the london office, and to add that were it not for your esteemed father's sake we should at once cancel our agreement with you. the name you bear, honoured as it is in our profession, is of great value to us: but it is, after all, a luxury rather than a necessity, and in these hard times we are strongly inclined to dispense with luxuries whenever we find them too expensive for our pockets." hopkins paused in his reading and pursed his lips to give a long, low whistle, a sound which was frozen _in transitu_, for the lips were no sooner pursed than there came from a far corner the very sound that he had intended to utter. for the first time in his life toppleton knew what fear was; for the first time since he was a boy, when he wore it that way, did he become conscious that his hair stood upon end. his blood seemed to congeal in his veins, and his heart for a moment ceased to beat, and then, as if desirous of making up for lost time, began to thump against his ribs at lightning pace and with such force that hopkins feared it might break the crystal of the watch which he carried in the upper left-hand pocket of his vest. mr. morley's letter fluttered from his nerveless hand to the floor, and, despite its severity, was forgotten before it touched the handsome rug beneath hopkins' table. the new sensation--the sensation of fear--had taken possession of his whole being, and, for an instant, he was as one paralyzed. then, recovering his powers of motion, he whirled about in his revolving chair and started to his feet as if he had been shot. "this is unbearable!" he cried, glancing nervously about the room. "it's bad enough to have an office-boy who whistles, but when you get the whistle in the abstract without the advantage of the office-boy, it is too much." then hopkins rang the bell and summoned the janitor. "tell the agent i want to see him," he said when that worthy appeared, and then, returning to his desk, he sat down and mechanically opened a copy of the _daily register_ and tried to read it. "it's no use," he cried in a moment, crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it across the room. "that vile whistle has regularly knocked me out." the paper ball reached the door just as the agent entered, and struck him athwart the watch chain. "beg pardon," said hopkins, "i didn't mean that for you. everything here seems to be bewitched this morning, that dull compilation of legal woe included." "it's of no consequence, sir, i assure you," returned the agent uneasily. "no, i don't think it amounts to a row of beans to a man who hates trouble," said hopkins, referring more to the journal than to the untoward act of the paper ball. "but i say, mr. stubbs, i've been having a devil of a time in this room this morning, and when i say devil i mean devil." stubbs paled visibly. the moment he had feared had come. "wh--wh--what sus--seems to b--be the m--mum--matter, sir?" he stammered. "nothing seems, something _is_ the matter," returned hopkins. "i don't wonder you stammer. you'd stammer worse if you had been here with me three minutes ago. stubbs, i believe this room is haunted!" mr. stubbs's efforts at surprise at this point were painful to witness. "haunted, sir?" he said. "yes, haunted!" retorted hopkins; "and by a confoundedly impertinent something or other that not only sighs and knocks on the door but whistles, stubbs--actually whistles. has this room a history?" "well, a sort of a one," returned stubbs; "but i never heard any one complain about it on the score of whistling, sir." "stubbs, i believe you are lying. hasn't somebody killed an office-boy in this apartment, for whistling?" queried hopkins, gazing sternly at the shuffling agent. "i'll take an affidavit that nothing of the kind ever happened," returned the agent, gaining confidence. "that won't be necessary," said toppleton. "i am satisfied with your assurance. but, stubbs, to what do you attribute these beastly disturbances? ghosts?" "of course not, mr. toppleton," replied mr. stubbs. "i fancy you must have heard some boy whistling in the hall." "how about the knock and the sigh?" demanded the american. "the knock is easily accounted for," returned the agent. "somebody in the room above you must have dropped something on the floor, while the sigh was probably the wind blowing through the key-hole." "or a bit of fog coming down the chimney, eh, stubbs?" put in hopkins, satirically. "no, sir," replied poor stubbs, growing red where he had been white; "there is no fog to-day, sir." "true, stubbs; and you will likewise observe there is no wind to sough through key-holes," retorted hopkins, severely, rising and walking to the window. stubbs stood motionless, without an answer. toppleton had cornered him in a flimsy pretext, and then came the climax to his horrible experience. from behind him in the corner whence had come the sigh and the whistle, there now proceeded a smothered laugh--a sound which curdled his blood and left him so limp that he staggered to the mantel and grasped it to keep himself from falling to the floor. hopkins turned upon him, his face livid with anger, and the two men gazed at each other in silence for a moment, the one endeavouring to master his fear, the other to smother his wrath. "do you mean to insult me, mr. stubbs, by laughing in my face when i send for you to request explanations as to the conduct--as to the--er--the conduct of your room? it sounds ridiculous to say that, but there is no other way to put it, for it _is_ the conduct of the room of which i complain. what do you mean by your ill-timed levity?" "i pass you my word, mr. toppleton, i will swear to you, sir, that nothing was further from my thoughts than mirth. i agree with you that it is no laughing matter for--" "but i heard you laugh," said toppleton, eyeing the agent, his anger now not unmixed with awe. "you laughed as plainly as it is possible for any one to laugh, except that you endeavoured to smother the sound." "i did nothing of the sort, mr. toppleton," pleaded stubbs, his hand shaking and his eyes wandering fearsomely over toward the mysterious corner where all was still and innocent-looking. "that laugh came from other lips than mine--if, indeed, it came from lips at all, which i doubt." "you mean," cried toppleton, grasping stubbs by the arm with a grip that made the agent wince, "you mean that this room is--" "khee-hee-hee-hee-hee!" came the derisive laugh from the corner, followed by the mysterious whistle and heartrending sigh which hopkins had already so unpleasantly heard. toppleton was transfixed with terror, and the agent, with an ejaculation of fear, ran from the room, and scurried down the stairs out into the court as fast as his legs could carry him, where he fell prostrate in a paroxysm of terror. deserted by the agent and shut up in the room with his unwelcome visitor--for the agent had slammed the door behind him with such force that the catch had slipped and loosened the bolt, so that toppleton was to all intents and purposes a prisoner--hopkins exerted what little nerve force he had left, and pulled himself together again as best he could. he staggered to his table, and taking a small bottle of whiskey from the cupboard at its side, poured at least one half of its fiery contents down into his throat. "_similia similibus_," said he softly to himself. "if i have to fight spirits, i shall use spirits." then facing about, he gazed into the corner unflinchingly for a moment, following up his glance with one of the hand fire grenades that hung in a wire basket on the wall, which he hurled with all his force into the offending void. to this ebullition of heroic indignation, the only reply was a repetition of the sounds whose origin was so mysterious, but this time they proceeded directly from toppleton's chair which stood at his side. another grenade, smashed into the maroon leather seat of the chair, was hopkins' rejoinder, whereupon he was infuriated to hear the smothered laugh emanate from the depths of a treasured bit of cloisonné standing upon the mantel, within which it had been hopkins' custom, in his apartments at home, to keep the faded leaves of the roses given to him by his friends of the fairer sex--a custom which, despite the volumes of tobacco smoke poured into the room by hopkins and his companions night and day, kept the atmosphere thereof as sweet as a garden. "you are a bright spirit," said hopkins with a forced laugh. "you know mighty well that you are safe from violence there; but if you'll get out of that and give me one fair shot at you over on the washstand, you'll never haunt again." "at last!" came the smothered voice, this time from the top of the jar. "at last, after years of weary waiting and watching, i may speak without breaking my vow." "then for heaven's sake," cried hopkins, sinking back into his chair and staring blankly at the jar, "for heaven's sake speak and explain yourself, if you do not wish to drive me to the insane asylum. who in the name of my honoured partners are you?" there was a moment's pause, and then the answer came,-- "i am a weary spirit--a spirit in exile--harmless and unhappy, whose unhappiness you may be able to relieve." "i?" cried hopkins, wildly. "yes, you. i am come to intrust my affairs to your hands." "you are--" "a client," returned the spirit. hopkins gasped twice, closed his eyes, clutched wildly at his heart, and slid down to the floor an inert mass. he had fainted. chapter iv. the weary spirit gives some account of himself. how long hopkins would have remained in an unconscious state had not a cold perspiration sprung forth from his forehead, and, trickling over his temples, brought him to his senses, i cannot say. suffice it to relate that his stupor lasted hardly more than a minute. when he opened his eyes and gazed over toward the haunted vase, he saw there the same depressing nothingness accompanied by the same soul-chilling sighs that had so discomfited him. to the ear there was something there, a something quite as perceptible to the auricular sense as if it were a living, tangible creature, but as imperceptible to the eye as that which has never existed. the presence, or whatever else it was that had entered into toppleton's life so unceremoniously, was apparently much affected by the searching gaze which its victim directed toward it. "don't look at me that way, i beg of you, mr. toppleton," said the spirit after it had sighed a half dozen times and given an occasional nervous whistle. "i don't deserve all that your glance implies, and if you could only understand me, i think you would sympathize with me in my trials." "i? i sympathize with you? well, i like that," cried toppleton, raising himself on his elbow and staring blankly at the vase. "it appears to me that i am the object of sympathy this time. what the deuce are you, anyhow? how am i to understand you, when you sit around like a maudlin void lost in a vacuum? are you an apparition or what?" "i am neither an apparition nor a what," returned the spirit. "i couldn't be an apparition without appearing. i suppose you might call me a limited perception; that is, i can be perceived but not seen, although i am human." "you must be a sort of cross between a rumour and a small boy, i suppose; is that it?" queried toppleton, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. "if you mean that i am half-way between things which should be seen and not heard, and other things which should be heard and not seen, i fancy your surmise approximates correctness. for my part, a love of conciseness leads me to set myself down as a presence," was the spirit's answer. "i'll give you a liberal reward," retorted toppleton, eagerly, "if you'll place yourself in the category of an absence as regards me and my office here; for, to tell you the truth, i am addicted more or less to heart disease, and i can't say i care to risk an association with a vocally inclined zero, such as you seem to be. what's your price?" "you wrong me, toppleton," returned the presence, indignantly, floating from the edge of the vase over to the large rocking chair in the corner by the window, which began at once to sway to and fro, to the undisguised wonderment of its owner. "i am not a blackmailer, as you might see at once if you could look into my face." "where do you keep your face?" asked hopkins, sitting up and embracing his knees. "if you have brought it along with you for heaven's sake trot it out. i can't ruin my eyes on you as you are now. have you no office hours, say from ten to two, when you may be seen by those desirous of feasting their eyes upon your tangibility?" "i am afraid you are joking, hopkins," said the spirit, growing familiar. "if you are, i beg that you will stop. what is a good joke to some eyes is a very serious matter to others." "that, my dear presence," returned toppleton, "is a very true observation, as is borne out by the large percentage of serious matter that appears in comic journals." "please do not be flippant," said the voice from the rocking-chair, sadly. "i have come to you as a suppliant for assistance. the fact that i have come without my body is against me, i know, but that is a circumstance over which i have absolutely no control. my body has been stolen from me, and i am at present a shapeless wanderer with nowhere to lay my head, and no head to lay there, if perchance the world held some corner that i might call my own." "i can't see what you have to complain about on that score," said toppleton, rising from the floor and seizing a large magnifying glass from his table and gazing searchingly through it into the chair which still rocked violently. "an individual like yourself, if you are an individual, ought to be able to find comfort anywhere. the avidity with which you have seized upon that chair, and the extraordinary vitality you seem to have imparted to its rockers, indicate to my mind that the world has about everything for you that any reasonable being can desire. if you can percolate into my apartment and make use of the luxuries i had fondly hoped were exclusively mine, i can't see what is to prevent your settling down at windsor castle if you will. aren't there any comfortable chairs and beds there?" "i don't know whether there are or not," replied the presence. "i never went there, and being a loyal british presence, i should hesitate very strongly before i would discommode the royal family." "it might be awkward, i suppose," returned toppleton with a laugh, "if you should happen to fall asleep in the prince of wales' favourite arm-chair, and he should happen to come in and sit on you, for i presume you are no more visible to royalty than you are to republican simplicity as embodied in myself. still, as a loyal british subject, i should think you'd rather be sat on by the prince than by a common mortal." as hopkins spoke these words the chair stopped rocking, and if its attitude meant anything, its invisible occupant was leaning forward and staring with pained astonishment at the young lawyer, who was leaning gracefully against the mantelpiece. then on a sudden the chair's attitude was relaxed and it rocked slowly backward again, resuming its former pace. a few minutes passed without a word being spoken, at the end of which time the spirit sighed deeply. "is there anything in this world," it asked, "is there anything too sacred for you americans to joke about? have you no ideals, no--" "plenty of ideals but no special idols," returned hopkins, perceiving the spirit's drift. "but of course, if i hurt your feelings by joking about the prince, i apologize. though unasked, you are still my guest, and i should be very sorry to seem lacking in courtesy. but tell me about this body of yours. how did you come to lose it, and is it still living?" "yes, it is still living," replied the spirit. "living a life of honoured ease." "but how the deuce did you come to lose it? that's what i can't understand. i have heard of men losing pretty nearly everything but their bodies." "as i have already told you," said the spirit, wearily, "it was stolen from me." "and have you no clue to the thieves? do you know where it is?" "yes, i know where it is. in fact i saw it only last week," replied the spirit with a sob, "and it's getting old, toppleton, very old. when it was taken away from me it was erect of stature, broad-shouldered, muscular and full of health. to-day it is round-shouldered, flabby and generally consumptive-looking. when i occupied it, the face was clean-shaven and ruddy. the hair was of a rich auburn, the hands milk white. the carriage was graceful, and about my lips there played a smile that fascinated. the blue eyes sparkled, the teeth shone out between my lips when i smiled, like a strip of chased silver in the sunlight; i tell you, toppleton, when i had that body it had some style about it; but now--it breaks my heart to think of it now!" "it hasn't lost its good looks altogether, has it?" queried hopkins, his voice slightly tremulous with the sympathy he was beginning to feel for this disembodied entity before him. "it has," sobbed the spirit; "and i'm not surprised that it has, considering the life it has led since i lost it. the auburn hair that used to be my mother's pride, and my schoolmates' source of wit, has gradually dropped away and left a hairless scalp of an insignificant pinkish hue which would disgrace a shrimp. my once happy smile has subsided into something like a toothless sneer; for my dazzling teeth are no more. the blue eyes are expressionless, the elastic step is halting, and, what is worse, the present occupant of my physical self has grown a beard that makes me look like a pirate." "i wonder you recognized yourself," said hopkins. "it was strange; but i did recognize myself by my ring which i still wear," returned the spirit. "but, toppleton," it added, "you have no notion how terrible it is for a man to see himself growing old and breaking away from all the habits and principles of youth, powerless to interfere. for instance, my body was temperate when i was in it. i never drank more than one glass of whiskey in one day. now it is brandy and water all day long, and it galls me, like the merry hereafter, with my temperance scruples, to see myself given over to intemperate drams. _i_ never used profane language. last friday i heard my own lips condemn a poor unoffending fly to everlasting punishment. but i want to tell you how this outrageous thing came to pass. i want to tell you how it was that in the very bud of my existence i was robbed of a suitable case in which to go through life, and i want you, with your extraordinary knowledge of the law, as i understand it to be, to devise some scheme for my relief. if you don't, nobody will, and before many years it will be too late. the body is growing weaker every day. i can see that, and i want to get it back again before it becomes absolutely valueless. i believe that under my care, restored to its original owner, it can be fixed up and made quite respectable for its declining years. of course the teeth and the hair are gone for ever, but i think i can furbish up the smile, the eye and the hands. i know that i can restore my former good habits." "i'm hanged if i see how i can help you," rejoined hopkins. "do you mean to say that the present occupant of your personality is the creature who robbed you of it?" "precisely," said the spirit. "he's the very same person, and, stars above us, how he has abused the premises! he has made my name famous--" "you don't mean to say that he took your name too?" put in hopkins incredulously. "i mean just that," retorted the spirit. "he stole my name, my body, my prospects, my clothing--every blessed thing i had except my consciousness, and he thrust that out into a cold, unsympathetic world, to float around in invisible nebulousness for thirty long years. oh, it is an awful tale of villainy, toppleton! awful!" "you say he has made your name famous," said toppleton. "you give him credit for that, don't you?" "i would if the very fame accorded my name did not tend to make me infamous in the eyes of those i hold most dear; and the beastly part of it is that i can't explain the situation to them." "why not?" asked hopkins. "if you can lay all this misery bare to me, why can't you lay it before those for whose good will and admiration you are lamenting?" "because, hopkins, they never address me, and it is my hard fate not to be able to open a conversation," returned the spirit. "if you will remember, it was not until you asked me who the devil i was, or some equally choice question of like import, that i began to hold converse with you; you are the only man with whom i have talked for thirty years, hopkins, because you are the only person who has taken the initiative." "well, you goaded me into it," returned hopkins. "so i can't see why you can't goad your friends of longer standing into it." "the explanation is simple," replied the spirit. "my friends haven't had the courage to withstand the terrors of the situation. the minute i have whistled, sighed or laughed, they have made a bee line for the door, and raised such a hullabaloo about the 'supernatural visitation,' as they termed my efforts, that i couldn't do a thing with them. they've everyone of them, from my respected mother down, avoided me, even as that man stubbs has avoided me. i believe you too would have fled if the door hadn't locked automatically, and so forced you to remain here." "if i could have avoided this interview i should most certainly have done so," said toppleton, candidly. "you can probably guess yourself how very unpleasant it is to be disturbed in your work by a whistle that emanates from some unseen lips, and to have your room taken possession of by an invisible being with a grievance." "yes, hopkins. i've had almost the same experience myself," replied the spirit; "and to be as candid with you as you have been with me, i will say that it was just that experience, and nothing else, that is responsible for my present difficulties." "that's encouraging for me," said hopkins, nervously. "but tell me how have you become infamously famous?" "the bandit who now occupies my being has violated every principle of religion and politics that he found in me when he took possession," returned the spirit, leaving the rocking-chair and settling down on the mantelpiece, in front of the clock. "where i was a pronounced tory he has made me vote with the liberals. notwithstanding the fact that i was brought up in the church of england, he joined first the dissenters and is now a thorough agnostic, and signs my name to the most outrageous views on social and moral subjects you ever heard advanced. my family have cut loose from me as i am represented by him, and the dearest friend of my youth never mentions my name save in terms of severest reprehension. would you like that, hopkins toppleton?" "i'd be precious far from liking it," hopkins answered. "it seems to me i'd commit suicide under such circumstances. have you thought of that?" "often," replied the spirit; "but the question has always been, how?" "take poison! shoot yourself! drown yourself!" "i can't take poison. that fiend who robbed me has my stomach, so what could i put the poison into?" retorted the spirit. "shoot myself? how? i haven't a pistol. if i had a pistol i couldn't fire it, because i've nothing to pull the trigger with. if i had something to pull the trigger with, what should i fire at? i have no brains to blow out, no heart to shoot at. i'd simply fire into air." "how about the third method?" queried toppleton. "drowning?" asked the unhappy presence. "that wouldn't work. i've nothing to drown. if i could get under water, i'd bubble right up again, so you see it's useless. besides, it's only the body that dies, not the spirit. you see the shape i'm left in." "no," returned hopkins, "i perceive the lack of shape you are left in, and i must confess you are in the hardest luck of any person i ever knew; but really, my dear sir, i don't see how i can render you any assistance, so we might as well consider the interview at an end. now that i am better acquainted with you i will say, however, that if it gives you any pleasure to loll around here or to sleep up there in my cloisonné jar with the rose leaves, you are welcome to do so." "if you would only hear my story, hopkins," said the spirit, beseechingly, "you would be so wrought up by its horrible details that you would devise some plan for my relief. you would be less than a man if you did not, and i am told that you americans are great fighters. take this case for me, won't you?" hopkins hesitated. he was strongly inclined to yield, the cause was so extraordinary, and yet he could not in a moment overcome his strongly-cultivated repugnance to burdening himself with a client. then he was conscientious, too. he did not wish to identify the famous house of toppleton, morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers and hicks with a case in which the possibilities of success seemed so remote. on the other hand he could not but reflect that, aside from the purely humane aspect of the matter, a successful issue would redound to the everlasting glory of himself and his partners over the sea--that is, it would if anybody could be made to believe in the existence of such a case. he realized that the emergency was one which must be met by himself alone, because he was thoroughly convinced that the hard-headed practical men of affairs whom he represented would scarcely credit his account of the occurrences of the last hour, and would set him down either as having been under the influence of drink or as having lost his senses. he would not have believed the story himself if some one else had told it to him, and he could not expect his partners in new york to be any more credulous than he would have been. his hesitation was short-lived, however, for in a moment it was dispelled by a sigh from his unseen guest. it was the most heartrending sigh he had ever heard, and it overcame his scruples. "by george!" he said, "i will listen to your story, and i'll help you if i can, only you will unstring my nerves unless you get yourself a shape of some kind or other. it makes my blood run cold to sit here and bandy words with an absolute nonentity." "i don't know where i can get a shape," returned the spirit. "what did the thief who took your shape do with his old one?" asked hopkins. "he'd buried it before i met him," returned the spirit. "buried it? oh, heavens!" cried hopkins, seizing his hat. "let's get out of this and take a little fresh air; if we don't, i'll go mad. come," he added, addressing the spirit, "we'll run over to the lowther arcade and buy a form. if we can't find anything better we'll get a wooden indian or a french doll, or anything having human semblance so that you can climb into it and lessen the infernal uncanniness of your disembodiment." hopkins rang the janitor's bell again, and when that worthy appeared he had him unfasten the door from the outside; then he and the spirit started out in search of an embodiment for the exiled soul. "hi thinks as 'ow 'e must be craizy," said the janitor, as toppleton disappeared around the corner in animated conversation with his invisible client. "e's' talkin' away like hall possessed, hand nobody as hi can see within hearshot. these hamericans is nothink much has far as 'ead goes." as for toppleton and the presence, they found in the lowther arcade just what they wanted--an aunt sallie with a hollow head, into which the spirit was able to enter, and from which it told its tale of woe, sitting, bodily and visibly, in the rocking-chair, before the eyes of hopkins toppleton, the words falling fluently from the open lips of the dusky incubus the spirit had put on. "it was odd, but not too infernally weird," said hopkins afterwards, "and i was able to listen without losing my equanimity, to one of the meanest tales of robbery i ever heard." chapter v. hopkins becomes better acquainted with the weary spirit. "i do not know," said the weary spirit, as he entered the head of the aunt sallie and endeavoured to make himself comfortable therein, "i do not know whether i can do justice to my story in these limited headquarters or not, but i can try. it isn't a good fit, this body isn't, and i cannot help being conscious that to your eyes i must appear as a blackamoor, which, to an english spirit of cultivation and refinement such as i am, is more or less discomfiting." "i shouldn't mind if i were you," returned hopkins. "it's very becoming to you; much more so, indeed, than that airy nothingness you had on when i first perceived you, and while your tale may be more or less affected by your consciousness of the strange, ready-made physiognomy you have assumed, i, nevertheless, can grasp it better than i might if you persisted in sounding off your woes from an empty rocking-chair, or from the edge of my cloisonné rose jar." "oh, i don't blame you, toppleton," returned the spirit. "i am, on the contrary, very grateful to you for what you have done for me. i shall always appreciate your generosity, for instance, in buying me this shape in order to give me at least a semblance of individuality, and i assure you that if i can ever get back into my real body, i will work it to the verge of nervous prostration to serve you, should you stand in need of assistance in any way." hopkins' scrutiny of the aunt sallie, as these words issued from the round aperture in the red lips made originally to hold the pipe stem, but now used as a tubal exit for the tale of woe, was so searching that anything less stolid than the wooden head would have flinched. the aunt sallie stood it, however, without showing a trace of emotion, gazing steadfastly with her bright blue eyes out of the window, her eyelids more fixed than the stars themselves, since no sign of a wink or a twinkle did they give. "i wish," said toppleton, experiencing a slight return of his awed chilliness as he observed the unyielding fixity of sallie's expression, "in fact, i earnestly wish we could have secured a ventriloquist's marionette instead of that thing you've got on. it would really be a blessing to me if you could wink your eyes, or wag your ears, or change your expression in some way or other." "i don't see how it can be done," returned the spirit from behind toppleton's back. "i cannot exercise any control over these wooden features." hopkins jumped two or three feet across the room, the unexpected locality of the voice gave him such a shock, and the pulsation of his heart leaped madly from the normal to the triply abnormal. "wh--whuh--what the devil did you do tha--that for?" he cried, as soon as he was calm enough to speak. "do y--you want to give me heart failure?" "not i!" replied the spirit, once more returning to the sallie. "that would be a very unbusiness-like proceeding on my part at a time like this, when, after thirty years of misery, i find at last one who is willing to champion my cause. i only wanted to see how my second self looked in this chair. to my eyes i appear rather plain and dusky-looking, but what's the odds? the figure will serve its purpose, and after all that's what we want. i'm sorry to have frightened you, toppleton, honestly sorry." "oh, never mind," rejoined toppleton, graciously. "only don't do it again. let's have the tale now." "very well," said the spirit. "if you will kindly shove me further back into the chair, and arrange my overskirt for me, i'll begin--that's another uncomfortable thing about my situation at present. it's somewhat trying to a spirit of masculine habits to find himself arrayed in a shape wearing the habiliments of the other sex." hopkins did as he was requested, and, throwing himself down on his lounge, lit his pipe, and announced himself as ready to listen. "i think i'd like a pipe myself," said the sallie. "i've got a fine place for one, i see." "how can you talk if you stop your mouth up with a pipe?" asked hopkins. "through my nose," replied the spirit. "or there are holes in the ears, i can talk through them quite as well." "well, i guess not," returned hopkins. "i have had enough of your weird vocal exercises to-day without having you talk with your ears, but if you'll smoke with one or both of them, you're welcome to do it." "very well," replied the spirit. "i fancy you're right, and inasmuch as i haven't had a pipe for thirty years, i'll let you fill up two for me, and i'll try 'em both." accordingly hopkins filled two of the clay pipes, three dozen of which had come with the aunt sallie, and lighting them for the spirit, placed them in the ears of his vis-à-vis as requested. "ah," said the spirit as he began to puff, "this is what i call comfort." and then he began his story. "i was born," he said, breathing forth a cloud of smoke from his right ear, "sixty years ago in a small house within a stone's throw of what is now the band stand in the park at buxton." "you must have had human catapults in those days," interrupted toppleton, for as he remembered the band stand at buxton, it was situated at some considerable distance from anything which in any degree represented a habitation in which one could begin life comfortably. "i don't know about that. i am not telling you a sporting tale. i am simply narrating the events of my career, such as they are," returned the spirit, "and my father has assured me that the house in which i first saw light was, as i have said, within a stone's throw of what is now the band stand in the buxton park. the band stand may have been nearer the house in the old days than it is now,--that is an insignificant sort of a detail anyhow, and if you'd prefer it i will put it in this way: i was born at buxton sixty years ago in a small house, no longer standing, from whose windows the band stand in the park might have been seen if there had been one there. how is that?" "perfectly satisfactory," replied hopkins. "a statement of that kind would be accepted in any court in the land as veracious on the face of it, whereas we might be called upon to prove that other tale, which between you and me had about it a distinctly munchausenesque flavour." the spirit was evidently much impressed with this reasoning, for he forgot himself for a moment, and inhaled some of the smoke, so that it came out between his lips instead of from his ears as before. "i am glad to see you take such interest in the matter," he said after a moment's reflection. "we must indeed have an absolutely irrefragable story if we are to take it to court. i had not thought of that. but to resume. my parents were like most others of their class, poor but honest. my mother was a poetess with an annuity. my father was a non-resistant, a sort of forerunner of tolstoï, with none of the latter's energy. he was content to live along on my mother's annuity, leaving her for her own needs an undivided interest in the earnings of her pen." "he was a gentleman of leisure, then," returned hopkins, "with pronounced leanings towards the sedentary school of philosophy." "that's it," replied the spirit. "that was my father in a nut-shell. he took things as they came--indeed that was his chief fault. as mother used to say, he not only took things as they came, but took all there was to take, so that there was never anything left for the rest of us. his non-resistant tendencies were almost a curse to the family. why, he'd even listen to mother's poetry and not complain. if there were weeds in the garden, he would submit tamely, rather than take a hoe and eradicate them. he used to sigh once in awhile and condemn my mother's parents for leaving her so little that she could not afford to hire a man to keep our place in order, but further than this he did not murmur. my mother, on the other hand, was energetic in her special line. i've known that woman to turn out fifteen poems in a morning, and, at one time, i think it was the day of victoria's coronation, she wrote an elegy on william the fourth of sixty-eight stanzas, and a coronation ode that reached from one end of the parlour to the other,--doing it all between luncheon and dinner. dinner was four hours late to be sure, but even that does not affect the wonderful quality of the achievement." "didn't your father resist that?" queried toppleton, sympathetically. "no," replied the spirit, "never uttered a complaint." "he must have been an extraordinary man," observed toppleton, shaking his head in wonder. "he was," assented the spirit. "father was a genius in his way; but he was born tired, and he never seemed able to outgrow it." here the spirit requested toppleton's permission to leave the aunt sallie for a moment. the head was getting too full of smoke for comfort. "i'll just sit over here on the waste basket until the smoke has a chance to get out," he said. "if i don't, it will be the ruin of me." "all right," returned toppleton. "i suppose when a man is reduced to nothing but a voice, it is rather destructive to his health to get diluted with tobacco smoke. but, i say, that was a pretty tough condition of affairs in your house i should say. poetic mother, do-nothing father, small income and a baby. how did you manage to live?" "oh, we lived well enough," replied the spirit. "the income was large enough to pay the rent and keep father from hunger and thirst--particularly the latter. mother, being a poet, didn't eat anything to speak of, and i fed on cow's milk. we had a cow chiefly because her appetite kept the grass cut, and when i came along she served an additional useful purpose. in the matter of clothing we did first rate. mother's trousseau lasted as long as she did, and father never needed anything more than the suit he was married in. inheriting my mother's poetic traits, and my father's tendency to let things come as they might and go as they would, it is hardly strange that as i grew older i became addicted to habits of indecision; that i lacked courage when a slight display of that quality meant success; that i was invariably found wanting in the little crises which make up existence in this sphere; that i always let slip the opportunities which were mine, and that at those tides of my own affairs which taken at the flood would have led on to fortune, i was always high and dry somewhere out of reach, and that, in consequence, all the voyage of my life has been bound in shallows and in miseries, as my mother would have said." "your mother must have been a diligent student of shakespeare," toppleton retorted, resenting the spirit's appropriation to his mother of the great singer's words, and also taking offence at the implied reflection upon his own reading. "yes, she was," replied the spirit unabashed. "in fact, my mother was so saturated--she was more than imbued--with the spirit of shakespeare, that she was frequently unable to distinguish her own poems from his, a condition of affairs which was the cause, at one time, of her being charged with plagiarism, when she was in reality guilty of nothing worse than unconscious cerebration." "that is an unfortunate disease when it develops into verbatim appropriation," said toppleton, drily. "precisely my father's words," returned the spirit. "but the effect of such parental causes, as i have already said," continued the exiled soul, "was a pusillanimous offspring, which for the offspring in question, myself, was extremely disastrous. the poet in me was just sufficiently well developed to give me a malarious idea of life. in spite of my sex i was a poetess rather than a poet. i could begin an epic or a triolet without any trouble; but i never knew when to stop, a failing not necessarily fatal to an epic, but death to a triolet. the true climaxes of my lucubrations were generally avoided, and miserably inadequate compromises adopted in their stead. my muse was a snivelling, weak-kneed sort of creature, who, had she been of this earth, would have belonged to the ranks of those who are addicted to smelling-salts, influenza and imaginary troubles, and not the strong, picturesque, helpful female, calculated to goad a man on to immortality. i generally knew what was the right thing to do, but never had the courage to do it. that was my peculiarity, and it has brought me to this--to the level of a soul with no habitation save the effigy of a negress, provided for me by a charitably disposed chance acquaintance." "you do not appear to have had a single redeeming feature," said toppleton, some disgust manifested on his countenance, for to tell the truth he was thoroughly disappointed to learn that the spirit's moral cowardice had brought his trouble upon him. "oh, yes, i had," replied the spirit hastily, as if anxious to rehabilitate himself in his host's eyes. "i was strong in one particular. in matters pertaining to religion i was unusually strong. my very meekness rendered me so." "your kind of meekness isn't the kind that inherits the earth, though," retorted toppleton. "meekness that means the abandonment of right for the sake of peace is a crime. meekness that subverts self-respect is an offence against society. meekness which is synonymous with pusillanimity is not the meekness which develops into true religious feeling." "no; that is very true," said the spirit. "i do not deny one word of what you say; but i, nevertheless, was an extremely religious boy, nor did i change when i entered upon man's estate; and it is that strong religious fervour with which my spirit is still imbued that has made my cup so much the more bitter, since, as i have hinted, he who robbed me of my body has written pamphlets of the most shocking sort over my name, denouncing the church and attempting to upset the whole fabric of christianity." "i am anxious to get to the details of the robbery," said toppleton, with a smile of sympathy; "pass over your extreme youth and come to that." "i will do so," replied the spirit, returning to the figure toppleton had provided for him, the smoke having by this time evacuated his new habitation. "i will omit the details of my life up to the time when i became a lawyer and--" "you don't mean to say you _ever_ became a lawyer?" interrupted hopkins, incredulously. "why, certainly," replied the spirit; "i became a lawyer, and at the time i lost my body i was getting to be considered a famous one." "how on earth, with your meekness, did you ever have the courage to take up a profession that requires nerve and an aggressive nature if success is to be sought after?" asked the american. "it was that same fatal inability to make up my mind to do what my conscience prompted. it was another one of my compromises," returned the spirit, sadly. "i couldn't make up my mind between the pulpit and literature, so i compromised on the law, mastered it to a sufficient extent to be admitted to practice, and opened an office--the same room, by the way, as that in which you and i are seated at this moment." "do you remember any of your law now?" toppleton asked uneasily, for he was afraid the spirit might discover how ignorant he was on the subject. "not a line of it," returned the spirit. "it has gone from me as completely as my name, my body, my auburn hair and my teeth. but i _was_ a lawyer, and by slow degrees i built up a fair practice. people seemed to recognize how strong i was in matters of compromise, and cases that were not considered strong enough to take into court were brought to me in order that i might suggest methods of adjustment satisfactory to both parties. for three years i did a thriving business here, and for one whose knowledge of the law was limited i got along very well. i was one of the few barristers in london who had become well-known to litigants without ever having appeared in court, and i was very well satisfied with my prospects. "everything went smoothly with me until a few weeks after i had passed my thirtieth birthday, when a man came into my office and retained me in an inheritance case, in which the amount involved was thirty thousand pounds. he had been made defendant in a suit brought against him by his own brother for the recovery of that sum. it was a very complicated case, but the brother really had no valid claim to the money. the father of the two men, ten minutes before his death, had told my client in confidence that it was his desire that he should inherit sixty thousand pounds more than the other brother, telling him, however, that he must get it for himself, since the written will of the dying man provided that the two sons should share and share alike. in spasmodic gasps the old man added that he would find the money concealed in a secret drawer in an old desk up in the attic, in sixty one-thousand pound notes. my client, realizing that his father could not last many minutes longer, and feeling that his dying wishes should not be thwarted, rushed from the room to the attic, and after rummaging about for nine minutes, found the drawer and touched the secret spring. unfortunately the day was a very damp one, and the drawer stuck, so that it was fully eleven minutes before the money was really in my client's hands. he shoved it into his pocket and went downstairs again, where he learned that his father had expired one minute before, or just ten minutes after he had left him. "the other son not long after discovered what had been done, and after listening to my client's story, decided to contest his title to his share of the sixty thousand pounds, alleging that the money not having passed into my client's hands until after the testator's death, belonged to the estate, and could only be diverted therefrom upon the production of an instrument in writing over the deceased man's signature, duly witnessed. you see," added the spirit, "that was a very fine point." "yes, indeed!" said toppleton; "it's the kind of a point that i hope and pray may never puncture my professional epidermis, for i'll be hanged if i'd know what to advise. what did you do?" "ah!" sighed the spirit, "there's where the trouble came in. i studied that case diligently. i consulted every law book i could find. every leading case on inheritance matters i read, marked, learned and inwardly digested, and i made up my mind that if we could prove that my client's watch was fast upon that occasion, and that the money was in his hands one minute before his father's death instead of one minute after it, the plaintiff would not have a leg to stand on. then it occurred to me 'this means trouble.' it means a long and tedious litigation. it means defeat, appeal, victory, appeal, defeat, appeal, on, on through all the courts in great britain, and finally the house of lords, the result being the loss to my client of every penny of the amount involved, even though he should ultimately win the suit, and the loss to me of sleep, the development of nerves and a career of unrelieved anxiety. compromise was the proper course to be recommended." "a proper conclusion, i should say," said toppleton. "i think so, too," replied the spirit, "and if i had only remained true to my instincts my client would have compromised, and i should have been spared all that followed. it would have been better for all concerned, for i should have been in possession of myself to-day, and my client by compromising would in the end have lost no more than he had to pay me for my services--fifteen thousand pounds." "phe--e--ew!" whistled hopkins. "that was a swindle!" "yes, but i wasn't party to it, as you will shortly see. when i made up my mind that compromise was the best settlement of the case, all things considered, i sat down right here by this window to write to mr. baskins to that effect. it was a beastly night out. the wind shrieked through the court there, and it was cold enough to freeze the marrow in a grilled bone. i was just about to sign my communication to mr. baskins, when i heard a knock at the door. "'come in,' i said. "and then, mr. toppleton, as sure as i am sitting here in this aunt sallie talking to you, the door opened and then slowly closed, a light step was perceptible to the ear, moving across the carpet, and in a moment a rocking-chair owned by me began to sway to and fro, just as this one sways when i or you are sitting in it, but to my eyes there was absolutely nothing visible that had not always been in the room." hopkins began to feel chilly again. "you mean to say that to all intents and purposes, an invisible being like yourself called on you as you have called on me?" he said in a minute, his breath coming in short, quick gasps. "precisely," returned the incumbent of the aunt sallie. "i was visited, even as you have been visited, by an invisible being, only my visitor did not remain invisible, for as i sprang to my feet, my whole being palpitant with terror, the lamp on my table sputtered and went out; and then i saw, sitting luminous in the dark, gazing at me with large, gaping, unfathomably deep green eyes, a creature having the semblance of a man, but of a man no longer of this earth." chapter vi. the spirit unfolds a horrid tale. "if ever a man had a right to swoon away, hopkins," continued the spirit, his voice dropping to a whisper, "i was that man, and i presume i should have done so but for the everlasting spirit of compromise in my breast. the proper thing to do under the circumstances was manifestly to flop down on the carpet insensate, just as you did when i announced myself to you; and i assure you i had greater reason for so doing than you had, for my visitor had absolutely no limitations whatsoever in the line of the horrible. he was an affront to every sense, and not, like myself, trying only to the ear. to the sense of sight was he most horrible, and i would have given anything i possessed to be able to remove my eyes from his dreadful personality, with the long bony claws where you and i have fingers; with tight-drawn cheeks so transparent that through them could be seen his hideous jaws; with eyes which stared even when the lids closed over them; and, worst of all, his throbbing brain was visible as it worked inside his skull; and so bloodless of aspect was he withal, that the mind instinctively likened him to a fasting vampire." "excuse me!" groaned hopkins, throwing himself down on the couch and burying his face in the pillow. "this is awful. i've crossed the ocean eight times, sallie, and until now i have never known sea-sickness, but this--this vampire of yours is mightier than neptune; just hand me the whiskey." "i'm sorry it affects you that way, hopkins," said the spirit, "and i'd gladly give you the whiskey if i could, but you know how circumscribed my abilities are. i haven't any hand to hand it with." "never mind," said hopkins, the colour returning to his cheeks, "i feel better now. it was only a sudden turn i had; only, my friend, go slow on the horrible, will you?" "i wish i could," replied the spirit sadly, "but the cause of truth requires that i tell you precisely what happened, omitting no single detail of the sickening totality. perhaps, before i proceed, you had better take a dozen grains of quinine, and have the whiskey within reach." "that is a good suggestion," said hopkins, rising and gulping down the pills, and grasping the neck of the square-cut bottle containing the treasured fluid, with his trembling hand. "go ahead," he said, as he resumed his recumbent position on the couch. "to the olfactories," resumed the spirit, "the visitant was stifling. a gross of sulphur matches let off all at once would be a weak imitation of the atmospheric condition of this room after he had been here two minutes, and yet i did not dare to turn from him to open the window. my only weapon of defence was my eye, under the tense gaze of which he seemed uneasy, and i was fearful of what might happen were i to permit it to waver for one instant. his colour was simply deadly. i should describe it best, perhaps, as of a pallid green in which there was a suggestion of yellow that heightened the general effect to the point where it became ghastly." here hopkins' eyelids fluttered, and the bottle was raised to his lips. when the draught had been taken the bottle dropped from his nerveless fingers to the floor, and shivered into countless slivers of brown crystal. "jove!" ejaculated the spirit. "that was very unfortunate, hop--" "no matter," interrupted hopkins, "it was empty. go on. did this private view you and the nile-green apparition were having of each other last for ever?" "no," returned the spirit, "it did not. it probably lasted less than a minute, although it seemed a century. i tried half a dozen times to speak, but my words were frozen on my lips." "why didn't you break them off and throw them at him?" suggested toppleton, hysterical to the point of flippancy. "because i did not possess the genius of the yankee who is inventive where the briton is only enduring," retorted the spirit, somewhat disgusted at toppleton's airy treatment of his awful situation. "finally my visitor spoke, and for an instant i wished he hadn't, his voice was so abominably harsh, so jangling to every nerve in my body, however callous." "'you don't appear to be glad to see me,' he said. "'well, to tell you the truth,' i replied, 'i am not. i am not a collector of optical delusions, nor am i a lover of the horrible and mysterious.' "'but i am your friend,' remonstrated my visitor. "'i should dislike to be judged by my friends, if that is so,' i returned, throwing as much withering contempt into my glance as i possibly could. 'i think,' i resumed, 'if i were to be seen walking down piccadilly with you, i should be cut by every self-respecting acquaintance i have.' "'you are an ungrateful wretch,' said the intruder. 'here i have travelled myriads of miles to help you, and the minute i put in an appearance you cast worse slurs upon me than you would if i were your worst enemy.' "'i do not wish to be ungrateful,' i answered coolly, 'but you must admit that it is difficult for a purely mortal being like myself to receive a supernatural being like yourself with any degree of cordiality.' "'granted,' returned the spectre with a grin, which was more terrifying to me than anything i had yet seen, 'but when i tell you that i have come to befriend you--' "'i don't call it friendly to scare a man to death; i don't call it friendly to steal invisibly into a man's office and choke him nearly to suffocation. it seems to me you might use some other style of cologne to advantage when you go calling on your friends, and if i had cheeks through which my whole molar system was visible to the outside world, i'd grow whiskers.'" "my admiration for you has increased eighty-seven per cent.," put in toppleton, "that is, it has if all you say you said to the spook is true." "i'd swear to it," returned the spirit, the tone of his voice showing the gratification he felt at toppleton's words. "i talked up to him all the time, though i was quaking inwardly from the start. he noticed it too, for he said practically what you have just remarked. "'you command my highest admiration,' were his words. 'if you were as spunky as this all the time, you would not need my assistance, but you are not, and so i have come. _you must not compromise that case._' "here the deadly green thing rose from the chair and approached me," continued the spirit, "and as he approached my terror increased, so it is no wonder that, when he got so near that i could feel his wretched soul-chilling breath upon my cheek, his luminous body towering above me as a giant towers over a dwarf, and repeated the words, '_you must not compromise that case_,' i should shrink back into a heap at the side of my desk, and reply, 'certainly _not_.'" "'you have a splendid fighting chance,' he added, 'but it will be a bitter fight,--a fight, the winning of which will make you famous, but which you, by yourself, with all the law in christendom on your side, could no more win than you could batter down the tower of london with balls of putty.' "'then,' said i, 'i _must_ compromise.' "'no,' returned my visitor, 'for i am here to win the case for you.' "'you will never be retained,' i retorted. 'you are a degree too foggy to be acceptable either to my client or to myself.' "'i do not ask to be retained; but you must provide me with the means to appear in court. _you must leave your body and let me put it on._'" "that must have been a staggerer," said hopkins. "were you fool enough to give it to him without getting a receipt?" "i was not fool enough to yield without persuasion," rejoined the spirit sadly, "but when he brought all the infernal power at his command into play to lure me on, i weakened, and when i weaken i am done for. toppleton, that messenger of satan promised me everything that was dear to my soul. the temptation of faust was nowhere alongside of that which was placed before me as mine if i but chose to take it, and no price was asked save that one little privilege of being permitted to do the things which should make me rich, powerful and happy in the guise which i was to put off that the apparition might put it on. from my boyhood days i had wished to be rich and powerful, and from the hour in which i reached man's estate had i been in love, but hopelessly, since she i loved was ambitious, and would not consent to be mine until i had made my mark. "'alone,' said my visitor, 'you will never make your name illustrious. with my help you may--and consider what it means. refuse my offer, and you will lead the dull, monotonous life of him who knows no success, to whose ears the plaudits of the world shall never come; you will live alone and uncared for, for she whom you love cannot become the wife of a failure. accept my offer, and in a month you are famous, in a year you are rich, in an instant you are happy, for the heart you yearn toward will beat responsive to your own.' "'but your motive!' i cried. 'why should you do all this for me who know you not, and without a price?' "'my reason,' returned that perjured instrument of malign fate, 'is my weakness. i love the world. i love the sensation of living. i love to hear the praises of man ringing in my ears. i am a lover of earth and earthly ways, with no hope of tasting the joys of earth save in your acquiescence. i am the soul of one departed. i have put off against my will the mortal habitation in which i dwelt for many happy years. i have solved the rebus of existence and have put on omniscience. all things i can accomplish once i have the means. i ask you for them, with little hope that you will grant my request, however, because you are the embodiment of all that is uncertain. had you lived among the olympian gods, they would have made you the deity of indecision; but before refusing my offer remember this, you have now the grand opportunity of life, such an opportunity as has never been offered to any mortal being since the time of shakespeare--' "'did shakespeare have this opportunity?' i asked eagerly. "'my son,' returned the apparition, with a meaning look, 'do not seek to know too much about the mystery of william shakespeare. you know whence he sprang, how he lived and what he achieved; let my unguarded words of a moment since be the seed of suggestion which planted in the soil of your brain may sprout and blossom forth into the flowers of certain knowledge. it is not for me to let a mortal like you into the confidence of the fates; suffice it that _i_ offer you immortality and present happiness. think it over: i will return to-morrow.' "before i could reply," continued the spirit, "he had vanished. the light of my lamp returned of its own volition, and but for the odour of sulphur which still clung to the hangings of the room i should have supposed that i had been dreaming. "utterly wearied by the excitement of my strange experience, i threw myself down upon my couch, and fell into a deep sleep from which i did not awake for sixteen hours, in consequence of which a whole day was practically gone out of my life. "darkness was closing in upon me as i opened my eyes, and as it grew more dense i could see taking shape in the chair by my table my visitor of the night before, more pallid and sulphurous than ever. "'well?' he said, as i opened my eyes. "'no!' i answered shortly, 'i am not well. i might be much better if you'd confine yourself to the cemetery to which you belong.' "'reparteedious as ever!' he retorted. "'i don't know the word,' i replied; 'it belongs to neither a dead nor a live language.' "'but it's a good word, nevertheless,' observed the ghost quietly,' and i advise you to think of it whenever you are inclined to indulge in stupid repartee. it may help you in your career,--but i have come for an answer to my proposition.'" "he was right about reparteedious," said hopkins, interrupting the spirit's story; "that's a good word, and unless you have it copyrighted i think i'll open the doors of my vocabulary and admit it to the charmed circle of my verbiage." "no, i have no copyright on it," replied the spirit, gazing at hopkins with as sad an expression as could possibly be assumed, considering the imperturbability of aunt sallie's countenance. "you may have it for your vocabulary, hopkins, but if you will take a little well-meant advice you had better be very careful about your word collection. your frequent and flippant interruptions of my sad story lead me to fear that you are overworking your vocabulary, which is a very dangerous thing for a young man of your age and intelligence to do. "but to resume my tale," continued the spirit, after waiting a moment for hopkins to reply to his suggestion, which hopkins seemed not to hear, so busy was he looking for his memorandum book on his table,--a table so littered up with papers and silver paraphernalia for writing that no portion of its polished surface was visible. "i told my unwelcome guest that i had no answer to give him; that, as i was not a believer in the supernatural, i did not intend to waste my time in parleying with a figment of my brain. "'you are cautious enough to have been a policeman,' he said in response to this. 'but caution in this instance is a vice.' "'caution is not a vice when a spirit of your evil aspect enters one's office in the dead of night, and asks for the loan of one's body,' i answered. 'i should be more justified in lending my diamond-stud to a sneak thief to wear to a lawn-tennis party at the duke of devonshire's, than in acquiescing in your scheme.' "'then you do not care to become a great man, to assure yourself of a fortune beyond your wildest dreams, to put yourself in such a position that she whom you love will be unable to resist your proposal of marriage?' "'i am not untruthful enough to make any such pretence as that,' i answered. 'i do want to be everything you say, to have everything that you promise, but if i know the young woman upon whom my affections are lavishing themselves, she would object strenuously to my making a bargain with a transparent offshoot of the infernal regions like yourself. how do i know that, after i am married and have settled down to a life of honourable ease, you will not come along and insist upon an invitation to dinner; or obtrude yourself into the home circle at times when it will be extremely inconvenient to receive you? what guarantee have i that, when i have suddenly developed from my present obscurity into the promised distinction, you will not appear to some of my rivals and let them into the secret of my success; and, more important still, how do i know that after miss hicksworthy-johnstone has become my wife you will not go to her and destroy my happiness by revealing to her the true state of affairs?' "'i can only give you my word that i will be faithful,' returned my visitor. "'well, if your word is no better than reparteedious, it is not the kind of word upon which i should place any reliance whatsoever,' i retorted; 'so you may as well take yourself off; i am not lending myself these days.'" "that was very well said," observed toppleton, "only i wish you had had witnesses. your sudden development of back-bone under the circumstance was so extraordinarily extraordinary that it is almost beyond credence. did the fiend depart as you spoke those words?" "no," returned the exiled spirit, "he did not. he began operations, deceiving me grossly. he rose from the rocking-chair and said he fancied it was time for him to be off. when he got to the door he turned and kissed his right collection of claws to me, and asked if there was any place in the neighbourhood where he could get a drink. well, of course, unpleasant as he was to look at, he had injured me in no respect, and save for my instinctive suspicions i had no real reason for believing that he was actuated by any but the best of motives. so i replied that the best place i knew of for him to get a drink was right here in this room, and that if he would wait a second i would join him in a glass. he hesitated an instant, and then said that seeing it was i who asked him, he thought he would; so i got out my little stone jug and poured out two rather stiff doses of brandy. now it had been my habit to take my liquid refreshment undiluted, and taking my glass in hand i held it aloft and observed, 'here's to you.' "my visitor placed his claws on my arm. "'you do not mean to say,' he said, 'that you take this fiery stuff without water?' "'that is my custom,' i answered. 'i think it a positive wrong to spoil good brandy with the rather inferior brand of water we get here in london, nor do i deem it proper to take so pure a fluid as water and destroy its innocence by introducing this liquid into it.' "'as you please,' was my visitor's response. 'i was foolish enough to do that myself when i was fortunate enough to have a physique. in fact it was just that thing that finally laid me by the heels. but let me have a little water with mine please.' "i laid my glass down beside his on the table, and, taking the pitcher, left the room for an instant to fill it at the water-cooler." "that was a fine thing to do," said toppleton. "your idiocy cropped out then in great shape. how did you know he wouldn't rob you?" "i wish he had robbed me and gone about his business," returned the spirit. "if that was all he did, i'd have been all right to this day. i was gone about two minutes, and when i returned he was standing by the window, whistling the most obnoxious tune i ever heard. what it was i don't know, but it gave me a chill. as i entered the room he stopped whistling and turned to greet me, took the pitcher from my hand, filled his glass to the brim with water and quaffed its contents. i drank my dose raw. as the brandy coursed down my throat into my stomach i fairly groaned with pain, it burned me so. "'what the devil have you been doing with that brandy?' i cried, turning upon my visitor. "'swallowing it; why?' he asked innocently. 'you meant that i should drink it, didn't you?' "'you can't put me off that way,' i groaned in my agony; for if i had swallowed a hot coal i could not have suffered more, that infernal stuff scorched me so. 'you have drugged my brandy.' "'have i?' he asked, with a menacing gesture and a frown that wrinkled up his hideous forehead, until his brains, still visible through the transparent flesh and bone, were reduced to a spongy mass no bigger than a walnut--" "he was concentrating his mind, i suppose?" suggested hopkins. "it looked that way," said the spirit, "and it was an awful sight. "'have i?' he repeated, and then he added, 'well, if i have, it is only to save you from yourself, for by this means alone can you ever fulfil your destiny.' "as these words issued forth from his white lips, i became unconscious. how long i remained so, i do not know; but when i came to once more, i was as i am now--a spirit having no visible shape; while seated in my chair, writing with my pen and in perfect imitation of my chirography, i saw what had been my body now occupied by another." chapter vii. a chapter of profit and loss. so overcome was the occupant of the aunt sallie at this point of his story, that he requested hopkins' permission to leave his quarters that he might sit on the floor near the slivers of the shattered whiskey bottle. he needed stimulant. hopkins readily granted the request, for he felt as if he would not mind having a little stimulant for himself, but as the last drop available for his purposes had been put to the use for which it was intended, he had to deny himself the comfort he would have derived from it. the fact that this horrid event, the harrowing details of which he had just listened to, had occurred right there in his own apartments served to make him doubly depressed, for it certainly indicated that the room, despite its cheerful situation, had been the dwelling-place of a supernatural being, and the present lessee was fearful lest that being should appear on the scene once more to practise some of his infernal tricks upon him. "you mean to say that when you recovered your senses, you had been deprived of your body?" said hopkins at last, breaking the silence more for the sake of calming his agitated mind than because he had anything to say. "yes," replied the spirit. "i lay there on the sofa an intellectual abstract whose concrete had been amputated and invested by a being who had already lived four-score of years in one body, and who, having worn that out, was now on the look-out for a second. the sensation was dreadful, and when i attempted to do what theretofore i had always done in moments of extreme agitation--to pull fiercely at my moustache--i was simply appalled to realize that the power to raise my hand to do this had passed, along with the moustache itself, into the control of that other being. then an access of rage surged over me, and i attempted to stamp my foot and shriek. the shriek was a success, but my foot like my arm was beyond my control. "as the shriek died away i observed my head slowly turning from the paper before it on the table, my right hand relaxed its grasp on the pen, and my own eyes were turned upon me, and i was simply maddened to see the left eye wink mischievously at me, while my mouth broadened into a smile at my own misfortunes. "'hello,' i said to myself--that is you know the other being in myself said this to me outside of myself. 'you've come to, at last, eh? i thought you were going to remain in a comatose state for ever.' "'see here, my friend,' i said, trying to be calm. 'this is a very clever trick you've put upon me, but from my point of view it is most uncomfortable, and i'd just as lief have you evacuate the premises, and permit me once more to assume my normal condition.' "'not until i have accomplished what i set out to accomplish,' was the answer that fell from my own lips, which again indulged in an impertinent smile at my expense. 'you don't suppose that i have put in three weeks of time and energy to make you famous with the intention of withdrawing on the eve of success, do you?' "'i don't know what you mean,' i replied, 'i don't understand the allusion, nor can i see why you permit me to be insulted by my own lips.' "here," said the spirit, "my face became clouded and my smile vanished. "'ungrateful wretch that you are!' said he who had rifled me of myself. 'are you not aware that three weeks have elapsed since you and your body parted company? are you not aware that in that time i have forced the fight between the brothers baskins to a point that has made that case the talk of london, and you, the hero of the hour in legal circles? do you not understand that to-morrow you are to appear in court to sum up for your side, and that the london _times_ itself is to have five stenographers in court to take down every word that is uttered by him they call a second burke, because of his eloquence, by him they call a second sheridan, because of his wit, by him they call the newly discovered leader of the english bar, because of the aggressive and powerful manner in which this now celebrated will case has been conducted? and finally, are you not aware that it is you who gain the credit due to me, since it is i who have merged my personality into yours, while you have only to remain quiescent and accord to me the undisturbed occupation of your physical self for a few days more?' "'i know none of these things,' i answered. 'i know that possibly an hour ago you robbed me of my senses by your infernal machinations, and that when they are restored to me i find myself disembodied, nameless, invisible.' "'do you know the date upon which i visited you first?' asked my tormentor. "'yes, it was november eighth. you returned on the night of november ninth--that is you returned early this evening.' "'perhaps this will convince you of the lapse of time, then,' retorted the occupant of my chair, tossing me a copy of the _times_, 'and these will prove the rest,' he added, throwing several other newspapers at the place where my feet would have been had he not deprived me of them. "i looked the papers over. the _times_ was dated november twenty-ninth and contained, as did also the others, a long account of the trial of the case of baskins _v._ baskins, in which i seemed to have figured prominently, concluding with a biographical sketch of myself coupled with the announcement that my former neighbours at buxton were thinking of calling upon me to stand for parliament. the tenour of everything in the papers was complimentary in the highest degree. it seemed that i had fairly routed my client's adversaries by nothing else than the aggressive manner of my fighting; that the case was practically won, though it still remained for me to sum up on the morrow, and that all london was expected to swarm into the court room to listen to my marvellous eloquence. i read and was stunned. my position was more unhappy than ever, for here was a greatness builded up for me, that was utterly beyond my ability once returned to my corse of clay to sustain, and before me was placed the horrible alternative of perpetual exile or stultification." "lovely prospect," murmured hopkins. "as i read on," continued the spirit, "i felt the burning gaze of my visitor upon me, though he could not see me. in my body or out of it, he still possessed that fearful power of mental concentration which when exerted upon another through the medium of the eye was withering to the soul. so nervous did i become, that noiseless as a sun-mote i moved across to the other side of the room, and yet his gaze followed me as if instinctively aware of my slightest move. for a time not a word was spoken by either of us. i was so overcome at the sudden revelation of my fame, that i knew not what to say. the words of blame that entered into my consciousness--for that was all that was left of me--to say, i could not utter, because however badly i had been treated by this fearful creature in the beginning, it could not be denied that he had exerted his powers entirely for my benefit. on the other hand, i found it impossible to thank him for what he had done, since i was unable to dismiss the sense of indignation i felt at the summary and tricky manner in which he had robbed me of my individuality. as for the other, he seemed to be thinking deeply, which contributed to my alarm, for i knew not what it was he was revolving in his mind, and i feared some additional exercise of his supernatural power to my further discomfiture. finally he spoke. "'i am very deeply disappointed in you,' he said. 'i at least supposed you to be a person of gratitude. i deemed your nature to be sufficiently refined and sensible to favours to evince some little appreciation of what has been done for you, but i must say that the veriest clod of a peasant would be hardly less stolid in the face of generous effort in his behalf than you have been toward me. a more unresponsive soul than yours can hardly have lived.' "'can you blame me for not being effusively grateful to you for having cut me out of three weeks of existence?' i asked. "'i can and i do,' he replied. 'you have not been incommoded. upon your own confession you have not even been conscious during the period that you lacked anatomy. on the other hand, consider what i have gone through! i have suffered more in the past fortnight than i did in my whole previous life. in making the substitution of my inner self for yours in your body, i failed to remember how much greater than the mortal mind is the mind which has put on omniscience, and i have found the head in which your intellect lived at ease, so contracted, so narrow for the accommodation of mine, that the work i have undertaken in your interest has been one prolonged bit of unremitting agony. if you have ever tried to wear a shoe fifteen sizes too small for you, you will have a faint glimmering of the pain i have suffered in trying to encase a number thirty mind in a seven and a quarter head. it has been almost impossible for me to get some of my great thoughts into this thick cranium of yours in their entirety,--indeed if thoughts were visible, your client might have seen them sticking out of these ears, or hovering above this lovely halo of auburn hair you wear, waiting for admission to an already overcrowded skull.' "as he spoke these words," said the spirit, with a chuckle, "i would have given ten pounds to have had something to smile with. i never thought one could miss his lips so much as when i tried to grin and found i had not the wherewithal. despite the insulting comment of my visitor upon the quality of my own mind, it really filled what there was left of me with pleasure to hear that, even though i had departed from it, my body through its limitations had been able to resent the intrusion of this alien spirit so effectually. "'in addition to the bad fit mentally,' continued the usurper of my anatomy, 'i have had to cope with your dyspepsia, which i did not know you had, and various other physical troubles such as rheumatism and toothache. it appears to me that even if i had not made you famous, the mere fact that i have relieved you of your toothache and rheumatism for three weeks should entitle me to your gratitude. however, i am willing to withdraw in your favour immediately if you insist. of course you will have to sum up that case to-morrow, and i sincerely hope that you will do it in a manner creditable to your new self, that is to yourself as i have made you.' "of course you see, hopkins," said the spirit, pausing in his story for a moment, "what a dreadful position that left me in. i was absolutely in the dark as to what had been done in the case. i did not know what line of argument had been pursued--i was even unacquainted with the name of the presiding justice at the trial, and as for the testimony elicited during the three weeks of my own personal desuetude, i had not read one word of it. to attempt to sum up the case under the circumstances meant ruin--it meant the final sacrifice of all my hopes; disgrace was imminent. "'i cannot sum up the case,' i answered in a moment. 'i have not mastered the details, nor is there time for me to do so before the court opens.' "'i am aware of that fact,' retorted the other. 'but that is nothing to me. i am not at all interested in upholding the undeserved fame of an ingrate. it's nothing to me if disgrace stares you in the face. my name is safe; graven upon a white marble stone in a country cemetery, it is beyond the reach of dishonour, and is endorsed in deep-cut letters with an epitaph extolling the virtues of him who bore it. this is your affair entirely; i wash my hands of it. come, prepare for your return.' "now i submit to you, hopkins, that, considering the situation, i was justified in changing my tone toward him. put yourself in my place for a moment," said the spirit. "i'd rather not," returned hopkins with a shudder. "oh, i don't mean for you to exchange places with me. i just want you to try to imagine what you would have done under the circumstances. you would have besought him even as i did to crown his work with final success, and not leave matters in so unsatisfactory a condition; to spare you the dishonour of a public failure, wouldn't you?" "yes, either that or suicide would have been my course," returned hopkins. "i think i'd have fled to some apothecary's and concealed myself in a chloroform bottle until my consciousness evaporated if i'd been you. you must have known that this thing could not keep up for ever, unless you would consent to remain disembodied all your days." "that was just the most horrible thing about it," said the spirit. "when i realized what it all meant, i was nearly distracted; but believing suicide to be a crime, and knowing, as i have already told you, that the mind is indestructible, i could not do as you suggested. i might have lulled myself into a state of perpetual unconsciousness, but i did not care to do that, for the reason that, despite the harrowing features of my situation, i was morbidly interested to see how it would all come out. at any rate, i succumbed to my fears, and begged him not to think of departing from my mortal habitation and leaving me in the lurch. "'now,' he replied, his face, or rather my face, wreathing with smiles, 'now you are talking sense. i thought you would come to it. it would be the height of folly for you to ruin yourself simply to gratify your love of retaining your form. i promise you that to-morrow night, after the great speech has been made in court--a speech which will ring out through the whole country, that will echo from the hills of scotland across the atlantic ocean to the rocky mountains, to re-echo thence to the himalayas, and so on until your fame has encircled the earth--i promise you that then i will depart hence and trouble you no more, except it be your desire that i return.'" "that was a fair proposition--he wasn't such a mean fiend after all," said hopkins. "at that moment i thought he was rather a square fiend," returned the spirit sadly; "but he developed as time went on." "and the speech next day? how was that? did he keep his word?" hopkins asked. "indeed he did," said the spirit with enthusiasm, "and it was simply marvellous. that night, after we had had the conversation i have just told you of, that fellow worked like a slave getting up his points, consulting the records, classifying the testimony and making notes for his great oratorical effort. hardly a poet in the history of literature was there who did not contribute some little line or two to make the speech more interesting, or to emphasize some point in a manner certain to appeal to a polished mind or overawe an uncultivated one. greek and latin authors were levied upon for tribute. parallels in ancient and modern history utterly unknown to me were instituted for the elucidation of the arguments advanced--in short, a more polished bit of oratory than that prepared for my tongue to utter never fell from mortal lips before, and as for the peroration--well, it would require the consummate art of the fiend himself adequately to describe it. it was simply dazzling. "'there is only one drawback, one thing i fear for to-morrow,' said the fiend, as he finished his preparations, 'and that is that these miserable mortal lungs of yours will not be able to do justice to that speech, and some of these quotations rasp on your unpractised tongue, so that i fear their effect may be weakened. however, i'll do the best i can with poor tools; but one thing is certain, you must make a sacrifice to me who have sacrificed time and comfort to you.' "'what is that?' i asked. "'i cannot properly accent my words with your teeth in their present condition. for instance these words here: _and, gentlemen of the jury, what have we to say of the plaintiff in this action, the brother of the defendant and the firstborn son of the decedent whose desires he now seeks to have over-ridden by the laws of this land, what have we to say of him? what palliation can he offer for his unfraternal conduct in thus dragging his own brother into the courts of this land in a mad effort to recover the paltry sum of thirty thousand pounds? history affords no parallel, gentlemen of the jury, to this cause of son living arrayed against his parent gone before, of brother fighting brother for a miserable pittance_, and so on. don't you see that to be spoken impressively these words demand a certain venomous hiss? i want to electrify the jury by that hiss, but i can't do it unless i have out two of your back teeth and this front one.' "here he tapped the left of my two front teeth--pearls they were, hopkins, pearls beyond price. of course i objected. "'i can't let you do that,' i said, 'it'll ruin my personal appearance.' "'bah, man!' he said. 'what is personal appearance to pre-eminent success? what are looks compared to immortality? i must again take advantage of your helplessness and rescue you from the effects of your own indecision. i have arranged to have a dentist here to-morrow morning at eight. in five minutes he will have the teeth out, and by noon your seething voice will have turned twelve good men and true into a mass of goose flesh that will be utterly unable to resist you.'" hopkins was heartless enough to laugh at this unexpected development. "i wish i could appreciate the joke, hopkins," said the spirit indignantly. "what is fun for you was tragedy for me. i had always prided myself on the vigour of my voice. there was nothing weak or affected about it, nor would i, had i been in control of my being, have permitted such vandalism as was perpetrated by that dentist the next morning, just for the sake of making a _coup_ with the jury. i can't deny, however, that when the speech was delivered the general effect was heightened by the sibilant tone in which the words were spoken. to me the dreadful spirit within my body was apparent from introduction to peroration. the deadly greenness of the fiend shone out through every vein in my body. my eyes, once a beautiful blue, became like the eyes of an adder, and my cheeks took on a pallor that was horrible to look upon, and yet which so fascinated all beholders that they could not take their eyes away from it. the jurors sat petrified, terror depicted on every line of their faces; the judge himself, a florid, phlegmatic person ordinarily, was pale as a sheet and uneasy as an exposed nerve, and when my poor innocent finger, once so prettily pink of hue, was pointed, absolutely livid with the scorn that that creature alone could throw into it, at the terror-stricken plaintiff, he actually fell backward into convulsions, and was carried shrieking profanely from the court-room. "as for me, i sat cowering directly behind the jury-box fearful for the future, fearful for the effect upon my poor body of the terrible strain that was put upon it, and wondering what i could possibly do upon resuming my normal condition to maintain the reputation which that morning's achievement had brought to me. so absorbed was i in these reflections that the judge's faltering charge at the conclusion of the proceedings fell upon my consciousness unheard, save as the monotonous roar of the vehicles in the street outside was heard; but the verdict of the jury, rendered without leaving the box, in favour of my client did reach my ears, and almost simultaneously came the announcement that there would be no appeal, since the plaintiff in the cause had been frightened into imbecility by the fearful indictment of his character in the summing-up of the counsel for the defendant." chapter viii. further developments in the making of a name. "you must have felt like a vest-pocket byron, to wake up and find yourself famous that way," said toppleton; "or, perhaps you found yourself _in_famous, eh? i don't know how it is here in england, but in america a lawyer who'd browbeat a poor innocent litigant into a state bordering upon lunacy, would be requested to move out of town." "it all depends," returned the spirit. "if my substituted self had limited his brow-beating to the plaintiff, it might have made the reputation which i found awaiting me upon my return to my remains, one of infamy, but that was by no means the case. the judge himself succumbed to nervous prostration a week later, the jurors vanished like a pack of frightened hares immediately they were discharged, and even my client shook like a leaf when he felt my eyes resting upon him. as for my own proper self, i was the worst scared man of the lot; so, you see, it was a sort of universal awe that was inspired by the demeanour of my body that day, and one which commanded rather than invited respect." "did you find your head a little stretched when you got back into yourself again, or did he break his word and refuse to let you back?" queried toppleton. "oh, he kept his word that time," replied the spirit. "after the trial was over he took a cab and drove rapidly out to regent's park and back, returning to my chambers about six o'clock. i was there waiting for him, ready to enter upon my usual anatomical ways once more. my client was also there, though, of course, unaware that i was present in spirit. i was very much amused to see how utterly unnerved poor baskins was by the strange events of the day. several times he muttered to himself remarks like, '_i didn't know he had it in him_,' and '_if i'd thought he was that kind of a man i'd have kept blessed clear of him. i wonder what he'll charge._' and then every time there was a step or noise of any kind out in the corridor, he would straighten up nervously and stare at the door in a tense sort of fashion which showed that he dreaded meeting me. once he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a big duelling pistol which i was alarmed to note was loaded to the muzzle. it was evident that the awe which my new self had inspired in him amounted to positive fear. "that duelling pistol put an end to my enjoyment of the situation," continued the spirit. "i was afraid he might be goaded into discharging a load of cold lead into my body. of course, i didn't care to have that happen, and under the agitation of the moment i uttered an ejaculation of consternation. i never saw in all my experience a man so thoroughly frightened as baskins was when the sound for which he could not account greeted his ear. he went on his knees and shook like a leaf, clasping his hands, as if in prayer, before his face, which turned a blue white. the pistol fell from his hands to the floor, and, as it did so, the door opened, and i saw myself standing on the sill, haggard of face, but not worn of spirit, for the supernatural brilliance of my eye as it caught sight of the pistol and realized at a flash just what the situation was, showed that the soul within was still unwearied by its effort. "then," added the spirit, his voice husky with the remembrance of his dishonour, "came an interview that makes me blush, even though i have no cheek on which to display that manifestation of shame. my body sprang forward as the pistol met my eye, and, snatching the weapon from the floor, flung it out through the window into the court, where it exploded, the jar of contact with the stone walk being sufficient to discharge it. as the sharp report of the pistol echoed through the court my client threw himself flat on his face, and prostrate there at my feet began to utter a string of incoherent lamentations and despairing requests for mercy at my hands which were painful to hear, and i judged from what meaning i could patch together from his jumble of words, that he deemed me an emissary of satan,--and i think he was right. "'what does this mean?' queried the fiend within me. 'murder or suicide? if you contemplated suicide, i forgive you; if murder--' "'i was afraid,' gasped my unhappy client. 'your power was so terrible; the effect of your words so awful, that i--' "'ah!' interrupted the fiend. 'i see. it was murder you were prepared to do in case we should not agree, and the power of my eye should chance to be exerted to win you from your determination whatever it may have been.' "'no--not that--not that!' shrieked my client. 'it was but the natural instinct of self-preservation that led me to--' "'you weaken your cause by your loquacity, my friend,' said the fiend. 'you suspected me of contemplating some dishonourable or cowardly act, and for that reason you entered the office of him who has saved your good name and your purse alike from them who would have robbed you of both, having so little sense of gratitude that you bring with you an instrument of death. very well, let it be so. i am satisfied if you are. i might do that to you now which would place you in far worse estate than your poor brother is in. if you had your pistol in your hand, aimed at my heart, you would still be powerless to do me an injury, for with one glance of my eye i could force you to turn the muzzle to your own head, and with another compel you to empty its leaden load into your own brains. your suspicions are insulting, but an insult from one of your calibre to one of mine is as the sting of a fly to the elephant; i pass it over and charge it on the bill. ten thousand pounds for trying the case, two thousand five hundred for accepting your insult, two thousand five hundred for condoning it, and in one hour must this money be in my hands with a letter--a letter written and signed by you, expressing your satisfaction with the manner of my conducting the case, and concluding with an allusion to your surprise that my charge is so moderate." "'and if i refuse to submit to this outrage?' queried my client, lashed into a show of courage which he really did not feel. "'you leave this room a raving maniac, for i have the power to make you so,' i was appalled to hear myself reply." "and do you mean to tell me," said hopkins, his bosom heaving with indignation, "that you sat there like a zero on a pedestal, and kept silent with this blackmailing infamy going on under your very eyes?" "i was speechless with rage," returned the spirit, "or i should have interfered. before i could recover my composure the letter had been written and the money paid, for my client still had the sixty thousand pounds in their original form, in the one thousand pound banknotes. the struggle he went through was terrible to witness, and as the notes passed from his hands into mine he sighed like one who was heart-broken. the fiend dictated the letter commending my efforts, and expressing surprise that the amount asked for my services was so moderate, and then he opened the door and ushered the unfortunate victim out. as the latter left the room the fiend whispered to him in withering tones to beware of his vengeance if he ever attempted to reveal what had passed since he entered the room. "'for,' said he, 'if you are not careful, it matters not in what part of this or any other world you may be, you must forever be within my reach, and forever subject to the consequences of my resentment.' "then," said the spirit, "he slammed the door violently and turned and fixed my eyes upon the corner wherein i sat aghast with the mortification of having my name identified in any man's mind with such a diabolical act as that i had just witnessed. "'now,' he said, 'you may have this carcass of yours back and welcome. it's lucky for you i have the power i have. if i hadn't, your body would be riddled with bullets within twenty-four hours.' "'bah!' i replied. 'that man had no more intention of using that pistol without provocation than i have, and considering the terror with which you have managed to inspire everyone with whom you have come in contact to-day, i don't wonder he came armed.' "'i never thought of that,' said my substitute, 'though what you say about everybody's terror is true; you might apply it even more broadly than you do, because as i drove down the strand just now even the omnibus horses shied, and the driver of my cab had all he could do to keep his ramshackle steed from running away. but hurry up and get ready to relieve me of this mortal incubus of yours, and take your money--it's a nice little sum, eh?' "'magnificent,' i returned. 'and when you and i have changed places i am going to return all but five hundred pounds to that poor fellow you have just robbed in such a conscienceless fashion.' "the moment i said this," said the spirit, "i regretted it, for he grasped the money with my right hand, and holding it over the fire, which was blazing merrily in the grate, he said. 'my friend, i exact from you an oath that you will not return one penny of this sum to mr. baskins. if you refuse, i shall cast every one of these bank notes into that fire, nor shall i admit you once more to your form until the very ashes of those notes have disappeared into the air.' "now what could i do under the circumstances, toppleton?" asked the spirit earnestly. "could i do anything but swear to what he asked?" "yes," returned hopkins, "you could. i don't believe so vile a creature as he could have distinguished between a bible and a city directory. i'd have taken the oath on the city directory." "alas!" said the spirit sadly, and with such evident sincerity that it jostled the aunt sallie from the chair to the floor. "as i said to you before, i am only an enduring briton where you have the inventive genius of the yankee. i never thought of the substitution of the directory for the bible, and the consequent elimination of moral responsibility from the oath. i simply swore as he desired me to, and in an hour i was alone in my office, the occupant of a frame so exhausted that i could scarcely lift my head, and in my pockets were those miserable bank notes, more burning to my conscience than had they been sovereign for sovereign in gold coin hot from the mint." "of course," suggested hopkins, "you devoted them to the cause of charity; subscribed all but your just due to the house for imbeciles, in which that wronged unfortunate the plaintiff was incarcerated?" "i intended something of the sort," returned the spirit, extricating himself from the head of aunt sallie, and ensconcing himself on the paper-weight on hopkins' desk. "but i didn't have time. you see, immediately after the trial a perfect avalanche of litigants from other offices slid into mine, and within a week i was so overwhelmed with business that i had to hire the rest of this floor here to find room for my papers. it was painful to me, too, to observe that those who had heard of my fame, but who had never seen me, were manifestly disappointed, when taking their departure at the close of a first interview, at having found me so much less great than they had been led to believe by the public estimate of my abilities. nevertheless, cases of the most intricate sort were fairly dumped into my hands by the cart-load, and, worst of all, i found that eminence brought with it other responsibilities which i was ill-prepared to meet. i was constantly in receipt of requests to lecture on subjects of a variety that would have appalled the fiend himself, and worse than all i was called into consultation by the crown in certain litigation of international importance. for a time i tried to go it alone, and by assiduous devotion to study to fit myself for the responsibilities which my fame had brought me, but it was impossible. i broke down in less than a month; but having tasted the joys of prominence i was not strong enough to resist the temptation to prolong it indefinitely, and, without thinking of the means, i committed myself to certain undertakings which were utterly beyond my intellectual strength to accomplish, and then, when brought face to face with failure and disgrace, there was but one thing left for me to do, and that i did. "i summoned the fiend. the mere expression of a desire to see him was sufficient to bring him into my presence, and time and time again did i subject my poor body for ambition's sake to the dreadful interchange of spirits. "from without i watched my development from mediocrity to fame with a joyous interest, not unmixed, however, with regret, for, at such moments as were permitted me to enjoy the undivided possession of myself, i could not but feel conscious of a diminution of physical strength which detracted materially from my happiness; and yet when day after day i saw my name in print, and noted that i was regarded as one of the most marvellous intellectual products of the day, i could not bring myself to the point where i could renounce everything i had gained, and withdraw to the contented life of the recluse. let a man once taste a living immortality, hopkins, and i care not how strong his character may be, he would part with all that he holds most dear sooner than he would renounce that. "and so it went on for a full year. i became the leading light of the english bar; i astonished the world as a public orator; so potent were my arguments that in court or on the hustings none were able to resist me. at public dinners i was the speaker who alone could hold the feasters when the seductions of the wine cup awaited the cessation of my eloquence. had i been able to extend the hours of my days from twenty-four to ten times twenty-four, i could not have responded to all the calls that were made upon my time. then as if to show the world that one profession was too small to hold the boundless qualities of my genius, i startled the english reading public with a novel, the depth and power of which stirred the soul of the most _blasé_ of novel-readers, and the presses of my publisher were taxed to the utmost to supply the demand for my work; then came a volume of poems which caused my name to be mentioned as a possible successor to the laureateship; then a series of essays on scientific and philosophical subjects which were nearly my undoing, since my omniscient self, as i came to call the fiend who was responsible for my greatness, was absent upon one occasion when i was called upon unexpectedly to receive a delegation of scottish scientists, who had travelled from edinburgh to london to consult with me in regard to certain propositions advanced in my book. what they thought of me heaven only knows. you see, hopkins, as far as my original self was concerned there wasn't an atom of scientific knowledge in my body, and to tell you the truth i hadn't even read my book, concerning which these unwelcome grey beards had come from edinburgh to speak." "i should like to have been on hand to hear you," said hopkins with a laugh. "you must have felt like damocles!" "i was worse off than damocles. he was face to face with nothing but death. i was having a _tête-à-tête_ with dishonour. damocles had a sword suspended over his head, held in place by a hair, i had a krupp cannon over mine, held in place by heaven knows what." "how did you get out of it?" queried hopkins. "summon the fiend?" "what, summon that deadly green thing before those men, and change places with him in the presence of witnesses? i fancy not. i have been a complete hall-marked fool in many respects, hopkins, but my idiocy never went as far as that. the only thing left for me to do was to acquiesce in nine things that those fellows said, and look doubtful at the tenth and say i didn't know about that; my inherent love of compromise and my ingenuity in that direction stood me in good stead upon that occasion. it was a narrow squeak, but i got through all right. the _savants_ went back to edinburgh somewhat disappointed, i presume, with the new sun on the scientific horizon. and you ought to have seen how the fiend laughed when i told him about it the next time i saw him! he fixed it all right, however, by sitting down and writing a letter to my late visitors and answering every one of their questions, and asking them a few additional ones, to answer which i fancy put them to their trumps. "after making me famous as scientist, novelist and lawyer, the fiend induced a political bee to enter my cap, and one day after an absence of a week from my body, during which period of time i was utterly in the dark as to its whereabouts, i was appalled to see it reel in at the door in a maudlin state that revolted me. "'well,' i said as soon as i was able to speak,' what new disgrace is this you have put upon me? am i to make my mark now as an inebriate, or is this simply a little practical joke you are putting upon my sensibilities? if it is the latter, it is a mighty poor joke.' "'no,' returned the fiend, who i am pleased to say showed some sense of shame at the plight he had got me into this time. 'no, this is not a practical joke, nor do i wish to ruin your reputation for sobriety. i regret this apparent liquidation of your system quite as much as you do, not because i care what others say, though. it is because i find it much harder to manage your body under these present circumstances. when one leg wants to go dancing down pall mall, and the other evinces a strange desire to walk gravely off in the direction of scotland yard, it is a most difficult thing for a mind not thoroughly in sympathy with either of them to drive them down the strand in that modest, unassuming fashion which alone enables one to avoid police supervision. i've had the devil's own time with this weak corse of yours, and if i had known how abominably light-headed and airy-legged a little strong drink made you, i never should have had you stand for parliament--' "'stand for parliament?' i cried, aghast at the new honour which was being thrust upon me. 'have i been standing for parliament?' "'well, not exactly' laughed the fiend. 'you've been sort of held up for parliament; you haven't been able to stand up without wobbling for five days; in fact, not since you tried to do your duty by your constituency, and take a little something at your own expense with a few rounds of doubtful voters. you were nearly defeated, my boy, because of your disgusting inability to cope with the flowing bowl, but i managed to pull you through. the temperance people voted to a man against you, but the other interests stood by you pretty well, and you now represent your old neighbours in--' "'my old neighbours,' i moaned. 'have i been made to appear to my old neighbours in the light of a dissipated politician when all my life long i had been known to them as a sober--' "'don't dwell on that point, my good fellow,' interrupted the fiend. 'forget it. in forgetfulness of what you have been, and in consideration of what you have become, lies happiness. by the way--have you a mother living?' "'yes,' i answered, numb with anxiety for fear of what was coming. 'you haven't disgraced me in her eyes, have you?' "'oh, no,' returned the fiend. 'but a lady claiming to be your mother visited me during the campaign, and was very indignant because i failed to recognize her--that cost you some votes, but not enough to change the result. she didn't look a bit like you, and i was afraid the opposition was putting up some game on us, so i just laughed her off.' "'you--you laughed her off--you mean to tell me,' i stammered, 'that when my mother came to my political headquarters to see her son, he refused to recognize her, and laughed her off?' "'oh, come,' said the fiend indignantly, 'don't get angry. remember one thing, please. you are now a member of parliament, a great lawyer, a famous scientist, a novelist and an orator. it is i who have made you so. if you don't like what i've done, we'll call the arrangement off, and you can make a spectacle of yourself in the eyes of the world. i hate an ingrate. you couldn't expect me to know a lady whom i never even saw before, and when i have a big scheme on foot i do not intend to have it spoiled for want of caution. if i made you seem an undutiful son, i am sorry for it, and will strive to make amends next time i meet your mother. i'll write a formal apology if you desire, but i don't wish to hear any more of your sentimental nonsense. much has to be sacrificed in achieving greatness, and you have got therewith just about as little personal inconvenience as any man in history. stop your snivelling, or i'll desert your cause, and what that means even you can grasp.' "with these words," concluded the spirit, "he departed, and left me to sleep off the effects of a seven days' campaign in which my moral welfare had been sacrificed to the thirst of at least four hundred doubtful voters. credited with a seat in parliament, i found my name debited with the crime of intemperance, lack of self-respect, and a gross affront to my own mother; a fine record for one week in which in my own consciousness i was unable to recollect doing anything that could not have been done with propriety by a candidate for canonization." "humph!" ejaculated toppleton, deeply moved by the horror of the weary spirit's story. "it strikes me that canonization in the form in which it was used on the sepoys in ' would be mild punishment for that nile-green brute that got you into this. to tell you the truth, sallie, the fearful justice of your cause is almost enough to make me withdraw entirely. i should hate to be called upon to prosecute a defendant of the nature of your verdant visitor." chapter ix. the crowning act of infamy. "hear me to the end, hopkins, i beseech you," said the exile earnestly. "of course the fiend strikes you as a being to be avoided, but i do not believe that he is now as powerful and as terrible as he was in the days gone by. long confinement to a purely mortal sphere must necessarily have weakened his supernatural powers, and it strikes me that properly managed by a young and aggressive lawyer, our case against him would be won in an instant. at all events, do not compel me to leave my story unfinished. i am sure that when you hear of the crowning act of infamy of which my evil genius was guilty, you will not hesitate a moment in making up your mind that duty summons you to aid me." "very well," rejoined hopkins. "go on with the tale, only do not be too sanguine as to its results in convincing me that i am the man to extricate you from this horrid plight." "after i had attended one or two meetings of the house of commons," said the exile, resuming the thread of his story, "i enjoyed the experience so much that i almost forgave the fiend for having so nearly ruined me with all my old friends; and having written, in accordance with his promise, a truly beautiful letter to my mother, explaining away the harsh treatment she had suffered at the hands of her now illustrious son on the ground of his not being quite himself on that occasion--a state of mind due to too close attention to work and study--i quite forgave him for that unpleasant episode in my campaign. my mother too overlooked the affront, and wrote me a most affectionate epistle, stating that i might trample upon her most cherished ideals with her entire acquiescence if my taking that course would ensure to her the receipt of so loving and touching a letter as the one i had sent her. the fiend and i both had to smile, on receiving my mother's note, to observe that the dear old lady attributed my ability to express myself in such beautiful terms to the poetic traits i had inherited from her. "'she's very proud of her dear boy,' sneered the fiend. "'in spite of his brutality at the committee-room,' i retorted; and then we both grinned, for each truly believed that he had got the better of the other." "it was a pretty close contest," said hopkins. "but on the whole the laugh seems to be on you." "it certainly was the first time i tried to speak in parliament," returned the spirit. "such a failure was never seen. i was to take part in a very important debate, and when the hour came for me to get on my feet and talk, i was my weak-kneed self and utterly unacquainted even with the side i was expected to take. the fiend had promised to do all the talking, and on this occasion failed to materialize. i spoke for ten minutes in an incoherent fashion, mouthing my words so that no one could understand a syllable that i uttered. it was a fearful disappointment to my friends in the house and in the galleries; the latter being packed when it was understood that i was to speak. of course, when the fiend appeared later on, he straightened it all out, and the printed speech which he dictated and which i wrote was really a fine effort and did our party much good. but these little embarrassments were tragedies to me, and at every new success i quailed before the possibilities of disastrous failure at the next effort. in but one respect was i entirely free from the fiendish influence, and that was in the matter of my love. from that phase of my life the fiend kept himself apart, and it was the only joyous oasis to be found in the boundless desert of my misery. to the fiend, sunday was literally a day of rest, for upon that day he never approached me, and i devoted it to calling upon the woman i loved. "she was a beautiful woman, the only daughter of a retired city merchant, and fond of the admiration of successful men. that she loved me before i attained to eminence in the various professions in which the fiend had compelled me to dabble, i had much reason to believe; but i had never ventured to make love to her in dead earnest, because i feared for the result. she had often said to me that while she should never marry for riches and position, she did not intend to fall in love with any man just because he had neither, and that no man need ever propose marriage to her who was not reasonably sure of a successful career. it was not selfishness that led her to think and speak in this manner, but a realizing sense of the unhappy fact that mediocrity married is as hopeless as a broken-winded race-horse in harness. there is plenty of ambition but no future, and as she often said, 'where hopelessness comes, happiness dwelleth not!'" "a daughter of solomon, i wot," interrupted toppleton. "yes," said the spirit, with a sigh for her he had lost, "and rather superior to the old gentleman in a great many ways. of course i understood, and, lacking achievement in my profession, discreetly held my tongue on the subject of matrimony, taking good care, however, when i called never to let any other fellow outstay me, unless perchance he was some poor drivelling idiot from whose immediate present the laurel was further removed than from my own. she understood me, i think, though i never put that point to a practical test by a proposal of marriage. this was the state of affairs at the time of my first meeting with the fiend, and for a year subsequent to that ill-starred night upon which he first crossed my path i let matters take their own course, waiting a favourable opportunity to ask the great question, upon the answer to which hung all my future happiness. i could see that with my increasing fame, her interest in me waxed; but as every passing day brought new and undreamed-of distinctions she grew more and more reserved toward me--a most feminine trait that, hopkins. when a woman begins to love a man in dead earnest, in nine cases out of ten she will make him feel that he is utterly abhorrent to her, and it's a good thing she does, because it makes him look carefully into his own character in an endeavour to discover and to root out all the undesirable features thereof. it is this that enables love to redeem men whom the world considers irredeemable, so, of course, i had no feeling of discouragement at her growing coldness, for, understanding women, i knew exactly what it meant. i think i was more or less of an enigma to her." "i should think it likely," said toppleton. "if she really knew you, she must have been mightily surprised at your sudden strides towards universal genius. it's a wonder to me that she did not suspect the enigma, and give it up." "yes," returned the spirit. "it was very embarrassing to me when she expressed her surprise at my progress, and asked me how i did it, and other questions equally hard to answer. and then her father, who was always more or less insufferable, now became absolutely insulting--that is, his new found appreciation of my virtues led him into making assertions which galled me, he little knew how much--assertions to the effect that to look at me no one would suspect that i had more than ordinary intelligence; that to hear me talk one would never suppose i could make a speech of any kind, much less set the world on fire by my eloquence; and finally, that no man after this could tell him that it was possible to judge of the future by the past, or the past by the present, for he had always thought me foredoomed to failure, and i had achieved success, and, having achieved success, gave no present evidence that i deserved it." "he had the making of the accepted mother-in-law in him," said hopkins. "what could have induced you to fall in love with the daughter of a man like that?" "she was a superb woman, that's what," rejoined the spirit with enthusiasm, "and when i think of the happiness that the nile-green shade first placed within my reach and then snatched from me, i regret that the soul is immortal, and that i am not all-powerful, for it would please me to grind his soul into absolute nothingness. "it was at least a year and two months subsequent to my first meeting with him," continued the spirit as soon as his overwrought feelings would permit, "that he first broached the subject of matrimony. he had attended a grand ball at the house of the earl of piccadilly and was the lion of the occasion owing to his stand in certain recent parliamentary crises. his readiness in debate had gained him a high position, and his natural grace of manner--that is, _my_ natural grace of manner--had helped him to a hold on the affections of those with whom he was associated, for, as he grew more accustomed to my figure and got his angles comfortably rounded off to fit my curves, he managed to subdue that horrible aspect he had assumed with such fearful effect in the trial of baskins _v._ baskins, and when geniality was the attribute most likely to help him on he was geniality personified. the ball was ostensibly one of the earl of piccadilly's usual series of annual functions, but in reality it was given for the purpose of introducing me into society. from all accounts, it was a grand affair, and i seemed to have made as fine an impression as a social debutant as i had in the law courts, in the field of literature, and in the house of commons. if the fiend spoke truly that night, when he returned and handed my fatigued body over to me for a rest, i made a marked success; all the ladies were raving about me; i was a divine dancer, though before that night my feet had never tripped to the strains of a waltz, polka, or any other terpsichorean exercise. i pleased the dowagers as well as the maids, and had, in short, become an eligible--that is i had become as desirable a matrimonial _parti_ as an untitled person could hope to be, and the fiend remarked with a sly wink that it was not beyond the range of possibilities that the premier would bestow upon me one of the peerages at his disposal when the proper time came. "'bachelorhood is pardonable in a young man,' said my evil genius upon this occasion, 'but we must marry if we are to reach the pinnacle of success. there is a solidity about the married man's estate that bachelorhood lacks, and i rather think i can make a match that will push us ahead.' "'i don't think i need your assistance,' i replied. 'in fact i prefer that some of the things which pertain to myself shall be left entirely in my own hands. in matters of the affections i can take care of myself.' "'very well,' was the fiend's response. 'have your own way about it, only take my advice and get married. we need a wife.' "'we?' i cried. 'we! i just want you to understand, my dear sir, that the pronoun doesn't fit the case. _i_ may need a wife and _you_ may need a wife, but if you think i'm going into any co-operative scheme with you in that matter you are less omniscient than usual. remember that please and let us have nothing more to say on the subject.'" "that was a very proper stand for you to take," said hopkins, gravely. "though i think that, under the circumstances, you should have given up all ideas of marriage. no woman would have you, knowing that you were not yourself at times; and then having as little control over your other self as you seem to have had, you would often have found yourself in hot water for flirting with other women, when, in reality, your own self was as innocent as a mountain daisy." "i know i did wrong in thinking of marriage, hopkins," returned the spirit, "but if you had ever met the woman i loved, you would have loved her too--yes, even if you were a confirmed celibate. i don't believe a cardinal, sir, would have hesitated between his hat and her. my sole justification was her loveliness, and then the fiend's ready acquiescence in my statement that in that matter he must hold aloof gave me confidence that i might safely take the step i had so long and so ardently desired to take. "weeks passed by, and in everything save the courtship of miss hicksworthy-johnstone i gave myself unreservedly over to the fiend, who began suddenly to take an interest in my personal appearance which he had never before manifested. he laid in a fine supply of clothes--dress suits, walking suits, lounging suits--suits in fact of every description and of the finest texture. shirts and collars, and ties of the choicest sort were imported by him from paris, and on my hands i now observed he was beginning to wear kid gloves of fashionable type. his hats and shoes were distinctly in the mode, and his jewelry, as far as it went, was of unexceptionable taste and quiet elegance. in fact, toppleton, i began to be something of a dandy. this i attributed to the natural vanity of my other self. i, too, was proud of that graceful form, but i never thought enough about it to go about arraying it in a fashion which neither solomon nor the lily of the field could ever have approached. i cared nothing for gloves save as a means to a warm finger's end, and it made no difference to me whether my hat was of the style of ' , or plucked fresh from the french emperor's own block. as long as my head was covered i was satisfied. patent leather shoes i could never bring myself to buy, because they had always seemed to me to go hand in hand either with poverty or laziness. to a man who cannot afford shoe blacking or who is too lazy to black his own boots, patent leathers, i thought, were a boon; but i never classed myself under either head, and wore the regular foot gear of the plain but honest son of toil. "but now all was changed. my other self was vain, and unexpectedly gave himself over to dandyism. at first he rather disturbed my equanimity by wearing somewhat loud patterns, but he soon got over that, and between us, after a very little while, two or three months perhaps, my body had the best clothes there were to be had in all london. i had not realized all this time that i was fast becoming a millionaire, and when my tailor's bill for fifteen hundred pounds came home one night i was in a great stew, but the fiend came in and relieved my conscience very much by showing me my balance in the bank. it amounted, toppleton, to one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds, with an income still running evenly along from my law practice of ten thousand pounds per annum, not to mention the revenues from my books, which in six months had amounted to two thousand pounds. i was a rich man, and when i observed that this was my condition, i made up my mind to ask miss hicksworthy-johnstone's hand in marriage the very next time i saw her. i hoped this would be soon, but, alas for human expectations, it was not. the christmas holidays were about to begin, and i bethought me that at the season of goodwill toward men i might ask the possessor of my heart to accept it as a permanent gift, a decision which i unfortunately kept to myself, for from one end of the holidays to the other i never laid eyes upon my mortal habitation. the fiend was off with it for one whole month, hopkins." "didn't you know where?" asked toppleton. "i did not," returned the spirit. "he went off with it as usual one night late in november to attend a meeting of the leaders of our party, telling me not to worry if he did not return for twenty-four hours, since there was important business on hand. what the business was he did not inform me, nor did i seek to know it, since under our arrangement it was not necessary that i should familiarize myself with parliamentary matters, which were usually as dry as they were weighty anyhow, and hence distasteful to me. "well, i waited twenty-four hours and no fiend appeared. another day passed with no sign of him. a third day moved into the calendar of the past; a week elapsed, then a second, a third, a fourth, and finally a month had gone. i was growing sick with apprehension. what if something dreadful had happened and my lovely, only body was lying dead somewhere, too shattered for the fiend to remain longer within it, and gone for ever from me? what if the present occupant of my corse had again yielded to the seductive influence of the cup, and was off somewhere upon a prolonged spree? i floated uneasily in and about my quarters here, sleepless, worried to distraction. i searched my papers, as best i could without hands, to see if there was not some clue as to my whereabouts among them, and found none. i went through the contents of the waste basket even, and found nothing to relieve my dreadful anxiety, and then i went to the wardrobe to search the pockets of my clothes for possible evidence to calm my agitated soul. "toppleton, there was not one vestige of a garment in that clothes press from top to bottom. not a shoe, not a coat, absolutely nothing. it was bare even as mother hubbard's cupboard was bare. this was an additional shock, and i became giddy with fear. i floated madly across to the bureau and peered into the drawers thereof. beyond the ties i had formerly worn and the collars, frayed at the edges, of my negligée days, nothing remained, and then for the first time i noticed that my trunk was gone from the room. "'what can it mean?' i asked myself, though i might as well have spared the question, for it was one i could not answer. days came and went, leaving me still pondering. christmas eve came and found me here moping in a cheerless apartment, friendless, forlorn, clothesless and bodiless--a fine way to pass what should have been the happiest night of the year." "elegant!" said toppleton. "it might have been worse though. if you had had your body and still been clothesless you would have found it rather cold, i fancy." "i had almost given up all hope of ever seeing myself again," continued the exile, ignoring hopkins' interruption, "when on the evening of january second i heard a step coming along the hall which i at once recognized as my own, my latch-key was inserted in the lock and the door was opened, and at last i stood before myself again, the picture of health and happiness. "'are you there?' my lips said with a broad smile, as my body entered the room. "'i am,' i replied shortly; 'and i've been here, heaven knows how long, worried sick to know what had become of you. i don't think you are the most considerate fiend in the world to take me off for weeks without letting me know anything of my whereabouts.' "'i am very sorry,' said the fiend, throwing himself down on the lounge. 'i meant to have told you, but you were not here when i returned. lord smitherton invited me out to his house at snorley farms for the christmas holidays along with the earl of pupley, general carlingberry-jimpson, and a half-dozen members of the birmingham society of fine arts. it was an invitation i could not well refuse, and, besides, our carcass here was beginning to feel the need of an outing, so i accepted. i came back here to tell you about it, but you must have been floating about somewhere else. at all events, you are much better for the outing, and your purely mortal self has had a good time. and, by the way, i want to warn you about one point. when you are the occupant of this corse, i think you would better not walk down rotten row, or go anywhere in fact where i am accustomed to going, because you don't know my friends any more than i know yours, and that is apt to lead to misunderstanding. lady romaine cushing, who was visiting lady smitherton, told me that i had cut her dead in the row one afternoon, although she had stopped her carriage particularly to speak to me. it was you who cut her, but, of course, you were not to blame, because you never saw lady romaine cushing; but it is hard to explain away little matters of that sort, and i had the deuce of a time getting her to believe that her eye must have deceived her. we can't afford to offend our friends of the fair sex, you know; they can make or mar a man these days.' "'and i am to be kept away from the haunts of polite society,' i said, with some natural indignation, 'just because it embarrasses _you_ to explain why i don't bow to people i don't know.' "'but it's all for your good,' he replied. 'you seem to forget that i am actuated entirely by the best of motives.' "'no doubt,' i said, 'but i think it's rather hard on me to be excluded from the most attractive quarter of london.' "'you are not excluded. you can walk there if you choose at night or very early in the morning, or when society is out of town, or, better still, you can float there in your invisible state at anytime. in fact,' added the fiend, 'it would be very enjoyable for you, i should think, to do that last. you can poise yourself over a tree for instance, and watch yourself hobnobbing with the illustrious. you can sit in your invisibility in any one of the carriages that roll to and fro, and, as long as you do not obtrude yourself on the occupants, there is not an equipage in london, high or low, in which you cannot ride. you are better off than i am in that respect. while i have no particular shape i am visible like a bit of sea-fog, but you being invisible can go anywhere without making trouble. the theatres are open to you free of charge. the best seats are at your disposal. if you choose to do it you could even sit on the throne of england, and nobody would be the wiser.' "'that's all very well,' i said; 'but i don't care to travel about in that impersonal fashion. i prefer the incarnate manner of doing things, and if you will kindly permit me to assume bodily form once more, i'll be very much obliged.' "'certainly!' he replied, and with that we changed places. "the sensation of getting back to my accustomed figure once more was delightful, and there was no denying the fact that i was better off for the outing i had so unceremoniously taken. my step was elastic, my head felt clear as a bell, and, altogether, i had never before enjoyed the consciousness of so great a physical strength as now was mine. "this feeling gave me courage to do many things which i had hitherto put off, and among them was the making of a proposal of marriage to the admired miss hicksworthy-johnstone. it was seven o'clock when the fiend had left me to the personal enjoyment of my complete self, and at eight o'clock i was in a hansom cab speeding out to the dwelling-place of the woman i loved. at eight thirty i was on my knees before her, and by eleven o'clock i was her accepted suitor. such happiness as was mine, hopkins, no man ever knew. the only trouble known to my soul at the moment was the consciousness that arabella, as i was now permitted to call miss hicksworthy-johnstone, was in the dark as to the methods by which my greatness had been achieved. i could not confess my dreadful secret to her, for that would have put an end entirely to our relations, and i loved her so that i could not bring myself to give her up. she asked me numberless questions of a most embarrassing sort, as if she suspected there was something wrong, but i managed in some way, i know not how, to give a plausible answer to every one of them." "possibly the fiend left a little of his brain in your head when he got out," suggested toppleton. "perhaps so," returned the exile. "however it was, i managed to make out a satisfactory case for myself, and at the close of a cross-examination such as no man ever went through before, lasting two and a half hours, arabella threw herself into my arms and called me by my first name. she was mine, and all the world seemed bright. "i walked home," continued the spirit, "and in a condition of ecstasy that almost compensates for all i have suffered since. my feet seemed hardly to touch the ground, and i whistled from the time i left arabella until i entered my room here,--a reprehensible habit, perhaps, but one which had always been my method of expressing satisfaction with the world. as i entered this room i was brought down from my ecstatic heights to an appreciation of my actual state, for the first thing to greet my eyes was the fiend, greener than ever, sitting by the fire ruminating apparently, for it was at least five minutes before he took note of my presence, although i addressed him politely as soon as i saw him. "'hallo,' he said finally. 'where have you been?' "the question was as unexpected as it was natural, and i was unprepared for it, so i made no reply, covering my silence by taking off my shoes and preparing for bed. "'where have you been?' he asked again, this time in a tone so peremptory that i decided in an instant not to tell him. "'out,' i answered. 'where have you?' "at this he laughed. "'don't be impudent,' he said. 'i do not wish to pry into your affairs. i only wanted to know where you had been because i am interested in you, and i want to help you to avoid pitfalls.' "'that's all right,' i responded graciously. 'i appreciate your kindness, but you need not be interested in where i have been to-night, because i have been engaged in a little matter that concerns you not at all.' "'very well,' he replied, turning once more to the fire. 'i'll take your word for it; only you and i must be perfectly candid with each other, or complications may arise, that's all. by the way, i'll have to borrow you again to-morrow morning. there are a half-dozen members of parliament coming here to discuss certain matters of state, and you would be somewhat embarrassed if you undertook to meet them.' "'that suits me,' i said, happy enough to acquiesce in anything. 'only i'll want to get back here to-morrow evening. i have an engagement.' "the fiend eyed me narrowly for a moment, and i winced beneath his gaze. "'all right,' he said, 'you can get back, but this parliamentary business is very important, and i _must_ have the semblance of a mortal being every morning this week.' "'that can be arranged,' i replied. arabella could have my evenings, and he could have my mornings. that was fair enough, i thought, and so it happened. every night for a week i spent in the company of my _fiancée_,--whose name, by the way, i never mentioned in the fiend's presence--and every morning for the same period he was in charge, conducting negotiations which only served to make me more famous. "finally the dreadful morning came. it was saturday, and the fiend and i were sitting together in my quarters. we had just changed places. i was in my present disembodied state, and the fiend had taken possession for the day, when there was heard in the corridor a quick nervous step which stopped as he who directed it came to my door, and a voice, which to my consternation i recognized at once as that of arabella's father following close upon a resounding knock, cried out,-- "'this is the place. this is the kennel in which the hound lives. open the door!' "there was not time for the fiend and me to change places. indeed, i had hardly recognized the old gentleman's voice, when the fiend in answer to his demand opened the door. "a madder man than my prospective father-in-law appeared to be i never saw, hopkins," said the spirit, his voice trembling with emotion. "he was livid, and when the door opened, and he saw the man he supposed to be me standing before him showing absolutely no signs of recognition, he fairly foamed at the mouth. "'how do you do, sir?' said the fiend, polite as chesterfield. "'don't speak to me, you puppy,' roared the old gentleman. 'don't you dare to address me until i address you.' "'this is most extraordinary,' said the fiend, seemingly nonplussed at mr. hicksworthy-johnstone's inexplicable wrath; for he could understand it no better than i, and to me it was absolutely incomprehensible, for i was not aware of anything that i had done that could possibly give rise to so violent an ebullition of rage. 'i am at a loss, sir, to understand why you enter the office of a gentleman in a fashion so unbecoming to one of your years; you must have made some mistake.' "'mistake!' shrieked arabella's father. 'mistake, you snivelling hypocrite? what mistake can there be? do you see that note in this week's _vanity fair_, you vile deceiver? do you see me? do you see anything?' "'i see you,' replied the fiend calmly, 'and i wish i didn't.' "'i'll go bond you wish you didn't,' howled the enraged visitor. 'and when i get through with you you'll wish i hadn't brought this oak stick along with me. now i want to know what explanation you have to make of that paragraph in the paper.' "'i cannot explain what i have not read,' returned the fiend. 'nor shall i attempt to read what you wish to have explained until i know who you are, and what possible right you can have to demand an explanation of anything from me. what are you, anyhow, a retired maniac or simply an active imbecile?' "as the fiend spoke these words," said the spirit, "i tried to arrest him; but he was so angry that he either could not or would not hear my whispered injunction that he be silent. as for the old gentleman, he sat gasping in his chair, glaring at my poor self, a perfect picture of apoplectic delirium. the fiend returned the glare unflinchingly. "'well!' gasped mr. hicksworthy-johnstone after a minute's steady glance, 'if you aren't the coolest hand in christendom. who am i, eh? what am i here for, eh? what's my name, eh? what claim have i on you, eh? young man, you are the most consummate lothario on the footstool. you are a don juan with the hide of a rhinoceros and the calmness of a snow-clad alp, but i can just tell you one thing. you can't trifle with arabella!' "and then, hopkins, that infernal fiend looked my father-in law elect square in the eye and asked,-- "'who the devil is arabella?' "as the words fell from my lips, the old gentleman with an oath started from his chair, and grasping the inkstand from the table, hurled it with all his force at my waistcoat, which received it with breathless surprise; and then, toppleton, it breaks my heart to say it, but my foot--the foot of him who loved arabella to distraction,--was lifted against her father, and the man to whom he had promised his daughter's hand, appeared to kick him forcibly, despite his grey hairs, out into and along the corridor to the head of the stairs. then, as i watched, the two men grappled and went crashing down the stairs, head over heels together. "sick with fear and mortification, i flew back into the room, where, lying upon the floor, i saw the copy of _vanity fair_ that mr. hicksworthy-johnstone had brought, and marked with blue pencil upon the page before me was printed the announcement of the engagement of myself to ariadne maude, second daughter of john edward fackleton, earl of pupley, of castle marrowfat, sauceton downs, worcestershire." chapter x. the spirit's story is concluded. "i should say," volunteered hopkins, with a shake of his head, "that that was about the most unpleasant situation he had got you into yet; and yet he was not entirely to blame. he requested candour from you, and you declined to be candid. you should have told him of your engagement to miss hicksworthy-johnstone. that would at least have prevented his kicking her father out of your office and rolling downstairs with him." "it is easy enough to say now what ought to have been done," sobbed the exile. "i do not think you would have done very differently if you had been in my position. i was jealous of the fiend, i suppose, and i didn't know but what he would insist upon doing some of the courting--which would have been intolerable." "better that than to be set down by your _fiancée_ as a heartless trifler," returned hopkins. "but what happened next? was the old gentleman hurt?" "not he," replied the exile. "when he and i, as he supposed me to be, reached the bottom of the stairs he landed on top, and was the first to get on his feet again. and then, hopkins, i was glad not to be in my normal condition; for as the fiend attempted to rise my arabella's father, who still retained his grip upon that oak stick, gave me the worst licking i ever had in my life, and i--well, i really enjoyed the spectacle, because i knew that i deserved it. the fiend, hampered somewhat by the corse to which he was not yet entirely accustomed was at a tremendous disadvantage, and i know mr. hicksworthy-johnstone's blows caused him considerable pain. the only possible escape for him was to leave the body, which he did just as the attacking party landed a resounding thwack upon the back of my neck. of course, the minute the fiend evacuated the premises, i appeared to mr. hicksworthy-johnstone to have been killed, because there was in reality no slightest bit of animation left in my body. it was the horror of this discovery that covered the retreat of the fiend, who, more horribly green than ever--the green that comes from rage--mounted the steps he had so summarily descended a moment before, and hurried into my room, dragging me by sheer force of will, which i was unable to resist, after him. you see, hopkins, we were now nothing more than two consciousnesses; two minds, one mortal, the other immortal; one infinitely strong, the other finite in its limitations, and i was of course as powerless in the presence of the fiend as a babe in the arms of its nurse. mr. hicksworthy-johnstone, thinking that he had killed me, after a vain endeavour to restore my stricken body to consciousness--in which he would have succeeded had the fiend permitted me to take possession again, for i did not wish arabella's father to suppose for one instant that he was a murderer--sneaked on tip-toes from the building, and, mumbling to himself in an insane fashion, disappeared in the crowd of pedestrians on the street. "'this is a pretty mess you've got us into,' said the fiend. 'i should like to know what excuse you can have for such infernal duplicity as you have been guilty of?' "'i cannot discuss this matter with you,' i answered. 'the duplicity is not mine, but yours. you have endeavoured to exercise rights which were clearly not yours to exercise. i informed you that in matters of love--' "'matters of love!' he ejaculated. 'do you call this a matter of love? do you think it's a matter of love for an entire stranger to throw a two-pound crystal inkstand loaded with ink at the very core of my waistcoat? is it a matter of love for a grey-haired villain like that to drag me or you, whichever way you choose to put it, down a flight of stairs and then knock the life out of us? it seems to me, you have a strange idea of love.' "'don't you understand!' i cried. 'that man was only doing his duty. he is arabella's father!' "'again, i must ask,' said the fiend, in a manner that aggravated me as it had aggravated the old gentleman, 'who, in all creation, is arabella?' "'my _fiancée_!' i yelled. 'my _fiancée_, you poor blind omniscient! whom did you suppose?' "as i uttered these words, hopkins, the fiend's whole manner changed. he was no longer flustered and angry merely; he was a determined and very angry being. he rose from his chair, and fixing his eye upon the point where he thought i was--and he had a faculty of establishing that point accurately at all times--and pointing that horrible finger of his at me, fairly hissed with rage. "'that settles it, sir,' he cried. 'you and i part for ever. you, by your foolish perversity, by your inexplicable lack of candour, by your sinful refusal to trust your welfare to my hands, who have done so much for you, have nearly overthrown the whole structure of the greatness i have builded up. your idiotic behaviour has decided me to do that which from the very beginning i have most feared. i have been haunted by the fear that you would want to marry some woman simply for the empty, mortal reason that you loved her, utterly ignoring the fact that by a judicious matrimonial step you could attain to heights that otherwise could never be yours. having your interests entirely in view, i had arranged a match which would strengthen into permanence your, at present, rather uncertain hold upon society. lady ariadne maude fackleton, to whom you are at present engaged, as the daughter of the earl of pupley, can give you the _entrée_ to the best circles in london or out of it; while this arabella of yours can serve only to assist you in spending your income and keeping your parlour free from dust. now, what earthly use was there in your philandering--' "'i fancy i have a right to select my own wife,' i said. "'you always were strong on fancies,' he retorted. 'you might have known that with the career opening up before you a plain arabella would never do. do you suppose you could take her to a ball at the earl of mawlberry's? do you suppose that any woman, in fact, who would consent to marry you as your weak inefficient self could go anywhere and do me justice? i guess not; and your behaviour has settled our partnership for ever. we part for good.' "'well, i'm glad of it,' i retorted, goaded to anger by his words. 'get out. i don't want to see you again. you've ruined me by putting me in false positions from the time we met until now, and i am sick of it. you can't leave too soon to suit me.' "when i had spoken these words he darted one final venomous glance at me, and walked whistling from the room. as long as his whistle was perceptible i remained quiet--quiet as my agitation would permit; and then, when the last flute-like note died away in the distance, i floated from the room and down the stairs to get my poor bruised body and put it in shape to call on arabella. "hopkins, when i reached the foot of the stairs my body had disappeared! i was frantic with fear. i did not know whether it had been found by the janitor and conveyed to the morgue, whether arabella's father had returned to conceal it, and so conceal his fancied crime, or whether the fiend had finally crowned his infamous work by stealing it. i sought for it in vain. forgetful of my invisibility, i asked the janitor if he had seen it, and he fled shrieking with fear from the building, and declined ever thereafter to enter it again. every nook and corner in the temple i searched and found it not, and then i floated dejectedly to arabella's home, where i found her embracing her father in a last fond farewell. the old gentleman was about leaving the country to escape the consequences of his crime. "'arabella!' i cried, as i entered the room. "the girl turned a deadly white, and her father fell cringing upon his knees, and then i realized that, recognizing my voice, they feared my ghost had come to haunt them, and with this realization came to my consciousness the overwhelming thought that both would go insane were i to persist in speaking while invisible. "the situation, hopkins, was absolutely terrible, and if i had had my teeth i should have gnashed them for the very helplessness of my condition." "did the old gentleman persist in his determination to leave the country?" asked hopkins. "he did. he sailed for the united states on a small freight schooner that night, and reached new york in time to hear in that far-off clime of the marriage of his supposed victim; but i must not anticipate," said the exile. "for three weeks after that horrible day i never caught sight of my missing person, nor did i discover the slightest clue as to its whereabouts. it never turned up at my quarters that i could learn, but that it was not dead or buried i had good reason to believe; for one morning, while i was away from my rooms floating along rotten row, hoping to catch sight of myself if perchance i still lived, four truckmen arrived at the temple here and moved all my clothes and furniture, whither i never discovered, in consequence of which act, upon my return here, i found the room cold and bare as a barn." "that was rank robbery," said toppleton. "we should have trouble in establishing that fact in court," returned the exile. "i could not deny on oath that my hand had penned the order for the removal of the goods, and as for the clothes and other things, most of them had been bought by the money i had earned through the fiend's instrumentality." "that is so," said toppleton, hastily acquiescing in the exile's words, lest he should seem to his visitor less acute than a full-fledged lawyer should be. "and how long was it before you encountered yourself once more?" "three weeks," returned the exile. "and where do you suppose the meeting took place?" "i don't know," said hopkins. "at buckingham palace?" "no, sir. in arabella's parlour! it was just three weeks from the hour in which mr. hicksworthy-johnstone appeared at my office door in the temple that, for the want of something better to do, i floated into arabella's parlour again, and was filled with consternation to see standing there before the mirror, adjusting his tie, the fiend in full possession of my treasured self. i was about to utter a cry of delight when i heard an ejaculation of fear behind me, and turning saw arabella herself entering the room, pale as a sheet. i tell you hopkins, it was dramatic; though, as far as the fiend was concerned, he was as nonchalant as could be. "'you are not dead!' cried arabella, hoarsely. "'not that i am aware of, madam,' said the fiend coolly.' have i the honour of addressing miss arabella hicksworthy-johnstone?' "'oh, edward, edward,' she cried--'i forgot to tell you, hopkins,' explained the spirit, 'my name was edward'--'oh, edward, what does this mean?' she cried. 'my father has fled to america, thinking that in that unhappy moment of saturday three weeks ago he had killed you.' "'indeed!' returned the fiend. 'i sincerely hope he will enjoy the trip, though he did inflict injuries upon me from which i shall be a long time in recovering. but tell me, madame, are you miss arabella hicksworthy-johnstone?' "'edward,' she replied, 'are you mad?' "'i have a right to be indignant at your father's treatment of me, if that vilely vindictive old person was your father, but i am not what you might call mad. i cherish no vindictive feelings. but as my time is limited i should like to proceed at once to the business i have in hand, if you will permit me.' "arabella sat aghast as the man she deemed her _fiancé_ spoke these words to her. she was utterly unable to comprehend the situation, and i could not clarify the cloud upon her understanding without imperilling her reason. oh, hopkins, hopkins, were the fires of hades to become extinguished to-day, there are other tortures for the spirit close at hand more hideously unbearable even than they!" "it would seem so," said hopkins. "if i had my choice between your experience and hades, i think i should warm up to the latter. but go on. what did arabella say?" "she drew herself up proudly after a moment of hesitation, and said, 'i have no desire to hinder you in going about your business.' "'thanks,' said the fiend. 'assuming that you are miss arabella hicksworthy-johnstone, i would say to you that i should like to know upon what your father's claim that you and i are engaged rests.' "'really, edward,' she returned impatiently, 'i cannot comprehend your singular behaviour this afternoon. you know how we became engaged. you know you asked me to be your wife, and you know that after keeping you on your knees for several hours i consented.' "'madam,' observed the fiend, 'i never went on my knees to a woman in my life. i never asked but one woman in this world to be my wife, and you are not she.' "'what!' cried arabella. 'do you mean to say to me, edward, that you did _not_ ask me to be your wife?' "'i meant to say exactly what i said. that i am engaged to be married to lady ariadne maude fackleton, daughter of the earl of pupley, the only woman to whom i ever spoke or thought of speaking a word of love in my life. i mean to say that lady ariadne maude fackleton and i expect to be married before the month is up. i mean to say that i never saw you before in my life, and i should like to know what your intentions are concerning this absurd claim that i am engaged to you may be, for i do not intend to have my future marred by any breach of promise suits. in short, madam, do you intend to claim me as your matrimonial prize or not? if not, all well and good. if so, i shall secure an injunction restraining you from doing anything of the sort. even should you force me to the altar itself i should then and there forbid the banns.' "'sir,' said my arabella, drawing herself up like a queen, 'you may leave this house, and never set foot again within its walls. i should as soon think of claiming that celebrated biblical personage, of whom you remind me, ananias, for a husband as you. do not flatter yourself that i shall ever dispute the lady ariadne's possession of so accomplished a lord and master as yourself,--though i should do so were i more philanthropically disposed. if it be the duty of one woman to protect the happiness of another, i should do all that lies in my power to prevent this marriage; but inasmuch as my motive in so doing would, in all likelihood, be misconstrued, i must abstain; i must hold myself aloof, though the whole future happiness of one of my own sex be at stake. farewell, sir, and good riddance. if you will leave me lady ariadne's address, i will send her my sympathy as a wedding gift.' "'madam,' returned the fiend, bowing low, 'your kind words have taken a heavy load from my heart. you deserve a better fate; but farewell.' "then as the fiend departed arabella swooned away. my first impulse was to follow the fiend, and to discover if possible his address; but i could not bring myself to leave arabella at that moment, she was so overcome. i floated to the prostrate woman, and whispered the love i felt for her in her ear. "'arabella,' i said. 'arabella--my love--it is all a mistake. open your eyes and see. i am here ready to explain all if you will only listen.' "her answer was a moan and a fluttering of the eyelids. "'arabella,' i repeated. 'don't you hear me, sweetheart? open your eyes and look at me. it is i, edward.' "'edward!' she gasped, her eyes still closed. 'what _does_ it all mean? why have you treated me so?' "'it is not i who have done this arabella; it is another vile being over whose actions i have no control. he is a fiend who has me in his power. he is--oh, arabella, do not ask me, do not insist upon knowing all, only believe that i am not to blame!' "'kiss me, edward,' she murmured. 'one little kiss.' "hopkins," moaned the exile, "just think of that! one little kiss was all she asked, and i--i hadn't anything to kiss her with--not the vestige of a lip. "'kiss me, edward,' she repeated. "'i cannot,' i cried out in anguish. "'why not?' she demanded, sitting up on the floor and gazing wildly around her, and then seeing that she was absolutely alone in the room, and had been conversing with--" "oh!" ejaculated hopkins, wringing his hands. "dear me! the poor girl must have been nearly crazy." "nearly, hopkins?" said the exile, in a sepulchral tone. "nearly? arabella never did anything by halves or by nearlies. she became quite crazy, and as far as i know has remained so until this day, for with the restoration of consciousness, and the shock of opening her eyes to see nothing that could speak with her, and yet had spoken, her mind gave way, and she fled chattering like an imbecile from the room. i have never seen her since!" "and the fiend?" queried toppleton. "i saw him at st. george's on the following wednesday," returned the exile. "i had been wandering aimlessly and distractedly about london for four days since the dreadful episode at arabella's, when i came to st. george's church. there was an awning before the door, and from the handsome equipages drawn up before the edifice i knew that some notable function was going on within. the crowds, the usual london crowds, were being kept back by the police, but i, of course, being invisible, floated over their heads, past the guards, through the awning into the church. there was a wedding in progress, and the groom's back seemed familiar, though i could not place it at first, and naturally, toppleton, for it was my own, as i discovered, a moment later. when the last irrevocable words binding me to a woman i had never before seen had been spoken, and the organ began to peal forth the melodious measures of the lohengrin march, the bride and groom, made one, turned and faced the brilliant assemblage of guests, among whom were the premier and the members of his cabinet, and as complete a set of nabobs, mentioned in burke, as could be gathered in london at that time of the year, and i recognized my own face wreathed in smiles, my own body dressed in wedding garb, standing on the chancel steps ready to descend. "i was married, hopkins, at last. married to a woman of beauty and wealth and high position, utterly unknown to me, and not only were my own mother and my best friends absent, but i myself had only happened in by accident. "my rage knew no bounds, and as the fiend and his bride passed down the aisle amid the showered congratulations of the aristocratic multitude, i impotently endeavoured to strike him, of which he was serenely unconscious; but as he left the church my voice, which had been stifled with indignation, at last grew clear, and i howled out high above the crowds,-- "'you vile scoundrel, restore me to myself! give me back the presence of which you have robbed me, or may every curse in all the universe fall upon you and your house for ever.' "he heard me, toppleton, and his answer was a smile--a green smile--seeing which his bride, the lady ariadne maude fackleton, fainted as they drove away. "that, hopkins, is substantially the tale of villainy i have come to tell. little remains to be told. the fiend has been true to his promise to make me famous, for every passing year has brought some new honour to my name. i have been elevated to the peerage; i have been ambassador to the most brilliant courts of europe; i have been all that one could hope to be, and yet i have not been myself. i ask your assistance. will you not give it to me?" "edward," said toppleton warmly, "i will. i will be candid with you, edward. i am almost as ignorant of law as a justice of the peace, but for your sake i will study and see what can be done. i will fight your case for you to the very last, but first tell me one thing. your name is what?" "edward pompton chatford." "what!" cried toppleton, "the famous novelist?" "he made me so," said the exile. "and the fiend's present title is?" "lord barncastle of burningford." "he?" said toppleton, incredulously, recognizing the name as that of one who fairly bent beneath the honours of the world. "none other," returned the exile. "heavens!" ejaculated toppleton. "how morley, harkins, perkins, mawson, bronson, smithers, and hicks will open their eyes when i tell them that i have been retained to institute _habeas corpus_ proceedings in the case of chatford v. barncastle of burningford! morley particularly, i am afraid will die of fright!" chapter xi. toppleton consults the law and forms an opinion. at the conclusion of the exile's story hopkins glanced at his watch, and discovered that he had barely time to return to his lodging and dress for a little dinner he had promised to attend that evening. "i will look up the law in this case of yours, chatford," he said, rising from his chair and putting on his hat and coat, "and in about a week i rather think we shall be able to decide upon some definite line of action. it will be difficult, i am afraid, to find any precedent to guide us in a delicate matter of this sort, but as a lay lawyer, if i may be allowed the expression, it seems to me that there ought to be some redress for one who has been made the victim of so many different kinds of infamy at once as you have. the weak part of our case is that you were yourself an accessory to every single one of the fiend's crimes, and in instituting a suit at law we cannot get around the fact that in a measure you are both plaintiff and defendant. i believe those are the terms usually employed to designate the two parties to a suit, except in the case of an appeal, when there is an appellant and a repellant if my memory serves me." "it may be as you say," returned the exile, sadly. "i'll have to take your word for it entirely, since, as i have already told you, all the law i ever knew i have forgotten, and then, too, my business being purely one of adjudication, i used to distinguish my clients one from another--representing, as i did, both sides--by calling them, respectively, the compromisee and the compromisor." "well," toppleton said, "i'll find out all about it and let you know, say, by friday next. we'll first have to decide in what capacity you shall appear in court, whether as a plaintiff or defendant. i think under the circumstances you will have to go as a plaintiff, though in a case in which my father was interested some years ago, i know that it was really the plaintiff who was put on the defensive as soon as the old gentleman took him in hand to cross-examine him. it was said by experts to have been the crossest examination on the calendar that year; and between you and me, edward, the plaintiff never forgave his attorneys for not retaining the governor on his side in the beginning. if you would rather go as a defendant, i suppose i could arrange to have it so, but it strikes me as a disadvantageous thing to do in these days, because in most cases, it is the defendant who has committed the wrong upon which the suit is based, and a man who starts in as the underdog, has to combat the prejudices of judge, jury and general public, with whom it is a time-honoured custom to believe a man guilty until he has proven his innocence. i think, on the whole, it would be easier for you to prove lord barncastle's guilt than your own innocence." "i know from the lucid manner in which you talk, toppleton," said the exile, with a deep sigh indicating satisfaction, "from the readiness and extemporaneousness with which you grasp the situation, not losing sight of side issues, that i have made no mistake in coming to you. heaven bless you, sir. you will never regret the assistance you are so nobly giving to one you have never seen." "don't mention it, sallie--i should say chatford," said toppleton. "i am an american citizen and will ever be found championing the cause of the oppressed against the oppressor. my ears are ever open to the plaint of the plaintiff, nor shall i be deaf to the defendant in case you choose to be the latter. count on me, edward, and all will yet be well!" with these inspiring words, toppleton lit his cigar and walked jauntily from the room, and the exile relapsed into silence. faithful to his promise, toppleton applied himself assiduously to the study of the law as it seemed to him to bear upon the case of his mysterious client. to be sure, his library was not quite as extensive as it might have been, and there may have been points in other books than the ones he had, which would have affected his case materially, but the young lawyer was more or less self-reliant, and what he had to read he read intelligently. "if i were called upon suddenly to rescue a young woman from drowning, and possessed nothing but an anchor and a capstan bar to do it with, my duty clearly would be to do the best i could with those tools, however awkward they might be. i could not ease my conscience after neglecting to do all that i could with those tools, by saying that i hadn't a lifeboat and a cork suit handy. here is a parallel case. i must do the best i can with the tools i have, and i guess i can find enough law in blackstone and that tree calf copy of the sixteenth volume of abbott's 'digest' i picked up the other day to cover this case. if i can't, i'll have to use the sense that nature gave me, and go ahead anyhow." to his delight, hopkins found it utterly unnecessary for him to read the tree calf sixteenth volume of abbott's "digest," he found so much in the "comic blackstone" that applied. "why, do you know," he said to the exile when they met, the one to explain the law, the other to listen, "do you know you have the finest case in all christendom, without leaving the very fundamental principles of the law? it's really extraordinary what a case you have, or rather, would have, if you could devise some means of appearing in court. that's the uncrackable nut in the case. how the deuce to have you appear on the witness stand, i can't see. the court would not tolerate any such makeshift as the aunt sallie scheme you and i have adopted, it would be so manifestly absurd, and would give the counsel for the defence--for you must be the plaintiff after all, can't help yourself--it would give the counsel for the defence the finest chance to annihilate us by the use of his satirical powers he had ever had, and before a jury that would simply ruin our cause at the outset." "i don't see why i can't testify as i am--bodiless as i have been left. the mere absence of my body and presence of my consciousness would almost prove my case," said the exile. "it would seem as if it ought to," said toppleton. "but you know what men are. they believe very little that they hear, and not much more than half that they see. you couldn't expect anyone to believe the points of a person unseen. if they can't see you they can't see your hardships, and besides, hearsay evidence unsupported is not worth shucks." "i don't know what shucks are," returned the exile, "but i see your point." "it's a serious point," said toppleton. "and then there is another most embarrassing side to it. we can't afford to have our case weakened by putting ourselves in a position where countercharges can be brought against us, and i am very much afraid our opponents would charge vagrancy against you, for the very obvious and irrefutable reason that you have absolutely no visible means of support. you wouldn't have a leg to stand on if they did that, and yet it does seem a pity that something cannot be done to enable you to appear, for as i said a minute ago, you have otherwise a perfectly magnificent cause of action. why, edward, there isn't a page in the comic blackstone that does not contain something that applies to your case, and that ought to make you a winner if we could get around this horrible lack of body of yours. "for instance," continued toppleton, opening a'beckett's famous contribution to legal lore, "in the very first chapter we find that blackstone divides rights into rights of _persons_ and rights of things. clearly you have a right to your own person, and no judge on a sane bench would dare deny it. absolute rights, it says here, belong to man in a state of nature, which being so, you have been wronged, because in being deprived of your state of nature you have been robbed of your absolute rights. clear as crystal, eh?" "that's so," said the exile. "you are a marvel at law, hopkins." "in section six reference is made to the _habeas corpus_ act of charles the second, and unless i have forgotten my latin, that is a distinct reference to a man's right to the possession of his own body. section eight, same chapter, announces man's right to personal security, and asserts his legal claim to the enjoyment of _life, limbs, health and reputation_. have you enjoyed your life? no! have you enjoyed your limbs? not for thirty years. have you enjoyed your health. no! barncastle of burningford has enjoyed that as well as your reputation. i think on the whole though, we would better not say anything about your reputation if we get into court, for while it is undoubtedly _yours_, and has been by no means enjoyed by you, you didn't make it for yourself. that was his work, and he is entitled to it." "true," said the exile. "i do not wish to claim anything i am not entitled to." "that's the proper spirit," said toppleton. "you want what belongs to you and nothing more. you are entitled to your property, for which section eleven of this same chapter provides, saying that the law will not allow a man to be deprived of his property except by the law itself. if a man's own body isn't his, i'd like to know to whom it belongs in a country that professes to be free!" toppleton paused at this point to make a few notes and to reinforce his own spirit by means of others. "now, under the head of real property, chatford," he said, "i find that in england property is real or personal. i think that in this case, that of which you have been deprived comes under both heads. one's body is certainly real and unquestionably personal, and if a man has a right to the possession of each, he has a right to the possession of both, and he who robs him of both is guilty of a crime under each head. real property consists of lands, tenements and hereditaments. lands we must perforce exclude because you have lost no lands. tenements may be alluded to, however, with absolute fairness because the body is the tenement of the soul. of hereditaments i am not sure. i don't know what hereditaments are, and i haven't had time to find out anything about them except that they are corporeal or incorporeal, which leads me to infer that you have been wronged under this head also, for i must assume that a hereditament is something that may or may not have a body according to circumstances, which is your case exactly. "now a man's right to the possession of an estate is called his title, if i am not mistaken," continued hopkins, "and it is only reasonable to suppose that this refers to bodily estate as well as to landed estate. what we must dispute is barncastle's title to your bodily estate. our case is referred to in section two, chapter nine, part second of this book, which deals with joint tenancy in which two or more persons have one and the same interest in an estate, but it must be held by both at the same time. now, even granting, as the other side may say, that you entered into a partnership with the fiend, we could knock him right off his pins on the sole fact that in declining to admit you to your own bodily estate, he has not only deprived you of an undoubted right, but has in reality forfeited his own claim to possession, since he has violated the only principle of law upon which he could claim entrance to the estate under any circumstances." "superb!" ejaculated the exile. "now we come to an apparent difficulty," continued hopkins. "possession is, according to my authority, five points of the law. the fiend has possession, and in consequence tallies five points; out of how many i do not know. what the maximum number of points in the law is, the book does not say, but even assuming that they form a good half, i think we can bring forward five more with a dozen substitutes for each of the five in support of our position. some of these points will evolve themselves when we come to consider whence barncastle's title was derived. "did he acquire his title by descent? no; unless it was by a descent to unworthy tricks which, i fear, are outside of the meaning of the law. by purchase? if so, let him show a receipt. by occupancy? yes, and by a forcible occupancy which was as justifiable as his occupation of the throne would be, an occupancy which can be shown in court to be an entire subversion of the right of a prior occupant whose title was acquired by inheritance." "that's a strong point," said the exile. "yes, it is," said hopkins, "especially in a country where birth means so much. but that isn't all we have to say on this question of title. a title can be held by prescription. barncastle may claim that he got his this way, but we can meet that by showing that he compounded his own prescription, and originally got you to swallow it by a trick. he also has a title by alienation, and there i think we may be weak since you were a party to the final alienation, though we may be able to pull through on even that point by showing that you consented only in the expectation of an early return of the premises. it was an alienation by deed, an innocent deed on your part, an infamous one on his. it was not an alienation of record, which weakens his claim, but one of special custom, which by no means weakens yours. "and so, edward, we might go on through the whole subject of the right of property, and on every point we are strong, and on few can barncastle of burningford put in the semblance of a defence." "it's simply glorious," said the exile. "i don't believe there ever was a case like it." "i don't believe so either," said toppleton. "and on the whole i'm glad there never was. i should hate to think that a crime like this could ever become a common one. "now," he said, resuming the discussion of the legal aspect of the exile's case, "let us see what we can find under the head of 'private and public wrongs and their remedies!' i suppose yours would come under the head of a civil wrong, though your treatment has been very far from civil. as such your redress lies in the courts. you are forbidden to take back what has been taken from you by a force which amounts to a breach of the peace,--that is, it would not be lawful for you to seize your own body and shake the life out of it for the purpose of yourself becoming once more its animating spirit. "first we must decide, 'what is the wrong that has been put upon you?' well, it's almost any crime you can think of. he has dispossessed you of that which is yours. he has ousted you from your freehold. he has been guilty of trespass. he has subjected you to a nuisance, that is if it is a nuisance to be deprived of one's body, and i should think it would so appear to any sane person. he has been guilty of subtraction. he has subtracted you from your body and your body from you, leaving apparently no remainder. he has been guilty of an offence against your religion. to an extent he has committed an offence against the public health in that he has haunted citizens of this city and caused you unwittingly to do the same to the detriment of the sanity of those who have been haunted. i think we might even charge him with homicide, for if depriving a man of thirty years of his corporeal existence isn't depriving him of life, i don't know what is. however this may be, i am convinced that he is guilty of mayhem, for he certainly has deprived you of a limb--that is shown by your utter absence of limb. he has been guilty of an offence against your habitation, corporeal and incorporeal, and finally he has been guilty of larceny both grand and petty. grand in the extent of it, petty in the method. by jove, chatford, if we could bring you into court as a concrete individual, and not as an abstract entity, we could get up an indictment against lord barncastle of burningford that would quash him for ever. "a body obtained for you, i should carry the case to the appellate court at once, for two reasons. first because it would not be appropriate to try so uncommon a cause in the common pleas, second because a decision by the court of appeals is final, and we should save time by going there at once; but the point with which we must concern ourselves the most is, how shall we bring you before the eyes of the court; how shall we get our plaintiff into shape--visible shape?" a painful silence followed the conclusion of toppleton's discussion of the law in the case of chatford _v_. barncastle of burningford. it was evident that the exile could think of no means of surmounting the unfortunate barrier to a successful prosecution of the case. finally the exile spoke: "i perceive the dreadful truth of what you say. having no physical being, i have no standing in court." "that's the unfortunate fact," returned hopkins. "can't you get a body in some way? can't you borrow one temporarily?" "where?" asked the exile. "you are my only material friend. you wouldn't lend me yours." "no, i wouldn't," said toppleton. "if i did, where would your only material friend be? it's hopeless, edward; and now that i think of it, even if you did get a form and should go to court, where are your witnesses? you could only assert, and barncastle could always deny. strong as your cause is, the courts, under the circumstances, will give you no redress, because you cannot prove your case. we must seek other means; this is a case that requires diplomatic action. strategy will do more for us than law, and i think i have a scheme." "which is?" "i will go to lord barncastle, and by means of a little clever dissembling will frighten him into doing the right thing by you. i realize what a tremendous undertaking it is, but failure then would not mean public disgrace, and failure in the courts would put us, and particularly myself, under a cloud. in short, we might be suspected of blackmail, chatford; barncastle is so prominent, and liable to just such attacks at all times." "but how do you propose to reach him? he has the reputation now of being the haughtiest and most unapproachable member of the aristocracy." "oh, dear!" laughed hopkins. "you don't understand americans. why, chatford, we can push ourselves in anywhere. if you were a being like myself, and had ten pounds to bet, i would wager you that within forty-eight hours i could have an invitation in autograph from the prince of wales himself to dine with him and prince battenburg at sandringham, at any hour, and on any day i choose to set. you don't know what enterprising fellows we yankees are. i'll know lord barncastle intimately inside of one month, if i once set out to do it." "excuse me for saying it, hopkins," said the exile, sadly, "but i must say that what i have liked about you in the past has been your freedom from bluster and brag. to me these statements of yours sound vain and empty. i would speak less plainly were it not that my whole future is in your hands, and i do not want you to imperil my chances by rashness. tell me how you propose to meet barncastle, and, having met him, what you propose to do, if you do not wish me to set this talk down as foolish braggadocio." "i'll tell you how i propose to meet him," said hopkins, slightly offended, and yet characteristically forgiving; "but what i shall do after that i shall not tell you, for i may find that he is a politer person than you are, and it's just possible that i shall like him. if i do, i may be impelled to desert you and ally myself with him. i don't like to be called a braggart, edward." "forgive me, hopkins," said the spirit. "i am so wrought up by my hopes and fears, by the consciousness of the terrible wrongs i have suffered, that i hardly know what i am saying." "well, never mind," rejoined hopkins. "don't worry. the chances of my deserting you are very slight. but to return to your question. i shall meet barncastle in this way; i shall have a sonnet written in his praise by an intimate friend of mine, a poet of very high standing and little morality, which i shall sign with my own name, and have printed as though it were a clipping from some periodical. this clipping i will send to lord barncastle with a note telling him that i am an american admirer of his genius, the author of the sonnet, and have but one ambition, which i travelled from america to gratify--to meet him face to face." "aha!" said the spirit. "an appeal to his vanity, eh?" "precisely," said toppleton. "it works every time." "and when you meet him?" "we shall see," rejoined toppleton. "i have given up brag and bluster; but if lord barncastle of burningford does not take an interest in hopkins toppleton after he has known him fifteen minutes, i'll go back home to new york, give up my law practice and become--" "what?" said the spirit as hopkins hesitated. "a sister of charity," said hopkins, gravely. chapter xii. toppleton makes a fair start. a few weeks later toppleton was able to report progress to his invisible client. he had the sonnet to barncastle of burningford and was much pleased with it, because, in spite of the fact that it was two lines too long, he was confident that it would prove very fetching to the man to whom it was addressed. "you ought to take out those two extra lines, though," said the exile. "barncastle is a great stickler for form, and he will be antagonized at once by your violation of the rules." "not a bit of it," returned toppleton. "those lines stay right there, and i'll tell you why. in the first place barncastle, as an englishman, will see in the imperfect sonnet something that will strike him as a bit of american audacity, which will be very pleasing to him, and will give him something to talk about. as a briton you are probably aware that your countrymen are very fond of discovering outrages of that sort in the work of those over the sea, because it is a sort of convincing proof that the american as a writer is still an inferior, and that england's controlling interest in the temple of immortality is in no danger of passing into alien hands. in the second place, he will be so pleased with the extra amount of flattery that is crammed into those two lines that he will not have the heart to criticize them; and thirdly, as one who knows it all, he will be prompted to send for me to come to him, in order that he may point out to me in a friendly spirit one or two little imperfections in what he will call my otherwise exquisite verse. i tell you what it is, edward," said toppleton, pausing a moment, "i never devoted myself with any particular assiduity to latin, greek, or mathematics, but when it comes to human nature, i am, as we new yorkers say, a daisy, which means that i am the flower upon which you may safely bet as against the field." "you certainly have an ingenious mind, hopkins," returned the exile, "and i hope it will all go as you say, but i fear, hopkins, i fear." "wait and see," was hopkins' confident reply, and being unable to do otherwise the exile obeyed. in three days the sonnet was printed, and so fixed that it appeared to be a clipping from the _rocky mountain quarterly review, a monthly magazine_. "that'll strike him as another interesting americanism," said hopkins, with a chuckle. "there is no people on earth but my own who would dare publish a quarterly twelve times a year." to the sonnet was appended the name "hopkins parkerberry toppleton;" parkerberry being a novelty introduced into the signature by the young lawyer, not because he was at all entitled to it, but for the proper reason, as he said, that no american poet was worth a nickel who hadn't three sections to his name. a note with a distinctly western flavour to it was penned, and with the "decoy" sonnet went that night to burningford castle addressed to "his excellency, lord barncastle," and then toppleton and the exile sat down to await the result. they had not many days to wait, for within a week of the dispatch of the poem and the note hopkins, on reaching the office one morning, found the exile in a great state of excitement over a square envelope lying on the floor immediately under the letter slot hopkins had had made in the door. "it's come, hopkins, it's come!" cried the exile. "what's come?" queried hopkins, calmly. "the letter from barncastle. i recognize my handwriting. it came last night about five minutes after you left the office, and i have been in a fever of excitement to learn its contents ever since. do open it at once. what does he say?" "be patient, edward, don't get so excited. suppose you were to have an apoplectic stroke!" "i can't be patient, and i can't have apoplexy, so do hurry. what do i say?" "seems to me," returned hopkins, picking up the letter and slowly opening it, "it seems to me you are getting confused. but let's see; what _does_ barncastle say? h'm!" he said, reading the note. "'barncastle hall, fenwick morton, mascottonton-on-the-barbundle, december th, --. hopkins parkerberry toppleton, esquire, , temple, london. dear sir,--i have to thank you for your favour and enclosure of the th inst. your sonnet is but one of a thousand gratifying evidences i am daily receiving that i have managed to win to no inconsiderable degree the good will of your countrymen. it is also evidence to me that you are a young man of much talent in the line of original versification, since, apart from the sentiment you express, your sonnet is one of the most original i have ever seen, not only for its length, but also for the wonderful mixture of your metaphor. it is truly characteristic of your great and growing country, and i cannot resist your naïve appeal to be permitted to meet the unworthy object of its praise. i should be gratified to have you to dinner at barncastle hall, at eight o'clock on the evening of december rd, --. kindly inform me by return post if your engagements will permit us to have the pleasure of having you with us on that evening. believe me to be, with sentiments of regard, ever, my dear sir, faithfully yours, barncastle.'" "by heavens!" ejaculated the exile, in delighted accents, "you've got there, hopkins, you've got there. you'll go, of course?" "well, rather," returned toppleton; "and to carry out the illusion, as well as to pique his interest in america, i'll wear a blue dress coat. but first let me reply." "dear barncastle," he wrote. "i'll be there. yours for keeps,--toppleton." "how's that?" he asked, reading it aloud to the exile. "you're not going to send that, are you?" said the exile in disgust. "i'm not, eh? well just you watch me and see," said toppleton. "why, edward, that will be the biggest _coup_ of the lot. he will get that letter, and he will be amused by it, and the more he thinks of it the more he'll like it, and then he'll say to himself, 'why, this man is a character;' and then do you know what will happen, chatford?" "i'll be hanged if i do," growled the exile. "well, i'll tell you. he will invite all the high panjandrums he knows to that dinner to meet me, and he will tell them that i am an original, and they'll all come, chatford, just as they would flock to see a seven-humped camel or a dwarf eight feet high, and then i will have lord barncastle of burningford just where i want him. i could browbeat him for weeks alone and never frighten him, but once i let him know that i know his secret, in the presence of his wife and a brilliant company, _he_ will be apprehensive, and, if i mistake not, will be more or less within my reach." "lady barncastle is no longer living," said the exile. "his household is presided over by his daughter." "very well," said hopkins. "we'll dazzle the daughter too." "is this the way american lawyers do business generally?" sneered the exile. "no," returned toppleton; "there is probably not another american lawyer who would take a case like yours. that's the one respect in which they resemble your english lawyers, but i'll tell you one thing. when they start in to do a thing they do it, unless their clients get too fresh, and then they stop _in medias res_." "i hope there is nothing personal in your remarks, hopkins," said the exile, uneasily. "that all depends on you," retorted hopkins. "despite your croakings and fears, the first step we have taken has proven justifiable. we have accomplished what we set out to accomplish. i am invited to meet the fiend. score one point for us. now, when i advance a proposition for the scoring of a second point, you sneer. well, sneer. i'll win the case for you, just to spite you. this despised note posted to barncastle, i shall order a blue dress coat with brass buttons on it. i shall purchase, if it is to be found in london, one of those beaver hats on which the fur is knee deep, a red necktie, and a diamond stud. my trousers i shall have cut to fit the contour of my calves like a glove. i shall sport the largest silver watch to be found on the strand, with a gold chain heavy enough to sustain a weight of five hundred pounds; in short, chatford, you won't be able to distinguish me from one of teniel's caricatures of uncle sam." "you won't be able to deceive barncastle that way. he's seen new yorkers before." "barncastle doesn't know i'm a new yorker, and he won't find it out. he thinks i'm from the rocky mountains, and he knows enough about geography to be aware that the rocky mountains aren't within two hours' walk of manhattan island. he knows that there is a vast difference between a london gentleman and a son of the soil of yorkshire, and he doesn't know but what there are a million citizens of our great republic who go about dressed up in fantastic garments similar to those i shall wear to his dinner. if he is surprised, his surprise will add to his interest, and materially contribute to the pleasure of those whom he invites to see the animal the untamed poet of the rockies. see?" "yes, i see," said the exile. "but clothes won't make the illusion complete. you look too much like a gentleman; your manners are too polished. a man like barncastle will see through you in a minute." "again, chatford, i am sorry that your possessions are nil, for i would like to wager you that your noble other self will do nothing of the sort. i have not been an amateur actor for nothing, and as for manners i can be as bad mannered as any nabob in creation if i try. don't you worry on that score." the acceptance of lord barncastle's invitation was therefore sent as hopkins wrote it, and the ensuing days were passed by the young lawyer in preparing the extraordinary dinner suit he had described to his anxious client, who could hardly be persuaded that in taking this step toppleton was not committing a bit of egregious folly. he could not comprehend how barncastle upon receipt of hopkins' note could be anything but displeased at the familiarity of its tone. the idea of a common untitled mortal like toppleton even assuming to be upon familiar terms with a member of the aristocracy, and especially one so high as barncastle of burningford, oppressed him. he would as soon expect an ordinary tradesman to slap the prince of wales on the back, and call him by one of his first names, without giving offence, as that barncastle should tolerate toppleton's behaviour, and he in consequence was fearful of the outcome. toppleton, on the other hand, went ahead with his extraordinary sartorial preparations, serenely confident that the events of the next few days would justify his course. the exile was relieved to find that the plan was of necessity modified, owing to toppleton's inability to find a typical uncle sam beaver in london; but his relief was short-lived, for hopkins immediately proceeded to remedy this defect by purchasing a green cotton umbrella, which, he said, was perhaps better than the hat as an evidence of eccentricity. "if i cling to that umbrella all through dinner, chatford," said toppleton, with a twinkle in his eye, "preferring rather to part with life, honour, or virtue than lose sight of it, i will simply make an impression upon the minds of that assembled multitude that they'll not forget in a hurry." "they'll think as i do," sighed the exile. "they'll think you are a craz--" "what?" asked toppleton, sharply. "they'll think you are a genius," returned the exile humbly and quickly too, fearing lest toppleton should take offence. "have you--er--have you considered what barncastle's servants will think of this strange performance? they won't let you into the house, in the first place," he added, to cover his retreat. "i shall be admitted to the house by barncastle himself; for i prophesy that his curiosity to meet this rocky mountain poet will be so great that he will be at the railway station to greet me in person. besides," continued toppleton, "why should i care what his servants think? i never had nor ever knew any one who had a servant whose thoughts were worth thinking. a servant who can think becomes in my country a servant of the people, not the lackey of the individual. furthermore, i am after high game, and servants form no part of my plan. they are not in it. when i go out on a lion hunt i don't bother my head about or waste my ammunition upon beasts of burden. i am loaded to the muzzle for the purpose of bringing down barncastle. if he can't be brought down without the humbling of his butler, why, then, his butler must bite the dust. if i become an object of suspicion to the flunkies, i shall not concern myself about it unless they become unpleasant, and if they become unpleasant i shall corrupt them. i'll buy every flunkey in the house, if it costs a five-pound note." "well, go your own gait," said the exile, not much impressed by toppleton's discourse. "if you are not clapped into a lunatic asylum, i shall begin to believe that the age of miracles is still extant; not that _i_ think you crazy, hopkins, but these others do not know you as well as i do. for my part, i think that by going to barncastle's as your own handsome, frank, open-hearted self, you will accomplish more than you will in this masquerade." "your flattery saves your cause," said hopkins. "i cannot be indignant, as i ought, with a man who calls me handsome, frank, and open-hearted, but you must remember this: in spite of your long absence from your body, you retain all the commonplace weakness of your quondam individuality. you would have me do the commonplace thing you yourself would have done thirty years ago. if there is a common, ordinary, uninteresting individual in the world, it is the handsome, frank, and open-hearted man. you find him everywhere--in hut and in palace, in village, town, and city. he is the man who goes through life unobserved, who gets his name in the paper three times in his lifetime, and always at somebody else's expense. once when he is born, once when he marries, and once when he dies, and it is a paid advertisement, not an earned one, each time. the first is paid for by his parents, the second by his father-in-law, the third by his executors. people like him well enough, but no one ever cares enough about him to hate him. his conversation ranges from babies--if he has any himself--through the weather to politics. beyond these subjects he has nothing to say, and he rarely dines out, save with the parson, the candidate, or the man who wants to get the best of him in a business transaction. he is an idol at home, a zero abroad. nobody is interested in him, and he would as likely be found dining with the khedive of egypt as with lord barncastle, and i'll wager that, even if he should in some mysterious manner receive an invitation to lend his gracious presence to the barncastle board, he would be as little in evidence as an object of interest as the scullery-maid. were i to accept your advice, chatford, barncastle's guests would be bored, barncastle himself would be disappointed, and your chance of ever becoming the animating spirit of your own body would correspondingly diminish. only by a bold stroke is success to be obtained. the means i am about adopting are revolting to me as a man of taste, but for the sake of our cause i am willing to stifle my natural desire to appear as a gentleman, to sink my true individuality, and to go as a freak." "but why do you think you will succeed, hopkins? even granting that you make a first-class freak, has it really ever happened that idiocy--i say idiocy here not to imply that i think you are an idiot, understand me--has it ever happened that a freak succeeds with us where that better, truer standard which is represented by you as you really are has failed?" "not exactly that way," replied hopkins. "but this has happened. your englishmen have flocked by the tens of thousands to see, and have been interested by an american wild west show, where tens of hundreds have straggled in to witness the thoughtful shakespearian productions of our most intellectual tragedians. barncastle can have a refined, quiet, gentlemanly appearing person at his table three hundred and sixty-five times a year. he can get what i am going to give him but once in a lifetime, so say no more about it. i am set in my determination to stand or fall in the manner i have indicated." "all right," said the exile. "i've nothing more to say; but there's one thing mighty certain. i'm going with you. i want to witness your triumph." "very well," said toppleton. "come along. but if you do, leave that infernal whistle of yours home, or there'll be trouble." "i'm hardly anything else but a whistle. i can't help whistling, you know." "then there are only two things to be done. you must either get yourself set to the tune of yankee doodle, or stay right here. i'm not going to have my plans upset by any such buoy like tootle-toot as you are when you get excited." "perhaps, on the whole, i'd better stay home." "i think you had," said toppleton. "you would be sure to whistle before we were out of the woods." hopkins and his invisible client had hardly finished this interview when the tailor's boy arrived, bringing with him the fantastic garments hopkins had ordered, and almost simultaneously there came a second letter from barncastle of burningford, which set many of the exile's fears at rest, and gave toppleton good reason to believe that for the first part of his plan all was plain sailing. barncastle's note was very short, but it was a welcome one, for it acknowledged the receipt of toppleton's "characteristically american acceptance to dine," and closed with an expression of barncastle's hope that hopkins would become one of his guests for the christmas holidays at the hall. "see, there!" said hopkins, triumphantly. "that is the way my plans work." "you are a napoleon!" ejaculated the exile. "not quite," returned hopkins, drily. "i won't have any waterloo in mine; but say, edward, let's try on our uncle sam's." "let's!" echoed the exile. "i am anxious to see how we look." "there!" said toppleton, ten minutes later, as he grasped the green cotton umbrella, and arrayed in the blue dress coat and red tie and other peculiar features of the costume he had adopted, stood awaiting the verdict of the exile. "you look it, toppleton; but i think there is one thing missing. where is your chin whisker?" "by jove!" ejaculated hopkins, with a gesture of impatience. "how could i forget that? and it's too late now, for if there is one thing a yankee can't do, chatford, it is to force a goatee inside of forty-eight hours. i'll have to cook up some explanation for that--lost it in an indian fight in fairmount park, philadelphia, or some equally plausible theory, eh?" "i think that might work," said the exile, in an acquiescent mood since the receipt of barncastle's second note. "i thought you would," returned hopkins. "the little detail that there aren't any indians in fairmount park, philadelphia, doesn't affect the result, of course. but tell me, chatford, how do i look?" "like the very devil!" answered the exile with enthusiasm. "good," said toppleton. "if i look like him i've got barncastle down, for if the devil is not his twin brother, he is his master. in either event i shall be a _persona grata_ at the court of barncastle of burningford." chapter xiii. at barncastle hall. toppleton's surmises as to barncastle's method of receiving him appeared to be correct, for upon his arrival, green umbrella and carpet bag in hand, at the fenwick merton station he was met by no less a person than his host himself, who recognized him at once. "i knew it was you," said barncastle, as he held out his hand to grasp toppleton's. "i knew it was you as soon as i saw you. your carpet bag, and the fact that you are the only person on the train who travelled first class, were the infallible signs which guided me." "and i knew you, barncastle, the minute i saw you," said hopkins, returning the compliment, "because you looked less like a lord than any man on the platform. how goes it, anyhow?" the englishman's countenance wore a puzzled expression as toppleton put the question. "how goes it?" he repeated slowly. "how goes what? the train?" "oh, no," laughed hopkins. "how goes it is rocky mountain for how's things, all your family well, and your creditors easy?" "ah! i see," said barncastle with a smile. "all is well with us, thank you. my daughter is awaiting your coming with very great interest; and as for my creditors, my dear sir, i am really uncertain as to whether i have any. my steward can tell you better than i how they feel." "it's a great custom, ain't it?" said hopkins with enthusiasm, "that of being dunned by proxy, eh? i wish we could work it out my way. if you don't ante up right off out in the mountains, your grocer comes around and collects at the point of his gun, and if you pay him in promises, he gives you back your change in lead." "fancy!" said barncastle. "how unpleasant it must be for the poor." "poor!" laughed toppleton; "there's none of them in the rockies. you don't get a chance to get poor in a country where boys throw nuggets at birds, and cats are removed from back-yard fences with silver boot-jacks. ever been in the rockies, barncastle?" "no," returned the lord, "i have not, but if all you say is true, i should like to visit that section very much." "true, barncastle?" said toppleton, bristling up. "why, my dear lord, that if of yours would have dug your grave out near pike's peak." "i meant no offence, my dear fellow," returned barncastle, apologetically. "no need to tell me that," said toppleton, affably. "the fact that you still survive shows i knew it. what time is dinner? i'm ravenous." "eight o'clock," replied lord barncastle, looking at his watch. "it is now only three." "phew!" ejaculated toppleton. "five hours to wait!" "i thought we might take a little drive around the country until six, and then we could return to the hall and make ready for dinner," said barncastle. "that suits me," returned toppleton. "but i wish you'd send that gentleman with the mutton-chop whiskers that drives your waggon to the lunch counter and get me a snack before we start." "no," said barncastle, ushering toppleton into his dog-cart. "we'll do better than that. we'll give up the drive until later. i take you directly to the hall, and send a cold bird and a glass of wine to your apartment." "good!" ejaculated toppleton, with a smack of the lips. "you must live pretty near as fine here as we do in our big hotels at home. they're the only other places i know where you can get your appetite satisfied at five minutes' notice." toppleton and his host then entered the carriage, and in a short time they reached the hall--a magnificently substantial structure, with ivy-clad towers, great gables, large arched windows looking out upon seductive vistas, and an air of comfortable antiquity about it that moved hopkins' tongue to an utterance somewhat at variance with his assumed character. "how beautiful and quiet it all is," he said, gazing about him in undisguised admiration. "a home like this, my lord, ought to make a poet of a man. the very air is an inspiration." barncastle shrugged his shoulders and laughed; and had toppleton not been looking in rapt silence out through the large bowed window at the end of the hall they had entered, along an avenue of substantial oak trees to the silver waters of the barbundle at its other end, he might have seen a strange greenish light come into the eyes of his host, which would have worried him not a little. he did not see it, however, and in a moment he remembered his mission and the means he had adopted to bring it to a successful issue. "it beats the deck!" he ejaculated, with a nervous glance at barncastle, fearful lest his enthusiasm had led him to betray himself. "i find it a pleasant home," said barncastle, quietly, ushering him into a spacious and extremely comfortable room which toppleton perceived in a moment was the library, at the other end of which was a large open fireplace, large enough to accommodate a small family, within whose capacious depths three or four huge logs were blazing fiercely. before the fire sat a stately young woman, about twenty-five years of age, who rose as the lord of burningford and his guest entered. as she approached toppleton would have given all he possessed to be rid of the abominable costume he had on; and when the young heiress of burningford's eye rested upon the fearfully green cotton umbrella, he felt as if nothing would so have pleased his soul as the casting of that adjunct to an alleged americanism into the fire; for lady alice was, if he could judge from appearances, a woman for whose good opinion any man might be willing to sacrifice immortality itself. but circumstances would not permit him to falter, and, despite the fact that it hurt his self-respect to do it, hopkins remained true to the object he had in view. "alice, this is mr. toppleton. my daughter, lady alice chatford, mr. toppleton," said barncastle. "howdy," said hopkins, making an awkward bow to lady alice. "she don't need her title to show she's a lady," he added, turning to barncastle, who seemingly acquiesced in all that he said. "my friend toppleton, my dear," said barncastle, "has paid me the compliment of travelling all the way from his home in the rocky mountains in the united states to see me. he is the author of that wonderful sonnet i showed you the other night." "yes, i remember," said lady alice, with a gracious smile, which won toppleton's heart completely, "it was delightful. lord barncastle and i are great admirers of your genius, mr. toppleton, and we sincerely hope that we shall be able to make your stay with us here as pleasant for you as it is for us." again hopkins would have disappeared through the floor had he been able to act upon the promptings of his own good taste. it made him feel unutterably small to think that he had come here, under the guise of an uncultivated, boorish clod with poetical tendencies, to work the overthrow of the genius of the house. "thank you," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "i had not expected so cordial a reception. in fact," he added, remembering his true position, "i had a bet of ten to one with a friend of mine who is doing the lakes this afternoon that i'd get frozen stiff by a glance of your ladyship's eye. i'm mighty glad i've lost the bet." "he has some courtliness beneath his unpolished exterior," said lady alice later, when recounting the first interview between them to some of her friends. "i quite forgave his boorishness when he said he was glad to lose his wager." "now, mr. toppleton," said his host, "if you care to go to your apartment i will see that you get what you want. just leave your umbrella in the coat room, and let parker take your bag up to your room." "thanks, barncastle, old fellow," said the rocky mountain poet, "i'll go to my room gladly; but as for leaving that umbrella out of my sight, or transferring the handle of that carpet bag to any other hand than my own, i can't do it. they're my treasures, my lady," he added, turning to lady alice. "that bag and i have been inseparable companions for eight consecutive years, and as for the umbrella we haven't been parted for five. it's my protector and friend, and since it saved my life in a shooting scrape at the papyrus club dinner in denver, i haven't wanted to let it get away from me." "how odd he is," said lady alice a moment later to her father, toppleton having gone to his room. "are you sure he is not an impostor?" "no, i'm not," returned barncastle with a strange smile; "but i know he is not a thief. i fancy he is amusing, and i believe he will be a valuable acquisition to my circle of acquaintances. have you heard from the duchess of bangletop?" "yes, she will be here. i told her you had a real american this time--not an imitation englishman--a poet, and, as far as we could judge, a character who would surely become a worthy addition to her collection of oddities; a match, in fact, for her german worshipper of napoleon and that other strange freak of nature she had at her last reception, the young illinois widow who whistled the score of parsifal." "the duchess must have been pleased," said barncastle with a laugh. "this toppleton will prove a perfect godsend to her, for she has absolutely nothing that is _bizarre_ for her next reception." toppleton, upstairs in a magnificently appointed chamber, from the windows of which were to be seen the most superb distances that he had ever imagined, was a prey alternately to misery and to joy. he felicitated himself upon the apparent success of his plan, while bemoaning his unhappy lot in having to keep his true self under in a society he felt himself capable of adorning, and to enter which he had always aspired. "it's too late to back out now, though," he said. "if i were to strike my colours at this stage of the battle, i should deserve to be put in a cask and thrown into the barbundle yonder. when i look about me and see all these magnificent acres, when i observe the sumptuous furnishing of this superb mansion, when i see unequalled treasures of art scattered in profusion about this castle, and then think of that poor devil of a chatford roaming about the world without a piece of bric-a-brac to his name, or an acre, or a house, or bed, or chair, or table, of any kind, without even a body, it makes me mad. here his body, the inferior part of man, the purely mortal section of his being, is living in affluence, while his immortal soul is a very tramp, an outcast, a wanderer on the face of the earth. barncastle, barncastle, you are indeed a villain of the deepest--" here toppleton paused, and looked apprehensively about him. he seemed to be conscious of an eye resting upon him. a chill seized upon his heart, and his breath came short and quick as it had done but once before when his invisible client first betrayed his presence in no. . "i wonder if this is one of those beastly castles with secret doors in the wainscot and peep-holes in the pictures," he said nervously to himself. "it would be just like barncastle to have that sort of a house, and of course nothing would please him better than to try a haunted chamber on me. the conjunction of a ghost and a rocky mountain poet would be great, but after my experience with chatford, i don't believe there is a ghost in all creation that could frighten me. nevertheless, i don't like being gazed at by an unseen eye. i'll have to investigate." then toppleton investigated. he mounted chairs and tables to gaze into the stolid, unresponsive oil-painted faces of somebody's ancestry, he knew not whose. not barncastle's, he was sure, for barncastle was an upstart. nothing wrong could be found there. the eyes were absolutely proof against peeping toms. then he rolled the heavy bureau and several antique chests away from the massive oak wainscoting that ran about the room, eight feet in height and superbly carved. he tapped every panel with his knuckles, and found them all solid as a rock. "no secret door in that," he said; and then for a second time he experienced that nervous sensation which comes to him who feels that he is watched, and as the sensation grew more and more intense and terrifying, an idea flashed across toppleton's mind which heightened his anxiety. "by jove!" he said; "i wonder if i am going mad. can it be that chatford is an illusion, a fanciful creation of a weak mind? am i become a prey to hallucinations, and if so, am i not in grave danger of my personal liberty here if barncastle should discover my weakness?" it was rather strange, indeed, that this had not occurred to hopkins before. it was the natural explanation of his curious experience, and the sudden thought that he had foolishly lent himself to the impulses of a phantasm, and was carrying on a campaign of destruction against one of the world's most illustrious men, based solely upon a figment of a diseased imagination, was prostrating. he staggered to the side of a large tapestried easy-chair, and limp with fear, toppled over its broad arm into its capacious depths an almost nerveless mass of flesh and bones. he would have given worlds to be back in the land of the midnight sun, in new york, in london, anywhere but here in the house of barncastle of burningford, and he resolved then and there that he would return to london the first thing in the morning, place himself in the hands of a competent physician, and trifle with the creations of his fancy no more. a prey to these disquieting reflections, toppleton lay in the chair for at least an hour. the last rays of a setting sun trembled through the leaves of the tree that shaded the western side of the room, and darkness fell over all; and with the darkness there came into toppleton's life an experience that scattered his fears of a moment since to the winds, and so tried and exercised his courage, that that fast fading quality gained a renewed strength for the fearful battle with a supernatural foe, in which he had, out of his goodness of heart, undertaken to engage. a clock in the hall outside began to strike the hour of six in deep measured tones, that to toppleton in his agitated state of mind was uncomfortably suggestive of the bell in coleridge's line that "knells us back to a world of death." at the last stroke of the hammer the tone seemed to become discordant, and in a frenzy of nervous despair toppleton opened his eyes and sprang to his feet. as he did so, his whole being became palpitant with terror, for staring at him out of the darkness he perceived a small orb-like something whose hue was that of an emerald in combustion. he clapped his hands over his eyes for a moment, but that phosphorescent gleam penetrated them, and then he perceived that it was not an eye that rested upon him, but a ray of light shining through a small hole that had escaped his searching glance in the wainscoting. the relief of this discovery was so great that it gave him courage to investigate, and stepping lightly across the room, noiseless as a particle of dust, he climbed upon a chair and peeped through the aperture, though it nearly blinded him to do so. to shade his eyes from the blinding light, he again covered them with his hand, and again observed that its intensity was sufficient to pierce through the obstruction and dazzle his vision. the hand so softened the light, however, that he could see what there was on the other side of the wall, though it was far from being a pretty sight that met his gaze. what he saw was a small oblong room in which there was no window, and, at first glance, no means of entrance or exit. it was high-ceiled like the room in which he stood, and, with the exception of a narrow couch covered with a black velvet robe, with a small pillow of the same material at the far end, the room was bare of furniture. there was no fire, no fixture of any kind, lamp or otherwise, from which illumination could come, and yet the room was brilliant with that same green light that chatford had described to hopkins at his office in the temple. so dazzling was it, that for a moment hopkins had difficulty in ascertaining just what there was in the apartment, but as he looked he became conscious of forms which grew more and more distinct as his eye accustomed itself to the light. on the couch in a moment appeared, rigid as in death, the body of barncastle; the eyes lustreless and staring, the hands characterless and bluish even in the green light, the cheeks sunken and the massive forehead white and cold as marble. the sight chilled toppleton to the marrow, and he averted his eyes from the horrible spectacle only to see one even more dreadful, for on the other side of the apartment, grinning fiendishly, the source of the wonderful light that flooded the room, he now perceived the fiend, making ready to assume once more the habiliments of mortality. he was stirring a potion, and, as hopkins watched him, he began to whistle a combination of discords that went through toppleton's ears like a knife. the watcher became sick at heart. this was the frightful thing he had to cope with! so frightful was it that he tried to remove his eye from the peep-hole, and seek again the easy chair, when to his horror he found that he could not move. if his eye had in reality been glued to the aperture, he would not have found it more firmly fixed than it was at present. as he struggled to get away from the vision that was every moment being burned more and more indelibly into his mind, the fiend's fearful mirth increased, at the close of one of the paroxysms of which he lifted the cup in which the potion had been mixed to his lips, and quaffed its contents to the very dregs. as the last drop trickled down the fiend's throat, hopkins was startled further to see the light growing dim, and then he noticed that the fiend was rapidly decreasing in size, shrinking slowly from a huge spectral presence into a hardly visible ball of green fire which rolled across the apartment to where the body lay; up the side of the couch to the pillow; along the pillow to that marble white forehead, where it paused. a tremor passed through the human frame lying prostrate there, and in a moment all was dark as night. the ball of fire had disappeared through the forehead, and a deep groan told toppleton that the body of barncastle was once more a living thing having the semblance of humanity. a moment later another light appeared in the apartment into which toppleton still found himself compelled to gaze. this time the light was more natural, for it was the soft genial light of a lamp shining through a sliding panel at the other end of the room, through which the lord of burningford passed. it lasted but a moment, for as the defendant in this fearful case of chatford _v._ burningford passed into the room beyond, the slide flew back and all was black once more. with the departure of barncastle, toppleton was able to withdraw from his uncomfortable position, and in less than a moment lay gasping in his chair. "it is too real!" he moaned to himself. "chatford did not deceive me. i am not the victim of hallucination. alas! i wish i were." a knock at the door put an end to his soliloquizing, and he was relieved to hear it. here was something earthly at last. he flew from his chair across the room through the darkness to the door and threw it wide open. "come in," he cried, and barncastle himself, still pale from the effects of the ordeal he had passed through, entered the room. "i have come to see if there is anything i can do for you," he said pleasantly, touching an electric button which dissipated the darkness of the room by lighting a hundred lamps. "the duchess of bangletop has arrived and is anxious to meet you; but you look worn, toppleton. you are not ill, i hope?" "no," stammered toppleton, slightly overcome by barncastle's coolness and affability, "but i--i've been taking a nap and i've had the--the most horrible dream i ever had." "which was?" "that i--ah--why, that i was writing an obituary poem on--" "me?" queried barncastle, calmly. "no," said toppleton. "on myself." chapter xiv. the dinner and its result. a half-hour later toppleton entered the drawing room of barncastle hall, umbrella in one hand, carpet-bag in the other; his red necktie arranged grotesquely about his neck, the picture of americanism "as she is drawn" by british cartoonists. any other than a well-bred english gathering would have received him with hilarious enthusiasm, and hopkins was rather staggered as he passed through the doorway to note the evident interest, and yet utter lack of surprise, which his appearance inspired in those who had been bidden to the feast to meet him. he perceived at once that he no more than fulfilled the expectations of these highly cultivated people, and it was with difficulty that he repressed the mirth which was madly endeavouring to take possession of his whole system. the only portions of his make-up that attracted special attention--if he could judge from a whispered comment or two that reached his ears, and the glances directed toward them by the duchess of bangletop and the daughters of the earl of whiskerberry--were the carpet-bag and the umbrella. the blue dress coat and tight-fitting trousers were taken as a matter of course. the red necktie and diamond stud were assumed to be the proper thing in rocky mountain society, but the bag and umbrella seemed to strike the english mind as a case of ossa piled upon pelion. "good evening, ladies," said hopkins with a bow which was graceful in spite of his efforts to make it awkward. "i hope i haven't increased anybody's appetite uncomfortably by being late. this watch of mine is set to rocky mountain time, and it's a little unreliable in this climate." "he's just the dear delightful creature i have been looking for for years and years," said the duchess of bangletop to lady maude whiskerberry. "so very american," said lady cholmondely persimmon, of persimmon towers--a well-preserved young noblewoman of eighteen or twenty social seasons. "duchess," said barncastle, coming forward, "permit me to present to you my friend hopkins parkerberry toppleton, the poet laureate of the rocky mountains." "howdy do, duchess," said toppleton, dropping his carpet-bag, and extending his hand to grasp that of the duchess. "so pleased," said the duchess with a smile and an attempt at hauteur, which was hardly successful. "glad you're pleased," said toppleton, "because that means we're both pleased." "lady maude whiskerberry, mr. toppleton. lady persimmon, mr. toppleton," said barncastle, resuming the introductions after toppleton had picked up the carpet-bag again and announced his readiness to meet the other ladies. in a very short time toppleton had been made acquainted with all in the room, and inasmuch as he seemed so taken with the duchess of bangletop, lady alice, who was a young woman of infinite tact, and not too rigidly bound by conventionality, relinquished her claim to the guest of the evening, and when dinner was announced, permitted toppleton to escort the duchess into the dining-room. "don't you think, my dear mr. toppleton," said the duchess as the american offered her his arm, "don't you think you might--ah--leave your luggage here? it's rather awkward to carry an umbrella, a carpet-bag, and a duchess into dinner all at once." "nothing is too awkward for an american, duchess," said toppleton. "besides," he added in a stage whisper, "i don't dare leave these things out of my sight. barncastle's butler looks all right, but i've lived in a country where confidence in your fellow-men is a heaven-born gift. i wasn't born with it, and there hasn't any of it been sent down since." "aren't you droll!" said the duchess. "if you say it i'll bet on it," said toppleton, gallantly, as they entered the beautiful dining-room and took their allotted chairs, when hopkins perceived, much to his delight, that barncastle was almost the length of the table distant; that on one side of him was lady alice, and on the other the duchess of bangletop. "these two women are both an inspiration in their way," he said to himself. "lady alice, even if she loves that monster of a father of hers, ought to be rescued from him. she will inspire me with courage, and this portly duchess will help me to be outrageous enough in my deportment to satisfy the thirst of the most rabidly uninformed englishman at the board for american unconventionality." "have you been in this country long?" asked the duchess, as toppleton slid his umbrella and carpet-bag under his chair, and prepared to sit down. "yes, quite a time," said toppleton. "ten days." "indeed. as long as that?" said the duchess. "you must have seen a great deal of england in that time." "yes, i have," said hopkins. "i went out to see shakespeare's house and his grave and all that. that's enough to last a lifetime; but it seems to me, lord barncastle, you don't give shakespeare the mausoleum he ought to have. out in the rockies we'd have had a pile set up over him so high that you could sit on top of it and talk with st. peter without lifting your voice." "you are an admirer of shakespeare, then, mr. toppleton?" said barncastle with a look of undisguised admiration at hopkins. "am i? me? well, i just guess i am," replied toppleton. "if it hadn't been for william shakespeare of stratford-on-avon, you'd never have heard of hopkins p. toppleton, of blue-bird gulch." "how poetic! blue-bird gulch," simpered lady persimmon. "he was your inspiration, mr. toppleton?" suggested lady alice with a gracious smile. "that's what he was," said toppleton. "i might say he's my library. there's three volumes in my library all told. one's a fine thick book containing the total works of the bard of avon; another is a complete concordance of the works of the same author; and the third is the complete works of hopkins parkerberry toppleton, consisting of eighty-three poems, a table of contents, and a portrait in three colours of the author. i'd be glad to give you all a copy, ladies, but it's circulated by subscription only." "i should so like to see the book," said lady maude whiskerberry. "i'd be mighty proud to show it to you," said toppleton, "and if you and your father here, the earl, ever pass my way out there in the rockies, just look me up and you shall see it. but shakespeare was my guiding genius, duchess. when i began to get those tired feelings that show a man he's either a poet or a victim to malaria, i began to look about and see who i'd better take as a model. i dawdled around for a year, reading some of milton's things, but they didn't take me under the eighth rib, which with me is the rib of appreciation, so i bought a book called 'household poetry,' and i made up my mind that shakespeare, taking him altogether, was my poet. he was a little old-fangled in some things, but in the main he seemed to strike home, and i sent word to our bookseller to get me everything he wrote, and to count on me to take anything new of his that happened to be coming out." "not a costly matter that!" said the earl of whiskerberry with the suggestion of a sneer. he did not quite approve of this original. "no, my dear earl," replied toppleton. "for you know shakespeare is dead--though i didn't know it at the time, either. but i got the book, and i tell you it made a new man of me. 'here' i said, 'is my model. i'll be like him, and if i succeed, h. p. t.'s name will be known for miles around.' and it was so. it was not a year before i had a poem of lines printed in our county paper, and there wasn't a word in it that wasn't shakespearean. i took good care of that, for when i had the poem written, i bought the concordance, and when i found that i had used a word that was not in the concordance, i took it out and used another that was." "that's a very original idea, and, i think, a good one," said lady alice. "you are absolutely sure of your english if you do that; but wasn't it laborious, mr. toppleton?" "it was at first, miss, but as i went along, and began to use words over again it got easier and easier, and for the last fifteen pages of the poem i hardly had to look up on an average more than six words to a page." "but poetry," put in barncastle, half closing his eyes and gazing steadfastly at hopkins as he did so, "poetry is more than verbiage. did you become a student of nature?" as barncastle spoke, toppleton's nerve weakened slightly, for it was the very question he had desired to have asked. it brought him to the point where his winning stroke was possible, and to feel that he was on the verge of the struggle was somewhat disquieting. his uneasiness was short-lived, for in a moment when he realized how eminently successful had been his every step so far, how everything had transpired even as he had foreseen it would, he gained confidence in himself and in his course. "i did, barncastle; particularly a student of human nature. i studied man. i endeavoured to learn what quality in man it was that made him great and what quality made him weak. i became an expert in a great many osophies and ologies that had never been heard of in the rocky mountains before," answered toppleton, forgetting his assumed character under the excitement of the moment and speaking, flushed of face, with more vehemence than the occasion seemed to warrant. "and i venture to assert, sir, that there is no physiognomy in all creation that i cannot read, save possibly yours which baffles me. i read much in your face that i would rather not see there." barncastle flushed. the ladies toyed nervously with their fans. lady alice appeared slightly perturbed, and hopkins grew pale. the duchess of bangletop alone was unmoved. toppleton's heat was hardly what was expected on an occasion of this sort, but the duchess had made up her mind not to marvel at anything the guest of the evening might do, and she regarded his vehemence as quite pardonable inasmuch as it must be characteristic of an unadulterated americanism. "fancy!" she said. "do you mean to say, mr. toppleton, that you can tell by a face what sort of a life one has led; what his or her character has been, is, and is to be?" "i do, duchess," returned toppleton. "though for your comfort as well as for that of others at this table, let me add that i invariably keep what i see religiously to myself." the humour of this rejoinder and the laughter which followed it cleared the atmosphere somewhat, but from the gravity of his host and the tense way in which barncastle's eye was fastened upon him, hopkins knew that his shaft as to the baffling qualities of barncastle's face had struck home. "you interest me," said the earl, when the mirth of his guests had subsided. "i too have studied physiognomy, but i never observed that there was anything baffling about my own. i am really quite interested to know why you find it so." "because," said toppleton nervously yet firmly, "because your face is not consistent with your record. because you have achieved more than one could possibly read in or predict from your face." "i always said that myself, barncastle," said the duchess airily. "i've always said you didn't look like a great man." "while acknowledging, duchess, that i nevertheless am?" queried barncastle with a smile. "well, moderately so, barncastle, moderately so. fact is," said the duchess, "you can stir a multitude with your eloquence; you can write a novel that so will absorb a school-girl that she can't take her eyes from its early pages to look into the back of the book and see how it is all going to turn out; you can talk a hostile parliament into doing violence to its secret convictions; but in some respects you are wanting. you are an atrocious horse-back rider, you never take a run with the hounds, and i must say i have seen times when you seemed to me to be literally too big for yourself." "by jove!" thought toppleton. "what a clever fellow i am! if this duchess is so competent a reader of character as her estimate of barncastle shows her to be, it's a marvel she hasn't found me out." barncastle laughed with a seeming heartiness at the duchess's remark, though to toppleton, who was now watching him closely, he paled slightly. "one of us is more than he expected, and two of us simply shock him," said hopkins to himself. "of course, mr. toppleton," said barncastle, "in view of my perfect willingness to have you do so, you can have no hesitation in telling me what you read in my face. eh?" "i have not," said toppleton, gulping down a glass of wine to gain a little time as well as to stimulate his nerves. he had not expected to be so boldly met by his host. "i have not; but truly, my dear barncastle, i'd rather not, for it's a mighty poor verdict that the lines of your face return for you, and inasmuch as that verdict is utterly opposed to your record, it seems hardly worth--" "oh, do tell it us, mr. toppleton," put in lady alice. "it will be the more interesting coming from one who has so admired my father that he has travelled thousands of miles to see him. do go on." hopkins blushed, hesitated a minute and then began. "very well," he said, "let it be as you say. my lord," he added, looking barncastle straight in the eye, "if i were to judge you by the lines of your face, i should say that your character was essentially a weak one. that you possessed no single attribute of greatness. that your whole life was given over to an almost criminal tendency to avoid responsibility; to be found wanting at crises; to a desire, almost a genius i might say, for meeting your troubles in a half-hearted, compromising spirit which should have resulted in placing you in the ranks of the mediocre. the lines of your head are singularly slight for one of your years. there is hardly a furrow on your brow; on the contrary your flesh is so tightly drawn over your skull, that it would seem to suggest the presence in that skull of a brain too far developed for its prison; in other words your brain is as badly accommodated by your skull, i should judge, as a man of majestic proportions would be in the best sunday suit of a little lord fauntleroy." "you are giving me a fine idea of my personal appearance, my dear toppleton," said lord barncastle, pouring a tablespoonful of wine into a small glass into which, if his guests had been watching his hands closely, they might have seen him place a small white powder. "the strange part of it is that it is true, barncastle," said the duchess. "i've thought pretty much the same thing many a time." "anything more, toppleton?" queried barncastle. "yes, one thing, my lord," said hopkins, nerving himself up to the final stroke. "the eyes, one of our american poets has said, are the windows of the soul. now if i were to look into your eyes at your soul, i'd say to myself, 'hopkins, my boy, there's an old man living in a new house,' for i'll take my oath that _i_ see the soul of a centenarian, lord barncastle, in the body of a man of sixty every time i look into your eyes." toppleton's bold words had hardly passed his lips when lady alice, who was becoming very uncomfortable because of the personal trend of the conversation, rose from her chair and gave the signal for the ladies to depart into the drawing-room, leaving barncastle and his guests over their coffee and cigars. "what an extraordinary gift that is of yours!" the earl of whiskerberry said to toppleton as barncastle walked with the duchess as far as the drawing-room door. "d'ye know, my deah sir, it's truly appalling to think you can do it, you know, because there's so much that--" the earl's sentence was never finished, for a heavy fall interrupted him at this point, and toppleton, turning to see whence it came, was horrified and yet not altogether displeased to see prostrate on the rug, white and lifeless as it had been in the room on the other side of the wainscoting upstairs two hours before, the body of barncastle of burningford. "frightened him out at the very first shot!" said toppleton gleefully to himself. "he is easier game than i thought." "i believe the man is dead!" said the earl, anxiously putting his hand over barncastle's heart, and standing appalled to find that it had stopped beating. "no," said toppleton, with an effort at calmness, "this is a case of trance only--suspended animation. he will revive in a very short time, i fancy. this sort of thing is common among men of his peculiar character; i've seen it happen dozens of times. have him carried to his room; tell lady alice that at my request he has started out to show me the barbundle in the moonlight--in fact, say anything about me you please, only get up a plausible pretext for barncastle's absence. i do not think his daughter knows he has these attacks, and there is no reason why she should know, because they are not dangerous." with this the earl repaired to the drawing-room, where he made the excuses for hopkins and lord barncastle. toppleton and the butler carried the prostrate barncastle up to his room, and then the american, utterly worn out with excitement, entered his own apartments to await developments. chapter xv. barncastle confides in hopkins. toppleton had not long to wait. his nerves had hardly resumed their normal condition when he heard a tottering step in the hall outside, followed by a soft tapping at the door. "who's there?" he cried. "it is i, toppleton--barncastle. let me in and be quick. i have something very important to say to you." hopkins ran to the door and opened it, and barncastle entered, his face pale and his general aspect that of a man who had passed through a terrible ordeal. "by jove! i've landed my man!" said toppleton to himself. then he added aloud, "my dear barncastle, you don't know what a turn you gave me downstairs. i sincerely hope you are not ill?" "i am ill, toppleton; ill almost unto death, and it is you who have made me so." "i?" cried hopkins, with well-feigned surprise. "i don't quite catch your drift." "your accursed faculty for reading character in the face, and searching out the soul of man in the depths of his eyes has made you the only man i have ever feared. we must come to some understanding in this matter. i want to know what your object is in coming here to expose me before my friends, to lay bare--" "object? what is my object?" returned hopkins, with capital dissemblance. "why, my dear fellow, what object could i have? i read your face and searched your eyes for indications of your character at your own request, and with your permission made known what i saw there--for it is there, barncastle, plain as any material object in this room." "it is dreadful! dreadful!" said barncastle, covering his eyes with his hands and quivering with emotion and fear. "i had no idea your power was so great. do you suppose for an instant that had i known how unerringly accurate you are as a reader of mind and face, that i would ever have asked you to lay bare to those people--" "dear me, barncastle," said toppleton, rising and putting his hand on the other's shoulder in a caressing manner, "really you ought to lie down and rest. this thing will all pass off with a night's sleep. you--you don't seem to be quite yourself to-night. you mustn't mind what i have said." "you do not know, toppleton, you do not know. you have done that to-night which has shown me that a dreadful secret which i have carried locked in my breast for thirty years, is as easily to be wrested from me by you as my jewels by a house-breaker." "but, my dear fellow," said toppleton, his spirit growing with pride at his success in bringing down his game with so little effort, "i--i understand that this is only one of the exceptions to the rules which govern the mind-reader's art. i do not really believe, of course, that what i seem to see beneath the surface is actually there. i--" "do not try to deceive me, mr. toppleton," sobbed barncastle. "i, too, am something of a reader of character, as i told you, and i know exactly what you believe and what you do not believe. had i been in such a position at dinner as would have permitted me to look as deeply into your eyes as you looked into mine, i should not have asked you to divulge what you saw. in fact, toppleton, as you have probably seen for yourself, i have all along under-estimated your abilities, which do not, i confess, show up as advantageously as they might. you americans are a cleverer people than you appear to be, and you have a faculty of dissemblance that is baffling to us in the older world, who have acquired candour through our conceit. we are so conscious of our superiority and ultimate ability to gain the upper hand in all that we undertake, that we do not consider it necessary to cloak our real feelings. the whole world speaks of the briton's brutal frankness, and speaks justly. we are candid often against our best interests. we are impulsively frank where you americans are diplomatically reserved. it is this trait in my people that makes it difficult for our government to find suitable diplomats to fill the various foreign missions that must be filled, while your government finds it difficult to find missions for all the diplomats who must be provided for. we have to train our ministers and ambassadors in the hard school of experience, as _attachés_ to legations, while you have only to go to your newspaper offices, to your great political organizations, or to your flourishing business concerns to find all the envoys extraordinary you need with a comfortable reserve force standing always ready to step into any shoes that death, advancement, or revulsion of popular sentiment may make vacant. you are a great people; greater far than you seem on the surface, and it is this fact, unheeded by me who should have known better, that deceived me. i judged you from the standpoint of your exterior; i saw that you were a character, but beyond the green umbrella and carpet-bag indications i failed to look, and i thought i might safely venture the act which has come so nearly to my undoing. i see you now as you are. i apologize for underrating your ability, and i say to you frankly, that i rejoice all the more greatly in your proffered friendship since i have come to see that it is an honour not lightly to be worn." "my dear barncastle," ejaculated hopkins, breathless with wonder and pride. "i assure you that your words overwhelm me. your kind heart, i fear, has led you into over-estimating my poor character as much as you claim to have under-estimated it. i am by no means all that--" "ah, toppleton!" said barncastle, "let us not waste words. i know you as you are at last, and you need cloak your real self from me no more. i feared for an instant that you might be my enemy, though why you should be i do not know, and to have you read my secret as though it were printed upon an open page before you, filled my soul with terror. you have found me out, but you do not and you cannot know what has brought me to this unless i tell you, and i must insist that you become acquainted with my story, that you may the better judge of my innocence in the matter. when i have told you this story, i wish to exact from you a promise never to reveal it, for once revealed it would be my ruin." "i do not wish, my dear barncastle," said toppleton, burning with anxiety to hear the other's story, and yet desirous of appearing unconcerned in order that barncastle might throw himself unreservedly in his hands. "i have no desire to pry into another man's secrets, to wrest unwilling confidences from any man. if i have discovered one of your secrets, i have done so unwittingly, and i do not wish you to feel that i am holding you up, to use one of our western expressions, for confidences. keep your secret if it is one you wish to hold inviolate. i shall never tell what i have seen or what you have said to me." "you are a generous, high-minded person, toppleton. a poet at soul and a gentleman as well; but you must hear my story, for it is my justification in your eyes, and that is as necessary to my happiness, now that i know you for the man you are, as justification in the eyes of the world would become were the world to suspect what you have seen. i did not mind any portion of what you said at the table to-night, toppleton, until you delivered yourself of the opinion that the soul of a man of a hundred and more years was dwelling in this body of mine, a body many years younger. mr. toppleton, i do not want you to think me mad. i want you to believe me when i say that what you saw is absolutely a fact. my soul has lived precisely one hundred and twenty-six years, my body sixty-one!" toppleton's expression of surprise as barncastle spoke would have done credit to a tragedian of the highest rank. "excuse me, barncastle," he said, kindly. "i really think you'd better let me send for lady alice and have the family physician summoned. your mind is somewhat affected." "come with me," said barncastle, rising from his chair and leading toppleton out through the door into and along the hallway until they reached his private apartment. "i want you on entering this room to swear never to divulge what you shall see within, for i shall prove the truth of my assertion respecting my soul before you leave it, and, toppleton, the maintenance of my secret is a matter of life and death to me." "of course, my lord, i shall not tell anyone of this interview except for your good. it is truly painful to me, for in spite of your apparent clearness of head i cannot help feeling that the excitement of this evening, together with the responsibilities a man of your position must necessarily assume, have made you feverish and slightly delirious." "i shall dispel all such ideas as that," said barncastle, opening the door and ushering hopkins into his room. "pray be seated," he said, "and do not leave your seat until i request you to." "i hear and obey," quoted toppleton, his mind reverting to the arabian tales, the splendour of his surroundings and the generally uncanny quality of his experience reminding him forcibly of the land of the genii. "i am going to prove to you now," said barncastle, "that what i have said about my soul is true. excuse me for being absent from the room for just five minutes, and also pardon me if i extinguish the light here. darkness is necessary to convince you that what i say is truth; and, above all, toppleton, look to your nerves." barncastle suited his action to his words. he extinguished the light and disappeared. in five minutes, during which time hopkins sat in the inky darkness alone trying to formulate a plan for future action, a panel in the wainscot was moved softly to one side and toppleton found himself face to face with the fiend. for a moment he was numb with fear, but when the green shadow moved toward him and spoke in soft insinuating tones and appeared to fear him quite as much as he feared it, his courage returned. "what the deuce is this?" he cried, springing to his feet. "i am the soul of barncastle. barncastle lies prostrate as in death in the den beyond the wall. i am also the soul of horace calderwood who died forty-five years ago at the age of eighty, whose body lies buried in the yard of monckton chapel, at kennelly manor, kent." "what is the meaning of it--how--how has it come that you--that you are here?" cried hopkins, with well-feigned terror. "what awful power have you that you can leave your body and appear as you do now?" "calm yourself, toppleton. there is no awful power about it," said the fiend. "it is a simple enough matter when you understand it. i am simply an immortal soul with mortal cravings. i love this world. it delights me to live in this sphere, and it is given to the soul to return here if it sees fit. that is what makes heaven heaven. the soul is free to do whatsoever it wills." "but how is it," said toppleton, "that this has never happened before?" "it has happened before. it is happening all the time, only you mortals never find it out. you want instances? the soul of macchiavelli returned to earth and entered the body of a jew; result, beaconsfield. the soul of cæsar returned to earth and entered the body of a puny corsican; result, bonaparte. the soul of horace returned to earth and entered the body of an english boy; therefore, thackeray. the soul of diogenes returned to earth and entered the body of another english boy; result, thomas carlyle. six souls, those of terence, plato, Ã�sculapius, cicero, cæsar, chaucer, combined and, returning to earth, took possession of the body of a wayward child of warwickshire; whence, shakespeare." "and the real souls of these men?" cried hopkins. "became a part of space, and still so remain. how else account for the evolution of genius? did you ever know a genius in his infancy?" "no; i can't say that i ever did," said toppleton. "well, with very rare exceptions geniuses are the stupidest of babies, or, supposing that in youth they give great promise, the valedictorian of his college class ends his life oftener than not without distinction, a third-rate lawyer, perhaps a poor doctor, a prosy clergyman, or as mrs. somebody's husband. the man who is graduated at the foot of his class has oftener won the laurels than he. how is it accounted for? how did keats, son of a stableman, become the sweetest of our sonneteers? in your own country, how did lincoln and grant spring from nothing to greatness? was the germ of greatness discoverable in them in their youth? would the most reckless of prophets have dared assert that the heavy tanner's boy would become the immortal hero of the wilderness, the saviour of the republic, the uncrowned ruler of fifty millions of people even with a thousand years of life to live? i tell you, toppleton, the mystery of this life is more mysterious than you think. there are things happening every minute of the day, every second of the minute, the knowledge of which would drive a mortal mind--that is, a mind which has never put on immortality by passing into the other world--to despair." "but, barncastle," said hopkins, his knees growing weak and his blood running cold, this time in actual terror, "how comes it that i, a mortal, inspire you, an immortal, with fear, as you claim i have done?" "there is a point beyond which an immortal mind cannot with safety indulge in mortal habiliments. have you never observed how men of genius outlive their genius? did bonaparte die at the height of his glory? did grant die at the zenith of his power?" "d'israeli did." "d'israeli embodied macchiavelli, and macchiavelli made no mistakes. i have made a mistake. i have lived too long as barncastle, and every day beyond the day on which i should have left this body has lessened my greatness, my power, until i am become as weak as though i had never put on immortality. it is my craving to be among men, that has been my weakening, if not my ruin. the love of contact with mankind is as strong with me as is the love of drink with others. i cannot give it up." "and the poor soul whose place you took?" said toppleton. "don't speak of him," said the fiend. "i have made his name a great one. i have suffered more than he in my efforts to lift his personality to a plane it would never have reached had he been left to go his own way, to occupy his own person. he is my debtor, toppleton. i have no feelings of regret for him. i went to him in a spirit of fairness and honesty, and offered to make him a famous man. he declined the offer. i assumed the risk of compelling him, and after the first compulsion he was acquiescent but not candid. when horace calderwood died, and i, his soul, for the first time learned that it was possible for a spirit to return to earth and do these things, the idea of depriving a fellow-soul of material existence was repellent to me, and seemed not to be strictly honest. he should enjoy, it seemed to me, something more than the consciousness of his greatness. he should be permitted to taste _in propriâ personâ_ the delights of fame. and i resolved that i would not do as these others before me had done, and drive the real spirit of my,--ah--well, call him my victim if you choose--i resolved that i would not drive the real spirit of my victim out into space, leaving him to sigh and bewail his unhappy estate throughout all eternity. my plan was to go shares. to assume possession only so far as was necessary to insure the winning of the laurel; to let the other return to his corporeal estate in hours of leisure. i should have continued of this mind until to-day had i not had the misfortune to select for my operations an uncandid person, who had no genius, save that for tearing down what i was up-building. it became necessary for me to exile him for ever to save him from himself. he had been made a great man, and had i deserted him he would have become a conspicuous failure; his name would have been disgraced in proportion to the greatness it had had thrust upon it, and the soul of that one would have lived a life of humiliation and misery. what i did was the humane thing. i exiled him from himself, and i have no regrets for having done so." "well, of course," said toppleton, "you know more about it than i do, but it seems to me it's a mighty rough thing to condemn a soul to perpetual existence on this earth deprived of the only means which can put him in a position to enjoy that life. if you are not joking with me, barncastle, and your present appearance is pretty good proof that you are not, it seems to me that you have been guilty of a wrong, although your reasons for believing that you have done right are worthy of consideration. it strikes me that an omniscient, such as you pretended to be, ought not to have been bothered by the lack of candour of a purely finite mind; and, after all, it was but a bit of superb conceit on your part to think that you could do things differently from those who had gone before you." "but my motive, toppleton. credit me with a proper motive," pleaded the fiend. "yes, i do," said hopkins. "but out in the rocky mountains, my lord, we have lynched several thieves who stole to keep their families from starving. their motives were all right, but they were suspended just the same. but let me ask you one question. to what extent do you retain that remarkable omniscient quality? i want to know, for candidly, much as i admire you, barncastle, it rather awes me to think that you can penetrate to the innermost recesses of my brain--" "i can no longer do that," said barncastle. "my power through long confinement to mortal habitations has materially lessened, as i have already told you. do you suppose, my dear sir, that, were it not so, i should be here, at this moment, unbosoming myself to you, and begging you in the name of humanity never to utter one word of what has passed between us? do you think that i, who was once able to destroy a mortal's reason by one glance of my eye, would be so overcome by the words of a mind-reading american poet if i still had the power to subject his will to mine?" "no one would believe me were i to tell him your horrible secret," said hopkins. "indeed, i don't know that i believe it myself. there is, of course plenty of evidence of which i have had ocular demonstration, but this may be all a dream. i may wake up to-morrow and find myself in my hammock in blue-bird gulch." "no, it is no dream," said the fiend. "it is all too real, but you will not expose me, toppleton. there are those who would believe it, some who half suspect me even now would gain re-enforcement in their suspicions. my daughter would be shocked beyond expression and--" "that, my lord," said hopkins "is your convincing argument. lady alice's peace of mind must be held inviolate, and i shall be dumb; but i think you might let the exiled spirit enter once more into bodily life. the allotted days of the body you have wrested from him must be growing few in number. why not atone for the past by admitting him once more?" "there are two reasons, toppleton," said barncastle, fixing his eye with great intensity upon hopkins, who maintained his composure with great difficulty. "in the first place, there are responsibilities which still devolve upon the lord of burningford which he would be utterly unable to assume. you might assume them, for you are a clever man. you have the making of a brilliant man in you, but he has not, and never will have. he is the most pusillanimous soul in the universe, and with him in charge, that body would die in less than six months. in the second place i have lost sight of him of late years, or rather lost consciousness of him, for he has been visible at no time since he departed from his normal condition, and since the day of my marriage, whose happiness he made a mad public endeavour to destroy, i have had no dealings with him. where he is now, i have not the slightest idea." "well, i know!" ejaculated toppleton, forgetting himself and throwing caution to the winds. "you know what? where he is?" returned the fiend, with a look that restored toppleton's senses and showed him that he had made a mistake. "oh, no!" he replied, his face getting red with confusion. "oh, no, not that. you interrupted me. i was going to say that i know--er--i know how difficult your--er--your position is in the matter, and--er--that i hardly knew what to advise." "ah!" returned the fiend, with a smile that to toppleton's eyes betokened relief. "you have taken a load off my mind. do you know, my dear fellow, that for one instant i half believed that you really knew of the original chatford's whereabouts, and that perhaps you were in league with him against me. i see, however, how unfounded the impression was." "how could you suspect me of that?" said toppleton, reproachfully, his heart beating wildly at the narrowness of the escape. "but you don't intend to let him back?" "not if i can help myself, toppleton," said the fiend. "i shall hang on here as long as i can, not only for my own sake and for that of my daughter, but also for the peace of mind of the exiled soul. you will respect my confidence, will you not?" "i shall, barncastle. you may count on me," said toppleton. "good. now i will resume the mortal habitation for which i have so long been a trustee, and we can rejoin the ladies." ten minutes later barncastle and the poet of the rockies entered the drawing-room. "did you enjoy your walk, mr. toppleton?" queried lady alice. "well, i guess!" returned toppleton. "your father has one of the finest estates i have ever seen since i left colorado, and as for your moon, it fairly out-moons any moon i've seen in the rockies in all my life." "it's the same moon that everybody else has," said the duchess of bangletop with a smile. "yes, duchess," returned toppleton, sitting beside her. "but you've furnished it better than we have. that barbundle river gives it a setting beside which the creek in blue-bird gulch is as a plate-glass window to a sea of diamonds." chapter xvi. mr. hopkins toppleton makes a discovery. it is hardly to be wondered at that toppleton did not sleep much that night at barncastle hall. the state of his nerves was not calculated to permit him to sleep even had he been willing to do so. the experiences of the day were not of a nature to give him such confidence in his surroundings as would have enabled him to woo rest with a serene sense of safety. furthermore, it was his desire to push his endeavour through to as immediate a conclusion as was possible, and time was too precious to waste in rest. hence it was that the dawning of another day found him utterly fagged out, awake, and still meditating upon the means most likely to crown his efforts with success. "i am afraid," he said, as he turned the matter over and over in his mind, "i am afraid it's going to be a harder task than i thought. my plan has worked admirably up to a certain point, but there it has ceased to result as i had anticipated. he is frightened, that is certain; but he cannot be frightened into a restitution. he is too selfish to give up chatford's body and take his chances of getting another, and his rather natural distrust of chatford's ability to sustain the greatness of the name of barncastle re-enforces his selfishness. i can't blame him either. i haven't a doubt that chatford's spirit would prove too weak to keep the body going a year at the outside, and yet it is his, and he ought to have it. he ought to--have--" here wearied nature asserted herself, and hopkins' head dropped back on the soft cushion of his couch, and he lost consciousness in a sleep that knew no dreams. the morning hours passed away and still he slept. afternoon gave place to night, and as the moon rose over the barbundle and bathed the beautiful scene as with silver, hopkins opened his eyes again and looked about him. he was annoyed to find that his vision had in some manner become slightly obscured; he seemed to see everything through a faint suggestion of a haze, and an object ten feet distant that he remembered admiring as he lay on his couch the afternoon before, its every detail clear cut and distinct to the eye, was now a confused jumble of lines only, suggestive of nothing in particular, though the moonlight streaming in through the window shone directly upon it. "dear me!" he said, passing his hands over his eyes as if to sweep away the filmy web that interfered with his sight. "i seem to have a slight vertigo, and yet i cannot understand why i should. i hardly drank anything last night, and as for what i ate it was simplicity itself. but i wonder how long i have been asleep; let me see." here he consulted his watch, the great silver timepiece he had brought with him. "humph," he said; "half-past seven. i must have slept nearly thirteen hours; unlucky number that. no wonder i have vertigo." he rose from the couch and walked, or rather tottered, to the window to look out upon the beautifully serene barbundle. "mercy! how weak i am!" he cried, grasping the sill for support. "this trouble seems to have gone to my knees as well. i can hardly stand, and--ow--there is a touch of rheumatism in my right arm! i shall have to ring for parker to bring me a little resolution in the form of a stiff horn of whiskey. these old english homes i'm afraid are a little damp." he touched the bell at the side of the doorway and staggered back to the couch, falling upon it in a heap in sheer weakness, and as he did so he again became conscious of someone gazing at him from the other side of the room, and as he looked, the fiend in his emerald disembodiment took shape and approached him. "ah, barncastle," said toppleton, to whom custom had rendered the fiend's appearance less terrible. "i am glad to see you. i'm afraid i am ill. i have the most unaccountable weakness in my knees. my eyesight seems to have grown dim, and i am conscious of my head which is really a new sensation to me. i wish you'd send your butler up here with some whiskey." "all right, i'll send him," returned the fiend with, or so it seemed to toppleton, a lack of friendly interest in his tone which rather surprised him, for barncastle had hitherto been the quintessence of politeness. "i fancy you'll be better in the morning; and between you and me i'd let whiskey alone. brandy and soda is my drink, and i think it will do you more good in your present state than whiskey." "very well, barncastle," hopkins began. "don't call me barncastle," returned the fiend, impatiently. "your discovery of my secret has made all that intolerable to me, and i intend hereafter to spend as little of my time in that form as is consistent with propriety. i did not realize until you came here how long confinement within anatomical limits had weakened my powers, and to find myself at this period of my existence almost, if not quite, as incompetent to meet the grave crises of life as any mortal, is galling in the extreme. call me anything you please, but drop barncastle." "very well," again replied toppleton. "i will call you my friend greene." "humorous to the last, toppleton," laughed the fiend. "that's a truly american characteristic. i believe you'll jest with your dying breath." "quite likely," said hopkins, lightly. "that is if i ever draw it." "ah! have you discovered an elixir of life, then?" queried the fiend. "not yet," returned hopkins. "but i am sure i cannot see why, with your assistance, i should not do so. if you know all the secrets of the universe, i think you might confide at least one of them to me, and the only one i ask is, what shall i do to live for ever?" "you are an insinuating young man," returned the fiend. "and i must say i like you, toppleton, in spite of your abominable poetry, for now i am going to be candid with you." "so much, then, is gained," said hopkins, cheerfully. "if you like me, give me the recipe of life." "i would, my boy," the fiend replied with a harsh laugh, "i would do it gladly, if i hadn't forgotten it. some day i shall take a day off from these mundane operations of mine, and return to the spirit vale and freshen up my formulæ. then perhaps i can help you. but i have something very important to say to you, and if you will come with me to my own quarters i will say it. this room is too chilly for a spirit with nothing on." toppleton readily acquiesced. his other sensations had been so acute since his awakening, that he did not realize until the fiend spoke of the chill in the atmosphere that he was himself cold to the very marrow of his bones; that his blood seemed hardly to run in his veins, so congealed had it become. he followed the fiend, who led the way from toppleton's room to barncastle's own quarters, where a log fire blazed fiercely on the hearth. there was no other light than that of the fire in the room, and hopkins was glad of it, his eyes were too weary for any illumination save the one which made the darkness in which he now sat even blacker than was natural. "lie down there on my bed, toppleton," said the fiend. "lie down and listen to me." toppleton obeyed, and gladly. "you are a sick man," began the fiend, "though you may not know it. you have no more than an even chance of living beyond this night. if you do live until to-morrow morning i see no reason why you should not continue to do so for many years to come; in fact i confidently anticipate that such will be the case, but you have got to be careful." "if you were not one of the supernatural element, mr. greene," said toppleton, nervously tapping his fingers together, "i should be inclined to laugh at your notions respecting my health. a man of my habits and physique doesn't go to pieces after a single late supper, to be brought up standing at the doors of death uncertain as to whether he will be invited in or requested to move on, all in a single night." "for an acute man you are an obtuse sort of a person," returned the fiend, gravely. "i do not mean that you are in immediate danger of physical collapse, though that will come shortly unless you take care of yourself. it is a worse than physical death that i refer to. you are on the verge of intellectual death, toppleton. you need twenty-four hours of wakefulness to put you in an insane asylum, an incurable, hopelessly mad for the balance of your days. you remarked a moment since that you were conscious of your head. by that you meant that you felt the weight of it, and it is a leaden weight unless my eyes deceive me. i have experienced it, and i know what it means." hopkins' face blanched as the fiend spoke. it was too easy for him to believe all that had been said; and why should it not be so, he asked himself. here was a case of mortal arrayed in combat against a supernatural being, and in the nature of things it was a contest of the intellectuals and not one of the sort in which toppleton's training would have made him an easy victor. in a bout at arms barncastle would have been a prey to toppleton with scarce an effort on the american's part, but mind for mind, the young lawyer was fighting against terrible odds. he had proven to a very considerable extent a winner, and yet his victory was quite as hollow as the victory of a trotting horse who has won only the preliminary heats and still has the final test to undergo; but to win even the trial heat was a great thing, and that his mind should be well-nigh used up was to have been expected. realizing this, and realizing also that it was his defeated adversary who was advising him as to what was necessary to be done for the preservation of his sanity, he was quite overcome. he nearly fainted, in fact he would have done so had not the fiend seeing his condition applied restoratives to his head and feet, and poured between his open lips a concoction which made every drop of blood in his body glow as with health, which imparted strength to his weary limbs, and which seemed to clear his aching head with its magical potence. "you have had a narrow escape, my dear fellow," said the fiend, as hopkins revived. "if i hadn't saved you, you would have stepped over the line." "you--are--very--very kind," murmured hopkins, raising himself on his elbow and then dropping wearily back into the pillows again. "you place me under very deep obli--" "don't speak of that," said the fiend with a smile. "the obligation you have placed me under is still greater. but now, toppleton, you must sleep, or you will be beyond all hope to-morrow." "i will," said toppleton, faintly, and then he closed his eyes and consciousness departed from him. the fiend regarded him for a moment and turned away with a sigh. "if i had had the good fortune to operate on you instead of upon chatford," he said, "well, there'd have been a president of the united states in your family by this time, or, better still, a railway king with an amount of brains equal to the possessions of the best of them. oh, well! he wasn't to be had, and i haven't done badly with chatford." with which reflection the fiend passed from the room, and left toppleton breathing heavily in sleep. when next toppleton opened his eyes consciously to himself, he was lying on a great oak bed with a tapestry canopy over his head. the sun was streaming in through the broad mullioned windows. the world without was white with snow, the tall evergreens down by the now ice-covered barbundle presenting the only vestige of green in sight. "ah!" he sighed, as he looked wearily out of the window. "we shall have a white christmas after all, but," he added, gazing about him, "how the dickens did i ever come to be here, i wonder? in barncastle's own room--oh, yes, i remember. i fell asleep here last night and i suppose he has--hello!--who's that?" the last words were addressed to whomsoever it was that entered the room at the moment, for the door had opened and closed softly. "it is i," came a soft, sweet voice, and before hopkins had time to place it, lady alice entered the room. "good morning!" said toppleton, slightly embarrassed at the unexpected appearance of his hostess. "good morning!" she replied, coming to his side and stroking his forehead lightly. "and i can say with all my heart, after these awful days of suspense, that it is a good morning. you have been very ill." "oh, it was nothing," said hopkins, endeavouring to conceal his surprise at the way things were going. "only a little headache and rackety feeling generally. it will pass off. barncastle was very good to let me have his quarters." lady alice's face took on a troubled look. "how beautiful it is out," said toppleton, turning his eyes toward the snow-clad landscape again. "i was just thinking that we should have a white christmas after all." "why, my dear, christmas is over by two weeks. you have been ill here for three weeks yesterday." "what?" cried toppleton. "i?" "why, certainly," said lady alice. "of course, you didn't know it, but it is so. you haven't had a lucid moment in all that time." a sudden fear clutched at toppleton's heart. "but--but tell me, have i--what do--what have the doctors said--that i had lost my mind, was in danger of a living death; that--" "don't get so excited," returned lady alice, softly, still retaining the look of anxiety on her face. "here, read this. it is a letter from your rocky mountain friend, i think, and i fancy it will amuse you. it has only just come." "my rocky mountain friend!" ejaculated hopkins under his breath. "what devilish complication does this mean, i wonder?" "shall i open it for you?" asked lady alice. "yes," said hopkins mechanically; "i'll be very much obliged to you if you will do so. thank you," he added, staring wildly at the foot of the bed as the young woman opened and handed him the letter. "while you are reading it," said she, "i'll run downstairs a moment, and tell parker to prepare you a little breakfast." "you are very kind," said toppleton, faintly; and then as lady alice went softly from the room he began to read the letter. "' , the temple, london, january nd. my dear barncastle--' why, she must have made a mistake," he said; "this is for barn--by jove! it's in my handwriting, and signed--hopkins--top--ple--ton. what in the name of heav--" here he ceased his soliloquizing and began to read the letter which was as follows:-- "my dear barncastle,--i understood your game from the beginning. it was audacious, but unavailing, as the attack of a finite upon an infinite mind must always be. i led you on to your own undoing if you so regard it. i removed gladly every obstacle from your path, and let you think in your own conceit that you were an easy victor in the fight. by so doing i put your caution asleep, and when your caution slept you became a victim to my ambition just as did chatford, with this exception, that i have left you in a position to enjoy life, while circumstances made it necessary for me to place him in perpetual exile. perhaps when you get this letter and realize what i have done, you will curse me. do not do so. you are not a loser in the premises. you have gained the burningford estates, you have gained the enjoyment of the honours which i have won, at the expense of the difference of strength between the body i have put off and this one of yours which i now occupy. the latter, let me say to you, is a superb specimen, the ideal habitation for a soul like mine. aided by it a still greater future than the one, to be paradoxical, i have left behind me, will be mine, and not mine only, but yours also, since it is under your name that my future greatness is to be achieved. i repeat, do not curse me, for in cursing me you but curse yourself, and when you get over the first sensation of horror at the changes i have wrought in our respective destinies, and can think upon it calmly and dispassionately, you will not find me so much to blame. nor are you to be deprived of any of your years by my act. the infusion of a younger spirit into the corse of barncastle will make it young again, and gradually you will recover the physical ground you now seem to have lost. "i sail for new york on the _city of paris_ to-morrow, and you may rest assured that the name that now flies at the mast-head in the firm of toppleton, morley, bronson, mawson, perkins, harkins, smithers and hicks will no longer be a mere figurehead, a minimum among maxima; it will become once more what it used to be, a tower of strength in the legal profession, and, permit me to say, a tower of such height that beside it the famous structure erected by your illustrious father will become but as an ant hill to the pyramid of cheops. "good-bye, barncastle, for that is now your name. in the years to come we may meet again, and when we do, may it be in friendship, for as barncastle i loved myself, and as toppleton i love you. may you go and do likewise, and above all, give up masquerading as a broncho poet, and get down to the business for which you were fitted by nature, if not by birth: that of a member of the noblest aristocracy in the world; that of a peer of the british realm. "faithfully yours, "hopkins toppleton, _alias_ barncastle, "_né_ calderwood. "p.s.--i have had an interview with the original chatford, and have informed him that it is impossible for him to return to his former corporeal state, because barncastle no longer knows the formula by which the re-entrance can be effected, which is true. he believes it, and has gone off into space with his whistle and his sigh." for a moment toppleton was overcome. this unexpected denouement was almost too much for him, but the indignation that surged up in his breast gave him strength to withstand the shock; and then, singular to relate, he laughed. "to think that i should be born a yankee and at my time of life become a peer surrounded by everything that wealth can procure, and loaded down with every honour that man can devise; oh, nonsense! it's all a joke, and a good one. barncastle saw through my trick, and is paying me back in my own coin." here hopkins laughed till the room echoed with his mirth, and as his laugh died away the door opened and the heiress of burningford entered. "why, father!" she cried, exultantly, "do you feel as well--" at the word "father," hopkins' heart gave a great throb. "my dear," he said in a moment, "i have been ill you say for three weeks, and with no lucid intervals?" "yes." "and my hallucination was what?" "that you were that ridiculous american poet." "bring me the glass, my child," said hopkins, gravely. "i--i'd just like to see my face in the mirror." the glass was brought and hopkins looked into it. the face of barncastle in very truth gazed back at him from its silver depths. "ah!" he said. "i have changed; have i not?" "yes, indeed," said the lady of burningford. "but really i think your illness has done you good, for i do believe you look ten years younger." "it is well," said the new barncastle, with a sigh of resignation. "i have worked too hard. i shall now retire from public life and devote my remaining years to--to the accomplishment of my one great ambition." "and what is that?" asked his daughter. "to becoming a leader in the busy world of leisure, my child," said toppleton, falling back to his pillow once more, and again losing consciousness in sleep. this time fortunately the sleep was that of one who had fought a good fight, had lost, but whose conscience was clear; and to whom, after many days, had been restored a sound mind in a body sound enough to last through many years of unremitting rest. chapter xvii. epilogue. a single year has passed since the episode which brought our last chapter to a close. the new barncastle of burningford is well and happy in the paths of pleasantness and peace, into which he was so unexpectedly and so unwittingly brought. his daughter has become engaged to a promising scion of a neighbouring house of large means and high estate in the social world. hopkins toppleton is in new york, busy at the practice of the law, developing a genius in the profession he had adopted for the convenience of his partners at which they stand amazed; steadily forging his way to the front, his energy, his aggressiveness, and extraordinary fertility of resource dazzling all beholders. as for the weary spirit,--alas for him! he still whistles, wearily, through space, hopeless and forlorn, but at all times a welcome visitor to burningford, whither he personally went, shortly after toppleton's departure for new york, to lay his petition at the feet of barncastle himself. he knows now what has happened to his young counsel, and his regret for himself is tempered by his regret for what he has brought upon him who so nobly undertook to champion his cause, for the quondam toppleton has concealed from his first client the happiness that he feels over the strange metamorphosis in his fortunes, lest, comparing it with his own miserable condition, the exile may become more unhappy than ever. the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page viii, table of contents, " " changed to " " to reflect actual place of chapter xv. page , "depature" changed to "departure" (preparations for departure) page , "irrefragible" changed to "irrefragable" (an absolutely irrefragable) page , "n" changed to "in" (in the face of) page , "stong" changed to "strong" (a strong point) page , "sentitiments" changed to "sentiments" (to be, with sentiments) page , "thousand" changed to "thousands" (has travelled thousands) by john buchan the power-house houghton mifflin company * boston the riverside press cambridge copyright, , by houghton mifflin company all rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or parts thereof in any form printed in the u.s.a. to major-general sir francis lloyd, k.c.b. _my dear general:_ _a recent tale of mine has, i am told, found favour in the dug-outs and billets of the british front, as being sufficiently short and sufficiently exciting for men who have little leisure to read. my friends in that uneasy region have asked for more. so i have printed this story, written in the smooth days before the war, in the hope that it may enable an honest man here and there to forget for an hour the too urgent realities. i have put your name on it, because among the many tastes which we share one is a liking for precipitous yarns._ _j.b._ contents preface by the editor chapter i. beginning of the wild-goose chase ii. i first hear of mr. andrew lumley iii. tells of a midsummer night iv. i follow the trail of the super-butler v. i take a partner vi. the restaurant in antioch street vii. i find sanctuary viii. the power-house ix. return of the wild geese preface by the editor we were at glenaicill--six of us--for the duck-shooting, when leithen told us this story. since five in the morning we had been out on the skerries, and had been blown home by a wind which threatened to root the house and its wind-blown woods from their precarious lodgment on the hill. a vast nondescript meal, luncheon and dinner in one, had occupied us till the last daylight departed, and we settled ourselves in the smoking-room for a sleepy evening of talk and tobacco. conversation, i remember, turned on some of jim's trophies which grinned at us from the firelit walls, and we began to spin hunting yarns. then hoppy bynge, who was killed next year on the bramaputra, told us some queer things about his doings in new guinea, where he tried to climb carstensz, and lived for six months in mud. jim said he couldn't abide mud--anything was better than a country where your boots rotted. (he was to get enough of it last winter in the ypres salient.) you know how one tale begets another, and soon the whole place hummed with odd recollections, for five of us had been a good deal about the world. all except leithen, the man who was afterwards solicitor-general, and, they say, will get to the woolsack in time. i don't suppose he had ever been farther from home than monte carlo, but he liked hearing about the ends of the earth. jim had just finished a fairly steep yarn about his experiences on a boundary commission near lake chad, and leithen got up to find a drink. "lucky devils," he said. "you've had all the fun out of life. i've had my nose to the grindstone ever since i left school." i said something about his having all the honour and glory. "all the same," he went on, "i once played the chief part in a rather exciting business without ever once budging from london. and the joke of it was that the man who went out to look for adventure only saw a bit of the game, and i who sat in my chambers saw it all and pulled the strings. 'they also serve who only stand and wait,' you know." then he told us this story. the version i give is one he afterwards wrote down when he had looked up his diary for some of the details. chapter i beginning of the wild-goose chase it all started one afternoon, early in may, when i came out of the house of commons with tommy deloraine. i had got in by an accident at a by-election, when i was supposed to be fighting a forlorn hope, and as i was just beginning to be busy at the bar i found my hands pretty full. it was before tommy succeeded, in the days when he sat for the family seat in yorkshire, and that afternoon he was in a powerful bad temper. out of doors it was jolly spring weather, there was greenery in parliament square and bits of gay colour, and a light wind was blowing up from the river. inside a dull debate was winding on, and an advertising member had been trying to get up a row with the speaker. the contrast between the frowsy place and the cheerful world outside would have impressed even the soul of a government whip. tommy sniffed the spring breeze like a supercilious stag. "this about finishes me," he groaned. "what a juggins i am to be mouldering here! joggleberry is the celestial limit, what they call in happier lands the pink penultimate. and the frowst on those back benches! was there ever such a moth-eaten old museum?" "it is the mother of parliaments," i observed. "damned monkey-house," said tommy. "i must get off for a bit, or i'll bonnet joggleberry or get up and propose a national monument to guy fawkes, or something silly." i did not see him for a day or two, and then one morning he rang me up and peremptorily summoned me to dine with him. i went, knowing very well what i should find. tommy was off next day to shoot lions on the equator, or something equally unconscientious. he was a bad acquaintance for a placid sedentary soul like me, for though he could work like a trojan when the fit took him, he was never at the same job very long. in the same week he would harass an under secretary about horses for the army, write voluminously to the press about a gun he had invented for potting aeroplanes, give a fancy-dress ball which he forgot to attend, and get into the semi-final of the racquets championship. i waited daily to see him start a new religion. that night, i recollect, he had an odd assortment of guests. a cabinet minister was there, a gentle being for whom tommy professed public scorn and private affection; a sailor; an indian cavalry fellow; chapman, the labour member, whom tommy called chipmunk; myself, and old milson of the treasury. our host was in tremendous form, chaffing everybody, and sending chipmunk into great rolling gusts of merriment. the two lived adjacent in yorkshire, and on platforms abused each other like pickpockets. tommy enlarged on the misfits of civilised life. he maintained that none of us, except perhaps the sailor and the cavalryman, were at our proper job. he would have had wytham--that was the minister--a cardinal of the roman church, and he said that milson should have been the warden of a college full of port and prejudice. me he was kind enough to allocate to some reconstructed imperial general staff, merely because i had a craze for military history. tommy's perception did not go very deep. he told chapman he should have been a lumberman in california. "you'd have made an uncommon good logger, chipmunk, and you know you're a dashed bad politician." when questioned about himself he became reticent, as the newspapers say. "i doubt if i'm much good at any job," he confessed, "except to ginger up my friends. anyhow, i'm getting out of this hole. paired for the rest of the session with a chap who has lockjaw. i'm off to stretch my legs and get back my sense of proportion." some one asked him where he was going, and was told "venezuela, to buy government bonds and look for birds' nests." nobody took tommy seriously, so his guests did not trouble to bid him the kind of farewell a prolonged journey would demand. but when the others had gone, and we were sitting in the little back smoking-room on the first floor, he became solemn. portentously solemn, for he wrinkled up his brows and dropped his jaw in the way he had when he fancied he was in earnest. "i've taken on a queer job, leithen," he said, "and i want you to hear about it. none of my family know, and i would like to leave some one behind me who could get on to my tracks if things got troublesome." i braced myself for some preposterous confidence, for i was experienced in tommy's vagaries. but i own to being surprised when he asked me if i remembered pitt-heron. i remembered pitt-heron very well. he had been at oxford with me, but he was no great friend of mine, though for about two years tommy and he had been inseparable. he had had a prodigious reputation for cleverness with everybody but the college authorities, and used to spend his vacations doing mad things in the alps and the balkans and writing about them in the half-penny press. he was enormously rich--cotton mills and liverpool ground rents--and, being without a father, did pretty much what his fantastic taste dictated. he was rather a hero for a bit after he came down, for he had made some wild journey in the neighbourhood of afghanistan and written an exciting book about it. then he married a pretty cousin of tommy's, who happened to be the only person that ever captured my stony heart, and settled down in london. i did not go to their house, and soon i found that very few of his friends saw much of him, either. his travels and magazine articles suddenly stopped, and i put it down to the common course of successful domesticity. apparently i was wrong. "charles pitt-heron," said tommy, "is blowing up for a most thundering mess." i asked what kind of mess, and tommy said he didn't know. "that's the mischief of it. you remember the wild beggar he used to be, always off on the spree to the mountains of the moon, or somewhere. well, he has been damping down his fires lately and trying to behave like a respectable citizen, but god knows what he has been thinking! i go a good deal to portman square, and all last year he has been getting queerer." questions as to the nature of the queerness only elicited the fact that pitt-heron had taken to science with some enthusiasm. "he has got a laboratory at the back of the house--used to be the billiard-room--where he works away half the night. and lord! the crew you meet there! every kind of heathen--chinese and turks, and long-haired chaps from russia, and fat germans. i've several times blundered into the push. they've all got an odd secretive air about them, and charlie is becoming like them. he won't answer a plain question or look you straight in the face. ethel sees it, too, and she has often talked to me about it." i said i saw no harm in such a hobby. "i do," said tommy grimly. "anyhow, the fellow has bolted." "what on earth----" i began, but was cut short. "bolted without a word to a mortal soul. he told ethel he would be home for luncheon yesterday, and never came. his man knew nothing about him, hadn't packed for him, or anything; but he found he had stuffed some things into a kit-bag and gone out by the back through the mews. ethel was in terrible straits, and sent for me, and i ranged all yesterday afternoon like a wolf on the scent. i found he had drawn a biggish sum in gold from the bank, but i couldn't find any trace of where he had gone. "i was just setting out for scotland yard this morning, when tomlin, the valet, rang me up and said he had found a card in the waistcoat of the dress clothes that charles had worn the night before he left. it had a name on it like konalevsky, and it struck me that they might know something about the business at the russian embassy. well, i went round there, and the long and short of it was that i found there was a fellow of that name among the clerks. i saw him, and he said he had gone to see mr. pitt-heron two days before with a letter from some embassy chap. unfortunately, the man in question had gone off to new york next day, but konalevsky told me one thing which helped to clear up matters. it seemed that the letter had been one of those passports that embassies give to their friends--a higher-powered sort than the ordinary make--and konalevsky gathered from something he had heard that charles was aiming for moscow." tommy paused to let his news sink in. "well, that was good enough for me. i'm off to-morrow to run him to ground." "but why shouldn't a man go to moscow if he wants?" i said feebly. "you don't understand," said the sage tommy. "you don't know old charles as i know him. he's got into a queer set, and there's no knowing what mischief he's up to. he's perfectly capable of starting a revolution in armenia or somewhere merely to see how it feels like to be a revolutionary. that's the damned thing about the artistic temperament. anyhow, he's got to chuck it. i won't have ethel scared to death by his whims. i am going to hale him back from moscow, even if i have to pretend he's an escaped lunatic. he's probably like enough one by this time if he has taken no clothes." i have forgotten what i said, but it was some plea for caution. i could not see the reason for these heroics. pitt-heron did not interest me greatly, and the notion of tommy as a defender of the hearth amused me. i thought that he was working on very slight evidence and would probably make a fool of himself. "it's only another of the man's fads," i said. "he never could do things like an ordinary mortal. what possible trouble could there be? money?" "rich as croesus," said tommy. "a woman?" "blind as a bat to female beauty." "the wrong side of the law?" "don't think so. he could settle any ordinary scrape with a cheque." "then i give it up. whatever it is it looks as if pitt-heron would have a companion in misfortune before you are done with the business. i'm all for your taking a holiday, for at present you are a nuisance to your friends and a disgrace to your country's legislature. but for goodness' sake curb your passion for romance. they don't like it in russia." next morning tommy turned up to see me in chambers. the prospect of travel always went to his head like wine. he was in wild spirits, and had forgotten his anger at the defaulting pitt-heron in gratitude for his provision of an occupation. he talked of carrying him off to the caucasus when he had found him, to investigate the habits of the caucasian stag. i remember the scene as if it were yesterday. it was a hot may morning, and the sun which came through the dusty window in fountain court lit up the dust and squalor of my working chambers. i was pretty busy at the time, and my table was well-nourished with briefs. tommy picked up one and began to read it. it was about a new drainage scheme in west ham. he tossed it down and looked at me pityingly. "poor old beggar!" he said. "to spend your days on such work when the world is chockful of amusing things. life goes roaring by and you only hear the echo in your stuffy rooms. you can hardly see the sun for the cobwebs on these windows of yours. charles is a fool, but i'm blessed if he isn't wiser than you. don't you wish you were coming with me?" the queer thing was that i did. i remember the occasion, as i have said, for it was one of the few on which i have had a pang of dissatisfaction with the calling i had chosen. as tommy's footsteps grew faint on the stairs i suddenly felt as if i were missing something, as if somehow i were out of it. it is an unpleasant feeling, even when you know that the thing you are out of is foolishness. tommy went off at from victoria, and my work was pretty well ruined for the day. i felt oddly restless, and the cause was not merely tommy's departure. my thoughts kept turning to the pitt-herons--chiefly to ethel, that adorable child unequally yoked to a perverse egoist, but a good deal to the egoist himself. i have never suffered much from whimsies, but i suddenly began to feel a curious interest in the business, an unwilling interest, for i found it in my heart to regret my robust scepticism of the night before. and it was more than interest. i had a sort of presentiment that i was going to be mixed up in the affair more than i wanted. i told myself angrily that the life of an industrious common-law barrister could have little to do with the wanderings of two maniacs in muscovy. but, try as i might, i could not get rid of the obsession. that night it followed me into my dreams, and i saw myself with a knout coercing tommy and pitt-heron in a russian fortress which faded away into the carlton hotel. next afternoon i found my steps wending in the direction of portman square. i lived at the time in down street, and i told myself i would be none the worse of a walk in the park before dinner. i had a fancy to see mrs. pitt-heron, for, though i had only met her twice since her marriage, there had been a day when we were the closest of friends. i found her alone, a perplexed and saddened lady with imploring eyes. those eyes questioned me as to how much i knew. i told her presently that i had seen tommy and was aware of his errand. i was moved to add that she might count on me if there were anything she wished done on this side of the channel. she was very little changed. there was still the old exquisite slimness, the old shy courtesy. but she told me nothing. charles was full of business and becoming very forgetful. she was sure the russian journey was all a stupid mistake. he probably thought he had told her of his departure. he would write; she expected a letter by every post. but her haggard eyes belied her optimism. i could see that there had been odd happenings of late in the pitt-heron household. she either knew or feared something--the latter, i thought, for her air was more of apprehension than of painful enlightenment. i did not stay long, and, as i walked home, i had an awkward feeling that i had intruded. also i was increasingly certain that there was trouble brewing, and that tommy had more warrant for his journey than i had given him credit for. i cast my mind back to gather recollections of pitt-heron, but all i could find was an impression of a brilliant uncomfortable being, who had been too fond of the byways of life for my sober tastes. there was nothing crooked in him in the wrong sense, but there might be a good deal that was perverse. i remember consoling myself with the thought that, though he might shatter his wife's nerves by his vagaries, he would scarcely break her heart. to be watchful, i decided, was my business. and i could not get rid of the feeling that i might soon have cause for all my vigilance. chapter ii i first hear of mr. andrew lumley a fortnight later--to be accurate, on the st of may--i did a thing i rarely do, and went down to south london on a county court case. it was an ordinary taxi-cab accident, and, as the solicitors for the company were good clients of mine, and the regular county-court junior was ill in bed, i took the case to oblige them. there was the usual dull conflict of evidence. an empty taxi-cab, proceeding slowly on the right side of the road and hooting decorously at the corners, had been run into by a private motor-car, which had darted down a side street. the taxi had been swung round and its bonnet considerably damaged, while its driver had suffered a dislocated shoulder. the bad feature in the case was that the motor-car had not halted to investigate the damage, but had proceeded unconscientiously on its way, and the assistance of the london police had been called in to trace it. it turned out to be the property of a mr. julius pavia, a retired east india merchant, who lived in a large villa in the neighbourhood of blackheath, and at the time of the accident it had been occupied by his butler. the company brought an action for damages against its owner. the butler, tuke, by name, was the only witness for the defence. he was a tall man, with a very long, thin face, and a jaw the two parts of which seemed scarcely to fit. he was profuse in his apologies on behalf of his master, who was abroad. it seemed that on the morning in question--it was the th of may--he had received instructions from mr. pavia to convey a message to a passenger by the continental express from victoria, and had been hot on this errand when he met the taxi. he was not aware that there had been any damage, thought it only a slight grazing of the two cars, and on his master's behalf consented to the judgment of the court. it was a commonplace business, but tuke was by no means a commonplace witness. he was very unlike the conventional butler, much liker one of those successful financiers whose portraits you see in the picture papers. his little eyes were quick with intelligence, and there were lines of ruthlessness around his mouth, like those of a man often called to decisive action. his story was simplicity itself, and he answered my questions with an air of serious candour. the train he had to meet was the a.m. from victoria, the train by which tommy had travelled. the passenger he had to see was an american gentleman, mr. wright davies. his master, mr. pavia, was in italy, but would shortly be home again. the case was over in twenty minutes, but it was something unique in my professional experience. for i took a most intense and unreasoning dislike to that bland butler. i cross-examined with some rudeness, was answered with steady courtesy, and hopelessly snubbed. the upshot was that i lost my temper, to the surprise of the county court judge. all the way back i was both angry and ashamed of myself. half way home i realised that the accident had happened on the very day that tommy left london. the coincidence merely flickered across my mind, for there could be no earthly connection between the two events. that afternoon i wasted some time in looking up pavia in the directory. he was there sure enough, as the occupier of a suburban mansion called the white lodge. he had no city address, so it was clear that he was out of business. my irritation with the man had made me inquisitive about the master. it was a curious name he bore, possibly italian, possibly goanese. i wondered how he got on with his highly competent butler. if tuke had been my servant i would have wrung his neck or bolted before a week was out. have you ever noticed that, when you hear a name that strikes you, you seem to be constantly hearing it for a bit. once i had a case in which one of the parties was called jubber, a name i had never met before, but i ran across two other jubbers before the case was over. anyhow, the day after the blackheath visit i was briefed in a big stock exchange case, which turned on the true ownership of certain bearer bonds. it was a complicated business which i need not trouble you with, and it involved a number of consultations with my lay clients, a famous firm of brokers. they produced their books and my chambers were filled with glossy gentlemen talking a strange jargon. i had to examine my clients closely on their practice in treating a certain class of bearer security, and they were very frank in expounding their business. i was not surprised to hear that pitt-heron was one of the most valued names on their lists. with his wealth he was bound to be a good deal in the city. now i had no desire to pry into pitt-heron's private affairs, especially his financial arrangements, but his name was in my thoughts at the time, and i could not help looking curiously at what was put before me. he seemed to have been buying these bonds on a big scale. i had the indiscretion to ask if mr. pitt-heron had long followed this course, and was told that he had begun to purchase some six months before. "mr. pitt-heron," volunteered the stockbroker, "is very closely connected in his financial operations with another esteemed client of ours, mr. julius pavia. they are both attracted by this class of security." at the moment i scarcely noted the name, but after dinner that night i began to speculate about the connection. i had found out the name of one of charles's mysterious new friends. it was not a very promising discovery. a retired east india merchant did not suggest anything wildly speculative, but i began to wonder if charles's preoccupation, to which tommy had been witness, might not be connected with financial worries. i could not believe that the huge pitt-heron fortune had been seriously affected, or that his flight was that of a defaulter, but he might have got entangled in some shady city business which preyed on his sensitive soul. somehow or other i could not believe that mr. pavia was a wholly innocent old gentleman; his butler looked too formidable. it was possible that he was blackmailing pitt-heron, and that the latter had departed to get out of his clutches. but on what ground? i had no notion as to the blackmailable thing that might lurk in charles's past, and the guesses which flitted through my brain were too fantastic to consider seriously. after all, i had only the flimsiest basis for conjecture. pavia and pitt-heron were friends; tommy had gone off in quest of pitt-heron; pavia's butler had broken the law of the land in order, for some reason or other, to see the departure of the train by which tommy had travelled. i remember laughing at myself for my suspicions, and reflecting that, if tommy could see into my head, he would turn a deaf ear in the future to my complaints of his lack of balance. but the thing stuck in my mind, and i called again that week on mrs. pitt-heron. she had had no word from her husband, and only a bare line from tommy, giving his moscow address. poor child, it was a wretched business for her. she had to keep a smiling face to the world, invent credible tales to account for her husband's absence, and all the while anxiety and dread were gnawing at her heart. i asked her if she had ever met a mr. pavia, but the name was unknown to her. she knew nothing of charles's business dealings, but at my request she interviewed his bankers, and i heard from her next day that his affairs were in perfect order. it was no financial crisis which had precipitated him abroad. a few days later i stumbled by the merest accident upon what sailors call a "cross-bearing." at the time i used to "devil" a little for the solicitor-general, and "note" cases sent to him from the different government offices. it was thankless work, but it was supposed to be good for an ambitious lawyer. by this prosaic channel i received the first hint of another of charles's friends. i had sent me one day the papers dealing with the arrest of a german spy at plymouth, for at the time there was a sort of epidemic of roving teutons who got themselves into compromising situations, and gravely troubled the souls of the admiralty and the war-office. this case was distinguished from the common ruck by the higher social standing of the accused. generally the spy is a photographer or bagman who attempts to win the bibulous confidence of minor officials. but this specimen was no less than a professor of a famous german university, a man of excellent manners, wide culture, and attractive presence, who had dined with port officers and danced with admirals' daughters. i have forgotten the evidence or what was the legal point submitted for the law officers' opinion; in any case it matters little, for he was acquitted. what interested me at the time was the testimonials as to character which he carried with him. he had many letters of introduction. one was from pitt-heron to his wife's sailor uncle; and when he was arrested one englishman went so far as to wire that he took upon himself the whole costs of the defence. this gentleman was a mr. andrew lumley, stated in the papers sent me to be a rich bachelor, a member of the athenæum and carlton clubs, and a dweller in the albany. remember, that till a few weeks before i had known nothing of pitt-heron's circle, and here were three bits of information dropping in on me unsolicited, just when my interest had been awakened. i began to get really keen, for every man at the bottom of his heart believes that he is a born detective. i was on the look-out for charles's infrequent friends, and i argued that if he knew the spy and the spy knew mr. lumley, the odds were that pitt-heron and lumley were acquaintances. i hunted up the latter in the red book. sure enough, he lived in the albany, belonged to half a dozen clubs, and had a country house in hampshire. i tucked the name away in a pigeon-hole of my memory, and for some days asked every one i met if he knew the philanthropist of the albany. i had no luck till the saturday, when, lunching at the club, i ran against jenkinson, the art critic. i forget if you know that i have always been a bit of a connoisseur in a mild way. i used to dabble in prints and miniatures, but at that time my interest lay chiefly in old wedgwood, of which i had collected some good pieces. old wedgwood is a thing which few people collect seriously, but the few who do are apt to be monomaniacs. whenever a big collection comes into the market it fetches high prices, but it generally finds its way into not more than half a dozen hands. wedgwoodites all know each other, and they are less cut-throat in their methods than most collectors. of all i have ever met jenkinson was the keenest, and he would discourse for hours on the "feel" of good jasper and the respective merits of blue and sage-green grounds. that day he was full of excitement. he babbled through luncheon about the wentworth sale, which he had attended the week before. there had been a pair of magnificent plaques, with a unique flaxman design, which had roused his enthusiasm. urns and medallions and what not had gone to this or that connoisseur, and jenkinson could quote their prices, but the plaques dominated his fancy, and he was furious that the nation had not acquired them. it seemed that he had been to south kensington and the british museum and all sorts of dignitaries, and he thought he might yet persuade the authorities to offer for them if the purchaser would re-sell. they had been bought by lutrin for a well-known private collector, by name andrew lumley. i pricked up my ears and asked about mr. lumley. jenkinson said he was a rich old buffer who locked up his things in cupboards and never let the public get a look at them. he suspected that a lot of the best things at recent sales had found their way to him, and that meant that they were put in cold storage for good. i asked if he knew him. no, he told me, but he had once or twice been allowed to look at his things for books he had been writing. he had never seen the man, for he always bought through agents, but he had heard of people who knew him. "it is the old silly game," he said. "he will fill half a dozen houses with priceless treasures, and then die, and the whole show will be sold at auction and the best things carried off to america. it's enough to make a patriot swear." there was balm in gilead, however. mr. lumley apparently might be willing to re-sell the wedgwood plaques if he got a fair offer. so jenkinson had been informed by lutrin, and that very afternoon he was going to look at them. he asked me to come with him, and, having nothing to do, i accepted. jenkinson's car was waiting for us at the club door. it was closed, for the afternoon was wet. i did not hear his directions to the chauffeur, and we had been on the road ten minutes or so before i discovered that we had crossed the river and were traversing south london. i had expected to find the things in lutrin's shop, but to my delight i was told that lumley had taken delivery of them at once. "he keeps very few of his things in the albany except his books," i was told. "but he has a house at blackheath which is stuffed from cellar to garret." "what is the name of it?" i asked with a sudden suspicion. "the white lodge," said jenkinson. "but that belongs to a man called pavia," i said. "i can't help that. the things in it belong to old lumley, all right. i know, for i've been three times there with his permission." jenkinson got little out of me for the rest of the ride. here was excellent corroborative evidence of what i had allowed myself to suspect. pavia was a friend of pitt-heron, lumley was a friend of pitt-heron; lumley was obviously a friend of pavia, and he might be pavia himself, for the retired east india merchant, as i figured him, would not be above an innocent impersonation. anyhow, if i could find one or the other, i might learn something about charles's recent doings. i sincerely hoped that the owner might be at home that afternoon when we inspected his treasures, for so far i had found no one who could procure me an introduction to that mysterious old bachelor of artistic and philo-teutonic tastes. we reached the white lodge about half-past three. it was one of those small, square, late-georgian mansions which you see all around london--once a country-house among fields, now only a villa in a pretentious garden. i looked to see my super-butler tuke, but the door was opened by a female servant, who inspected jenkinson's card of admission, and somewhat unwillingly allowed us to enter. my companion had not exaggerated when he described the place as full of treasures. it was far more like the shop of a bond street art-dealer than a civilised dwelling. the hall was crowded with japanese armour and lacquer cabinets. one room was lined from floor to ceiling with good pictures, mostly seventeenth-century dutch, and had enough chippendale chairs to accommodate a public meeting. jenkinson would fain have prowled around, but we were moved on by the inexorable servant to the little back room where lay the objects of our visit. the plaques had been only half-unpacked, and in a moment jenkinson was busy on them with a magnifying glass, purring to himself like a contented cat. the housekeeper stood on guard by the door, jenkinson was absorbed, and after the first inspection of the treasures i had leisure to look about me. it was an untidy little room, full of fine chinese porcelain in dusty glass cabinets, and in a corner stood piles of old persian rugs. pavia, i reflected, must be an easy-going soul, entirely oblivious of comfort, if he allowed his friend to turn his dwelling into such a pantechnicon. less and less did i believe in the existence of the retired east indian merchant. the house was lumley's, who chose to pass under another name during his occasional visits. his motive might be innocent enough, but somehow i did not think so. his butler had looked too infernally intelligent. with my foot i turned over the lid of one of the packing-cases that had held the wedgwoods. it was covered with a litter of cotton-wool and shavings, and below it lay a crumpled piece of paper. i looked again, and saw that it was a telegraph form. clearly somebody, with the telegram in his hand, had opened the cases, and had left it on the top of one, whence it had dropped to the floor and been covered by the lid when it was flung off. i hope and believe that i am as scrupulous as other people, but then and there came on me the conviction that i must read that telegram. i felt the gimlet eye of the housekeeper on me, so i had recourse to craft. i took out my cigarette case as if to smoke, and clumsily upset its contents amongst the shavings. then on my knees i began to pick them up, turning over the litter till the telegram was exposed. it was in french and i read it quite clearly. it had been sent from vienna, but the address was in some code. "_suivez a bokhare saronov_"--these were the words. i finished my collection of the cigarettes, and turned the lid over again on the telegram, so that its owner, if he chose to look for it diligently, might find it. when we sat in the car going home, jenkinson absorbed in meditation on the plaques, i was coming to something like a decision. a curious feeling of inevitability possessed me. i had collected by accident a few odd disjointed pieces of information, and here by the most amazing accident of all was the connecting link. i knew i had no evidence to go upon which would have convinced the most credulous common jury. pavia knew pitt-heron; so probably did lumley. lumley knew pavia, possibly was identical with him. somebody in pavia's house got a telegram in which a trip to bokhara was indicated. it didn't sound much. yet i was absolutely convinced, with the queer sub-conscious certitude of the human brain, that pitt-heron was or was about to be in bokhara, and that pavia-lumley knew of his being there and was deeply concerned in his journey. that night after dinner i rang up mrs. pitt-heron. she had had a letter from tommy, a very dispirited letter, for he had had no luck. nobody in moscow had seen or heard of any wandering englishman remotely like charles, and tommy, after playing the private detective for three weeks, was nearly at the end of his tether and spoke of returning home. i told her to send him the following wire in her own name. "_go on to bokhara. have information you will meet him there._" she promised to send the message next day and asked no further questions. she was a pearl among women. chapter iii tells of a midsummer night hitherto i had been the looker-on; now i was to become a person of the drama. that telegram was the beginning of my active part in this curious affair. they say that everybody turns up in time at the corner of piccadilly circus if you wait long enough. i was to find myself like a citizen of bagdad in the days of the great caliph, and yet never stir from my routine of flat, chambers, club, and flat. i am wrong; there was one episode out of london, and that perhaps was the true beginning of my story. whitsuntide that year came very late, and i was glad of the fortnight's rest, for parliament and the law courts had given me a busy time. i had recently acquired a car and a chauffeur called stagg, and i looked forward to trying it in a tour in the west country. but before i left london i went again to portman square. i found ethel pitt-heron in grave distress. you must remember that tommy and i had always gone on the hypothesis that charles's departure had been in pursuance of some mad scheme of his own which might get him into trouble. we thought that he had become mixed up with highly undesirable friends, and was probably embarking in some venture which might not be criminal but was certain to be foolish. i had long rejected the idea of blackmail, and convinced myself that lumley and pavia were his colleagues. the same general notion, i fancy, had been in his wife's mind. but now she had found something which altered the case. she had ransacked his papers in the hope of finding a clue to the affair which had taken him abroad, but there was nothing but business letters, notes of investments, and such like. he seemed to have burned most of his papers in the queer laboratory at the back of the house. but, stuffed into the pocket of a blotter on a bureau in the drawing-room where he scarcely ever wrote, she had found a document. it seemed to be the rough draft of a letter, and it was addressed to her. i give it as it was written; the blank spaces were left blank in the manuscript. "_you must have thought me mad, or worse, to treat you as i have done. but there was a terrible reason, which some day i hope to tell you all about. i want you as soon as you get this to make ready to come out to me at ... you will travel by ... and arrive at ... i enclose a letter which i want you to hand in deepest confidence to knowles, the solicitor. he will make all arrangements about your journey and about sending me the supplies of money i want. darling, you must leave as secretly as i did, and tell nobody anything, not even that i am alive--that least of all. i would not frighten you for worlds, but i am on the edge of a horrible danger, which i hope with god's help and yours to escape..._" that was all--obviously the draft of a letter which he intended to post to her from some foreign place. but can you conceive a missive more calculated to shatter a woman's nerves? it filled me, i am bound to say, with heavy disquiet. pitt-heron was no coward, and he was not the man to make too much of a risk. yet it was clear that he had fled that day in may under the pressure of some mortal fear. the affair in my eyes began to look very bad. ethel wanted me to go to scotland yard, but i dissuaded her. i have the utmost esteem for scotland yard, but i shrank from publicity at this stage. there might be something in the case too delicate for the police to handle, and i thought it better to wait. i reflected a great deal about the pitt-heron business the first day or two of my trip, but the air and the swift motion helped me to forget it. we had a fortnight of superb weather, and sailed all day through a glistening green country under the hazy blue heavens of june. soon i fell into the blissful state of physical and mental ease which such a life induces. hard toil, such as deer-stalking, keeps the nerves on the alert and the mind active, but swimming all day in a smooth car through a heavenly landscape mesmerises brain and body. we ran up the thames valley, explored the cotswolds, and turned south through somerset till we reached the fringes of exmoor. i stayed a day or two at a little inn high up in the moor, and spent the time tramping the endless ridges of hill or scrambling in the arbutus thickets where the moor falls in steeps to the sea. we returned by dartmoor and the south coast, meeting with our first rain in dorset, and sweeping into sunlight again on salisbury plain. the time came when only two days remained to me. the car had behaved beyond all my hopes, and stagg, a sombre and silent man, was lyrical in his praises. i wanted to be in london by the monday afternoon, and to insure this i made a long day of it on the sunday. it was the long day which brought our pride to a fall. the car had run so well that i resolved to push on and sleep in a friend's house near farnham. it was about half-past eight, and we were traversing the somewhat confused and narrow roads in the neighbourhood of wolmer forest, when, as we turned a sharp corner, we ran full into the tail of a heavy carrier's cart. stagg clapped on the brakes, but the collision, though it did no harm to the cart, was sufficient to send the butt-end of something through our glass screen, damage the tyre of the near front-wheel, and derange the steering-gear. neither of us suffered much hurt, but stagg got a long scratch on his cheek from broken glass, and i had a bruised shoulder. the carrier was friendly but useless, and there was nothing for it but to arrange for horses to take the car to farnham. this meant a job of some hours, and i found on inquiry at a neighbouring cottage that there was no inn where i could stay within eight miles. stagg borrowed a bicycle somehow and went off to collect horses, while i morosely reviewed the alternatives before me. i did not like the prospect of spending the june night beside my derelict car, and the thought of my friend's house near farnham beckoned me seductively. i might have walked there, but i did not know the road, and i found that my shoulder was paining me, so i resolved to try to find some gentleman's house in the neighbourhood where i could borrow a conveyance. the south of england is now so densely peopled by londoners that even in a wild district where there are no inns and few farms there are certain to be several week-end cottages. i walked along the white ribbon of road in the scented june dusk. at first it was bounded by high gorse, then came patches of open heath, and then woods. beyond the woods i found a park-railing, and presently an entrance-gate with a lodge. it seemed to be the place i was looking for, and i woke the lodge-keeper, who thus early had retired to bed. i asked the name of the owner, but was told the name of the place instead--it was high ashes. i asked if the owner was at home, and got a sleepy nod for answer. the house, as seen in the half-light, was a long white-washed cottage, rising to two storeys in the centre. it was plentifully covered with creepers and roses, and the odour of flowers was mingled with the faintest savour of wood-smoke, pleasant to a hungry traveller in the late hours. i pulled an old-fashioned bell, and the door was opened by a stolid young parlour-maid. i explained my errand, and offered my card. i was, i said, a member of parliament and of the bar, who had suffered a motor accident. would it be possible for the master of the house to assist me to get to my destination near farnham? i was bidden enter, and wearily seated myself on a settle in the hall. in a few minutes an ancient housekeeper appeared, a grim dame whom at other times i should have shunned. she bore, however, a hospitable message. there was no conveyance in the place, as the car had gone that day to london for repairs. but if i cared to avail myself of the accommodation of the house for the night it was at my service. meantime my servant could be looking after the car, and a message would go to him to pick me up in the morning. i gratefully accepted, for my shoulder was growing troublesome, and was conducted up a shallow oak staircase to a very pleasant bedroom with a bathroom adjoining. i had a bath, and afterwards found a variety of comforts put at my service, from slippers to razors. there was also some elliman for my wounded shoulder. clean and refreshed, i made my way downstairs and entered a room from which i caught a glow of light. it was a library, the most attractive i think i have ever seen. the room was long, as libraries should be, and entirely lined with books, save over the fireplace, where hung a fine picture, which i took to be a raeburn. the books were in glass cases, which showed the beautiful shallow mouldings of a more artistic age. a table was laid for dinner in a corner, for the room was immense, and the shaded candlesticks on it, along with the late june dusk, gave such light as there was. at first i thought the place was empty, but as i crossed the floor a figure rose from a deep chair by the hearth. "good evening, mr. leithen," a voice said. "it is a kindly mischance which gives a lonely old man the pleasure of your company." he switched on an electric lamp, and i saw before me--what i had not guessed from the voice--an old man. i was thirty-four at the time, and counted anything over fifty old, but i judged my host to be well on in the sixties. he was about my own size, but a good deal bent in the shoulders as if from study. his face was clean-shaven and extraordinarily fine, with every feature delicately chiselled. he had a sort of hapsburg mouth and chin, very long and pointed, but modelled with a grace which made the full lower lip seem entirely right. his hair was silver, brushed so low on the forehead as to give him a slightly foreign air, and he wore tinted glasses, as if for reading. altogether it was a very dignified and agreeable figure who greeted me in a voice so full and soft that it belied his obvious age. dinner was a light meal, but perfect in its way. there were soles, i remember, an exceedingly well-cooked chicken, fresh strawberries and a savoury. we drank a ' perrier-jouet and some excellent madeira. the stolid parlour-maid waited on us, and, as we talked of the weather and the hampshire roads, i kept trying to guess my host's profession. he was not a lawyer, for he had not the inevitable lines on the cheek. i thought that he might be a retired oxford don, or one of the higher civil servants, or perhaps some official of the british museum. his library proclaimed him a scholar, and his voice a gentleman. afterwards we settled ourselves in armchairs and he gave me a good cigar. we talked about many things--books, the right furnishing of a library, a little politics in deference to my m.p.-ship. my host was apathetic about party questions, but curious about defence matters and in his way an amateur strategist. i could fancy him inditing letters to _the times_ on national service. then we wandered into foreign affairs, where i found his interest acute, and his knowledge immense. indeed he was so well informed that i began to suspect that my guesses had been wrong, and that he was a retired diplomat. at that time there was some difficulty between france and italy over customs duties, and he sketched for me with remarkable clearness the weak points in the french tariff administration. i had been recently engaged in a big south american railway case, and i asked him a question about the property of my clients. he gave me a much better account than i had ever got from the solicitors who briefed me. the fire had been lit before we finished dinner, and presently it began to burn up and light the figure of my host, who sat in a deep arm-chair. he had taken off his tinted glasses, and as i rose to get a match i saw his eyes looking abstractedly before him. somehow they reminded me of pitt-heron. charles had always a sort of dancing light in his, a restless intelligence which was at once attractive and disquieting. my host had this and more. his eyes were paler than i had ever seen in a human head--pale, bright, and curiously wild. but, whereas pitt-heron's had only given the impression of reckless youth, this man's spoke of wisdom and power as well as of endless vitality. all my theories vanished, for i could not believe that my host had ever followed any profession. if he had, he would have been at the head of it, and the world would have been familiar with his features. i began to wonder if my recollection was not playing me false, and i was in the presence of some great man whom i ought to recognise. as i dived into the recesses of my memory i heard his voice asking if i were not a lawyer. i told him, yes. a barrister with a fair common-law practice and some work in privy council appeals. he asked me why i chose the profession. "it came handiest," i said. "i am a dry creature, who loves facts and logic. i am not a flier, i have no new ideas, i don't want to lead men and i like work. i am the ordinary educated englishman, and my sort gravitates to the bar. we like feeling that, if we are not the builders, at any rate we are the cement of civilisation." he repeated the words "cement of civilisation" in his soft voice. "in a sense you are right. but civilisation needs more than the law to hold it together. you see all mankind are not equally willing to accept as divine justice what is called human law." "of course there are further sanctions," i said. "police and armies and the good-will of civilisation." he caught me up quickly. "the last is your true cement. did you ever reflect, mr. leithen, how precarious is the tenure of the civilisation we boast about?" "i should have thought it fairly substantial," i said, "and the foundations grow daily firmer." he laughed. "that is the lawyer's view, but believe me you are wrong. reflect, and you will find that the foundations are sand. you think that a wall as solid as the earth separates civilisation from barbarism. i tell you the division is a thread, a sheet of glass. a touch here, a push there, and you bring back the reign of saturn." it was the kind of paradoxical, undergraduate speculation which grown men indulge in sometimes after dinner. i looked at my host to discover his mood, and at the moment a log flared up again. his face was perfectly serious. his light wild eyes were intently watching me. "take one little instance," he said. "we are a commercial world, and have built up a great system of credit. without our cheques and bills of exchange and currency the whole of our life would stop. but credit only exists because behind it we have a standard of value. my bank of england notes are worthless paper unless i can get sovereigns for them if i choose. forgive this elementary disquisition, but the point is important. we have fixed a gold standard, because gold is sufficiently rare, and because it allows itself to be coined into a portable form. i am aware that there are economists who say that the world could be run on a pure credit basis, with no metal currency at the back of it; but, however sound their argument may be in the abstract, the thing is practically impossible. you would have to convert the whole of the world's stupidity to their economic faith before it would work. "now, suppose something happened to make our standard of value useless. suppose the dream of the alchemists came true, and all metals were readily transmutable. we have got very near it in recent years, as you will know if you interest yourself in chemical science. once gold and silver lost their intrinsic value, the whole edifice of our commerce would collapse. credit would become meaningless, because it would be untranslatable. we should be back at a bound in the age of barter, for it is hard to see what other standard of value could take the place of the precious metals. all our civilisation, with its industries and commerce, would come toppling down. once more, like primitive man, i would plant cabbages for a living and exchange them for services in kind from the cobbler and the butcher. we should have the simple life with a vengeance--not the self-conscious simplicity of the civilised man, but the compulsory simplicity of the savage." i was not greatly impressed by the illustration. "of course, there are many key-points in civilisation," i said, "and the loss of them would bring ruin. but these keys are strongly held." "not so strongly as you think. consider how delicate the machine is growing. as life grows more complex, the machinery grows more intricate and therefore more vulnerable. your so-called sanctions become so infinitely numerous that each in itself is frail. in the dark ages you had one great power--the terror of god and his church. now you have a multiplicity of small things, all delicate and fragile, and strong only by our tacit agreement not to question them." "you forget one thing," i said--"the fact that men really are agreed to keep the machine going. that is what i called the 'good-will of civilisation.'" he got up from his chair and walked up and down the floor, a curious dusky figure lit by the rare spurts of flame from the hearth. "you have put your finger on the one thing that matters. civilisation is a conspiracy. what value would your police be if every criminal could find a sanctuary across the channel, or your law courts if no other tribunal recognised their decisions? modern life is the silent compact of comfortable folk to keep up pretences. and it will succeed till the day comes when there is another compact to strip them bare." i do not think that i have ever listened to a stranger conversation. it was not so much what he said--you will hear the same thing from any group of half-baked young men--as the air with which he said it. the room was almost dark, but the man's personality seemed to take shape and bulk in the gloom. though i could scarcely see him, i knew that those pale strange eyes were looking at me. i wanted more light, but did not know where to look for a switch. it was all so eery and odd that i began to wonder if my host were not a little mad. in any case, i was tired of his speculations. "we won't dispute on the indisputable," i said. "but i should have thought that it was the interest of all the best brains of the world to keep up what you call the conspiracy." he dropped into his chair again. "i wonder," he said slowly. "do we really get the best brains working on the side of the compact? take the business of government. when all is said, we are ruled by the amateurs and the second-rate. the methods of our departments would bring any private firm to bankruptcy. the methods of parliament--pardon me--would disgrace any board of directors. our rulers pretend to buy expert knowledge, but they never pay the price for it that a business man would pay, and if they get it they have not the courage to use it. where is the inducement for a man of genius to sell his brains to our insipid governors? "and yet knowledge is the only power--now as ever. a little mechanical device will wreck your navies. a new chemical combination will upset every rule of war. it is the same with our commerce. one or two minute changes might sink britain to the level of ecuador or give china the key of the world's wealth. and yet we never dream that these things are possible. we think our castles of sand are the ramparts of the universe." i have never had the gift of the gab, but i admire it in others. there is a morbid charm in such talk, a kind of exhilaration of which one is half ashamed. i found myself interested and more than a little impressed. "but surely," i said, "the first thing a discoverer does is to make his discovery public. he wants the honour and glory, and he wants money for it. it becomes part of the world's knowledge, and everything is readjusted to meet it. that was what happened with electricity. you call our civilisation a machine, but it is something far more flexible. it has the power of adaptation of a living organism." "that might be true if the new knowledge really became the world's property. but does it? i read now and then in the papers that some eminent scientist has made a great discovery. he reads a paper before some academy of science, and there are leading articles on it, and his photograph adorns the magazines. that kind of man is not the danger. he is a bit of the machine, a party to the compact. it is the men who stand outside it that are to be reckoned with, the artists in discovery who will never use their knowledge till they can use it with full effect. believe me, the biggest brains are without the ring which we call civilisation." then his voice seemed to hesitate. "you may hear people say that submarines have done away with the battleship, and that aircraft have annulled the mastery of the sea. that is what our pessimists say. but do you imagine that the clumsy submarine or the fragile aeroplane is really the last word of science?" "no doubt they will develop," i said, "but by that time the power of the defence will have advanced also." he shook his head. "it is not so. even now the knowledge which makes possible great engines of destruction is far beyond the capacity of any defence. you see only the productions of second-rate folk who are in a hurry to get wealth and fame. the true knowledge, the deadly knowledge, is still kept secret. but, believe me, my friend, it is there." he paused for a second, and i saw the faint outline of the smoke from his cigar against the background of the dark. then he quoted me one or two cases, slowly, as if in some doubt about the wisdom of his words. it was these cases which startled me. they were of different kinds--a great calamity, a sudden breach between two nations, a blight on a vital crop, a war, a pestilence. i will not repeat them. i do not think i believed in them then, and now i believe less. but they were horribly impressive, as told in that quiet voice in that sombre room on that dark june night. if he was right, these things had not been the work of nature or accident, but of a devilish art. the nameless brains that he spoke of, working silently in the background, now and then showed their power by some cataclysmic revelation. i did not believe him, but, as he put the case, showing with strange clearness the steps in the game, i had no words to protest. at last i found my voice. "what you describe is super-anarchy, and yet it makes no headway. what is the motive of those diabolical brains?" he laughed. "how should i be able to tell you? i am a humble inquirer, and in my researches i come on curious bits of fact. but i cannot pry into motives. i only know of the existence of great extra-social intelligences. let us say that they distrust the machine. they may be idealists and desire to make a new world, or they may simply be artists, loving for its own sake the pursuit of truth. if i were to hazard a guess, i should say that it took both types to bring about results, for the second find the knowledge and the first the will to use it." a recollection came back to me. it was of a hot upland meadow in tyrol, where among acres of flowers and beside a leaping stream i was breakfasting after a morning spent in climbing the white crags. i had picked up a german on the way, a small man of the professor class, who did me the honour to share my sandwiches. he conversed fluently, but quaintly in english, and he was, i remember, a nietzschean, and a hot rebel against the established order. "the pity," he cried, "is that the reformers do not know, and those who know are too idle to reform. some day there will come the marriage of knowledge and will, and then the world will march." "you draw an awful picture," i said. "but if those extra-social brains are so potent, why after all do they effect so little? a dull police-officer, with the machine behind him, can afford to laugh at most experiments in anarchy." "true," he said, "and civilisation will win until its enemies learn from it the importance of the machine. the compact must endure until there is a counter-compact. consider the ways of that form of foolishness which to-day we call nihilism or anarchy. a few illiterate bandits in a paris slum defy the world, and in a week they are in jail. half a dozen crazy russian _intellectuels_ in geneva conspire to upset the romanoffs and are hunted down by the police of europe. all the governments and their not very intelligent police forces join hands, and hey, presto! there is an end of the conspirators. for civilisation knows how to use such powers as it has, while the immense potentiality of the unlicensed is dissipated in vapour. civilisation wins because it is a world-wide league; its enemies fail because they are parochial. but supposing----" again he stopped and rose from his chair. he found a switch and flooded the room with light. i glanced up blinking to see my host smiling down on me, a most benevolent and courteous old gentleman. he had resumed his tinted glasses. "forgive me," he said, "for leaving you in darkness while i bored you with my gloomy prognostications. a recluse is apt to forget what is due to a guest." he handed the cigar-box to me, and pointed to a table where whisky and mineral waters had been set out. "i want to hear the end of your prophecies," i said. "you were saying----?" "i said--supposing anarchy learned from civilisation and became international. oh, i don't mean the bands of advertising donkeys who call themselves international unions of workers and such-like rubbish. i mean if the real brain-stuff of the world were internationalised. suppose that the links in the cordon of civilisation were neutralised by other links in a far more potent chain. the earth is seething with incoherent power and unorganised intelligence. have you ever reflected on the case of china? there you have millions of quick brains stifled in trumpery crafts. they have no direction, no driving power, so the sum of their efforts is futile, and the world laughs at china. europe throws her a million or two on loan now and then, and she cynically responds by begging the prayers of christendom. and yet, i say, supposing----" "it's a horrible idea," i said, "and, thank god, i don't believe it possible. mere destruction is too barren a creed to inspire a new napoleon, and you can do with nothing short of one." "it would scarcely be destruction," he replied gently. "let us call it iconoclasm, the swallowing of formulas, which has always had its full retinue of idealists. and you do not want a napoleon. all that is needed is direction, which could be given by men of far lower gifts than a bonaparte. in a word, you want a power-house, and then the age of miracles will begin." i got up, for the hour was late, and i had had enough of this viewy talk. my host was smiling, and i think that smile was the thing i really disliked about him. it was too--what shall i say?--superior and olympian. as he led me into the hall he apologised for indulging his whims. "but you, as a lawyer, should welcome the idea. if there is an atom of truth in my fancies, your task is far bigger than you thought. you are not defending an easy case, but fighting in a contest where the issues are still doubtful. that should encourage your professional pride..." by all the rules i should have been sleepy, for it was past midnight, and i had had a long day in the open air. but that wretched talk had unsettled me, and i could not get my mind off it. i have reproduced very crudely the substance of my host's conversation, but no words of mine could do justice to his eery persuasiveness. there was a kind of magnetism in the man, a sense of vast powers and banked-up fires, which would have given weight to the tritest platitudes. i had a horrible feeling that he was trying to convince me, to fascinate me, to prepare the ground for some proposal. again and again i told myself it was crazy nonsense, the heated dream of a visionary, but again and again i came back to some details which had a horrid air of reality. if the man was a romancer he had an uncommon gift of realism. i flung open my bedroom window and let in the soft air of the june night and the scents from leagues of clover and pines and sweet grasses. it momentarily refreshed me, for i could not believe that this homely and gracious world held such dire portents. but always that phrase of his, the "power-house," kept recurring. you know how twisted your thoughts get during a wakeful night, and long before i fell asleep towards morning i had worked myself up into a very complete dislike of that bland and smiling gentleman, my host. suddenly it occurred to me that i did not know his name, and that set me off on another train of reflection. i did not wait to be called, but rose about seven, dressed, and went downstairs. i heard the sound of a car on the gravel of the drive, and to my delight saw that stagg had arrived. i wanted to get away from the house as soon as possible, and i had no desire to meet its master again in this world. the grim housekeeper, who answered my summons, received my explanation in silence. breakfast would be ready in twenty minutes; eight was mr. lumley's hour for it. "mr. andrew lumley?" i asked with a start. "mr. andrew lumley," she said. so that was my host's name. i sat down at a bureau in the hall and did a wildly foolish thing. i wrote a letter, beginning "dear mr. lumley," thanking him for his kindness and explaining the reason of my early departure. it was imperative, i said, that i should be in london by midday. then i added: "i wish i had known who you were last night, for i think you know an old friend of mine, charles pitt-heron." breakfastless i joined stagg in the car, and soon we were swinging down from the uplands to the shallow vale of the wey. my thoughts were very little on my new toy or on the mid-summer beauties of surrey. the friend of pitt-heron, who knew about his going to bokhara, was the maniac who dreamed of the "power-house." there were going to be dark scenes in the drama before it was played out. chapter iv i follow the trail of the super-butler my first thought, as i journeyed towards london, was that i was horribly alone in this business. whatever was to be done i must do it myself, for the truth was i had no evidence which any authority would recognise. pitt-heron was the friend of a strange being who collected objects of art, probably passed under an alias in south london, and had absurd visions of the end of civilisation. that, in cold black and white, was all my story came to. if i went to the police they would laugh at me, and they would be right. now i am a sober and practical person, but, slender though my evidence was, it brought to my mind the most absolute conviction. i seemed to know pitt-heron's story as if i had heard it from his own lips--his first meeting with lumley and their growing friendship; his initiation into secret and forbidden things; the revolt of the decent man, appalled that his freakishness had led him so far; the realisation that he could not break so easily with his past, and that lumley held him in his power; and last, the mad flight under the pressure of overwhelming terror. i could read, too, the purpose of that flight. he knew the indian frontier as few men know it, and in the wild tangle of the pamirs he hoped to baffle his enemy. then from some far refuge he would send for his wife and spend the rest of his days in exile. it must have been an omnipotent terror to drive such a man, young, brilliant, rich, successful, to the fate of an absconding felon. but lumley was on his trail. so i read the telegram i had picked up on the floor of the blackheath house, and my business was to frustrate the pursuit. some one must have gone to bokhara, some creature of lumley's, perhaps the super-butler i had met in the county court. the telegram, for i had noted the date, had been received on the th day of may. it was now the th of june, so if some one had started immediately on its receipt, in all probability he would by now be in bokhara. i must find out who had gone and endeavour to warn tommy. i calculated that it would have taken him seven or eight days to get from moscow by the transcaspian; probably he would find pitt-heron gone, but inquiries would set him on the track. i might be able to get in touch with him through the russian officials. in any case, if lumley were stalking pitt-heron, i, unknown and unsuspected, would be stalking lumley. and then in a flash i realised my folly. the wretched letter i had written that morning had given the whole show away. lumley knew that i was a friend of pitt-heron, and that i knew that he was a friend of pitt-heron. if my guess was right, friendship with lumley was not a thing charles was likely to confess to, and he would argue that my knowledge of it meant that i was in charles's confidence. i would therefore know of his disappearance and its cause, and alone in london would connect it with the decorous bachelor of the albany. my letter was a warning to him that he could not play the game unobserved, and i, too, would be suspect in his eyes. it was no good crying over spilt milk, and lumley's suspicions must be accepted. but i confess that the thought gave me the shivers. the man had a curious terror for me, a terror i cannot hope to analyse and reproduce for you. my bald words can give no idea of the magnetic force of his talk, the sense of brooding and unholy craft. i was proposing to match my wits against a master's, one, too, who must have at his command an organisation far beyond my puny efforts. i have said that my first feeling was that of loneliness and isolation; my second was one of hopeless insignificance. it was a boy's mechanical toy arrayed against a power-house with its shining wheels and monstrous dynamos. my first business was to get into touch with tommy. at that time i had a friend in one of the embassies, whose acquaintance i had made on a dry-fly stream in hampshire. i will not tell you his name, for he has since become a great figure in the world's diplomacy, and i am by no means certain that the part he played in this tale was strictly in accordance with official etiquette. i had assisted him on the legal side in some of the international worries that beset all embassies, and we had reached the point of intimacy which is marked by the use of christian names and by dining frequently together. let us call him monsieur felix. he was a grave young man, slightly my senior, learned, discreet, and ambitious, but with an engaging boyishness cropping up now and then under the official gold lace. it occurred to me that in him i might find an ally. i reached london about eleven in the morning, and went straight to belgrave square. felix i found in the little library off the big secretaries' room, a sunburnt sportsman fresh from a norwegian salmon river. i asked him if he had half an hour to spare, and was told that the day was at my service. "you know tommy deloraine?" i asked. he nodded. "and charles pitt-heron?" "i have heard of him." "well, here is my trouble. i have reason to believe that tommy has joined pitt-heron in bokhara. if he has, my mind will be greatly relieved, for, though i can't tell you the story, i can tell you that pitt-heron is in very considerable danger. can you help me?" felix reflected. "that should be simple enough. i can wire in cypher to the military governor. the police there are pretty efficient, as you may imagine, and travellers don't come and go without being remarked. i should be able to give you an answer within twenty-four hours. but i must describe tommy. how does one do that in telegraphese?" "i want you to tell me another thing," i said. "you remember that pitt-heron has some reputation as a central asian traveller. tommy, as you know, is as mad as a hatter. suppose these two fellows at bokhara, wanting to make a long trek into wild country--how would they go? you've been there, and know the lie of the land." felix got down a big german atlas, and for half an hour we pored over it. from bokhara, he said, the only routes for madmen ran to the south. east and north you got into siberia; west lay the transcaspian desert; but southward you might go through the hissar range by pamirski post to gilgit and kashmir, or you might follow up the oxus and enter the north of afghanistan, or you might go by merv into north-eastern persia. the first he thought the likeliest route, if a man wanted to travel fast. i asked him to put in his cable a suggestion about watching the indian roads, and left him with a promise of early enlightenment. then i went down to the temple, fixed some consultations, and spent a quiet evening in my rooms. i had a heavy sense of impending disaster, not unnatural in the circumstances. i really cannot think what it was that held me to the job, for i don't mind admitting that i felt pretty queasy about it. partly, no doubt, liking for tommy and ethel, partly regret for that unfortunate fellow pitt-heron, most of all, i think, dislike of lumley. that bland super-man had fairly stirred my prosaic antipathies. that night i went carefully over every item in the evidence to try and decide on my next step. i had got to find out more about my enemies. lumley i was pretty certain would baffle me, but i thought i might have a better chance with the super-butler. as it turned out i hit his trail almost at once. next day i was in a case at the old bailey. it was an important prosecution for fraud, and i appeared, with two leaders, for the bank concerned. the amazing and almost incredible thing about this story of mine is the way clues kept rolling in unsolicited, and i was to get another from this dull prosecution. i suppose that the explanation is that the world is full of clues to everything, and that, if a man's mind is sharp-set on any quest, he happens to notice and take advantage of what otherwise he would miss. my leaders were both absent the first day, and i had to examine our witnesses alone. towards the close of the afternoon i put a fellow in the box, an oldish, drink-sodden clerk from a cannon street bucket-shop. his evidence was valuable for our case, but i was very doubtful how he would stand a cross-examination as to credit. his name was routh, and he spoke with a strong north-country accent. but what caught my attention was his face. his jaw looked as if it had been made in two pieces which did not fit, and he had little, bright protuberant eyes. at my first glance i was conscious of a recollection. he was still in the box when the court rose, and i informed the solicitors that before going further i wanted a conference with the witness. i mentioned also that i should like to see him alone. a few minutes later he was brought to my chambers, and i put one or two obvious questions on the case, till the managing clerk who accompanied him announced with many excuses that he must hurry away. then i shut the door, gave mr. routh a cigar, and proceeded to conduct a private inquiry. he was a pathetic being, only too ready to talk. i learned the squalid details of his continuous misfortunes. he had been the son of a dissenting minister in northumberland, and had drifted through half a dozen occupations till he found his present unsavoury billet. truth was written large on his statement, he had nothing to conceal, for his foible was folly, not crime, and he had not a rag of pride to give him reticence. he boasted that he was a gentleman and well-educated, too, but he had never had a chance. his brother had advised him badly; his brother was too clever for a prosaic world; always through his reminiscences came this echo of fraternal admiration and complaint. it was about the brother i wanted to know, and mr. routh was very willing to speak. indeed, it was hard to disentangle facts from his copious outpourings. the brother had been an engineer and a highly successful one; had dallied with politics, too, and had been a great inventor. he had put mr. routh on to a south american speculation, where he had made a little money but speedily lost it again. oh, he had been a good brother in his way, and had often helped him, but he was a busy man, and his help never went quite far enough. besides, he did not like to apply to him too often. i gathered that the brother was not a person to take liberties with. i asked him what he was doing now. "ah," said mr. routh, "that is what i wish i could tell you. i will not conceal from you that for the moment i am in considerable financial straits, and this case, though my hands are clean enough, god knows, will not make life easier for me. my brother is a mysterious man, whose business often takes him abroad. i have never known even his address, for i write always to a london office from which my communications are forwarded. i only know that he is in some big electrical business, for i remember that he once let drop the remark that he was in charge of some power station. no, i do not think it is in london, probably somewhere abroad. i heard from him a fortnight ago, and he told me he was just leaving england for a couple of months. it is very annoying, for i want badly to get into touch with him." "do you know, mr. routh," i said, "i believe i have met your brother. is he like you in any way?" "we have a strong family resemblance, but he is taller and slimmer. he has been more prosperous, and has lived a healthier life, you see." "do you happen to know," i asked, "if he ever uses another name? i don't think that the man i knew was called routh." the clerk flushed. "i think it highly unlikely that my brother would use an alias. he has done nothing to disgrace a name of which we are proud." i told him that my memory had played me false, and we parted on very good terms. he was an innocent soul, one of those people that clever rascals get to do their dirty work for them. but there was no mistaking the resemblance. there, without the brains and force and virility, went my super-butler of blackheath, who passed under the name of tuke. the clerk had given me the name of the office to whose address he had written to his brother. i was not surprised to find that it was that of the firm of stockbrokers for whom i was still acting in the bearer-bonds case where i had heard pavia's name. i rang up the partner whom i knew and told him a very plausible story of having a message for one of mr. pavia's servants, and asked him if he were in touch with them and could forward letters. he made me hold the line, and then came back and told me that he had forwarded letters for tuke, the butler, and one routh who was a groom or footman. tuke had gone abroad to join his master and he did not know his address. but he advised me to write to the white lodge. i thanked him and rang off. that was settled anyhow. tuke's real name was routh, and it was tuke who had gone to bokhara. my next step was to ring up macgillivray at scotland yard and get an appointment in half an hour's time. macgillivray had been at the bar--i had read in his chambers--and was now one of the heads of the criminal investigation department. i was about to ask him for information which he was in no way bound to give me, but i presumed on our old acquaintance. i asked him first whether he had ever heard of a secret organisation which went under the name of the power-house. he laughed out loud at my question. "i should think we have several hundreds of such pet names on our records," he said. "everything from the lodge of the baldfaced ravens to solomon's seal no. x. fancy nomenclature is the relaxation of the tired anarchist, and matters very little. the dangerous fellows have no names, no numbers even, which we can get hold of. but i'll get a man to look up our records. there may be something filed about your power-house." my second question he answered differently. "routh! routh! why, yes, there was a routh we had dealings with a dozen years ago, when i used to go the north-eastern circuit. he was a trade-union official who bagged the funds, and they couldn't bring him to justice because of the ridiculous extra-legal status they possess. he knew it, and played their own privileges against them. oh, yes, he was a very complete rogue. i once saw him at a meeting in sunderland, and i remember his face--sneering eyes, diabolically clever mouth, and with it all as smug as a family butler. he has disappeared from england--at least we haven't heard of him for some years, but i can show you his photograph." macgillivray took from a lettered cabinet a bundle of cards, selected one and tossed it towards me. it was that of a man of thirty or so, with short side-whiskers and a drooping moustache. the eyes, the ill-fitting jaw, and the brow were those of my friend, mr. tuke, brother and patron of the sorrowful mr. routh, who had already that afternoon occupied my attention. macgillivray promised to make certain inquiries, and i walked home in a state of elation. now i knew for certain who had gone to bokhara, and i knew something, too, of the traveller's past. a discredited genius was the very man for lumley's schemes--one who asked for nothing better than to use his brains outside the ring-fence of convention. somewhere in the wastes of turkestan the ex-trade-union official was in search of pitt-heron. i did not fancy that mr. tuke would be very squeamish. i dined at the club and left early. going home, i had an impression that i was being shadowed. you know the feeling that some one is watching you, a sort of sensation which the mind receives without actual evidence. if the watcher is behind where you can't see him you have a cold feeling between your shoulders. i daresay it is a legacy from the days when the cave-man had to look pretty sharp to keep from getting his enemy's knife between the ribs. it was a bright summer evening, and piccadilly had its usual crowd of motor-cars and busses and foot passengers. i halted twice, once in st. james's street and once at the corner of stratton street, and retraced my steps for a bit, and each time i had the impression that some one a hundred yards or so off had done the same. my instinct was to turn round and face him, whoever he was, but i saw that that was foolishness. obviously in such a crowd i could get no certainty in the matter, so i put it out of my mind. i spent the rest of the evening in my rooms, reading cases and trying to keep my thoughts off central asia. about ten i was rung up on the telephone by felix. he had had his answer from bokhara. pitt-heron had left with a small caravan on june d by the main road through the hissar range. tommy had arrived on june th and on the th had set off with two servants on the same trail. travelling the lighter of the two, he should have overtaken pitt-heron by the th at latest. that was yesterday, and my mind was immensely relieved. tommy in such a situation was a tower of strength, for, whatever his failings in politics, i knew no one i would rather have with me to go tiger-shooting. next day the sense of espionage increased. i was in the habit of walking down to the temple by way of pall mall and the embankment, but, as i did not happen to be in court that morning, i resolved to make a detour and test my suspicions. there seemed to be nobody in down street as i emerged from my flat, but i had not walked five yards before, turning back, i saw a man enter from the piccadilly end, while another moved across the hertford street opening. it may have been only my imagination, but i was convinced that these were my watchers. i walked up park lane, for it seemed to me that by taking the tube at the marble arch station i could bring matters to the proof. i have a knack of observing small irrelevant details, and i happened to have noticed that a certain carriage in the train which left marble arch about . stopped exactly opposite the exit at the chancery lane station, and by hurrying up the passage one could just catch the lift which served an earlier train and so reach the street before any of the other travellers. i performed this manoeuvre with success, caught the early lift, reached the street and took cover behind a pillar-box from which i could watch the exit of passengers from the stairs. i judged that my tracker, if he missed me below, would run up the stairs rather than wait for the lift. sure enough, a breathless gentleman appeared, who scanned the street eagerly, and then turned to the lift to watch the emerging passengers. it was clear that the espionage was no figment of my brain. i walked slowly to my chambers and got through the day's work as best i could, for my mind was preoccupied with the unpleasant business in which i found myself entangled. i would have given a year's income to be honestly quit of it, but there seemed to be no way of escape. the maddening thing was that i could do so little. there was no chance of forgetting anxiety in strenuous work. i could only wait with the patience at my command, and hope for the one chance in a thousand which i might seize. i felt miserably that it was no game for me. i had never been brought up to harry wild beasts and risk my neck twice a day at polo like tommy deloraine. i was a peaceful, sedentary man, a lover of a quiet life, with no appetite for perils and commotions. but i was beginning to realize that i was very obstinate. at four o'clock i left the temple and walked to the embassy. i had resolved to banish the espionage from my mind, for that was the least of my difficulties. felix gave me an hour of his valuable time. it was something that tommy had joined pitt-heron, but there were other matters to be arranged in that far country. the time had come, in my opinion, to tell him the whole story. the telling was a huge relief to my mind. he did not laugh at me as i had half feared, but took the whole thing as gravely as possible. in his profession, i fancy, he had found too many certainties behind suspicions to treat anything as trivial. the next step, he said, was to warn the russian police of the presence of the man called saronov and the super-butler. happily we had materials for the description of tuke or routh, and i could not believe that such a figure would be hard to trace. felix cabled again in cypher, asking that the two should be watched, more especially if there was reason to believe that they had followed tommy's route. once more we got out the big map and discussed the possible ways. it seemed to me a land created by providence for surprises, for the roads followed the valleys, and to the man who travelled light there must be many short cuts through the hills. i left the embassy before six o'clock and, crossing the square engrossed with my own thoughts, ran full into lumley. i hope i played my part well, though i could not repress a start of surprise. he wore a grey morning-coat and a white top-hat and looked the image of benevolent respectability. "ah, mr. leithen," he said, "we meet again." i murmured something about my regrets at my early departure three days ago, and added the feeble joke that i wished he would hurry on his twilight of civilisation, for the burden of it was becoming too much for me. he looked me in the eyes with all the friendliness in the world. "so you have not forgotten our evening's talk? you owe me something, my friend, for giving you a new interest in your profession." "i owe you much," i said, "for your hospitality, your advice, and your warnings." he was wearing his tinted glasses and peered quizzically into my face. "i am going to make a call in grosvenor place," he said, "and shall beg in return the pleasure of your company. so you know my young friend, pitt-heron?" with an ingenuous countenance i explained that he had been at oxford with me and that we had common friends. "a brilliant young man," said lumley. "like you, he has occasionally cheered an old man's solitude. and he has spoken of me to you?" "yes," i said, lying stoutly. "he used to tell me about your collections." (if lumley knew charles well he would find me out, for the latter would not have crossed the road for all the treasures of the louvre.) "ah, yes, i have picked up a few things. if ever you should care to see them i should be honoured. you are a connoisseur? of a sort? you interest me for i should have thought your taste lay in other directions than the dead things of art. pitt-heron is no collector. he loves life better than art, as a young man should. a great traveller our friend--the laurence oliphant or richard burton of our day." we stopped at a house in grosvenor place, and he relinquished my arm. "mr. leithen," he said, "a word from one who wishes you no ill. you are a friend of pitt-heron, but where he goes you cannot follow. take my advice and keep out of his affairs. you will do no good to him, and you may bring yourself into serious danger. you are a man of sense, a practical man, so i speak to you frankly. but, remember, i do not warn twice." he took off his glasses, and his light, wild eyes looked me straight in the face. all benevolence had gone, and something implacable and deadly burned in them. before i could say a word in reply he shuffled up the steps of the house and was gone.... chapter v i take a partner that meeting with lumley scared me badly, but it also clinched my resolution. the most pacific fellow on earth can be gingered into pugnacity. i had now more than my friendship for tommy and my sympathy with pitt-heron to urge me on. a man had tried to bully me, and that roused all the worst stubbornness of my soul. i was determined to see the game through at any cost. but i must have an ally if my nerves were to hold out, and my mind turned at once to tommy's friend chapman. i thought with comfort of the bluff independence of the labour member. so that night at the house i hunted him out in the smoking-room. he had been having a row with the young bloods of my party that afternoon and received me ungraciously. "i'm about sick of you fellows," he growled. (i shall not attempt to reproduce chapman's accent. he spoke rich yorkshire with a touch of the drawl of the western dales.) "they went and spoiled the best speech, though i say it as shouldn't, which this old place has heard for a twelvemonth. i've been workin' for days at it in the library. i was tellin' them how much more bread cost under protection, and the jew hilderstein started a laugh because i said kilometres for kilogrammes. it was just a slip o' the tongue, for i had it right in my notes, and besides there furrin' words don't matter a curse. then that young lord as sits for east claygate gets up and goes out as i was gettin' into my peroration, and he drops his topper and knocks off old higgins's spectacles, and all the idiots laughed. after that i gave it them hot and strong, and got called to order. and then wattles, him as used to be as good a socialist as me, replied for the government and his blamed board and said that the board thought this and the board thought that, and was damned if the board would stir its stumps. well i mind the day when i was hanging on to the board's coat-tails in hyde park to keep it from talking treason." it took me a long time to get chapman settled down and anchored to a drink. "i want you," i said, "to tell me about routh--you know the fellow i mean--the ex-union-leader." at that he fairly blazed up. "there you are, you tories," he shouted, causing a pale liberal member on the next sofa to make a hurried exit. "you can't fight fair. you hate the unions, and you rake up any rotten old prejudice to discredit them. you can find out about routh for yourself, for i'm damned if i help you." i saw i could do nothing with chapman unless i made a clean breast of it, so for the second time that day i told the whole story. i couldn't have wished for a better audience. he got wildly excited before i was half through with it. no doubt of the correctness of my evidence ever entered his head, for, like most of his party, he hated anarchism worse than capitalism, and the notion of a highly capitalised, highly scientific, highly undemocratic anarchism fairly revolted his soul. besides, he adored tommy deloraine. routh, he told me, had been a young engineer of a superior type, with a job in a big shop at sheffield. he had professed advanced political views, and, although he had strictly no business to be there, had taken a large part in trade union work, and was treasurer of one big branch. chapman had met him often at conferences and on platforms, and had been impressed by the fertility and ingenuity of his mind and the boldness of his purpose. he was the leader of the left wing of the movement, and had that gift of half-scientific, half-philosophic jargon which is dear at all times to the hearts of the half-baked. a seat in parliament had been repeatedly offered him, but he had always declined; wisely, chapman thought, for he judged him the type which is more effective behind the scenes. but with all his ability he had not been popular. "he was a cold-blooded, sneering devil," as chapman put it, "a sort of parnell. he tyrannised over his followers, and he was the rudest brute i ever met." then followed the catastrophe, in which it became apparent that he had speculated with the funds of his union and had lost a large sum. chapman, however, was suspicious of these losses, and was inclined to suspect that he had the money all the time in a safe place. a year or two earlier the unions, greatly to the disgust of old-fashioned folk, had been given certain extra-legal privileges, and this man routh had been one of the chief advocates of the unions' claims. now he had the cool effrontery to turn the tables on them and use those very privileges to justify his action and escape prosecution. there was nothing to be done. some of the fellows, said chapman, swore to wring his neck, but he did not give them the chance. he had disappeared from england, and was generally believed to be living in some foreign capital. "what i would give to be even with the swine!" cried my friend, clenching and unclenching his big fist. "but we're up against no small thing in josiah routh. there isn't a crime on earth he'd stick at, and he's as clever as the old devil, his master." "if that's how you feel, i can trust you to back me up," i said. "and the first thing i want you to do is to come and stay at my flat. god knows what may happen next, and two men are better than one. i tell you frankly, i'm nervous, and i would like to have you with me." chapman had no objection. i accompanied him to his bloomsbury lodgings, where he packed a bag, and we returned to the down street flat. the sight of his burly figure and sagacious face was a relief to me in the mysterious darkness where i now found myself walking. thus begun my housekeeping with chapman--one of the queerest episodes in my life. he was the best fellow in the world, but i found that i had misjudged his character. to see him in the house, you would have thought him a piece of granite, with his yorkshire bluntness and hard, downright, north-country sense. he had all that somewhere inside him, but he was also as romantic as a boy. the new situation delighted him. he was quite clear that it was another case of the strife between capital and labour--tommy and i standing for labour, though he used to refer to tommy in public as a "gilded popinjay," and only a month before had described me in the house as a "viperous lackey of capitalism." it was the best kind of strife, in which you had not to meet your adversary with long-winded speeches but might any moment get a chance to pummel him with your fists. he made me ache with laughter. the spying business used to rouse him to fury. i don't think he was tracked as i was, but he chose to fancy he was, and was guilty of assault and battery on one butcher's boy, two cabbies, and a gentleman who turned out to be a bookmaker's assistant. this side of him got to be an infernal nuisance, and i had many rows with him. among other things, he chose to suspect my man waters of treachery--waters, who was the son of a gardener at home, and hadn't wits enough to put up an umbrella when it rained. "you're not taking this business rightly," he maintained one night. "what's the good of waiting for these devils to down you? let's go out and down them." and he announced his intention, from which no words of mine could dissuade him, of keeping watch on mr. andrew lumley at the albany. his resolution led to a complete disregard of his parliamentary duties. deputations of constituents waited for him in vain. of course he never got a sight of lumley. all that happened was that he was very nearly given in charge more than once for molesting peaceable citizens in the neighbourhood of piccadilly and regent street. one night, on my way home from the temple, i saw in the bills of the evening papers the announcement of the arrest of a labour member. it was chapman, sure enough. at first, i feared that he had got himself into serious trouble, and was much relieved to find him in the flat in a state of blazing anger. it seemed that he had found somebody whom he thought was lumley, for he only knew him from my descriptions. the man was in a shop in jermyn street, with a car waiting outside, and chapman had--politely, as he swore--asked the chauffeur his master's name. the chauffeur had replied abusively, upon which chapman had hauled him from the driver's seat and shaken him till his teeth rattled. the owner came out, and chapman was arrested and taken off to the nearest police-court. he had been compelled to apologise and had been fined five pounds and costs. by the mercy of heaven, the chauffeur's master was a money-lender of evil repute, so the affair did chapman no harm. but i was forced to talk to him seriously. i knew it was no use explaining that for him to spy on the power-house was like an elephant stalking a gazelle. the only way was to appeal to his incurable romanticism. "don't you see," i told him, "that you are playing lumley's game? he will trap you sooner or later into some escapade which will land you in jail, and where will i be then? that is what he and his friends are out for. we have got to meet cunning with cunning, and lie low till we get our chance." he allowed himself to be convinced, and handed over to me the pistol he had bought, which had been the terror of my life. "all right," he said, "i'll keep quiet. but you promise to let me into the big scrap when it comes off." i promised. chapman's notion of the grand finale was a homeric combat in which he would get his fill of fisticuffs. he was an anxiety, but all the same he was an enormous comfort. his imperturbable cheerfulness and his racy talk were the tonics i wanted. he had plenty of wisdom, too. my nerves were getting bad those days, and, whereas i had rarely touched the things before, i now found myself smoking cigarettes from morning till night. i am pretty abstemious, as you know, but i discovered, to my horror, that i was drinking far too many whiskeys-and-sodas. chapman knocked me off all that and got me back to a pipe and a modest nightcap. he did more, for he undertook to put me in training. his notion was that we should win in the end by superior muscles. he was a square, thick-set fellow, who had been a good middle-weight boxer. i could box a bit myself, but i improved mightily under his tuition. we got some gloves, and used to hammer each other for half an hour every morning. then might have been seen the shameful spectacle of a rising barrister with a swollen lip and a black eye arguing in court, and proceeding of an evening to his country's legislature, where he was confronted from the opposite benches by the sight of a leader of the people in the same vulgar condition. in those days i wanted all the relief i could get, for it was a beastly time. i knew i was in grave danger, so i made my will and went through the other doleful performances consequent on the expectation of a speedy decease. you see, i had nothing to grip on, no clear job to tackle, only to wait on the off-chance, with an atmosphere of suspicion thickening around me. the spying went on--there was no mistake about that--but i soon ceased to mind it, though i did my best to give my watchers little satisfaction. there was a hint of bullying about the spying. it is disconcerting at night to have a man bump against you and look you greedily in the face. i did not go again to scotland yard, but one night i ran across macgillivray in the club. he had something of profound interest to tell me. i had asked about the phrase, the "power-house." well, he had come across it in the letter of a german friend, a private letter, in which the writer gave the results of his inquiries into a curious affair which a year before had excited europe. i have forgotten the details, but it had something to do with the slav states of austria and an italian students' union, and it threatened at one time to be dangerous. macgillivray's correspondent said that in some documents which were seized he found constant allusion to a thing called the _krafthaus_, evidently the headquarters-staff of the plot. and this same word, _krafthaus_, had appeared elsewhere--in a sonnet of a poet-anarchist who shot himself in the slums of antwerp, in the last ravings of more than one criminal, in the extraordinary testament of professor m----, of jena, who, at the age of thirty-seven, took his life after writing a strange, mystical message to his fellow citizens. macgillivray's correspondent concluded by saying that, in his opinion, if this _krafthaus_ could be found, the key would be discovered to the most dangerous secret organisation in the world. he added that he had some reason to believe that the motive power of the concern was english. "macgillivray," i said, "you have known me for some time, and i fancy you think me a sober and discreet person. well, i believe i am on the edge of discovering the secret of your _krafthaus_. i want you to promise me that if in the next week i send you an urgent message you will act on it, however fantastic it seems. i can't tell you more. i ask you to take me on trust, and believe that for anything i do i have tremendous reasons." he knit his shaggy grey eyebrows and looked curiously at me. "yes, i'll go bail for your sanity. it's a good deal to promise, but if you make an appeal to me i will see that it is met." next day i had news from felix. tuke and the man called saronov had been identified. if you are making inquiries about anybody it is fairly easy to find those who are seeking for the same person, and the russian police, in tracking tommy and pitt-heron, had easily come on the two gentlemen who were following the same trail. the two had gone by samarkand, evidently intending to strike into the hills by a shorter route than the main road from bokhara. the frontier posts had been warned, and the stalkers had become the stalked. that was one solid achievement, at any rate. i had saved pitt-heron from the worst danger, for first i had sent him tommy, and now i had put the police on guard against his enemies. i had not the slightest doubt that enemies they were. charles knew too much, and tuke was the man appointed to reason with him, to bring him back, if possible; or, if not---- as chapman had said, the ex-union leader was not the man to stick at trifles. it was a broiling june, the london season was at its height, and i had never been so busy in the courts before. but that crowded and garish world was little more than a dream to me. i went through my daily tasks, dined out, went to the play, had consultations, talked to my fellows, but all the while i had the feeling that i was watching somebody else perform the same functions. i believe i did my work well, and i know i was twice complimented by the court of appeal. but my real interests were far away. always i saw two men in the hot glens of the oxus, with the fine dust of the _loess_ rising in yellow clouds behind them. one of these men had a drawn and anxious face, and both rode hard. they passed by the closes of apricot and cherry and the green, watered gardens, and soon the oxus ceased to flow wide among rushes and water-lilies and became a turbid hill-stream. by-and-by the roadside changed, and the horses of the travellers trod on mountain turf, crushing the irises and marigolds and thyme. i could feel the free air blowing from the roof of the world, and see far ahead the snowy saddle of the pass which led to india. far behind the riders i saw two others, and they chose a different way, now over waterless plateaux, now in rugged _nullahs_. they rode the faster and their route was the shorter. sooner or later they must catch up the first riders, and i knew, though how i could not tell, that death would attend the meeting. i, and only i, sitting in london, four thousand miles away, could prevent disaster. the dream haunted me at night, and often, walking in the strand or sitting at a dinner-table, i have found my eyes fixed clearly on the shining upland with the thin white mountains at the back of it, and the four dots, which were men, hurrying fast on their business. one night i met lumley. it was at a big political dinner given by the chief of my party in the house of lords--fifty or sixty guests, and a blaze of stars and decorations. i sat near the bottom of the table, and he was near the top, sitting between a famous general and an ex-viceroy of india. i asked my right-hand neighbour who he was, but he could not tell me. the same question to my left-hand neighbour brought an answer: "it is old lumley. have you never met him? he doesn't go out much, but he gives a man's dinner now and then which are the best in london. no. he's not a politician, though he favours our side, and i expect has given a lot to our funds. i can't think why they don't make him a peer. he's enormously rich and very generous, and the most learned old fellow in britain. my chief"--my neighbour was an under-secretary--"knows him, and told me once that if you wanted any out-of-the-way bit of knowledge you could get it by asking lumley. i expect he pulls the strings more than anybody living. but he scarcely ever goes out, and it's a feather in our host's cap to have got him to-night. you never see his name in the papers, either. he probably pays the press to keep him out, like some of those millionaire fellows in america." i watched him through dinner. he was the centre of the talk at his end of the table. i could see the blue ribbon bulging out on lord morecambe's breast as he leaned forward to question him. he was wearing some foreign orders, including the legion of honour, and i could hear in the pause of conversation echoes of his soft, rich voice. i could see him beaming through his glasses on his neighbours, and now and then he would take them off and look mildly at a speaker. i wondered why nobody realised, as i did, what was in his light wild eyes. the dinner, i believe, was excellent and the company was good, but down at my end i could eat little, and i did not want to talk. here in this pleasant room, with servants moving softly about and a mellow light on the silver from the shaded candles, i felt the man was buttressed and defended beyond my reach. a kind of despairing hatred gripped me when i looked his way. for i was always conscious of that other picture--the asian desert, pitt-heron's hunted face, and the grim figure of tuke on his trail. that, and the great secret wheels of what was too inhuman to be called crime moving throughout the globe under this man's hand. there was a party afterwards, but i did not stay. no more did lumley, and for a second i brushed against him in the hall at the foot of the big staircase. he smiled on me affectionately. "have you been dining here? i did not notice you." "you had better things to think of," i said. "by the way, you gave me good advice some weeks ago. it may interest you to hear that i have taken it." "i am so glad," he said softly. "you are a very discreet young man." but his eyes told me that he knew i lied. chapter vi the restaurant in antioch street i was working late at the temple next day, and it was nearly seven before i got up to go home. macgillivray had telephoned to me in the afternoon saying he wanted to see me, and suggesting dinner at the club, and i had told him i should come straight there from my chambers. but just after six he had rung me up again and proposed another meeting place. "i've got some very important news for you, and want to be quiet. there's a little place where i sometimes dine--rapaccini's, in antioch street. i'll meet you there at half-past seven." i agreed, and sent a message to chapman at the flat, telling him i would be out to dinner. it was a wednesday night, so the house rose early. he asked me where i was dining, and i told him, but i did not mention with whom. his voice sounded very cross, for he hated a lonely meal. it was a hot, still night, and i had had a heavy day in court, so heavy that my private anxieties had almost slipped from my mind. i walked along the embankment, and up regent street towards oxford circus. antioch street, as i had learned from the directory, was in the area between langham place and tottenham court road. i wondered vaguely why macgillivray should have chosen such an out-of-the-way spot, but i knew him for a man of many whims. the street, when i found it, turned out to be a respectable little place, boarding-houses and architects' offices, with a few antiquity shops and a picture-cleaner's. the restaurant took some finding, for it was one of those discreet establishments, common enough in france, where no edibles are displayed in the british fashion, and muslin half-curtains deck the windows. only the doormat, lettered with the proprietor's name, remained to guide the hungry. i gave a waiter my hat and stick, and was ushered into a garish dining-room, apparently full of people. a single violinist was discoursing music from beside the grill. the occupants were not quite the kind one expects to find in an eating-house in a side street. the men were all in evening dress with white waistcoats, and the women looked either demi-mondaines or those who follow their taste in clothes. various eyes looked curiously at me as i entered. i guessed that the restaurant had, by one of those odd freaks of londoners, become for a moment the fashion. the proprietor met me half way up the room. he might call himself rapaccini, but he was obviously a german. "mr. geelvrai," he nodded. "he has engaged a private room. vill you follow, sir?" a narrow stairway broke into the wall on the left side of the dining-room. i followed the manager up it and along a short corridor to a door which filled its end. he ushered me into a brightly lit little room where a table was laid for two. "mr. geelvrai comes often here," said the manager. "he vill be late--sometimes. everything is ready, sir. i hope you vill be pleased." it looked inviting enough, but the air smelt stuffy. then i saw that, though the night was warm, the window was shut and the curtains drawn. i pulled back the curtains, and, to my surprise, saw that the shutters were closed. "you must open these," i said, "or we'll stifle." the manager glanced at the window. "i vill send a waiter," he said, and departed. the door seemed to shut with an odd click. i flung myself down in one of the armchairs, for i was feeling pretty tired. the little table beckoned alluringly, for i was also hungry. i remember there was a mass of pink roses on it. a bottle of champagne, with the cork loose, stood in a wine-cooler on the side-board, and there was an unopened bottle beside it. it seemed to me that macgillivray, when he dined here, did himself rather well. the promised waiter did not arrive, and the stuffiness was making me very thirsty. i looked for a bell, but could not see one. my watch told me it was now a quarter to eight, but there was no sign of macgillivray. i poured myself out a glass of champagne from the opened bottle, and was just about to drink it when my eye caught something in a corner of the room. it was one of those little mid-victorian corner tables--i believe they call them "what-nots"--which you will find in any boarding-house, littered up with photographs and coral and "presents from brighton." on this one stood a photograph in a shabby frame, and i thought i recognised it. i crossed the room and picked it up. it showed a man of thirty, with short side-whiskers and ill-fitting jaw and a drooping moustache. the duplicate of it was in macgillivray's cabinet. it was mr. routh, the ex-union leader. there was nothing very remarkable about that, after all, but it gave me a nasty shock. the room now seemed a sinister place, as well as intolerably close. there was still no sign of the waiter to open the window, so i thought i would wait for macgillivray downstairs. but the door would not open. the handle would not turn. it did not seem to be locked, but rather to have shut with some kind of patent spring. i noticed that the whole thing was a powerful piece of oak, with a heavy framework, very unlike the usual flimsy restaurant doors. my first instinct was to make a deuce of a row and attract the attention of the diners below. i own i was beginning to feel badly frightened. clearly, i had got into some sort of trap. macgillivray's invitation might have been a hoax, for it is not difficult to counterfeit a man's voice on the telephone. with an effort i forced myself into calmness. it was preposterous to think that anything could happen to me in a room not thirty feet from where a score or two of ordinary citizens were dining. i had only to raise my voice to bring inquirers. yes, but above all things i did not want a row. it would never do for a rising lawyer and a member of parliament to be found shouting for help in an upper chamber of a bloomsbury restaurant. the worst deduction would be drawn from the open bottle of champagne. besides, it might be all right after all. the door might have got stuck. macgillivray at that very moment might be on his way up. so i sat down and waited. then i remembered my thirst, and stretched out my hand to the glass of champagne. but at that instant i looked towards the window, and set down the wine untasted. it was a very odd window. the lower end was about flush with the floor, and the hinges of the shutters seemed to be only on one side. as i stared, i began to wonder whether it was a window at all. next moment my doubts were solved. the window swung open like a door, and in the dark cavity stood a man. strangely enough, i knew him. his figure was not one that is readily forgotten. "good evening, mr. docker," i said. "will you have a glass of champagne?" a year before, on the south eastern circuit, i had appeared for the defence in a burglary case. criminal law was not my province, but now and then i took a case to keep my hand in, for it is the best training in the world for the handling of witnesses. this case had been peculiar. a certain bill docker was the accused, a gentleman who bore a bad reputation in the eyes of the police. the evidence against him was strong, but it was more or less tainted, being chiefly that of two former accomplices--a proof that there is small truth in the proverbial honour among thieves. it was an ugly business, and my sympathies were with the accused, for though he may very well have been guilty, yet he had been the victim of a shabby trick. anyhow, i put my back into the case, and after a hard struggle got a verdict of "not guilty." mr. docker had been kind enough to express his appreciation of my efforts, and to ask, in a hoarse whisper, how i had "squared the old bird," meaning the judge. he did not understand the subtleties of the english law of evidence. he shambled into the room, a huge, hulking figure of a man, with the thickness of chest which, under happier circumstances, might have made him a terror in the prize-ring. his features wore a heavy scowl, which slowly cleared to a flicker of recognition. "by god, it's the lawyer-chap," he muttered. i pointed to the glass of champagne. "i don't mind if i do," he said. "'ere's health!" he swallowed the wine at a gulp, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "'ave a drop yourself, guvnor," he added. "a glass of bubbly will cheer you up." "well, mr. docker," i said, "i hope i see you fit." i was getting wonderfully collected now that the suspense was over. "pretty fair, sir. pretty fair. able to do my day's work like an honest man." "and what brings you here?" "a little job i'm on. some friends of mine wants you out of the road for a bit, and they've sent me to fetch you. it's a bit of luck for you that you've struck a pal. we needn't 'ave no unpleasantness, seein' we're both what you might call men of the world." "i appreciate the compliment," i said. "but where do you propose to take me?" "dunno. it's some lay near the docks. i've got a motor-car waitin' at the back of the 'ouse." "but supposing i don't want to go?" "my orders hadmit no hexcuse," he said solemnly. "you're a sensible chap, and can see that in a scrap i could down you easy." "very likely," i said. "but, man, you must be mad to talk like that. downstairs there is a dining-room fall of people. i have only to lift my voice to bring the police." "you're a kid," he said scornfully. "them geesers downstairs are all in the job. that was a flat-catching rig to get you up here so as you wouldn't suspect nothing. if you was to go down now--which you ain't going to be allowed to do--you wouldn't find a blamed soul in the place. i must say you're a bit softer than i 'oped after the 'andsome way you talked over the old juggins with the wig at maidstone." mr. docker took the bottle from the wine-cooler and filled himself another glass. it sounded horribly convincing. if i was to be kidnapped and smuggled away lumley would have scored half a success. not the whole, for, as i swiftly reflected, i had put felix on the track of tuke, and there was every chance that tommy and pitt-heron would be saved. but for myself it looked pretty black. the more my scheme succeeded the more likely the power-house would be to wreak its vengeance on me once i was spirited from the open-air world into its dark labyrinths. i made a great effort to keep my voice even and calm. "mr. docker," i said. "i once did you a good turn. but for me you might be doing time now instead of drinking champagne like a gentleman. your pals played you a pretty low trick, and that was why i stuck out for you. i didn't think you were the kind of man to forget a friend." "no more i am," said he. "the man who says bill docker would go back on a pal is a liar." "well, here's your chance to pay your debts. the men who employ you are my deadly enemies, and want to do me in. i'm not a match for you. you're a stronger fellow and can drag me off and hand me over to them. but if you do i'm done with. make no mistake about that. i put it to you as a decent fellow. are you going to go back on the man who has been a good friend to you?" he shifted from one foot to another with his eyes on the ceiling. he was obviously in difficulties. then he tried another glass of champagne. "i dursn't, guv'nor. i dursn't let you go. them i work for would cut my throat as soon as look at me. besides, it ain't no good. if i was to go off and leave you there'd be plenty more in this 'ouse as would do the job. you're up against it, guv'nor. but take a sensible view and come with me. they don't mean you no real 'arm. i'll take my bible oath on it. only to keep you quiet for a bit, for you've run across one of their games. they won't do you no 'urt if you speak 'em fair. be a sport and take it smiling-like----" "you're afraid of them," i said. "yuss. i'm afraid. black afraid. so would you be if you knew the gents. i'd rather take on the whole rat lane crowd--you know them as i mean--on a saturday night, when they're out for business, than go back to my gents and say as 'ow i had shirked the job." he shivered. "good lord, they'd freeze the 'eart out of a bull-pup." "you're afraid," i said slowly. "so you're going to give me up to the men you're afraid of to do as they like with me. i never expected it of you, bill. i thought you were the kind of lad who would send any gang to the devil before you'd go back on a pal." "don't say that," he said almost plaintively. "you don't 'alf know the 'ole i'm in." his eye seemed to be wandering, and he yawned deeply. just then a great noise began below. i heard a voice speaking, a loud peremptory voice. then my name was shouted: "leithen! leithen! are you there?" there could be no mistaking that broad yorkshire tongue. by some miracle chapman had followed me and was raising cain downstairs. my heart leaped with the sudden revulsion. "i'm here," i yelled. "upstairs. come up and let me out!" then i turned with a smile of triumph to bill. "my friends have come," i said. "you're too late for the job. get back and tell your masters that." he was swaying on his feet, and he suddenly lurched towards me. "you come along. by god, you think you've done me. i'll let you see." his voice was growing thick and he stopped short. "what the 'ell's wrong with me?" he gasped. "i'm goin' all queer. i..." he was like a man far gone in liquor, but three glasses of champagne would never have touched a head like bill's. i saw what was up with him. he was not drunk, but drugged. "they've doped the wine," i cried. "they put it there for me to drink it and go to sleep." there is always something which is the last straw to any man. you may insult and outrage him and he will bear it patiently, but touch the quick in his temper and he will turn. apparently for bill drugging was the unforgivable sin. his eye lost for a moment its confusion. he squared his shoulders and roared like a bull. "doped, by god," he cried. "who done it?" "the men who shut me in this room. burst that door and you will find them." he turned a blazing face on the locked door and hurled his huge weight on it. it cracked and bent but the lock and hinges held. i could see that sleep was overwhelming him and that his limbs were stiffening, but his anger was still strong enough for another effort. again he drew himself together like a big cat and flung himself on the woodwork. the hinges tore from the jambs and the whole outfit fell forward into the passage in a cloud of splinters and dust and broken plaster. it was mr. docker's final effort. he lay on the top of the wreckage he had made, like samson among the ruins of gaza, a senseless and slumbering hulk. i picked up the unopened bottle of champagne--it was the only weapon available--and stepped over his body. i was beginning to enjoy myself amazingly. as i expected, there was a man in the corridor, a little fellow in waiter's clothes, with a tweed jacket instead of a dress coat. if he had a pistol i knew i was done, but i gambled upon the disinclination of the management for the sound of shooting. he had a knife, but he never had a chance to use it. my champagne bottle descended on his head and he dropped like a log. there were men coming upstairs--not chapman, for i still heard his hoarse shouts in the dining-room. if they once got up they could force me back through that hideous room by the door through which docker had come, and in five minutes i should be in their motor-car. there was only one thing to do. i jumped from the stair-head right down among them. i think there were three, and my descent toppled them over. we rolled in a wild, whirling mass and cascaded into the dining-room, where my head bumped violently on the parquet. i expected a bit of a grapple, but none came. my wits were pretty woolly, but i managed to scramble to my feet. the heels of my enemies were disappearing up the staircase. chapman was pawing my ribs to discover if there were any bones broken. there was not another soul in the room except two policemen who were pushing their way in from the street. chapman was flushed and breathing heavily: his coat had a big split down the seams at the shoulder, but his face was happy as a child's. i caught his arm and spoke in his ear. "we've got to get out of this at once. how can we square these policemen? there must be no inquiry and nothing in the papers. do you hear?" "that's all right," said chapman. "these bobbies are friends of mine, two good lads from wensleydale. on my road here i told them to give me a bit of law and follow me, for i thought they might be wanted. they didn't come too soon to spoil sport, for i've been knocking furriners about for ten minutes. you seem to have been putting up a tidy scrap yourself." "let's get home first," i said, for i was beginning to think of the bigger thing. i wrote a chit for macgillivray which i asked one of the constables to take to scotland yard. it was to beg that nothing should be done yet in the business of the restaurant, and above all that nothing should get into the papers. then i asked the other to see us home. it was a queer request for two able-bodied men to make on a summer evening in the busiest part of london, but i was taking no chances. the power-house had declared war on me, and i knew it would be war without quarter. i was in a fever to get out of that place. my momentary lust of battle had gone, and every stone of that building seemed to me a threat. chapman would have liked to spend a happy hour rummaging through the house, but the gravity of my face persuaded him. the truth is i was bewildered. i could not understand the reason of this sudden attack. lumley's spies must long ago have told him enough to connect me with the bokhara business. my visits to the embassy alone were sufficient proof. but now he must have found out something new, something which startled him, or else there had been wild doings in turkestan. i won't forget that walk home in a hurry. it was a fine july twilight. the streets were full of the usual crowd, shop-girls in thin frocks, promenading clerks, and all the flotsam of a london summer. you would have said it was the safest place on earth. but i was glad we had the policeman with us, who at the end of one beat passed us on to his colleague, and i was glad of chapman. for i am morally certain i would never have got home alone. the queer thing is that there was no sign of trouble till we got into oxford street. then i became aware that there were people on those pavements who knew all about me. i first observed it at the mouth of one of those little dark side-alleys which run up into mews and small dingy courts. i found myself being skilfully edged away from chapman into the shadow, but i noticed it in time and butted my way back to the pavement. i couldn't make out who the people were who hustled me. they seemed nondescripts of all sorts, but i fancied there were women among them. this happened twice, and i got wary, but i was nearly caught before we reached oxford circus. there was a front of a big shop rebuilding, and the usual wooden barricade with a gate. just as we passed it there was a special throng on the pavement and i, being next the wall, got pushed against the gate. suddenly it gave and i was pressed inward. i was right inside before i realised my danger, and the gate was closing. there must have been people there, but i could see nothing in the gloom. it was no time for false pride. i yelled to chapman and the next second his burly shoulder was in the gap. the hustlers vanished and i seemed to hear a polite voice begging my pardon. after that chapman and i linked arms and struck across mayfair. but i did not feel safe till i was in the flat with the door bolted. we had a long drink and i stretched myself in an armchair, for i was as tired as if i had come out of a big game of rugby football. "i owe you a good deal, old man," i said. "i think i'll join the labour party. you can tell your fellows to send me their whips. what possessed you to come to look for me?" the explanation was simple. i had mentioned the restaurant in my telephone message, and the name had awakened a recollection in chapman's mind. he could not fix it at first, but by and by he remembered that the place had cropped up in the routh case. routh's london headquarters had been at the restaurant in antioch street. as soon as he remembered this he got into a taxi and descended at the corner of the street, where by sheer luck he fell in with his wensleydale friends. he said he had marched into the restaurant and found it empty, but for an ill-favoured manager, who denied all knowledge of me. then fortunately he chose to make certain by shouting my name, and heard my answer. after that he knocked the manager down, and was presently assaulted by several men whom he described as "furrin' muck." they had knives, of which he made very little, for he seems to have swung a table as a battering ram and left sore limbs behind him. he was on the top of his form. "i haven't enjoyed anything so much since i was a lad at school," he informed me. "i was beginning to think your power-house was a wash-out, but lord i it's been busy enough to-night. this is what i call life!" my spirits could not keep pace with his. the truth is that i was miserably puzzled--not afraid so much as mystified. i couldn't make out this sudden dead-set at me. either they knew more than i bargained for or i knew far too little. "it's all very well," i said, "but i don't see how this is going to end. we can't keep up the pace long. at this rate it will be only a matter of hours till they get me." we pretty well barricaded ourselves in the flat, and, at his earnest request, i restored to chapman his revolver. then i got the clue i had been longing for. it was about eleven o'clock, while we were sitting smoking, when the telephone bell rang. it was felix who spoke. "i have news for you," he said. "the hunters have met the hunted and one of the hunters is dead. the other is a prisoner in our hands. he has confessed." it had been black murder in intent. the frontier police had shadowed the two men into the cup of a glen where they met tommy and pitt-heron. the four had spoken together for a little, and then tuke had fired deliberately at charles and had grazed his ear. whereupon tommy had charged him and knocked the pistol from his hand. the assailant had fled, but a long shot from the police on the hillside had toppled him over. tommy had felled saronov with his fists, and the man had abjectly surrendered. he had confessed, felix said, but what the confession was he did not know. chapter vii i find sanctuary my nervousness and indecision dropped from me at the news. i had won the first round, and i would win the last, for it suddenly became clear to me that i had now evidence which would blast lumley. i believed that it would not be hard to prove his identity with pavia and his receipt of the telegram from saronov; tuke was his creature, and tuke's murderous mission was his doing. no doubt i knew little and could prove nothing about the big thing, the power-house, but conspiracy to murder is not the lightest of criminal charges. i was beginning to see my way to checkmating my friend, at least so far as pitt-heron was concerned. provided--and it was a pretty big proviso--that he gave me the chance to use my knowledge. that i foresaw, was going to be the difficulty. what i knew now lumley had known hours before. the reason of the affair at antioch street was now only too clear. if he believed that i had damning evidence against him--and there was no doubt he suspected it--then he would do his best to stop my mouth. i must get my statement lodged in the proper quarter at the earliest possible moment. the next twenty-four hours, i feared, were going to be too sensational for comfort. and yet i cannot say that i was afraid. i was too full of pride to be in a funk. i had lost my awe of lumley through scoring a point against him. had i known more i should have been less at my ease. it was this confidence which prevented me doing the obvious safe thing--ringing up macgillivray, telling him the gist of my story, and getting him to put me under police protection. i thought i was clever enough to see the thing through myself. and it must have been the same over-confidence which prevented lumley getting at me that night. an organisation like his could easily have got into the flat and done for us both. i suppose the explanation is that he did not yet know how much i knew and was not yet ready to take the last steps in silencing me. i sat up till the small hours, marshalling my evidence in a formal statement and making two copies of it. one was destined for macgillivray and the other for felix, for i was taking no risks. i went to bed and slept peacefully and was awakened as usual by waters. my man slept out, and used to turn up in the morning about seven. it was all so normal and homely that i could have believed my adventures of the night before a dream. in the summer sunlight the ways of darkness seemed very distant. i dressed in excellent spirits and made a hearty breakfast. then i gave the docile chapman his instructions. he must take the document to scotland yard, ask to see macgillivray, and put it into his hands. then he must ring me up at once at down street and tell me that he had done this. i had already telephoned to my clerk that i would not be at the temple that day. it seems a simple thing to travel less than a mile in the most frequented part of london in broad daylight, and perform an easy act like carrying a letter; but i knew that lumley's spies would be active, and would connect chapman sufficiently with me to think him worth following. in that case there might be an attempt at violence. i thought it my duty to tell him this, but he laughed me to scorn. he proposed to walk, and he begged to be shown the man who would meddle with him. chapman after last night was prepared to take on all comers. he put my letter to macgillivray in his inner pocket, buttoned his coat, crushed down his felt hat on his head, and defiantly set forth. i expected a message from him in half an hour, for he was a rapid walker. but the half hour passed, then the three-quarters, and nothing happened. at eleven i rang up scotland yard, but they had no news of him. then i became miserably anxious, for it was clear that some disaster had overtaken my messenger. my first impulse was to set out myself to look for him, but a moment's reflection convinced me that that would be playing into the enemy's hands. for an hour i wrestled with my impatience, and then a few minutes after twelve i was rung up by st. thomas's hospital. a young doctor spoke, and said that mr. chapman had asked him to tell me what had happened. he had been run down by a motor-car at the corner of whitehall--nothing serious--only a bad shake and some scalp wounds. in a day or so he would be able to leave. then he added what drove the blood from my heart. "mr. chapman personally wished me to tell you," he said, "that the letter has gone." i stammered some reply asking his meaning. "he said he thinks," i was told, "that, while he was being assisted to his feet, his pocket was picked and a letter taken. he said you would know what he meant." i knew only too well what he meant. lumley had got my statement, and realised precisely how much i knew and what was the weight of evidence against him. before he had only suspected, now he knew. he must know, too, that there would be a copy somewhere which i would try to deliver. it was going to be harder than i had fancied to get my news to the proper ears, and i had to anticipate the extreme of violence on the part of my opponents. the thought of the peril restored my coolness. i locked the outer door of my flat, and telephoned to the garage where i kept my car, bidding stagg call for me at two o'clock precisely. then i lit a pipe and strove to banish the whole business from my thoughts, for fussing would do me no good. presently it occurred to me to ring up felix and give him some notion of the position. but i found that my telephone was now broken and connection was impossible. the spoken as well as the written word was to be denied me. that had happened in the last half hour and i didn't believe it was by accident. also my man waters, whom i had sent out on an errand after breakfast, had never returned. the state of siege had begun. it was a blazing hot midsummer day. the water-carts were sprinkling piccadilly, and looking from my window i could see leisurely and elegant gentlemen taking their morning stroll. a florist's cart full of roses stood below me in the street. the summer smell of town--a mixture of tar, flowers, dust and patchouli--rose in gusts through the hot air. it was the homely london i knew so well, and i was somehow an exile from it. i was being shepherded into a dismal isolation, which, unless i won help, might mean death. i was cool enough now, but i will not deny that i was miserably anxious. i cursed my false confidence the night before. by now i might have had macgillivray and his men by my side. as it was i wondered if i should ever see them. i changed into a flannel suit, lunched off sandwiches and a whisky and soda, and at two o'clock looked for stagg and my car. he was five minutes late, a thing which had never happened before. but i never welcomed anything so gladly as the sight of that car. i had hardly dared to hope that it would reach me. my goal was the embassy in belgrave square, but i was convinced that if i approached it directly i should share the fate of chapman. worse, for from me they would not merely snatch the letter. what i had once written i could write again, and if they wished to ensure my silence it must be by more drastic methods. i proposed to baffle my pursuers by taking a wide circuit round the western suburbs of london, returning to the embassy when i thought the coast clear. it was a tremendous relief to go down the stairs and emerge into the hot daylight. i gave stagg his instructions, and lay back in the closed car with a curious fluttering sense of anticipation. i had begun the last round in the wild game. there was a man at the corner of down street who seemed to peer curiously at the car. he was doubtless one of my watchers. we went up park lane into the edgeware road, my instructions to stagg being to make a circuit by harrow and brentford. now that i was ensconced in my car i felt a trifle safer, and my tense nerves relaxed. i grew drowsy and allowed myself to sink into a half doze. the stolid back of stagg filled my gaze, as it had filled it a fortnight ago on the western road, and i admired lazily the brick-red of his neck. he had been in the guards, and a boer bullet at modder river had left a long scar at the nape of his neck, which gave to his hair the appearance of being badly cut. he had told me the story on exmoor. suddenly i rubbed my eyes. there was no scar there; the hair of the chauffeur grew regularly down to his coat-collar. the resemblance had been perfect, the voice was stagg's, but clearly it was not stagg who now drove my car. i pulled the blind down over the front window as if to shelter myself from the sun. looking out i saw that we were some distance up the edgeware road, nearing the point where the marylebone road joins it. now or never was my chance, for at the corner there is always a block in the traffic. the car slowed down in obedience to a policeman's uplifted hand, and very gently i opened the door on the left side. since the car was new it opened softly, and in two seconds i had stepped out, shut it again, and made a dive between a butcher's cart and a motor-bus for the side-walk. i gave one glance back and saw the unconscious chauffeur still rigid at the wheel. i dodged unobtrusively through the crowd on the pavement, with my hand on my breast-pocket to see that my paper was still there. there was a little picture-shop near by to which i used to go occasionally, owned by a man who was an adept at cleaning and restoring. i had sent him customers and he was likely to prove a friend. so i dived into his doorway, which made a cool pit of shade after the glaring street, and found him, spectacles on nose, busy examining some dusty prints. he greeted me cordially and followed me into the back shop. "mr. levison," i said, "have you a back door?" he looked at me in some surprise. "why, yes; there is the door into the lane which runs from edgeley street into connaught mews." "will you let me use it? there is a friend outside whom i wish to avoid. such things happen, you know." he smiled comprehendingly. "certainly, sir. come this way," and he led me through a dark passage hung with dingy old masters to a little yard filled with the debris of picture frames. there he unlocked a door in the wall and i found myself in a narrow alley. as i emerged i heard the bell of the shop-door ring. "if any one inquires, you have not seen me here, remember," i said, and mr. levison nodded. he was an artist in his small way and liked the scent of a mystery. i ran down the lane and by various cross streets made my way into bayswater. i believed that i had thrown my trackers for the moment off the scent, but i had got to get to the embassy, and that neighbourhood was sure to be closely watched. i came out on the bayswater road pretty far west, and resolved to strike south-east across the park. my reason was that the neighbourhood of hyde park corner was at that time of day certain to be pretty well crowded, and i felt more security in a throng than in the empty streets of kensington. now that i come to think of it, it was a rash thing to do, for since lumley knew the full extent of my knowledge, he was likely to deal more violently with me than with chapman, and the seclusion of the park offered him too good a chance. i crossed the riding-track and struck over the open space where the sunday demonstrations are held. there was nothing there but nurses and perambulators, children at play, and dogs being exercised. presently i reached grosvenor gate, where on the little green chairs well-dressed people were taking the air. i recognised several acquaintances and stopped for a moment to talk to one of them. then i emerged in park lane and walked down it to hamilton place. so far i thought i had not been followed, but now once more i had the indefinable but unerring sensation of being watched. i caught a man looking eagerly at me from the other side of the street, and it seemed to me that he made a sign to someone farther off. there was now less than a quarter of a mile between me and belgrave square, but i saw that it would be a hard course to cover. once in piccadilly there could be no doubt about my watchers. lumley was doing the thing in style this time. last night it had only been a trial trip, but now the whole energies of the power-house were on the job. the place was filled with the usual mid-season crowd, and i had to take off my hat several times. up in the bow-window of the bachelors' club a young friend of mine was writing a letter and sipping a long drink with an air of profound boredom. i would have given much for his _ennui_, for my life at the moment was painfully exciting. i was alone in that great crowd, isolated and proscribed, and there was no help save in my own wits. if i spoke to a policeman he would think me drunk or mad, and yet i was on the edge of being made the victim of a far subtler crime than fell within the purview of the metropolitan force. now i saw how thin is the protection of civilisation. an accident and a bogus ambulance--a false charge and a bogus arrest--there were a dozen ways of spiriting me out of this gay, bustling world. i foresaw that, if i delayed, my nerve would break, so i boldly set off across the road. i jolly nearly shared the fate of chapman. a car which seemed about to draw up at a club door suddenly swerved across the street, and i had to dash to an island to escape it. it was no occasion to hesitate, so, dodging a bus and missing a motor bicycle by a hair's breadth, i rushed across the remaining distance and reached the railings of the green park. here there were fewer people, and several queer things began to happen. a little group of workmen with their tools were standing by the kerb, and they suddenly moved towards me. a pavement artist, who looked like a cripple, scrambled to his feet and moved in the same direction. there was a policeman at the corner, and i saw a well-dressed man go up to him, say something and nod in my direction, and the policeman too began to move towards me. i did not await them. i took to my heels and ran for my life down grosvenor place. long ago at eton i had won the school mile, and at oxford i was a second string for the quarter. but never at eton or at oxford did i run as i ran then. it was blisteringly hot, but i did not feel it, for my hands were clammy and my heart felt like a cold stone. i do not know how the pursuit got on, for i did not think of it. i did not reflect what kind of spectacle i must afford running like a thief in a london thoroughfare on a june afternoon. i only knew that my enemies were around and behind me, and that in front, a few hundred yards away, lay safety. but even as i ran i had the sense to think out my movements, and to realise that the front door of the embassy was impossible. for one thing it would be watched, and for another, before the solemn footmen opened it, my pursuers would be upon me. my only hope was the back door. i twisted into the mews behind the north side of the square, and as i turned i saw two men run up from the square as if to cut me off. a whistle was blown and more men appeared--one entering from the far end of the mews, one darting from a public-house door, and one sliding down a ladder from a stable-loft. this last was nearest me and tried to trip me, but i rejoice to say that a left-hander on the chin sent him sprawling on the cobbles. i remembered that the embassy was the fifth house from the end, and feverishly i tried to count the houses by their backs. it is not so easy as it sounds, for the modern london householder studs his back premises with excrescences which seem to melt into his neighbour's. in the end i had to make a guess at the door, which to my joy was unlocked. i rushed in and banged it behind me. i found myself in a stone passage, with on one side a door opening on a garage. there was a wooden staircase leading to an upper floor, and a glass door in front which opened into a large disused room full of boxes. beyond were two doors, one of which was locked. the other abutted on a steep iron stairway which obviously led to the lower regions of the house. i ran down the stair--it was no more than a ladder--crossed a small courtyard, traversed a passage, and burst into the kitchen, where i confronted an astonished white-capped chef in the act of lifting a pot from the fire. his face was red and wrathful, and i thought that he was going to fling the pot at my head. i had disturbed him in some delicate operation, and his artist's pride was outraged. "monsieur," i stammered in french, "i seek your pardon for my intrusion. there were circumstances which compelled me to enter this house by the back premises. i am an acquaintance of his excellency, your patron, and an old friend of monsieur felix. i beg you of your kindness to direct me to monsieur felix's room, or to bid some one take me there." my abject apologies mollified him. "it is a grave offence, monsieur," he said, "an unparalleled offence, to enter my kitchen at this hour. i fear you have irremediably spoiled the new casserole dish that i was endeavouring to compose." i was ready to go on my knees to the offended artist. "it grieves me indeed to have interfered with so rare an art, which i have often admired at his excellency's table. but there is danger behind me and an urgent mission in front. monsieur will forgive me? necessity will, sometimes, overrule the finest sensibility." he bowed to me and i bowed to him, and my pardon was assured. suddenly a door opened, another than that by which i had entered, and a man appeared whom i took to be a footman. he was struggling into his livery coat, but at the sight of me he dropped it. i thought i recognised the face as that of the man who had emerged from the public-house and tried to cut me off. "'ere, mister alphonse," he cried, "'elp me to collar this man. the police are after 'im." "you forget, my friend," i said, "that an embassy is privileged ground which the police can't enter. i desire to be taken before his excellency." "so that's yer game," he shouted. "but two can play at that. 'ere, give me an 'and, moosoo, and we'll 'ave him in the street in a jiffy. there's two 'undred of the best in our pockets if we 'ands 'im over to them as wants 'im." the cook looked puzzled and a little frightened. "will you allow them to outrage your kitchen--an embassy kitchen too--without your consent?" i said. "what have you done?" he asked in french. "only what your patron will approve," i replied in the same tongue. "_messieurs les assassins_ have a grudge against me." he still hesitated, while the young footman advanced on me. he was fingering something in his trousers pocket which i did not like. now was the time when, as they say in america, i should have got busy with my gun; but alas! i had no gun. i feared supports for the enemy, for the footman at the first sight of me had run back the way he had come, and i had heard a low whistle. what might have happened i do not know, had not the god appeared from the machine in the person of hewins, the butler. "hewins," i said, "you know me. i have often dined here, and you know that i am a friend of monsieur felix. i am on my way to see him on an urgent matter, and for various reasons i had to enter by monsieur alphonse's kitchen. will you take me at once to monsieur felix?" hewins bowed, and on his imperturbable face there appeared no sign of surprise. "this way, sir," was all he said. as i followed him i saw the footman plucking nervously at the something in his trousers-pocket. lumley's agents apparently had not always the courage to follow his instructions to the letter, for i made no doubt that the order had been to take me alive or dead. i found felix alone, and flung myself into an arm-chair. "my dear chap," i said, "take my advice and advise his excellency to sack the red-haired footman." from that moment i date that sense of mastery over a situation which drives out fear. i had been living for weeks under a dark pall and suddenly the skies had lightened. i had found sanctuary. whatever happened to me now the worst was past, for i had done my job. felix was looking at me curiously, for, jaded, scarlet, dishevelled, i was an odd figure for a london afternoon. "things seem to have been marching fast with you," he said. "they have, but i think the march is over. i want to ask several favours. first, here is a document which sets out certain facts. i shall ring up macgillivray at scotland yard and ask him to come here at . this evening. when he comes i want you to give him this and ask him to read it at once. he will know how to act on it." felix nodded. "and the next?" "give me a telegraph form. i want a wire sent at once by someone who can be trusted." he handed me a form and i wrote out a telegram to lumley at the albany, saying that i proposed to call upon him that evening at sharp, and asking him to receive me. "next?" said felix. "next and last, i want a room with a door which will lock, a hot bath, and something to eat about seven. i might be permitted to taste monsieur alphonse's new casserole dish." i rang up macgillivray, reminded him of his promise, and told him what awaited him at . . then i had a wash, and afterwards at my leisure gave felix a sketch of the day's doings. i have never felt more completely at my ease, for whatever happened i was certain that i had spoiled lumley's game. he would know by now that i had reached the embassy, and that any further attempts on my life and liberty were futile. my telegram would show him that i was prepared to offer terms, and i would certainly be permitted to reach the albany unmolested. to the meeting with my adversary i looked forward without qualms, but with the most lively interest. i had my own theories about that distinguished criminal, and i hoped to bring them to the proof. just before seven i had a reply to my wire. mr. lumley said he would be delighted to see me. the telegram was directed to me at the embassy, though i had put no address on the one i sent. lumley of course knew all my movements. i could picture him sitting in his chair, like some chief of staff, receiving every few minutes the reports of his agents. all the same napoleon had fought his waterloo. chapter viii the power-house i left belgrave square about a quarter to eight and retraced my steps along the route which for me that afternoon had been so full of tremors. i was still being watched--a little observation told me that--but i would not be interfered with, provided my way lay in a certain direction. so completely without nervousness was i that at the top of constitution hill i struck into the green park and kept to the grass till i emerged into piccadilly, opposite devonshire house. a light wind had risen and the evening had grown pleasantly cool. i met several men i knew going out to dinner on foot and stopped to exchange greetings. from my clothes they thought i had just returned from a day in the country. i reached the albany as the clock was striking eight. lumley's rooms were on the first floor, and i was evidently expected, for the porter himself conducted me to them and waited by me till the door was opened by a man-servant. you know those rococo, late georgian albany rooms, large, square, clumsily corniced. lumley's was lined with books, which i saw at a glance were of a different type from those in his working library at his country house. this was the collection of a bibliophile, and in the light of the summer evening the rows of tall volumes in vellum and morocco lined the walls like some rich tapestry. the valet retired and shut the door, and presently from a little inner chamber came his master. he was dressed for dinner and wore more than ever the air of the eminent diplomat. again i had the old feeling of incredulity. it was the lumley i had met two nights before at dinner, the friend of viceroys and cabinet ministers. it was hard to connect him with antioch street or the red-haired footman with a pistol. or with tuke? yes, i decided, tuke fitted into the frame. both were brains cut loose from the decencies that make life possible. "good evening, mr. leithen," he said pleasantly. "as you have fixed the hour of eight, may i offer you dinner?" "thank you," i replied, "but i have already dined. i have chosen an awkward time, but my business need not take long." "so," he said. "i am always glad to see you at any hour." "and i prefer to see the master rather than the subordinates who have been infesting my life during the past week." we both laughed. "i am afraid you have had some annoyance, mr. leithen," he said. "but remember, i gave you fair warning." "true. and i have come to do the same kindness to you. that part of the game, at any rate, is over." "over?" he queried, raising his eyebrows. "yes, over," i said, and took out my watch. "let us be quite frank with each other, mr. lumley. there is really very little time to waste. as you have doubtless read the paper which you stole from my friend this morning you know more or less the extent of my information." "let us have frankness by all means. yes, i have read your paper. a very creditable piece of work, if i may say so. you will rise in your profession, mr. leithen. but surely you must realise that it carries you a very little way." "in a sense you are right. i am not in a position to reveal the full extent of your misdeeds. of the power-house and its doings i can only guess. but pitt-heron is on his way home, and he will be carefully safeguarded on that journey. your creature, saronov, has confessed. we shall know more very soon, and meantime i have clear evidence which implicates you in a conspiracy to murder." he did not answer, but i wished i could see behind his tinted spectacles to the look in his eyes. i think he had not been quite prepared for the line i took. "i need not tell you as a lawyer, mr. leithen," he said at last, "that what seems good evidence on paper is often feeble enough in court. you cannot suppose that i will tamely plead guilty to your charges. on the contrary, i will fight them with all the force that brains and money can give. you are an ingenious young man, but you are not the brightest jewel of the english bar." "that also is true. i do not deny that some of my evidence may be weakened at the trial. it is even conceivable that you may be acquitted on some technical doubt. but you have forgotten one thing. from the day you leave the court you will be a suspected man. the police of all europe will be on your trail. you have been highly successful in the past, and why? because you have been above suspicion, an honourable and distinguished gentleman, belonging to the best clubs, counting as your acquaintances the flower of our society. now you will be a suspect, a man with a past, a centre of strange stories. i put it to you--how far are you likely to succeed under these conditions?" he laughed. "you have a talent for character drawing, my friend. what makes you think that i can work only if i live in the limelight of popularity?" "the talent you mentioned," i said. "as i read your character--and i think i am right--you are an artist in crime. you are not the common cut-throat who acts out of passion or greed. no, i think you are something subtler than that. you love power, hidden power. you flatter your vanity by despising mankind and making them your tools. you scorn the smattering of inaccuracies which passes for human knowledge, and i will not venture to say you are wrong. therefore you use your brains to frustrate it. unhappily the life of millions is built on that smattering, so you are a foe to society. but there would be no flavour in controlling subterranean things if you were yourself a mole working in the dark. to get the full flavour, the irony of it all, you must live in the light. i can imagine you laughing in your soul as you move about our world, praising it with your lips, patting it with your hands, and kicking its props away with your feet. i can see the charm of it. but it is over now." "over?" he asked. "over," i repeated. "the end has come--the utter, final and absolute end." he made a sudden, odd, nervous movement, pushing his glasses close back upon his eyes. "what about yourself?" he said hoarsely. "do you think you can play against me without suffering desperate penalties?" he was holding a cord in his hand with a knob on the end of it. he now touched a button in the knob and there came the faint sound of a bell. the door was behind me and he was looking beyond me towards it. i was entirely at his mercy, but i never budged an inch. i do not know how i managed to keep calm, but i did it, and without much effort. i went on speaking, conscious that the door had opened and that someone was at my back. "it is really quite useless trying to frighten me. i am safe, because i am dealing with an intelligent man and not with the ordinary half-witted criminal. you do not want my life in silly revenge. if you call in your men and strangle me between you what earthly good would it do you?" he was looking beyond me and the passion--a sudden white-hot passion like an epilepsy--was dying out of his face. "a mistake, james," he said. "you can go." the door closed softly at my back. "yes. a mistake. i have a considerable admiration for you, mr. lumley, and should be sorry to be disappointed." he laughed quite like an ordinary mortal. "i am glad this affair is to be conducted on a basis of mutual respect. now that the melodramatic overture is finished, let us get to the business." "by all means," i said. "i promised to deal with you frankly. well, let me put my last cards on the table. at half-past nine precisely the duplicate of that statement of mine which you annexed this morning will be handed to scotland yard. i may add that the authorities there know me, and are proceeding under my advice. when they read that statement they will act on it. you have therefore about one and a half, or say one and three-quarter hours to make up your mind. you can still secure your freedom, but it must be elsewhere than in england." he had risen to his feet, and was pacing up and down the room. "will you oblige me by telling me one thing," he said. "if you believe me to be, as you say, a dangerous criminal, how do you reconcile it with your conscience to give me a chance of escape? it is your duty to bring me to justice." "i will tell you why," i said. "i, too, have a weak joint in my armour. yours is that you only succeed under the disguise of high respectability. that disguise, in any case, will be stripped from you. mine is pitt-heron. i do not know how far he has entangled himself with you, but i know something of his weakness, and i don't want his career ruined and his wife's heart broken. he has learned his lesson, and will never mention you and your schemes to a mortal soul. indeed, if i can help it, he will never know that anyone shares his secret. the price of the chance of escape i offer you is that pitt-heron's past be buried for ever." he did not answer. he had his arms folded, walking up and down the room, and suddenly seemed to have aged enormously. i had the impression that i was dealing with a very old man. "mr. leithen," he said at last, "you are bold. you have a frankness which almost amounts to genius. you are wasted in your stupid profession, but your speculative powers are not equal to your other endowments, so you will probably remain in it, deterred by an illogical scruple from following your true bent. your true _métier_, believe me, is what shallow people call crime. speaking 'without prejudice,' as the idiot solicitors say, it would appear that we have both weak spots in our cases. mine, you say, is that i can only work by using the conventions of what we agreed to call the machine. there may be truth in that. yours is that you have a friend who lacks your iron-clad discretion. you offer a plan which saves both our weaknesses. by the way, what is it?" i looked at my watch again. "you have ample time to catch the night express to paris." "and if not?" "then i am afraid there may be trouble with the police between ten and eleven o'clock." "which for all our sakes would be a pity. do you know you interest me uncommonly, for you confirm the accuracy of my judgment. i have always had a notion that some day i should run across to my sorrow just such a man as you. a man of very great intellectual power i can deal with, for that kind of brain is usually combined with the sort of high-strung imagination on which i can work. the same with your over-imaginative man. yes pitt-heron was of that type. ordinary brains do not trouble me, for i puzzle them. now you are a man of good average intelligence. pray forgive the lukewarmness of the phrase; it is really a high compliment, for i am an austere critic. if you were that and no more you would not have succeeded. but you possess also a quite irrelevant gift of imagination. not enough to upset your balance, but enough to do what your mere lawyer's talent could never have done. you have achieved a feat which is given to few--you have partially understood me. believe me, i rate you high. you are the kind of four-square being bedded in the concrete of our civilisation, on whom i have always felt i might some day come to grief.... no, no, i am not trying to wheedle you. if i thought i could do that i should be sorry, for my discernment would have been at fault." "i warn you," i said, "that you are wasting precious time." he laughed quite cheerfully. "i believe you are really anxious about my interests," he said. "that is a triumph indeed. do you know, mr. leithen, it is a mere whimsy of fate that you are not my disciple. if we had met earlier and under other circumstances i should have captured you. it is because you have in you a capacity for discipleship that you have succeeded in your opposition." "i abominate you and all your works," i said, "but i admire your courage." he shook his head gently. "it is the wrong word. i am not courageous. to be brave means that you have conquered fear, but i have never had any fear to conquer. believe me, mr. leithen, i am quite impervious to threats. you come to me to-night and hold a pistol to my head. you offer me two alternatives, both of which mean failure. but how do you know that i regard them as failure? i have had what they call a good run for my money. no man since napoleon has tasted such power. i may be willing to end it. age creeps on and power may grow burdensome. i have always sat loose from common ambitions and common affections. for all you know i may regard you as a benefactor." all this talk looks futile when it is written down, but it was skilful enough, for it was taking every atom of exhilaration out of my victory. it was not idle brag. every syllable rang true, as i knew in my bones. i felt myself in the presence of something enormously big, as if a small barbarian was desecrating the colossal zeus of pheidias with a coal hammer. but i also felt it inhuman, and i hated it and i clung to that hatred. "you fear nothing and you believe nothing," i said. "man, you should never have been allowed to live." he raised a deprecating hand. "i am a sceptic about most things," he said, "but, believe me, i have my own worship. i venerate the intellect of man. i believe in its undreamed-of possibilities, when it grows free like an oak in the forest and is not dwarfed in a flower-pot. from that allegiance i have never wavered. that is the god i have never forsworn." i took out my watch. "permit me again to remind you that time presses." "true," he said smiling, "the continental express will not wait upon my confession. your plan is certainly conceivable. there may be other and easier ways. i am not certain. i must think.... perhaps it would be wiser if you left me now, mr. leithen. if i take your advice there will be various things to do.... in any case there will be much to do...." he led me to the door as if he were an ordinary host speeding an ordinary guest. i remember that on my way he pointed out a set of aldines and called my attention to their beauty. he shook hands quite cordially and remarked on the fineness of the weather. that was the last i saw of this amazing man. it was with profound relief that i found myself in piccadilly in the wholesome company of my kind. i had carried myself boldly enough in the last hour, but i would not have gone through it again for a king's ransom. do you know what it is to deal with a pure intelligence, a brain stripped of every shred of humanity? it is like being in the company of a snake. i drove to the club and telephoned to macgillivray, asking him to take no notice of my statement till he heard from me in the morning. then i went to the hospital to see chapman. that leader of the people was in a furious temper and he was scarcely to be appeased by my narrative of the day's doings. your labour member is the greatest of all sticklers for legality, and the outrage he had suffered that morning had grievously weakened his trust in public security. the antioch street business had seemed to him eminently right; if you once got mixed up in melodrama you had to expect such things. but for a member of parliament to be robbed in broad daylight next door to the house of commons upset the foundations of his faith. there was little the matter with his body and the doctor promised that he would be allowed up next day, but his soul was a mass of bruises. it took me a lot of persuasion to get him to keep quiet. he wanted a public exposure of lumley, a big trial, a general ferreting out of secret agents, the whole winding up with a speech in parliament by himself on this last outrage of capitalism. gloomily he listened to my injunctions to silence. but he saw the reason of it and promised to hold his tongue out of loyalty to tommy. i knew that pitt-heron's secret was safe with him. as i crossed westminster bridge on my way home the night express to the continent rumbled over the river. i wondered if lumley was on board or if he had taken one of the other ways of which he had spoken. chapter ix return of the wild geese i do not think i was surprised at the news i read in _the times_ next morning. mr. andrew lumley had died suddenly in the night of heart failure, and the newspapers woke up to the fact that we had been entertaining a great man unawares. there was an obituary in "leader" type of nearly two columns. he had been older than i thought--close on seventy--and _the times_ spoke of him as a man who might have done anything he pleased in public life, but had chosen to give to a small coterie of friends what was due to the country. i read of his wit and learning, his amazing connoisseurship, his social gifts, his personal charm. according to the writer, he was the finest type of cultivated amateur, a beckford with more than a beckford's wealth and none of his folly. large private charities were hinted at, and a hope was expressed that some part at least of his collections might come to the nation. the halfpenny papers said the same thing in their own way. one declared he reminded it of atticus, another of maecenas, another of lord houghton. there must have been a great run on biographical dictionaries in the various offices. chapman's own particular rag said that, although this kind of philanthropist was a dilettante and a back-number, yet mr. lumley was a good specimen of the class and had been a true friend to the poor. i thought chapman would have a fit when he read this. after that he took in the _morning post_. it was no business of mine to explode the myth. indeed i couldn't even if i had wanted to, for no one would have believed me unless i produced proofs, and these proofs were not to be made public. besides i had an honest compunction. he had had, as he expressed it, a good run for his money, and i wanted the run to be properly rounded off. three days later i went to the funeral. it was a wonderful occasion. two eminent statesmen were among the pallbearers, royalty was represented, and there were wreaths from learned societies and scores of notable people. it was a queer business to listen to that stately service which was never read over stranger dust. i was thinking all the time of the vast subterranean machine which he had controlled, and which now was so much old iron. i could dimly imagine what his death meant to the hosts who had worked blindly at his direction. he was a napoleon who left no marshals behind him. from the power-house came no wreaths or newspaper tributes, but i knew that it had lost its power.... _de mortuis_, etc. my task was done, and it only remained to get pitt-heron home. of the three people in london besides myself who knew the story--macgillivray, chapman and felix--the two last might be trusted to be silent, and scotland yard is not in the habit of publishing its information. tommy, of course, must some time or other be told; it was his right; but i knew that tommy would never breathe a word of it. i wanted charles to believe that his secret died with lumley, for otherwise i don't think he would have ever come back to england. the thing took some arranging, for we could not tell him directly about lumley's death without giving away the fact that we knew of the connection between the two. we had to approach it by a roundabout road. i got felix to arrange to have the news telegraphed to and inserted by special order in a russian paper which charles could not avoid seeing. the device was successful. calling at portman square a few days later i learned from ethel pitt-heron's glowing face that her troubles were over. that same evening a cable to me from tommy announced the return of the wanderers. it was the year of the chilian arbitration, in which i held a junior brief for the british government, and that and the late sitting of parliament kept me in london after the end of the term. i had had a bad reaction from the excitements of the summer, and in these days i was feeling pretty well hipped and overdone. on a hot august afternoon i met tommy again. the sun was shining through my temple chambers, much as it had done when he started. so far as i remember the west ham brief which had aroused his contempt was still adorning my table. i was very hot and cross and fagged, for i had been engaged in the beastly job of comparing half a dozen maps of a despicable little bit of south american frontier. suddenly the door opened, and tommy, lean and sunburnt, stalked in. "still at the old grind," he cried, after we had shaken hands. "fellows like you give me a notion of the meaning of eternity." "the same uneventful sedentary life," i replied. "nothing happens except that my scale of fees grows. i suppose nothing _will_ happen till the conductor comes to take the tickets. i shall soon grow fat." "i notice it already, my lad. you want a bit of waking up or you'll get a liver. a little sensation would do you a lot of good." "and you?" i asked. "i congratulate you on your success. i hear you have retrieved pitt-heron for his mourning family." tommy's laughing eyes grew solemn. "i have had the time of my life," he said. "it was like a chapter out of the arabian nights with a dash of fenimore cooper. i feel as if i had lived years since i left england in may. while you have been sitting among your musty papers we have been riding like moss-troopers and seeing men die. come and dine to-night and hear about our adventures. i can't tell you the full story, for i don't know it, but there is enough to curl your hair." then i achieved my first and last score at the expense of tommy deloraine. "no," i said, "you will dine with me instead and _i_ will tell you the full story. all the papers on the subject are over there in my safe." the end * * * * * books by john buchan _novels_ the house of the four winds the free fishers greenmantle huntingtower john burnet of barns the three hostages john macnab midwinter the dancing floor witch wood mr. standfast the thirty-nine steps the half-hearted the runagates club the courts of the morning salute to adventurers castle gay the path of the king the blanket of the dark the gap in the curtain a prince of the captivity the man from the norlands adventures of richard hannay (omnibus) mountain meadow the power-house _biography, history, and essays_ the people's king a history of the great war a book of escapes and hurried journeys the last secrets history of the royal scots fusiliers lord minto the nations of today (editor) two ordeals of democracy homilies and recreations the northern muse (editor) montrose oliver cromwell augustus pilgrim's way _books especially for young people_ prester john the magic walking stick lake of gold community property by alfred coppel _the first successful non-terrestrial divorce case! fame for legal eagle jose obanion for his generalship of a three-sexed, five venusian history-shattering precedent! habits are habits but--alas!--on venus they differ...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, december . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] one of these days an embittered lawyer is going to write a text on the effects of spaceflight on the divorce laws. this writer will be a terrie, about five ten, with blue eyes, black hair--turning grey very fast, and the unlikely name of jose weinberg obanion iii. me. i remember very well the day i was graduated from law school; the day my father gave me his version of the obanion credo. _always remember you live in a community property state--_ that simple phrase has kept three generations of obanions in the divorce trade. and only i have had cause to regret it. basically, i suppose, my troubles began the day the subversive party swept the joe macs out of congress and repealed the alien restriction act of . that bit of log-rolling gave the franchise to almost all resident aliens and resulted in a situation virtually destroying the sanctity of divorce as an institution. i'm a joe mac myself--politically, i mean. obanions have been voting the joe mac party ticket for more than a hundred years. red is our color. there are even family legends that say an obanion was with the first joe mac when he became president of that old unit the euse of aay. we have to rely on legends, unfortunately, because the joe mac party traditionally fed their rally bonfires with books, and when they won the election and took over the euse of aay they had a rally to end all rallies and somehow the government archives--books, you see, as well as punch cards and the like--got taken over by some very zealous party men. the records were always rather incomplete after that. only word of mouth information was available during that first joe mac administration, and that can be sketchy. for example, the party color is red. all we know is that first joe macs had something to do with red. you see how it goes. what i mean by all this, is that i can see the faults in my own party. i'm no diehard. nor am i a bad loser. the subs won control of congress by a landslide, so i guess the people wanted that sort of slipshod government. only they should have been more careful, dammit, when they started tampering with the laws. i'm not antispacegook, either. i have my framed legal eagle's oath right over my desk and i live up to it. and if congress sees fit to make any tmm, dccck, or harry a citizen of our great commonwealth--i account it my duty to see to it that they are not denied the benefits of our terrestrial divorce laws. but sometimes it can be _very_ trying. the new sub administration and their rash repeal of joe mac laws has had the effect of putting reverse english on the obanion credo. _always remember you live in a community property state...._ that wonderful phrase that encompasses so many great truths--that ringing statement that has made me rich and kept me a bachelor--now means something else. confusion. work. yes, and even spacegook depravity. * * * * * i should go back and pick up the story at the beginning before i get too upset. my name, as i said before, is jose obanion. i'm a licensed legal eagle, specializing in divorce law--and doing well at it. i have a good office on the th floor of the needle building, a damned fine address and a comfortable lay-out, too. a whole room to myself, a private visor service to the municipal law library, and a lap-desk for my secretary, thais orlof. on the day it began i was walking to work from the tubeway station and feeling rather pleased with myself. my income was high and steady, my protein ration account was in good shape and i was doing my bit as a civilized terrestrial. the morning was remarkably clear. you could make out the disc of the sun quite nicely through the smog, and there was a smogbow gleaming with carbon particles in the sky. i felt alert, expectant. something big was going to happen to me. i could feel it. even in the go-to-work press of people on montgomery street, i didn't get shocked once. that's the way my luck was running. and three characters brushed against me and got nipped by my new keep-a-way. there's been talk about making keep-a-ways illegal. just the sort of infringement on personal liberty the subversives are famous for. inconsistent, too. they pass laws letting every spacegook in the universe come here to live and then talk about taking away one of the things that makes the crowding bearable. i made a point of arriving at the office a little early, hoping to catch thais in the act of coming in late. my secretary was a hard girl to dock, but i never stopped trying. it was a game we played. if she came in late, i would be justified in docking a protein credit off her pay for every thirty seconds of office time she wasted. so far i had managed to keep her pay low enough so she couldn't think of leaving my employ--though she was earning a few prots on the side by acting as correspondent in divorce cases that couldn't be settled by collusion court and actually had to be tried before a judge and jury. thais and i were still haggling over the price of her services as part-time mistress, too. i couldn't see giving her her asking price, which was half again the regular market price. thais knew the value of a prot, all right. and of an erg, too. "take care of the ergs," she would say, looking at me meaningfully, "and the prots will take care of themselves." thais was a devout ben franklinist and she was full of aphorisms like that. i settled myself into my lowfer and glanced over the desk calendar. a full, profitable day ahead. tremmy jessup and his new fiancee were coming in at to sign the premarital divorce settlement. a wise couple, i thought approvingly. save a lot of trouble later. at truncott vs truncott and truncott. a multiple divorce case with two women involved. very lucrative sort of case. and then at gleda warick was coming in to have me validate her interlocutory decree. a formality. but i hoped to take her to lunch at the palace where they were advertising a five ounce portion of genuine horsemeat on their five prot dinner. that sort of thing would impress gleda and i rather hoped for great things from her. not only that, she was spending , prots yearly on divorces. no franklinist, she. it still lacked a minute to the hour so i switched on the tv to catch honest pancho's commercial. pancho was my most active competitor and he cost me plenty, but i couldn't suppress a grudging admiration of his enterprise. he had lyra yves doing his stuff for him, and anyone as socko as lyra was dangerous. sweetheart of the western hemisphere is the way she was billed, and her agent wasn't exaggerating too much. lyra was singing his come-on backed by a quartet humming a steady whap rhythm and doing a slow twitch. the lights were playing her daring costume big, accenting the fact that she had one breast almost covered. i frowned. how come the league of decency let her get away with anything as suggestive as an opaque breast covering. pancho must have friends in the censor's office. it was just another sign of the increasing degeneracy of our times. soon entertainers would be appearing clothed from head to foot, exploiting the erotic stimulation of imagination. "--whap me slap me baby doll," lyra was singing. "beat my head against the wall--lover, i don't care at all at all--_whap!_ honest pancho's on the ball!" now the announcer cut in with his insinuating voice explaining how you could get your divorces quicker, cheaper and twice as funny at honest pancho's big splitzmart in the flatiron building, as well as his legal eaglery just down from the county courthouse. "--yes, friends--two big locations to serve you. come in and see honest pancho today!" and then lyra again: "whap! honest pancho's on the baaalll! whap!" she faded doing a sinuous twitch. i turned the tv off feeling a little worse than when i turned it on. maybe, i thought, i've been too conservative. maybe _i'd_ better get on the baaaalll, too. or else. i shrugged the thought aside just as thais slipped through the door--exactly on time. i watched her strip off her smog mask and cinder cape--on office time--and place them carefully in the sterilizer. she was very careful not to smear the paint that was most of what she wore. i tapped a nokanse alight and inhaled deeply. "good morning, thais," i said. "whap!" she said in return. "i heard the tv all the way down the hall." she pulled a lowfer out of the wall and settled down with her lap-desk across her knees. the tip of one sandal was just brushing my shin. the office, unfortunately, could have been bigger, but with sixteen million people living in the city, space was rather costly even for a man with a better than average prot account. "new paint?" i asked. she smiled brilliantly at me. "nice of you to notice, boss." she fumbled in the pockets of the belt around her naked, cerise-painted middle and took out her pad and stylus. "on time and ready for work," she said. "a calorie saved is a calorie earned." but now, somehow, i didn't feel like attacking the day's schedule. not quite yet. pancho's commercial had disturbed me. "thais," i said. "i wonder if i'm--well, slowing down--" "you, boss?" she fluffed her green-tinted hair provocatively and raised an eyebrow at me. "i wouldn't say so." "i don't mean that way," i said. "i mean professionally. i wonder if i shouldn't seek wider horizons." "new cases? _different_ cases? give up divorce work? oh, _boss_!" "not give it up, thais. not that. i couldn't. divorce is my life. could a doctor give up healing? could a freudist give up lobotomy? no, i didn't mean that. frankly, i meant should i get more aggressive. go out and get cases that would have a certain advertising value." i didn't want to say i didn't feel like spending good protein on the sort of advertising pancho and some of the other legal eagles, an unethical lot really, were buying. besides, we obanions have always been rather frugal. thais' face had come radiantly alive. "oh, _joe_--" now, that should have been a tip-off, because she _never_ called me anything but boss. but i blundered right ahead because she was looking at me as though i were clarence darrow or somebody. "i have a case. a _real_ case. if you would--if you only _would_ take it, you'd be famous. more famous, that is. you'd be _really_ famous." i knew that thais had some rather questionable friends, being a franklinist and all. and i knew too that some of them were spacegooks. but the combination of lyra singing for pancho and the way thais was looking at me made me get careless. "tell me about it," i said in my best legal manner. her face fell. "non-terrestrial." and then she brightened. "but that's the whole point. these people are citizens of terra now ... and _think of it_--_you_ will be the very first legal eagle to represent them in a divorce case tried under our laws." _under our laws._ oh, i should have known. but almost all law is precedent. and i was blinded by trying a case that would _set_ a precedent instead of follow one. heaven help me, i said yes. "where are these spacegooks from? and what time can they be in the office tomorrow?" "the llagoe islands on venus," she said excitedly. "and they can be here anytime you say." "okay, ten hundred sharp. what do they do and how many people are involved?" "they're musicians. and, uh, there are three. and two correspondents." she looked rather sheepishly at me as i raised my eyebrows and commented that even in this day and age of easy morality that was quite a number of 'people' to be involved in one divorce case. too many, in fact. "well, they _are_ subject to our laws," she said doubtfully. "indeed they are--thanks to a subversive congress." i made a few notations on my desk pad. "five of them, eh? a multiple marriage." thais' voice was very low. "well, no. not exactly." "what then?" she looked at me resignedly. "three sexes," she said. * * * * * i gave up my luncheon with gleda; as much as i should have liked to split a five prot pony steak with her. instead of the palace, i went to the library. the _public_ library. and read about venerians. what i found out was interesting--and a little frightening, too. they were trisexual symbiotes. and they were only remotely humanoid. there were very few of them on terra--mainly because they relished their own planet's formaldehyde atmosphere so much they were extremely reluctant to leave it. when they did, ... and this really interested me--they generally became very wealthy as entertainers. they were accomplished musicians and--of all things--tumblers. for reasons that were only hinted at in the staid _encyclopedia terrestria_, venerians never entertained through the mass media such as the livies or tv. their stuff was limited to small, elite gatherings and it cost plenty. i thought of gleda warick and the party she was planning for later in the week. she'd asked me to be alert for some good entertainment. her friends were getting weary of games like lizzie borden and clobber. too many people getting hurt and all. venerian tumblers and minisingers would be just the thing. and it would assure solvency on the part of my clients-to-be. part of the legal eagle's oath binds us to be concerned over our customer's finances. the next morning, promptly at ten hundred, i was treated to the first sight of my clients. their names didn't transliterate into anything remotely pronounceable, so they were going by the names of vivian, jean and clare jones. after the first shock of seeing them wore off, i wrote on my pad: "names used by humans of both genders. significant." they spoke english, the current _lingua franca_, with only a trace of a sibilant accent and they smelled of formaldehyde. i explained their rights under our divorce laws. did the best i could, that is, not being quite sure who was married to whom and under what conditions their marriage functioned--if at all. finally i said, "tell me all about it." clare, who seemed to be the spokesman for the group and therefore assumed, in my mind, a male gender, waved a boneless arm excitedly. "had we known we were becoming subject to your terrestrial laws by residing here we would never have remained. our situation is desperate." i wrote on my pad: "situation desperate." "yes," hissed vivian breathlessly. "desperate." i underlined _desperate_. "we are, as you may know," clare continued giving vivian a dark look, "trisexual symbiotes. you do not have any analogous situation among mammals on terra." i glanced at thais. "we sure haven't," she said with feeling. "but it sounds _fabulous_." "it is not, i assure you," clare said running a four-fingered hand over his scaly crest in what i took to be a venerian gesture of distraction. "we are not _married_ as you people understand the term--" "not married," i wrote, underscoring it heavily. "but your law enforcement agencies insist that our symbiosis is analogous to marriage and therefore subject to the regulations governing that odd institution." "what a bore," thais said helpfully. "our problem is this. the three of us live in what you might roughly call a connubial state. we--what is your word?--co-inhabit?--" "that's close," i said. "we live together, that is. but more than eroticism is involved, i assure you." "of course." now it began to sound like most of my other cases and i could get my teeth into it. "you seem doubtful," the venerian said with a sharp-toothed frown. "let me reiterate that what i say is so. the three of us have spent a _ygith_ together--that is more than fourteen of your long years. but now the _ygith_ is over and we must seek another--how would you say it?--liaison?" "this is essential?" i asked. "not just a whim?" it is, you see, the duty of a legal eagle to make every effort to save a marriage. in view of the circumstances, i felt that surely this was a marriage unique and therefore _worth_ saving. "no whim," declared clare emphatically. "each _ygith_--or what you terrestrials would call 'mating period'--we must uh--realign. if we do not, deleterious effects are certain. our health goes bad. we may even die." "my friends," i said, "you have very little to worry about. there are many similar cases here on terra. just last week, for example, a divorce was granted in the case of nork vs. nork wherein it was established that the plaintiff, mr. nork was allergic to _mrs._ nork. a simple case, and not the first of its kind. i myself tried one such case wherein a wife broke out in a rash whenever her husband sought to question her about the household expenses. a divorce was granted on the grounds of basic incompatibility." "ah," clare said sadly. "if it were only that simple. our two correspondents, gail and evelyn, are ready to enter the realignment. but--" and here the venerian glared at the smallest of the trio. "_this_ ungrateful wretch is unwilling to adjust to the changed circumstances." great tears formed in jean's slotted eyes. "how can you speak that way to me? after we've been through so much together?" "now, now--" thais, who has a very soft heart, patted jean in an effort to make he she or it feel better. "get to the point, clare," vivian said testily. "it is our understanding that property held in joint tenancy by two contesting parties in a divorce case may be distributed at the discretion of the court." "that's correct," i said. "we contend, therefore, that jean--" clare pointed a scaly finger at the small venerian, "is community property. vivian's and mine. we wish to make an agreement between us for the disposal of it--" "wait a _minute_," i said, shocked. "i don't think you understand the community property laws at all. jean is, by definition, a person. a person cannot be considered property or chattel. oh, no--" the small venerian made a face at them. "i told you you couldn't get away with it," she said. "this isn't venus, you know." "on venus you would be property," declared vivian. and to me, he--she--i still get confused about this--added: "my sex was emancipated thirty _ygiths_ ago at home. but jean's is still considered--what did you call it?--chattel. no vote. no rights. nothing but symbiosis." "and clare's is still the--uh--dominant one?" i asked hesitantly. "that's the myth that's perpetrated," clare declared acidly. "we _guths_ do most of the work, if that means anything." i wrote on my pad: "guths--breadwinners." "and who--well, forgive my indelicacy, but--" i shrugged mundanely, "who bears the children?" "we all do," the three venerians chorused at once. well, that's the way the interview went. when the three venerians finally left i had a rough outline for the brief on my pad. besides the other comments, i had the following information: re jones and jones vs jones, trsex smbytes!! see ency clare--guth } terrestria vivian--warth } pp , jean--ith } vol , ed jean--community property? no. not under terr law see us vs ignatz wolk . what then? correspondents: evelyn (guth) gail (warth) any overt acts of infidelity? probable. no proof. only obstacle: jean. must reach agreement. important: plaintiffs and defendant or defendants and plaintiff not solvent. must arrange something. see gleda. and see gleda i did. i asked her if she could use not two, not three, but five venerian entertainers. she could and would. at , prots a head for an hour's entertainment. that took care of that much, anyway. i was, i felt, well on the road to making legal history. * * * * * the following day i made arrangements to meet jean alone in a little bistro down on the embarcadero. i felt the salt water air would make her-it feel more co-operative. but on the way down i became aware of someone following me. cinder-caped and smog-masked, the tail i was dragging was inconspicuous enough, but i figured the thing about right. it was a government man. there could be only one answer. honest pancho had tipped the tbi that i was doing something illegal or immoral. i was an active joe mac and that would be enough to put the witch hunt division of tbi on me even without pancho getting wind of my dealings with the spacegooks. the gimmick would be, of course, that i was taking advantage of them, violating their rights under the v amendment of the world constitution. pure falsehood, but my previous unwise political affiliations put me under suspicion. i looked up through the smog, and sure enough. an eyespy hung in the air just over my head--a tiny transmitter about as big as a half erg piece. if i spit on the sidewalk, i thought, they'll haul me in on the double. this was bad enough, but when and if i actually got the venerians an interlocutory decree, i'd really have to watch it--and them, to see that nothing went wrong. the wh boys would have pancho right at their shoulder watching for the slightest excuse to invalidate the decree. i could get used to the eyespy, and i thought i could convince jean. and above all, i had to keep the venerians from anything like sexual activity during the two day period of the decree. nothing--but nothing--will invalidate a decree quicker than _that_. and an invalidated decree is very bad for a legal eagle's reputation. i was, i thought darkly, getting into this thing deeper than i thought. but the rewards would be worth it. think of it. to legal eagle the _first_ extraterrestrial divorce case in the history of the world! holy protein, i'd be in song and story. i made my way through the press of people on the slidewalks, my keep-a-way crackling a jolly tune, and the eyespy hovering over my head. san francisco is a wonderful place. full of excitement and bustle. it's a port of entry, for one thing, with starliners letting down into the bay from all over the solar system. on the embarcadero there were sandies from mars, rooks from the jovian system--every sort of spacegook there is. except venerians. and mingled with the crowd i could make out the distinctive cinder capes of the longshoremen--absolute rulers of the district. the bistro i was looking for was a floating platform moored to the ancient wharves, the ones that were left after the tidal wave caused by the bomb back in ' . it was a nautilus type joint, most of it under water, called the deep six. an attendant took my cape and smog mask at the door and bowed me along to the maitre d'. "a table, sir?" he clapped his hands for a waiter. "may i order you something? a morphine syrette? phenobarb? we have a particularly fine aphrodisiac cocktail, sir. or shall i just send the hostess to you and you can order later?" i eyed the line up of girls regretfully. they were all lovely, all almost fully clothed--and what flesh was exposed was completely unpainted. if thais looked like that, i thought sadly, i wouldn't haggle about her price. but that was sheer depravity, i told myself sternly. that's what comes of associating with triple sexed spacegooks--i was here on business. not pleasure. "i'm meeting someone," i said. "a spaceg--a venerian uh--lady. miss jones." the maitre shrugged. "everyone to his taste. the person you wish is at the corner table, sir. near the window." and sure enough, there was jean, her crest waving agitatedly as she pressed her three nostrilled nose against the glass watching the sandsharks swimming gracefully among the mossy pilings outside. "oh, joe--just like _home_," she hissed softly as i sat down. she was very strong of formaldehyde today, i thought. i didn't quite know how to begin with her. i had to make her see reason, but she seemed to be unwilling to pay any attention to me at all except to comment that clare and vivian were very cruel to her. "and after i've given them the best ygith of my life." then she returned to her melancholy contemplation of the underseascape beyond the glass. i ordered an alkie-and-treacle and sipped it thoughtfully watching jean. an amber tear had formed in the outer corner of each slotted eye and was oozing gelatinously down her pale green cheeks. it was like someone turning on a light in my brain. the answer was plain as day. jean was homesick. miserable. and a miserable woman--or man--or--well, does it matter?--a miserable _person_ was always contrary. remove the misery and _voila_--gentle as a lamb. "jean," i said, "this case is important to me. you must help me get the decree. if you do--i'll do something nice for you." over my head the eyespy clucked reproachfully, but i ignored it. "agree to the divorce. we can settle it in collusion court. and i'll see to it you get passage back to venus on the first available starliner. how's that?" "back to venus? back home?" her eyes gleamed redly. "that's a promise," i said. this would cost me plenty of prots, but the fame would be worth it. you can see how far gone i was on this case. "just one thing," i added thoughtfully. "what will become of the rest _after_ the divorce? i mean, can two of each sex get along without a third? it sounds, well, almost unvenerian, if you know what i mean." "the mating wouldn't be a very high-type experience," jean said loftily, "without an _ith_--but it can take place. it's just the sort of disgusting business you could expect from people like clare and vivian. and those _other_ two--_well_--you haven't met them, but really--" "then you'll do as i ask?" jean waved her crest at me seductively. "joe obanion, you're really very nice." i backed away and swallowed hard as jean laid a slick, webbed hand on my wrist. "how about it? agreed?" "you know," jean said dreamily, "you remind me of a _warth_ i used to know back home. he and i and a really divine _guth_ called charlie had the most marvelous _ygith_ together. i wonder if he remembers little me--?" "i'm sure he does. how could she forget you?" i asked warily. jean blinked her slotted eyes at me and her thin lips split into a tusky smile. "you say the nicest things, joe. yes, baby, i'll do as you ask. i won't contest the divorce." "jean," i said with feeling, "you'll never regret this." and the eyespy clucked disapprovingly. drop dead, pancho, i thought. drop dead twice. i had made it. * * * * * gleda warick's house--mansion, really, lay sprawled over most of the twin peaks area. from her lunar room you could see the whole of the city stretched out as if for inspection. to the east, the bay and the floating housing developments, wharves and night spots on and under the water. to the west the transocean highways, ribbons of plastic floating on the still pacific. no one could afford to run ships now and almost all surface commerce was run over the highways in caravans of atomic trucks. to the orient, to alaska, to the pacific islands. a steady string of lights moving at two hundred miles per hour. rocket trails streaked the sky as starliners splashed into the bay and burbled to the surface, hissing and steaming. market street--all seven levels of it--ran from the base of the hills to the bay, a multilevel slidway jammed with people. the view from gleda's place was magnificent because of the infra-red antismog windows she had installed in the lunar room at a cost, incidentally, of , prots. she had three rooms and a kitchenette. you entered her place and almost had an attack of agoraphobia. it was that big. the place was overrun with people. i'd brought thais, of course, resplendent in red and silver paint. lyra yves appeared in a solid coat of gilt, with that one breast and her left arm sheathed in flexible vinyl. thais nudged me. "look at that. i think it's disgusting." i did look. i couldn't help myself. that shiny vinyl caught the eye of every man in the room. "depraved," thais sniffed. honest pancho came in with an older man who was pointed out to me as an ethnologist from the university of california across the bay. a professor cripps. pancho, dressed in his customary green and orange enamel and embroidered cowboy boots, stumped across the room to give me the big hello. "jose, my boy! good to see you...." he glanced up at the eyespy. "trouble with the witch hunters? tsk tsk--" "as if you didn't know," i snapped. "you think i'd do a thing like that to a _friend_?" "yes." he grinned a big toothy smile at me. "as a matter of fact, you're right. i hear you've got a big case. non-terrie. worth a lot to a legal eagle to be the first with a non-terrie case--" "you're too late, you vulture," i said. "interlocutory decree granted." i tapped my pouch. "right here." he shrugged. "hope nothing happens to void it, old sport." he winked at his silent companion, the staid and seemingly dumb professor. he turned back to me. "sorry. should have introduced you. prof cripps--this is my friend and competitor, jose obanion." "pleased," the professor said, looking fearfully at the government eyespy over my head. his fingers went automatically to the engraved tablet he wore on a chain round his neck--a validated loyalty oath--as though to show the unseen tbi observers he wasn't _really_ a friend of this joe mac's. "the prof," honest pancho said softly, "is a specialist in venerian ethnology. he'd like to meet your clients." that gave me a start. "he'll meet them. they're going to sing tonight." the professor's eyes widened. they looked shocked in his yellow painted face. "and dance?" i smirked happily at pancho. "and dance. at , prots each." if pancho had any reply for that, i don't know, for gleda came in. she was wearing her hair blue and she wore a really striking pattern of iridescent blue paint with a double snake pattern coiling up her legs and torso. the party got under way very quickly. gleda supplied the alkie and treacle and everyone nibbled their own synthetic protein out of their pouches. the combination soon had an hilarious effect on the gathering and a couple that i didn't know, a boy and girl in particolored green and blue, starting throwing small articles of furniture at the eyespy over my head. couldn't hurt the eye, of course, but i was kept pretty busy dodging. then thais suggested a quick game of clobber. i must confess, not without satisfaction, that i cheated a little and peeked through the bandage so i could land a real lulu on pancho's long pointed nose. when gleda stopped the bleeding and he was on his feet, someone asked lyra for a song and the cry was taken up by all. i caught a glimpse of the five venerians' round eyes peering at us out of the kitchenette. but gleda was saving them for the last--the _piece de resistance_. lyra tore down a drapery and staggering a bit from two or three too many alkie-and-treacles, wrapped herself in it from head to foot. there was a shocked sort of gasp from the watchers. professor cripps turned red under his yellow paint. gleda put a tape on the musikall and lyra went into her act. i've never seen anything like it. swaying like a cobra, her bare feet pounding out the beat on the plastic floor, she raised the temperature about ten degrees in that room. her green painted lips twisted in agony, her eyes rolled in the chromatic mask of her face. an old folk tune--not the sort of thing she generally did. something that really tore at the heartstrings. a song that dated centuries back. history and the sense of our way of life lived in that room for a few short moments. her voice was a blood-stirring trumpet-- "mairzy doats and lammsy doats and little kiddsie divy-- a kiddlee tivy tooo wouldn't you--?" when it was over, there was a breathless hush in the room. i wondered where in the world gleda had gotten that musikall tape--it had probably cost her plenty. there was only one thing, i thought, that could top that. "gleda," i said. "_now._" besides if the gooks didn't earn their prots, what about my fee? i was already losing protein on this deal. passage to venus isn't cheap. the venerians trooped in and squatted on the floor while gleda made the introductions. the room began to smell very like an embalming room must smell. "may i present clare, vivian, gail, evelyn and little jean. they're going to sing for us." cheers from the guests. i glanced triumphantly at pancho. the professor seemed fascinated. "and," added gleda archly, "they may even tumble for us." the venerians looked at one another, tittered and flushed dark green. i was glad to see they were all on friendly terms with jean. clare struck an attitude, crest erect, and waited until everyone quit shuffling around. presently, they sang. i think it was singing. very cultural. very esoteric. also very noisy. it sounded rather like they were all in pain. after what seemed to me a very long time, they grew silent. there was a smattering of discontented applause. gleda glared at me. i looked at thais in dismay. "they also dance," she said weakly. "yes," pancho said. "let's see them dance!" "by all means," gleda said, still eyeing me. "dance, fellows," i said hopefully. jean came over to me and whispered: "are you sure it will be all right?" "do you want to ruin me? dance. tumble. do something." jean shrugged and went back to where the venerians squatted. "he says dance." evelyn and gail stepped properly, i should say primly, aside and the other three began stomping about. the rhythm was infectious. the movements became more heated and shouts of approval began to ring out. "dance, gookie!" "whapperoonie!" "go go go gook!" i was delighted. so was everyone else. the dance grew more and more violent. there was a great deal of body contact in it. evelyn and gail looked longingly at the gyrating three, but kept out of it. i wondered why--never knowing that the venerians are a _very_ conventional people. pancho was delighted. so was the professor. in the middle of it, the prof raised his hands and made a signal. an earsplitting clangor broke from the eyespy. the venerians stopped. everyone stared at the eye. and at me. the professor stepped forward and flipped his loyalty oath over, it opened like a poison-ring. the engraving inside said tbi morals division. "the interlocutory decree, if you please," he commanded. stunned, i fished it out and handed it over. he glanced at it. "you realize of course that this is immediately invalidated." "_what?_" i couldn't believe my ears. "you know--as any legal eagle should know--that any re-stablishment of--uh--connubial rights abrogates an interlocutory." "of course i know that." he glanced at honest pancho and smiled. there was triumph flashing between them like a shuttlecock. "you joe macs never learn. the law is the law. what do you think your clients were just doing--and in front of a roomful of witnesses?" i felt my heart sink. "you mean--?" cripps nodded. "that?" i asked weakly. "_that_," he said, and tore up the paper. i watched my future as a legal eagle flutter down to the floor. "and i thought they were dancing," thais said sadly. * * * * * well, the story doesn't end quite there. gleda and i were arrested for running an obscene show. gleda doesn't speak to me anymore. nor do any of the people who were there that night. lyra and gleda get all their divorces at pancho's splitzmart now. it took most of my prot account to bail us out and pay our fines. thais is with me. we're married and we haven't a prot between us for a divorce, so we'll just have to _stay_ married. the venerians came out all right though. they were deported. a question of identity by frank riley _what is a man?... a paradox indeed--the world's finest minds gathered to defend a punk killer...._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, april . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] every pair of eyes in the hushed courtroom watched jake emspak walk slowly toward the prospective juror. around the earth, and above it, too, from south africa and franz joseph land to the satellite stations adrift through the black morning, two hundred million pairs of eyes focussed on the gaunt figure that moved so deliberately across the television screen. in the glass-fronted tv booth, where the -year-old edward r. murrow had created something of a stir by his unexpected appearance a few moments earlier, newsmen stopped talking to let the viewers see and hear for themselves what was happening. jake halted in front of the witness stand, both hands cupped over the gold head of the cane that had been his trademark, in and out of court, for most of a half century. the shaggy mane of white hair, once as black as the coal in the west virginia mining country of his birth, stood out like an incongruous halo above the bone ridges of his face. the jutting nose, the forward hunch of his body accentuated the impression he always gave of being about to leap on a nervous witness. the magnificent voice, which could thunder, rasp, weep and persuade in all the registers of eloquence, now phrased his first question with disconcerting softness: "what is a man?" the prospective juror, a bronx appliance distributor with sagging jowls and perpetual tension lines around his mouth, started visibly. "i--i beg your pardon?" again jake emspak gently phrased his question: "what is a man?" the distributor, who could wake up out of a sound sleep and address a sales meeting of unhappy dealers, opened his mouth and closed it again. jake waited patiently, rocking a little on the point of his cane. finally, the distributor said: "i can't answer that--right off...." "thank you," jake said mildly. he turned to judge hayward and nodded his acceptance of the juror. up in the tv booth, murrow smiled to himself and listened to his colleagues chew over the familiar questions: why had jake emspak, the "million dollar mouthpiece", taken a cheap case like this away from the public defender? who would possibly pay him enough to defend a punk like tony corfino--a bungling hoodlum who had killed two bystanders in a miserable attempt to rob a bank? the judge noted acceptance of the juror, then brusquely recessed court until a.m. monday. the timing was excellent. jake smiled with satisfaction, and his smile was like the slash of a paring knife across the skin of a dried apple. he walked with tony corfino and the bailiff as far as the prisoner's gate. "don't worry," jake said. tony's eyes were wide and bewildered, like the eyes of a confused child--or of an old man not quite certain whether he is awake or dreaming. "i ain't worried," tony replied. as he walked, there was the crackling sound of a bone twisting in a stiff joint. from under his shaggy brows, jake studied him carefully, and was content with what he saw. tony could have been very young, or very old. undoubtedly he was both, with a lot of in-between, jake thought suddenly. the tangle of black, curly hair was the hair of youth. the cameo-smooth skin had the waxed perfection of an expensive doll. but the mouth and lips were still puffy, sensuous. and the eyes--jake emspak, for all his knowing, couldn't be sure about the eyes. silently, he addressed a memo to himself: check on the eyes. at the prisoners' gate, tony faced him. "i ain't worried," he repeated. "it's just--well, i don't see why you're takin' my case--i can't pay anythin'...." the thin smile slashed again across the wrinkled harshness of jake's face. "i'll be paid," he chuckled drily. the district attorney brought up the same question when jake sat in his office two hours later. they had been studying each other across the desk, thinking of all the years that were gone, the good years dying with the new quarter of the century. how many times had he sat here just like this, jake wondered. how often had he come into this office to bargain and to deal, to cajole and plead--and always hovering like a hawk to pounce on any bit of information that could fit his case. now the d.a. was old, too. older than jake, if you measured a man's life by the inverse proportion of his distance from the grave. even the limitless possibilities of medical science had about reached their limit with the d.a. he was heavier than jake, and his skin was smoother, yet somehow it looked much older. "i don't get it," he wheezed, with the shortness of breath that the latest bronchial replacement had not substantially relieved. "i just can't see jake emspak taking a case without a fee! why, in the old days, you wouldn't defend your mother without a cashier's check in advance!" jake accepted the taunt without blinking. "i'm touched by this solicitude for my fees," he retorted. "tony corfino's guilty," said the d.a., moving up another pawn in the never-ending chess game between them. "he's a punk, and he's guilty. you know that, don't you, jake?" "do i?" "you know it--and damn well! i've got six witnesses who saw tony walk into the bank with that sawed-off shotgun! i've got four more who saw him get panicky and start spraying lead! and there are a dozen others who helped load him on a stretcher after his getaway car went over the curve on the parkway!... hell, jake, this is a two-bit case. why are you taking it away from the public defender?" "now, emmett," jake mocked, "you know it's not ethical for me to discuss my client's case." "to hell with your client!" the d.a. breathed deeply for a moment, then pressed ahead: "i don't care about that punk--i'm talking about you, jake. what's this case mean to you?" the chuckle started again, then died in jake's throat. "it means a lot, emmett," he answered soberly. "for one thing, it's my last case...." "what?" the d.a. looked stunned. jake nodded. "i've been around the circle enough times for any man, emmett." both of them absorbed this thought in silence, and the long years walked between them. the d.a.'s lips set, and the steel of his jaw showed beneath the soft folds of his skin. "i guess it'll have to be my last case, too, jake," he said quietly. then he banged his fist on the desk. "but what a helluva case! what a helluva two-bit case! we've had some good ones, jake--i've got the scars of them all over me! but why do we have to go out on something as cheap as this?" jake emspak stood up, all six feet of him, and he brushed back his long white hair with a gesture that was fierce and strong. "it's not a cheap case, emmett! it's big--bigger than any case we've ever fought out!" * * * * * the reporters were waiting for jake outside the d.a.'s office. "is it true you're retiring, jake?" "this is my last case." "why are you representing tony corfino?" "you couldn't keep me out of a case as big as this." "can you tell us why it's so big?" "i can, but i won't. not until i get before the jury." "is robbing a bank and shooting two people so important?" "not particularly." "what else did he do, then?" "nothing that i know of." "jake, this isn't some kind of a joke, is it?" "it's the most serious case i've ever handled." "mr. emspak, it was reported that you received $ , from your last client. are you being paid for defending tony corfino?" "i never discuss my fees." "would you object to a televised interview with tony?" "certainly not. how about tomorrow morning?" the reporters left, baffled and intrigued. that night, jake emspak sat alone in his apartment high over central park west, chuckling with satisfaction as he read the headlines in the first editions: famed criminal lawyer in mystery case the other headlines were substantially the same. jake grinned. things were working out fine, just fine. publicity was a wonderful tool, if a lawyer knew when to use it, and how. he showed one of the headlines to his wife, whose picture was in a mellow gold frame on the stand beside his window chair. marge had been dead since ' , but he still found it a quiet comfort to share things with her. she didn't have to answer, because words weren't necessary after you'd lived and loved with a woman for forty-three years. his thin smile became warmer as he turned toward her. "mystery case!" he chortled. "mystery! the only mystery is why someone hasn't tried a case like this before!" he paused, looked across the park at the spangle of lights, and added softly: "but i'm glad no one did." ed murrow called just before jake went to bed. "sorry you got into this?" murrow asked. "you know better than that, ed. i'm deeply grateful to you for tipping me off on this case." "well, don't forget to tip me off, too, jake! i'm not too old to appreciate a scoop now and then!" "don't worry, ed...." next morning, jake was rested and ready to meet the challenge of tony corfino's tv interview. he knew there was a danger tony might say too much, but it was a calculated risk that had to be taken. the case needed build-up, plenty of build-up. the interview took place in the open square between the towering cell-blocks of manhattan's new jail. when jake and tony came out, the tv cameramen and reporters had already taken their places. the city's crack newspapermen were seated on folding chairs in front of the cameras, along with two men from the district attorney's office who self-consciously tried to look like members of the working press. jake sat down beside tony and hunched forward watchfully over the gold head of his cane. bert brown of the _tribune_, whose pipelines into the d.a.'s office had brought him many an exclusive, shot out the first question. it came with a whiplash crack: "tony, are you paying mr. emspak to represent you?" tony looked uncertainly toward jake, and when the old lawyer didn't answer, tony said quietly: "no--i'm not." "is the syndicate paying mr. emspak?" "i don't know why they should--i never got into the syndicate." tony's answer was expressionless, yet his voice had a strangely subdued quality for a tenth avenue kid who had grown up fighting for crumbs from the tables of underworld kingpins. cassidy of the times interjected: "do you know who is paying mr. emspak to represent you?" "nope." now the sun broke through the morning overcast and gleamed on the polished perfection of tony's waxlike skin. a woman reporter from the mirror asked in an abrupt, mannish voice: "tony--what happened to your face?" "the doc says it's some new kind of plastic surgery. i got burned in that accident...." "when you were driving away from the bank?" bert brown snapped out. "yeah." brown grinned in triumph. it had been a neat double play. the two investigators from the d.a.'s office scribbled furiously. jake emspak continued to stare into the tv cameras without blinking. from the back row, a _daily news_ man boomed out: "then you admit the shootings, tony?" jake lifted one finger from the gold head of his cane. it was a small gesture, but it silenced tony's answer and immediately commanded the attention of everyone present. "my client," rasped jake, "neither denies nor admits any connection with the crimes for which he is being tried." bert brown grinned sardonically at him. "do you expect to win this case, mr. emspak?" "we'll win it," jake answered, in a voice so cold and certain and hard that the reporters involuntarily joined the tv audience in a collective gasp. jake stood up and motioned to the deputies. it was time to end the interview. precisely the right time. the reporters left without further questions. they knew from long experience when jake emspak would and would not talk. by that evening, speculation--without the ballast of facts--was soaring to dizzy heights. even the communist angle came in for its share of limelight. was tony corfino somehow of value to the resurgent red underground? could jake emspak's fee be traced back to peiping, new headquarters for the comintern? but not even the most skilled commentator could adequately sustain innuendo on innuendo alone. not by the grossest distortion of facts could any communist connection be twisted out of tony's record of juvenile delinquency, pimping, pick-pocketing, petty thievery, dope peddling, armed robbery, and--since the grain and sugar restrictions of ' --bootlegging. but one of the more perceptive reporters had noted tony's strangely quiet manner of speaking. inquiries at the jail disclosed that tony had apparently developed an interest in reading. here, indeed, was a fresh angle! by mid-afternoon, "gentleman tony" had been conceived and given birth. his sordid record was reinterpreted in a picaresque light, and he became something of a tenth avenue robin hood. a nation squeezed between the twin problems of mounting population and tighter food rationing took "gentleman tony" to its fancy. it was like a case of -hour flu. in the midst of all this, as jake emspak sat in his office sunday morning, behind a mound of microfilmed court records dating back to the mid-fifties, he received a more serious-minded interviewer. the visitor was john o. callihan, well-publicized sportsman, art connoisseur, world traveler and no. man in the syndicate. his mistresses, and a few old friends like jake emspak, called him johnno. "greetings, jake," he said, easing his athletic, tastefully dressed frame into the chair in front of jake's desk. "hello, johnno," jake rasped. "i'm busy." "i know. that's why i came." "i can't talk about this case, johnno." "i'm not asking you to." johnno lit a long, pencil-thin cigarette, and continued reflectively: "jake, i've given you some big cases, paid you well--and always let you handle them clean, in your own way. right?" "right enough." "this is the first time i've ever come for a favor, jake." "yeah?" "who's paying for tony corfino?" "nobody you have to worry about, johnno." "no other syndicate--or anything like that?" jake shook his head, and his caller stood up. "thanks, jake." "now, will you get the hell out of here!" "sure, jake--give my love to marge." jake lowered his head to hide the mist in his eyes. johnno had sent a simple corsage of blue violets to marge's funeral. and he sent one every year, on the anniversary of her death. jake went back to gould v. gould, app. div. , and stayed with it until nearly six o'clock, when he turned wearily to people v. gibbs. this looked like an interminable case, even on microfilm. his eyes were strained from staring at the viewer screen, and his big hand was stiff from spinning the reel crank. he opened his fingers, and the knuckles cracked. jake stared disgustedly at them. you could take a boy out of the coal mines, but not the coal mines out of the boy. his hand was too big for such a small crank. someday, he'd have to buy an automatic viewer, or even one of those electronic brains they demonstrated at the last bar association meeting. but then, he wouldn't need anything after this case. and besides, he didn't trust such impersonal help. leibowitz had taught him a good lawyer should do his own preparation. leibowitz! the vera stretz case.... that was forty years ago! jake shook his head to chase away the memories, and started people v. gibbs, patiently searching for points of law to help him prove that a punk named tony corfino.... * * * * * when court reconvened on monday morning, the weekend's publicity showed its results. a bailiff whispered to jake that people had been waiting for the doors to open since five a.m. thousands had gone home disappointed. the fortunate who did get seats filled the courtroom with babble and shrillness as they waited impatiently for something to happen. a new note of excitement sounded when tony corfino walked in beside a sheriff's deputy. jake had insisted that tony be carefully groomed and dressed each morning before coming into court, and the women among the spectators buzzed with appreciation. promptly at ten, judge hayward stepped out of his chambers and looked, gimlet-eyed, over the courtroom. the hubub quieted, then faded to stillness. jake was glad to have judge hayward on this case. at forty-seven, he was the youngest superior court judge and least wedded to precedent. he was impatient with legal sleight-of-hand, painstakingly insistent on a structure of evidence. "any mule can kick a barn down; it takes a good carpenter to build one," he had once told jake. selection of the jury proceeded at a creeping pace, which court reporters had come to expect with both the d.a. and jake emspak in the same courtroom. in their last clash, they had meticulously examined one hundred and fifty jurors before accepting twelve. but this time, the district attorney was responsible for most of the delay. not knowing why jake had taken the case, the d.a. proceeded nervously and cautiously in questioning each juror: what is your feeling about capital punishment? would you credit the testimony of an eye witness? do you believe that a criminal must be punished as decreed by law? jake's questions were fewer, and less orthodox. sometimes he asked: "what is your attitude toward science?" or, again: "are you a religious man?" but most frequently he came without preamble to what seemed to be the key to his case: "what is a man?" and while this went on in the courtroom, jake continued his tireless preparations. research, subpoenas, talking to witnesses, taking depositions, then more research and more subpoenas. bound the case on the east, the north, the south and the west. lincoln had said that. jake's stomach rebelled, and he took to eating a bowl of baby cereal before going to bed in an effort to still its growling and grumbling. those who knew how hard he worked continued to ask: where's the money coming from? why is this important anyway? whenever speculation started to sag, jake shrewdly needled it by leaking a fact here, a rumor there. from los angeles, the ebullient old television commentator, george putnam, still indefatigable in his late sixties, reported that a noted brain surgeon had been subpoenaed to testify at the corfino trial. in new york, ed murrow asked the probing, provocative question: why has jake emspak personally invited one of our great religious philosophers to appear as a defense witness? "i suggest," hinted murrow, "that you won't find the gold in this case by panning the mainstream. or, as plato said...." the d.a. and his deputies sat up half the night studying an air-check of the murrow broadcast. by the close of the fourth day, selection of the jury had been completed and the trial was ready to begin. that evening, jake worked on his notes until ten o'clock, and then went out for his customary walk through the memories and quiet of central park. as he paused at a crosswalk to watch a satellite platform sweep like a new planet across the sky, a long, black car drifted silently to a stop beside him. the door swung open, and the district attorney's tired voice said, "get in, jake." jake got in, and neither of them spoke for awhile. "couldn't sleep," the d.a. said finally. "can't even sleep with them damn pills anymore." jake didn't say anything. he stared at the back of the chauffeur in front of them. what could you say when an old friend was wearing out? "look, jake," the d.a. continued, "do you really mean this is your last case?" "you know i do." "then, how about a deal--you cop a plea, and tony gets off with life...." "why, emmett?" "i don't want to see you wind up this way, jake--losing a penny-ante case like this!" "you know how i feel about this case." "no deal, then?" "no deal." the d.a. wheezed angrily: "then i'm going to whip you, jake--and that punk's going to burn!" jake didn't answer, and they drove slowly along the endless, winding roads of central park. the tires of the great car murmured over the pavement like a boat in the ripples of a lake, and the silent motor gave them a sensation of floating through the night. * * * * * anger still fired the d.a.'s voice when he made his opening address to the jury. his final words were brutally to the point: "we've all heard rumors about what the defense may or may not attempt to prove in this trial, but let us not forget that in the law of our land there is no place for medical quacks, parole panderers or all the bleeding hearts who drip sympathy for a killer like tony corfino! the chair is the only thing he and others like him will ever understand!" the courtroom stilled to breathlessness as jake emspak stepped forward to deliver his own opening remarks. he moved, then paused, with a great dramatist's sense of timing. ghosts of a thousand courtrooms and fifty years of practice moved and paused with him. impeccably dressed, his long silver hair artfully disheveled, he folded his blue-veined hands over the gold head of his cane and swayed for a moment in silence, thoughtfully contemplating the jurors. when he spoke, his voice had a quality of remoteness that was peculiarly compelling: "i would like," he began, "to quote from a supreme court justice who died before some of you were born. it was benjamin cardoza who said--'law in its deepest aspects is one with the humanities and with all the things by which humanity is uplifted and inspired. law is not a cadaver, but a spirit; not a finality, but a process of becoming; not a clog in the fullness of life, but an outlet and a means thereto; not a game but a sacrament'...." he waited fully a half-minute before continuing, and not a person in the courtroom stirred. "the defense," jake went on quietly, "will rest its case on two major points: "first, we will prove that the law has not kept pace with the progress of science and the forward march of human thought. "second ..." here jake paused again, while he looked slowly from the jurors, to the judge and finally to the district attorney. "second," he continued, with a ghost of a smile on his thin lips, "we will prove that _tony corfino is not tony corfino_!" jake stood for a moment in silence. then, with a slight, almost curt nod of his head, he turned away and walked back to his seat beside tony corfino. tony stared at him wordlessly, with a look in his eyes that jake had not yet fathomed. the courtroom exploded into bedlam. judge hayward gaveled peremptorily for silence, and motioned to the district attorney to begin presentation of the people's case. if the d.a. was puzzled by jake's opening remarks, he gave no sign of it. his marshalling of the evidence was grimly efficient. there was a quality of the inexorable about the way he moved up his witnesses one by one. it was like the maneuvering of a skilled boxer who seeks to take his opponent out, not with one punch, but with a carefully executed combination of punches. tony corfino was not tony corfino? the d.a. smiled sardonically as he pointed to the pale defendant and asked the witness to identify him. "and is this the man who entered the bank on the morning of last october ?" "yes, it is," replied the nervous, overly plump young woman. "were you in a position to observe him closely at all times?" "yes." "where were you?" "in--in the note window ... right next to where he--he came up and pointed his gun." "thank you." with elaborate courtesy, the d.a. turned to jake: "does the distinguished defense counsel desire to cross-examine this witness?" jake nodded gravely, and advanced toward the witness stand. the young woman watched him apprehensively. in the tv booth, the regular court reporters leaned forward with anticipation. many a time had they seen jake emspak take the most positive witness and reduce him to a quivering, stuttering symbol of uncertainty. "show me an eye witness," jake had once observed, "and i'll show you a liar." now, as jake began, there was a note of friendliness in his voice: "you say this is the man who entered the bank on the morning of last october ?" "yes--yes, sir.... it is!" jake nodded understandingly. "suppose," he continued, "we look at it another way for a moment: is the man who entered the bank on the morning of last october the same man who now appears as defendant in this trial?" the young woman bit her lip, smearing some of the lipstick on her large front teeth. she hesitated, thinking through the question, then nodded firmly. "yes--of course!" "how do you know?" "why--he--he _looks_ the same!" "_exactly_ the same? i suggest you look him over carefully before you answer." the young woman stared at tony, then dropped her eyes in confusion. "_exactly_ the same?" jake pressed. "well ... i'm ... i'm not sure...." jake teetered on the point of his cane, thoughtfully contemplating the now flustered witness. then, unexpectedly, he turned to judge hayward and said, "no further questions, your honor." the d.a. blinked in surprise. it was not like jake to stop once he had a witness in full retreat. the court reporters looked at each other disappointedly. maybe the old man should retire! jake continued to treat prosecution witnesses with similar restraint. he would lead them up to the brink of uncertainty, then leave them there. as a result, the district attorney was able to complete presentation of his case by the middle of the second morning. "the people rest," he announced, with grim satisfaction. * * * * * jake emspak's first defense witness was a youthful looking man of about forty who quickly identified himself as a well-known authority on fingerprints, an expert who had many times been called to assist the police in major criminal cases. "is it not true," jake began, "that in the tradition of modern law, fingerprints are regarded as the most positive method of identification?" "that is correct." from a mass of data on his desk, jake extracted a single sheet of photostatic copy and handed it to judge hayward. "i have here," he said, "a certified copy of one tony corfino's fingerprints--taken at the time of his arrest and conviction five years ago on a charge of grand theft, auto...." the judge accepted the photostat and handed it to the clerk for entry into the record. jake then retrieved it, and gave it to his witness. "now, sir," he went on, "will you please take the defendant's fingerprints and compare them to this photostatic copy." the jurors craned forward curiously as the fingerprint expert opened his kit and went methodically about the business of fingerprinting tony corfino. when he had finished, and returned to the witness stand with the new prints, jake emspak demanded: "is there any similarity between those fingerprints and the fingerprints of one tony corfino?" the expert looked from one set of prints to the other, and quickly replied: "there can be absolutely no doubt about it--these are _not_ the same prints." red-faced with anger, the district attorney heaved himself to his feet and strode toward the bench. "objection, your honor!" he stormed. "this is the most outrageous deception i have ever witnessed in a courtroom. frankly, i am astounded that opposing counsel would stoop to such tactics!" judge hayward's voice had the bite of steel drill as he directed: "will you please explain to the court exactly what you mean?" "it's a matter of record," the d.a. snapped, "that the defendant was seriously injured in the accident that resulted in his capture. massive burns were part of his injuries.... bone and skin grafts were necessary to repair the damage to his hands--as well as to other parts of his body. naturally, his fingerprints would be different! the defense counsel knows that!" jake smiled, and replied mildly: "of course the defense counsel knows that, and will certainly make the full extent of the defendant's injuries a part of the trial record. however, i have called this particular witness to show that tony corfino cannot be identified as tony corfino by what is still regarded as the most infallible method of criminal identification." "your honor," retorted the d.a., "this so-called testimony is totally irrelevant and immaterial. i request that it be stricken from the record!" "it is most relevant to our case," jake shot back. "furthermore, the defense will prove that tony corfino cannot be identified as tony corfino by any known method of criminal identification!" judge hayward's eyes narrowed speculatively. he thought the matter over for a moment before stating, with unconcealed interest: "this may well be a legal situation without precedent. the court will withhold ruling on the objection for the time being." the next defense witness was a specialist on agglutination of the blood. "agglutination," he explained, adjusting his glasses pedantically, "is a biological reaction consisting of the mutual adhesion of the red corpuscles. it is also a method of establishing individualization of blood." "i see," said jake. "now, tell us--how has this method been used to establish identification in a criminal case?" "it is sometimes used where the victim's blood leaves stains on the murderer's clothing--as well as the victim's own clothing. if both blood stains produce the same biological reaction, the murderer is either guilty--or has a great deal of explaining to do!" jake meticulously selected another exhibit from the material on his desk. "will you identify this, please?" "it is a piece of cotton stained with the blood of this--this defendant." "when was it stained?" "in the test i made last week." "did you compare it with the stains on garments worn by a certain tony corfino at the time of his accident?" "i did." "what did you find?" "the two samples were entirely different?" "could we assume, then, that the blood of a man known as tony corfino does not flow through the veins of this defendant, who also bears the name of tony corfino?" the witness rubbed his hand thoughtfully over the high, polished dome of his forehead. "you _could_ put it that way," he conceded. with the skill of a symphony conductor calling upon the diverse instruments under his baton, jake emspak continued to bring forward a bewildering variety of witnesses to prove that in the identifiable details of his physiology, tony corfino indeed was not tony corfino. the d.a. watched in furious silence. once, when jake passed near him, he muttered: "this is contemptible!" imperturbably, jake turned back to the witness stand, where a radiographer from scripps institute was taking the oath. patiently, he led the witness through a description of how the radiographies of the nasal accessory sinuses and mastoid processes could be used to establish the identity of an individual. jake then produced medical records from a juvenile correctional institution in eastern pennsylvania, where tony corfino had sojourned during his seventeenth year. comparison with recent hospital records showed a striking difference between the two radiographies. the opthalmologic method of capdevielle was next explored by jake to show that the eyes of tony corfino were not the eyes of tony corfino. the technique of tamassia and ameuille was employed to prove the same point about tony's veins. the umbilicial method of bert and vianny intrigued the courtroom and tv audience with structural dissimilarities of tony's navel. by means of projection on a large screen, jake demonstrated to the jurors and judge hayward that tony corfino, defendant, had an entirely different electrocardiagram from the tony corfino whose crushed body had been pulled, more dead than alive, from the wreckage of a burning automobile. late that afternoon, ed murrow commented to his news audience in the cadence that had been his trademark for more than forty years: "we know not yet where this trial is taking us, though jake emspak is beginning to show the direction. perhaps, we, too, could ask ourselves the question: _what is a man?_" less philosophically, a space-weary young captain, sending in his nightly report from the satellite station, vanguard vi, queried: "if this tony corfino isn't tony corfino, who or what in the hell is he?" * * * * * part of the answer to this question was on display the next morning when the jury filed into judge hayward's courtroom. before them, and angled toward the tv cameras, was a chart nearly eight feet tall. it showed, in outline, the figure of a man. the figure was covered with small black dots, each bearing a white number. in all, there was seventy-two dots. as soon as court was in session, jake called a short, squarely-built man of about fifty to the stand. there was a bulldog set to his jaw and mouth. he identified himself as dr. theodore clendenning, chief of staff at city hospital. "dr. clendenning," said jake, "i assume you are familiar with the medical and surgical care received by the defendant at your hospital?" "quite familiar," the doctor retorted, impatiently. "then, may i direct your attention to this chart. it indicates areas in which artificial parts were used to replace the damaged or destroyed natural parts of a certain tony corfino's body. will you name them, please, as i point them out with my cane." tapping the chart like a school-teacher signalling for the attention of his pupils, jake emspak started at the outline of the head. "vitallium skull plate," snapped dr. clendenning. jake's cane touched the nose. "vitallium nose plate." swiftly, the tip of the cane moved around the outline of the body, pausing only long enough for the doctor to name each part: "plastic tear duct ... vitallium jaw bone and implanted dentures ... paraffin and plastic sponge to fill chest after removal of lung ... plastic esophagus ... tantalum breast plate ... tantalum mesh to patch chest wall ... vitallium shoulder socket rim and shoulder joint bone ... vitallium elbow joint, radius bone, ulna bone, wrist bone, finger joint ... spinal fusion plate ... vitallium blood vessel tubes." jake put down his cane, and turned conversationally toward the doctor. "dr. clendenning, is it true that this tony corfino's reproductive organs were destroyed in the accident?" "virtually so." "and is it not also true that the defendant in this case is now capable of becoming a parent?" dr. clendenning glanced at his watch and sighed. "what you are referring to," he answered, "has been rather elementary surgery for the past ten years." "but the children of tony corfino would not then be the children of tony corfino?" dr. clendenning looked toward judge hayward with a pained expression. receiving no sign of any kind from the judge, he turned back to jake emspak. "i have given you the medical data," he said angrily. "you can draw your own conclusions." jake nodded, and replied with emphasis: "i am sure this court and the jury will do just that." he studied the chart for a moment, then tapped the outline figure in the area of the eyes. "tell us, dr. clendenning, what did your staff do about tony corfino's eyes? i understand the flames had reached them." "cornea transplants were necessary." "and where did you obtain the corneas?" "mr. emspak--i'm sure you know that most people nowadays will their eyes to the cornea bank!" "can you tell us anything about the corneas that were transplanted in tony corfino's eyes? from what type a person did they come?" "i'd rather not answer that?" jake turned to the judge. "your honor, unless there is a legal reason why the good doctor should not answer, i ask the court to direct that he do so." judge hayward hesitated, then directed the witness to answer. "they came from the eyes of a priest," growled the doctor. jake emspak raised his cane to the chart once again, then apparently changed his mind and lowered it. "dr. clendenning," he asked quietly, "am i correct in believing that the construction of parts for the human body is now an important industry?" "that's right," the doctor said grudgingly. "it's grown tremendously in the past twenty years--from a $ -million-a-year business in to nearly a billion today...." "one further question, if you please, doctor," said jake. "what is _your_ definition of a man?" the doctor thought for a moment, and smiled coldly. "i'm afraid it would not assist your case," he replied. "we are only looking for some basic truths." dr. clendenning bunched his square shoulders and leaned forward aggressively. "i can think of no better definition," he snapped, "than one given by a distinguished physician in the earlier years of this century. he defined the human body as an animal organism, differing in only a few respects from other animal organisms, and fitted for the performance of two main functions: the conversion of food and air into energy and tissue; and the reproduction of other individuals of its species!" so coldly, with such an air of finality did he speak, that his words brought an audible gasp from two women in the jury box. jake emspak remained impassive. "and this is all you see in a man?" he prodded gently. the doctor's jaw set stubbornly. "as a philosopher," he retorted, "i may engage in some speculation in the company of plato, schopenhauer or the archbishop of canterbury, but my speculations would themselves be based upon speculations and not upon any scientific data resembling observed facts!" "then, from your point of view, the defendant in this courtroom is not _the_ tony corfino--the same man--whose broken body was brought into your hospital eight months ago?" "obviously not." "thank you, doctor." jake walked slowly from the witness stand to the jury box, and then back to the bench. "perhaps," he said softly, "a ten-minute recess would be in order...." judge hayward drew a long breath, exhaled and nodded. with the sound of his gavel, tension ran out of the courtroom like water from a punctured barrel. * * * * * when court reconvened, jake began bringing to the witness stand a parade of educators, religious leaders and philosophers who kept the courtroom alternately fascinated and bewildered for the next two days. they came from london, rome, johannesburg, philadelphia, tokyo and chicago. they came from every oasis of learning where men could still find profit in thought, without relating the profit to the cash register or the thought of technology. they spoke in words and symbols that sometimes soared beyond space itself, and left the world's tv audience groping for stability in earthbound cliches. the paradox was incredible: all this thinking, all this culture--all of everything brought into a courtroom to defend a bush-league hoodlum. reporters ceased to ask who was paying for this display; they simply marveled at the pyrotechnics. through it all, jake emspak moved deftly, surely, extracting from each witness the pure essence of relevant thought: man is a creature destined to live in two worlds. he is surrounded first by the realities of this world--and he is called to live with eternal realities that transcend this world.... the human person is a body, and therefore subject to the laws of matter, to spatiality, temporality and opacity. as such, he is a meeting place for passing forces, a crossroads of contacts and reactions. but the human person is also a spirit, that is to say a reality that transcends apparent reality. there is within him the wakened or nascent ability to comprehend space and surpass time.... the human self is an object, of a sort--and, as such, can be described as the empiricists have described us. but the human self is also, and more essentially, a subject, which never appears to the view of others or even to the most determined introspection. the self as object is finite, but the self as subject touches the infinite; it is the meeting place of time and eternity, of man and god.... for all its advances, the th century is still a child of the th, when the impact of the developing sciences of physics and biology produced a change in the concept of nature and man's place in it. from malthus and darwin, spencer and feuerbach, vogt, buchner, czolbe and haeckel evolved a reductive naturalism in which the spiritual quality of man is ruled out and he becomes a unique emergent of a blind natural process--a creature who must make of nature what he can.... the next five million years of evolution will be in the human brain, where man must ultimately be defined. until man appeared, evolution strove only to produce an organ, the brain, in a body capable of protecting it, and carrying out its will. the ancestors of man were irresponsible actors playing parts in a play they did not understand. man continues to play his part but wants to understand the play.... man is a blending of the rational and intuitive processes. ethical conclusions reached by logical thinking were attained several thousand years ago by the religions, which proves that man's rational processes are strangely slower than his intuitive processes.... jurors shifted impatiently in their seats, yet their attention would inexorably be drawn back to the witness stand. courtroom spectators, who had come to be titillated by the sensational, stayed to grope with concepts they could not understand. the tv audience, spoon-fed for so many decades, tried doggedly to chew and digest adult foodstuffs. sets were turned off in anger or despair--and then turned back on again. "what is a man?" the pivotal nature of this question became steadily more evident. if tony corfino was not tony corfino, was he then not more of the real personality, the human entity, than the original tony had ever been. "in restoring the damaged areas of the brain," a surgeon testified under jake's skillful prodding, "we thought it wise to perform a lobotomy at the same time, thereby relieving anti-social tensions and pressures." (the body is at once a means of expression for the soul, and a veil; it reveals and it hides....) "during the convalescent period," a consulting specialist informed the courtroom, "we recommended treatment with sodium dilantin and electroshock therapy, thereby producing a change in this patient's electroencephalograph." (the body presents all the problems of matter: it is a limitation, a weight, a force. it seems almost a miracle when it is overcome, penetrated and ordered by thought and spirit....) "subsequently," the psychiatrist stated, "this patient underwent extensive therapy, aided frequently by hypnosis and sodium pentathol. his respiratory, vascular and circulatory systems began to show increasing stability." (released from its warped framework, brought into balance with instincts inherited from our animal ancestors, the body becomes, in a way, an image of the soul, a sign conveying something of our personal mystery....) and then jake called the hospital administrator to the stand. speaking with great deliberation, so that each word registered, jake asked: "is this type of medical care ordinarily given to a prisoner-patient?" "the type of care depends upon the case, mr. emspak. in a case such as this, i would regard the treatment as routine. you see, in the past decade our approach to any patient has become one of total therapy...." "and in the case of a prisoner, what do you do when the therapy is completed?" the administrator looked surprised. "why, we return him to jail--in accordance with the law." jake emspak stood in silence, contemplatively staring down at the blue veins on the back of his hands. at length, he announced: "your honor, the defense will conclude tomorrow morning, after one more witness--a man who goes by the name of tony corfino...." * * * * * the sweat on the pale, polished skin of tony's forehead stood out like drops of summer rain; they seemed to have fallen there rather than seeped out through the pores. a polygraph lie detector had been set up under jake's direction and wheeled close to the witness stand. a technician opened the front of tony's shirt and made fast the pneumograph tube with the aid of a beaded chain. next, a blood-pressure cuff, of the type used by physicians, was fasted around tony's right arm. a set of electrodes was attached to the palmar and dorsal surfaces of the hand of the other arm. the recorder showing the graph lines had been specially constructed so as to be visible throughout the courtroom, and to the television cameras. the technician had already been on the stand to explain the simplified and easily read graph lines of the modern polygraph: a shallow breathing line denoting suppression; a heavy breath line denoting relief; the respiratory block, fast pulse and slow pulse lines; the rise in blood pressure tracing.... it was all there on the screen--the emotional picture of a man testifying at his own trial for murder. "objection, your honor!" shouted the d.a. for the tenth time that morning. "this procedure is definitely irregular and immaterial! defense counsel has been making a mockery of the court for days, but now he has stepped completely out of line!" jake clucked soothingly. "what," he inquired, "is irregular or immaterial about a defendant voluntarily taking a lie detector test? i believe that i have heard the district attorney challenge clients of mine to do so on several occasions! now, we are merely permitting the court and the jury to view the test in progress...." once again, the judge withheld his ruling, and the d.a. sagged dejectedly in his chair. the strain of the last few days--sitting in the courtroom and listening to witnesses he knew not how or why to cross-examine--had taken its toll. his eyes were bloodshot, and fits of wheezing seized him spasmodically, but the set of his jaw was still unyielding. jake grieved for him. tony corfino's reactions, as he sat in the witness chair watching the final preparations, would be difficult to catalogue. he looked both aloof and nervously concerned. his curly black hair was damp from the way he constantly brushed the sweat back off his forehead; his puffy lips seemed in constant need of moistening. but his hands were folded quietly in his lap. he seemed to jake like a man lost to the past, adrift in the present and unrelated to the future. "will you give us your name, please?" jake asked casually. "tony corfino." "where were you born?" "i ain't--i'm not sure.... on the west side, i suppose...." on the recorder over tony's head, the graph lines rippled in smooth patterns. suddenly changing his manner, jake rasped: "have you ever committed a crime?" tony frowned in bewilderment. "i _know_ that i have, but sometimes.... well, i kinda wonder...." "do you remember what happened last october ?" "you mean the bank ... the shootin'?" "that's right." "i've read so much--heard so much talk--that i ain't sure just what i remember...." tony's eyes--or the eyes of the dead priest through which tony had vision--reflected his torment. jake moved around so that tony would be facing the jury when he answered the next question. "tony," directed jake, "think about this question before you answer it: are _you_ the man who tried to rob that bank--then got excited and killed two people?" jake knew this question was the one element of gamble in his entire case. the way it was answered could be a summation or refutation of all the evidence and testimony he had so painstakingly assembled. the jury sensed this, too. so did judge hayward. his keen eyes flickered alertly from the defendant's face to the lines on the polygraph recorder. now tony's hands were no longer folded quietly in his lap. they were locked together, and the new veins in his wrists stood out under the new skin. his lips worked silently as he groped for words. and then the words burst into an anguished outcry: "no! i couldn't!..." the polygraph lines leaped into jagged peaks. blood pressure, respiratory block, pulse and breathing--all climbed and dropped wildly, recording their damning message for the world to see. the d.a.'s lips twisted in a mirthless smile of triumph. up in the tv booth, reporters sputtered, split infinitives and shattered syntax in frantic efforts to describe and interpret what had happened. jake emspak stood and waited, a sear and wrinkled leaf hanging motionless in the wind. (if the self is merely a node in a complex casual series, if self is solely energized and motivated by the sovereign need of survival and security, then the idea of a bridge between man and the infinite is a pious illusion....) tony corfino stared down at his twisted hands, and slowly they unlocked. he looked up at jake, and the doubt and fear and bewilderment were gone at last from his eyes. "that ain't so," he said quietly. "i did it ... i know i did it ... an' i know it was wrong ... i deserve the chair!" (thus man escapes himself in freedom, and is therefore never a fully predictable or manipulatable object--only a window through which we peer with blind eyes into the reaches of the universe....) * * * * * the district attorney's summary to the jury was a model of legal craftsmanship. boldly disregarding the broader issues raised by jake, he hewed firmly to the line of criminal responsibility and punishment. point by point he reviewed the facts of the crime. witness by witness he retraced the eye-witness testimony. he produced photographs of tony's body being loaded from the wreckage of the car into the ambulance, and from the ambulance into the prison ward of city hospital. he proved beyond any reasonable doubt that tony had never been out of custody from the moment of his apprehension. "even the defendant admits to his responsibility for the crime," the d.a. continued coldly. only in his concluding remarks did the district attorney make reference to the defense presented by jake emspak. "i wonder," he asked, smiling for the first time, "if any of you tried--as i did--to carry through to its ultimate conclusion the line of reasoning presented with such detail and admitted virtuosity by the defendant's counsel? if the fabricating of replacement parts for the human body has already become a billion dollar industry, if psychiatry continues to achieve new miracles, how many people in this world could now--or in the near future--seek to escape their responsibilities by taking refuge in the argument that they were no longer themselves? at what point would we draw the line? if fifty-percent of a man's body has been replaced is he neither himself nor a new person? if fifty-one has been replaced, is he no longer the husband of his wife or the father of his children? can he then walk blithely away from his responsibilities, proclaiming 'i am a new man'?" a titter went through the courtroom. judge hayward gavelled immediately for silence, but the d.a. winked at the tv cameras. his point had been well made. when jake emspak stepped up to the jury box to deliver his own final plea, he promptly picked up the challenge. "i have known the district attorney too well, for too many years," he said, "to believe that he has considered only the superficial aspects of this case. if you should find the defendant guilty, i am sure he would be the last to oppose consideration of all the matters i have raised in the determination of a just sentence. "and i grant you that if a verdict of guilty is reached, the letter of the law will be fulfilled, and an eye for an eye can be paid. "likewise, if the verdict is not guilty, the letter of the law most unquestionably will be violated--but its spirit will be vindicated! "i am asking you to take a bold step, across a new frontier.... yes, down through the ages, law has become a living, meaningful instrument of human dignity because--at each crossroad of decision--men and women were not afraid to depart from precedent!" oldtimers in the court had never before heard jake emspak summarize a case in such dispassionate, objective tones. usually, his voice and argument ranged the gamut of emotional and semantic appeals, plucking at each member of the jury like the strings of a harp. today, he seemed to be making an effort to hold himself in check. "this is the trial of a living man for the crime of a man who no longer exists," jake continued quietly. "science destroyed that man--completely and with absolute finality! in his place is a man with a new body, new thoughts, new blood and new reproductive capacity. the fact that this new man can be brought to trial violates justice in its deepest and truest meaning! it points inescapably to the fact that the law must be revised to bring it up to date with present reality...." jake paused and was silent for so long that he appeared to have forgotten his surroundings. when he finally continued, his voice was so soft that the jurors unconsciously leaned forward to catch his words: "there is still another dimension to this case--one that transcends science ... and the law. it is one i approached with great uncertainty, because it leads down a path i am walking for the first time.... "some of the testimony brought out in this trial may not have been new to all of you, though it was new to me. perhaps you have all formed your own conclusions with regard to the relationship between the spirit or soul of man, and his outer shell ... the house in which man lives. but if this house becomes a prison for the real man, and science releases him to live in a new dwelling, then did the man ever actually exist until his release? and if the man who lives now did not exist at the time of the crime for which he is tried, can he then be judged guilty? "ladies and gentlemen of the jury--we await your answer." * * * * * twilight faded, and across central park the skyline of the city changed from steel and concrete to a gossamer web of light and shadow. jake emspak sat in peace by his window, the fingers of his right hand resting gently on the gold frame of his wife's picture. he touched a button on the arm of his chair, and in a moment ed murrow's features came into focus on the wall-screen. "the jury in the corfino case is now locked up for the night," murrow began, his -year-old voice more vibrantly alive than ever. "tomorrow we may--and very likely will--have a verdict. "but whatever the verdict, this case has served an epochal purpose--to our time as well as to the law. we have paused for an instant in our frantic drive for technological advancement to ponder the essential meaning of man--and the worth of the human entity. "it may take years to evaluate and appreciate all of the complex testimony jake emspak put into the trial record, for each of us will see in it only what we want to see or are capable of seeing.... "but we may be assured that in the generations to come this case will be footnoted throughout the opening worlds of space by serious students of the law, the sciences and the humanities. "for tonight, it should suffice to say: thank you, jake emspak--well done!" jake touched the button again, and the screen went dark. between old friends, there was much that words left unsaid. the useless bugbreeders by james stamers to the space council, asteroid was just another roadblock in the way of interplanetary traffic. but to the useless bugbreeders it was home! [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, may . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the previous case was a weeper, and he lost. so the space zoning commissioners were damp and irritable before i opened pleadings for my client. i tried not to squelch as i approached the bench. "not the flammables again, mr. jones?" the fat commissioner asked nastily, sponging his suit with a sodden handkerchief. "this was last week, your honor." the thin dark commissioner stared pointedly at the charred end of the bench nearest the witness seat. "indeed it was, mr. jones." the middle commissioner poised his fingers and looked at the court ceiling; moisture gleamed diamond like on his bald head. "now let me see," he intoned. "correct me if i err, mr. jones, but i seem to observe you have a habit of representing somewhat spectacular aliens. including, in the past six months alone, the drillers, whirling tombs, fragile glasses, erupters, vibrational men, transparent women--and of course let us not forget the flammables." "i assure your honor, my present clients will be found to be sober, hardworking, desirable members of the galactic community, seeking only to live on their own asteroid in peace under a democratic system, which...." "thank you, mr. jones. shall we proceed?" "and perhaps," added the fat commissioner, "you may be good enough to leave us with most of our courtroom intact on this occasion." the thin commissioner sighed and shuffled his papers. "you appear, mr. jones, to contest a space council ruling for the elimination of asteroid four thousand seven hundred and twenty-two on the grounds, which you allege, that it is a peaceful dwelling of an adult and responsible alien race." "yes, your honor." "then let us see your adult, um, bugbreeder." i shuffled uncomfortably and splashed the court stenographer who gave me a dirty look. "a space tramp's name given in the early days of space, your honor. more properly, my clients are the selective culturists of bacteria and lesser life." the fat commissioner sniffed. "bugbreeders will do," he said. "produce one." my client hopped off the table and ran nimbly up to the witness seat. he sat there like a small green snowball with large and pointed ears. "happy, happy to be here, i'm sure," he said. fortunately he had a hand to raise and looked reasonably humanoid as he was sworn in. the caterpillar and semi-jelly cultures make a less favorable first impression, and at this point the driller had gone excitedly through the floor. "you are a representative member of your race?" i asked formally. "oh, yus. much." "and you reside on asteroid four thousand seven hundred and twenty-two, the permanent dwelling of your race?" "oh, yus. home." "and although your home presents certain technical difficulties for interplanetary vehicles on the spacerun to the greater planets, you maintain it should be preserved because of your contribution to the culture of the galactic community?" i asked. "oh, yus." "does he understand a word you're saying, mr. jones?" asked the bald commissioner. "oh, yus. not much," said my client cheerfully. "hurrmph," i said, and coughed. "perhaps i may assist," suggested the thin commissioner, with a nasty look at me. "what exactly does your race do?" "breed bugs, i'm sure. am head bacteriophysicist name of lood. am good scientist." "and what exactly do you do with these bugs you raise?" "most everything." * * * * * "your honors," i interrupted. "at this point i propose a few simple demonstrations of what mr. lood and his people can do." "may i inquire if either of my learned brethren know any way in which we can charge mr. jones with rebuilding costs, if necessary?" asked the bald commissioner. "your honors, i assure you...." "proceed at your peril, mr. jones." i walked over to the exhibit table and pointed to a row of jars. "exhibits a through g, your honors. samples of food and beverages produced by my clients without raw materials and from the expert culture of bacteria." i held up a jar full of mauve fungus. it was the most attractive example. "i would hardly call feeding on funguses a sign of a responsible humanoid race, mr. jones." "perhaps your honor will recall the part played by bacteria in making milk, cheese, wine, beer, bread." the commissioners looked at each other and nodded reluctantly. so i passed the jars up to them, secure in the knowledge they had been tested by the alien foods bureau. i watched the commissioners unscrew the lids and taste the contents somewhat hesitantly. "not bad," confessed the fat commissioner eventually. "quite palatable." "of course we already have honey and similar foodstuffs, mr. jones." "naturally, your honor. but mr. lood's race can survive without extraplanetary aid. provided they have sunshine and water, they can breed their spores and bacteria with no other resources." "you mean," said the thin commissioner with a dark leer, "that almost any sunny planet would do for them?" somewhere along the line my point seemed to have been swept away, so i added hurriedly: "i offer this evidence purely to show the high degree of civilization of my clients' culture, as cause why they should not be deprived of their native land." "oh, yus," my client agreed. "mr. lood," intoned the bald commissioner, "to stay on your present asteroid you will have to prove that your race offers something that cannot be found elsewhere in the galactic community. now have these funguses of yours any special medicinal values, for example?" "please?" "can you cure diseases with them?" "oh, no." "ah," said the thin and fat commissioners together. "proceed, mr. jones." * * * * * that put lood somewhere back behind the twentieth-century discoverers of penicillin and the myecins, and even back behind the pioneer pasteur. five hundred years back, in fact. "yes. well. let's see how my clients handle housing, your honors. i think you'll find this quite revolutionary. mr. lood?" lood hopped off the witness seat and trotted up to the long table normally reserved for attorneys. lately, i have found my professional colleagues strangely reluctant to stay in court when i have a case, so lood had the entire table to himself. he pulled a small jar out from under the table and spread a pile of dust on the tabletop. then he unscrewed the jar and gently poured nothing out of it onto the dust. nothing visible, that is. but i assumed it was teeming with viruses and such. "while mr. lood gets this started, your honors," i said, hoping the viruses or whatever were not fatal to humans, "may i submit the usefulness of fungus foods for space-travel and for pioneers on inhospitable planets?" "are we having difficulties with general food-concentrates, the travelers capsule combine and the other ten thousand concerns in this line, mr. jones?" the bald commissioner asked quietly. you can't say i didn't try. i shut up and watched lood fuss with the dust on the table. it started moving as if it were bubbling and lood stood back. slowly, the dust on the table formed itself into a brick, a long eight by six by three inch brick. lood smiled happily. "and here, your honors," i said triumphantly, "here is automatic housing." "one brick does not make a house, mr. jones." "if your honors will just watch...." the brick slowly elongated and split into two perfect bricks, lying on the table end to end. "mass colony action of bacteria," said lood wisely. "oh, yus." the two bricks each split into two further bricks. these divided and multiplied themselves while we watched, out to the end of the table. "i would like your honors to observe the way these bricks overcome natural hazards," i said, getting into my stride. i pointed to the bricks drooping over the end of the table. a brick fell onto the floor at each end, then built itself up until it joined the line of bricks on the table, forming a perfect arch at each angle. the line on the table was now three bricks high, so i walked round and stood behind the wall. "you see, your honors, suppose i need a house. i merely combine these suitable microbes and dust. and there we are, a house." i had to stand on tiptoe to finish the sentence because of the mathematics involved. every brick was doubling and redoubling itself in just under a minute. and the wall was getting quite impressively high. "mr. jones," called one of the commissioners. it was not until i tried to walk round the end of the wall that i found i had been out-flanked. i ran to the nearest wall of the courtroom but the bricks got there first. i heard a rending noise that suggested the other end had gone clean through the opposite wall. as a matter of fact, i saw the astonished face of an attorney entering the main door of the justice building as the wall advanced towards him. then he saw me. he grinned and waved. i was in no mood to wave back. "mr. lood, mr. lood," i yelled. "can you hear me?" "wall too thick, yus," came a muffled answer. and indeed it was. i had not noticed it, but the wall was expanding sideways as well. i was calculating the approximate thickness when it went up and through the roof of the courtroom. fortunately it was a nice sunny day. * * * * * however, this was no time to sunbathe and i dashed towards the hole in the courtroom wall, where lood's wall had gone through. i just got out before a buttress, coming out the wall at right angles, blocked the gap. i remembered something lood had said about the automatic creation of full-scale houses on a simple standard plan: two rooms, a toilet and a patio. outside, the wall was well on the way towards completing its second simple house. this side of the wall was, that is. i could only assume it was doing something similar on the other side. there was no way of getting round and seeing, except by outstripping the wall in a sprint. i gathered my breath and dignity and ran very rapidly down the length of the wall, round the far mounting tiers of brick, advancing now on the state library, and back to where i had left the commissioners and mr. lood. i was faced by a thicket of patios and arched doorways and low-roofed houses. "your honors, your honors," i called hopefully, walking into the maze, in the general direction of what appeared to be an old and ruined war monument. it then occurred to me that this was the outer wall of the courthouse. it stood far off, pointing a stone finger to the sky, as if going down in a sea of brick for the third time. "your honors, your honors...." i met them turning a corner. unfortunately, they seemed to have found it necessary to crawl through a broken gap of some sort. they were very dusty and had a slightly shredded appearance. "ah, mr. jones," they said grimly, dusting each other off. a tremendous crash announced the falling in of the roof of the state library. "well," said the thin commissioner, "he did say it was revolutionary." i smiled politely. "don't giggle, mr. jones, or we'll hold you in contempt." we wound out of the maze in single file. a pattering behind us announced lood bringing up the rear. once we were out, and about two hundred yards ahead of the advancing walls, patios and houses, the three commissioners turned on me. "mr. jones," they said with restraint. "you will now stop this reckless building project." i turned to lood. "you must stop it," i said. "oh, yus," he agreed, nodding happily. "most marvelous, no. ample housing for all and sundry. homes for peoples. immediate occupancy. you like basic plan house, yus?" "mr. lood," snarled the fat commissioner. "the problem on every habitable planet so far has been to find room to build. earth is congested...." distant crashing informed me that an unprecedented houseclearing was still going on. "... and so are all authorized planets yet discovered. i speak for my learned brethren in saying that this ... this anthill of yours is one thing the galactic community can do without." "and do without right now," added his bald colleague. "you wish to stop?" asked lood. small tears filled the periphery of his round eyes. "yes," i confirmed brutally. "can you stop it?" "oh, yus. must have antiseptics." * * * * * it took the fire department four hours of spraying from their copters to reduce the entire housing estate to dust. and then an even blanket of brown feathery residue lay unbroken for several acres, save here and there where the shells of previous buildings stood up gauntly and accusingly. "all bugs gone," said lood sadly. "but what about this mess?" demanded the bald commissioner. "comes out of air. floating particles. process cleans air, too." a fresh wind from across the blanket of dust came inopportunely to punctuate mr. lood's remark. as soon as they could talk again, the commissioners suggested resuming in another city. "assuming, mr. jones, you wish to produce further aspects of your, hum, case." six red and bleary eyes stared at me from a coating of brown dust of only vaguely judicial appearance. "i think, your honors, the next evidence had better be delivered in the open," i said, and pointed to a nearby park. much, if not all, of the dust fell off us as we walked over to the small green hill in the center of the park. the birds twittered, the sun shone, the breeze was fresh; and after the commissioners had settled on convenient tree stumps, i felt quite hopeful about the third line of evidence. lood stood optimistically by. "your honors," i said, "you are aware that earth suffers a grave shortage of metals. almost all economical quantities have been mined out. yet, your honors--" i paused dramatically--"in the haematin of human blood alone, whose main function is to carry oxygen to the system, there is nearly twice as much iron by weight as oxygen." "precisely which of us, mr. jones, do you propose to mine first?" i cleared my throat and let the thin commissioner's remark pass. "merely making the point, your honor, that the metal-carrying properties of bacteria have been hardly considered." this was stretching it a bit because selective breeding of microbes for the recovery of metals in tailings have been developed back in the nineteen-fifties. but so far as i knew, no one had carried it as far as my client race. "mr. lood," i commanded. "just one moment, mr. jones," said the bald commissioner drily. "let us have an outline of this _before_ we start." "certainly, your honor. mr. lood will now extract gold from a sample of ocean water we have obtained." i signalled to the waiting carrier and it came trundling softly over the grass and deposited a large tank on the grass. "genuine untouched ocean water, your honors," i said, slapping the tank. "go ahead, mr. lood." the little fellow hopped up to the side of the tank and emptied another invisible horde from a test tube into the water. we waited. "oh, yus," he said. and there on the bottom of the tank was an unmistakable sludge of metallic gold, shining speckled in the rays of sunlight bending through the water. i scooped out a sample and handed it round for the commissioners to inspect. "subject to analysis," grunted the fat one, "this certainly seems to be gold." "of course, there is no reason why this should not be done on earth, as a starting point." the thin commissioner paused and looked at my client. "does this process affect fish?" "oh, yus," said lood. "kills all parasites. fish, reptiles, and such." "thank you," said the commissioner drily. * * * * * mr. lood looked at me apologetically. "my people too small to tolerate fish," he explained. "fish most dangerous wild beasts. oh, yus." "never mind," i reassured him. "your honors, i feel the court will take a more favorable view of the dry-land operation, then. taking place as it does in the bowels of the earth, there is no danger to valuable livestock. and here we can demonstrate, for example, simple aluminum extraction, by the progressive reduction and oxidation and reduction of bacteria on a molecular scale. "i hope," i added, "this experiment will produce visible evidence of this great boon to mankind, though i must ask your honors to watch closely." lood produced another test-tube, pressed a small hole in the grass with his finger and emptied the tube. the hole darkened. we all bent over to watch. nothing happened. "perhaps a dud batch?" i asked eventually. "oh, no," said lood. we peered intently into the small hole without seeing anything. then a faint wisp of steam came out of the hole. i walked over the grass, picked up a long twig, walked back and thrust it into the hole. i could not touch bottom, so something was going on down there. the edges of the hole began to gleam with white metal. i was about to explain the alumina content of common clay, when the thin commissioner and the tree stump he was sitting on went down with a whistling sound into a sudden pit that opened beneath him. i only just caught the third and last commissioner in time. we watched his tree stump sinking out of sight together. the ground began to quiver uneasily. "let us get out of here with all haste." i followed the direction of the court with proper professional zeal. and we just made it to the safe stressed-concrete surface of the old freeway when the park melted completely into a stark framework of aluminum. seated in the middle and peering at us through the aluminum cage were the other two commissioners. they did not seem particularly happy. around them in a widening belt there opened up a pit of gleaming aluminum, melting, so to speak, towards the horizon on all sides. "you realize, i suppose, mr. jones," said the bald commissioner beside me, "that your client is in the process of eating up the earth." he breathed heavily. lood was beaming and hopping up and down at the success of his experiment. i touched him in the general area of a shoulder. he looked at me. "no," i said firmly, shaking my head. "no?" "no!" his round eyes became tearful and his little green body shook. "oh, dear. oh, dear. oh, dear." "antiseptics?" i asked. "oh, yus," he confirmed sadly. * * * * * very fortunately, the fire department was still observing my client--and me, i suspected afterwards, ridiculous as that may seem. this time it took them several hours of deep spraying and drilling to confine the area. a vast saucer of aluminum remained. "useful for signalling to stars, oh, yus?" asked lood, hopefully. "oh, no," i said. a threatening cough made me turn round to see the three commissioners staring at me. "mr. jones...." "... you have now destroyed the courthouse, the public library and five city blocks...." "... and buried them under a filthy layer of dust...." "and reduced a park into a great garbage pit...." "... we therefore refuse your claim and give you and your client six hours to get off earth...." "... and kindly do not trouble to advise us where the space council moves you. we will sleep more soundly for believing that it will be many, many light-years away." and they turned and walked away, leaving me with my client--and, apparently, my traveling companion. a quiet and suppressed sobbing made me turn and look at lood. he wept dolefully. "we have nothing," he said. "oh, no. we have nothing to offer. nothing that you humans want." "well," i said, "that's the way it goes sometimes." and what, i wondered, was i going to do for a living now? "free food," gulped lood. "free housing. free gold and metals. we had all hoped so much from this. oh, yus." there did not seem any point in telling him his people were several hundred years too late. once upon a time he would have been hailed as a savior of a starving and poor human race, a great benefactor of mankind. now he was just a nuisance. and i was another for letting him loose. "well," i assured him, "you have got one guest until they shift you off your asteroid. me. free food and housing will suit me fine. and maybe we'll find some very backward part of the galaxy where they need gold and such. "it's a pity," i added, as we started to walk towards the spaceport, "that you can't control these bacteria of yours." "can control." "it didn't look like it, my friend." "oh, yus. can control bodily leucocytes, corpuscles and such. perfect cell replacement easy." i looked down at him. "if it's all that easy," i said. "i suppose your old men can run faster than your houses." "no old men," said lood. "well, old whatever-you-are's." "no old. not die. oh, yus. perfect cell replacement." i stood very still. "do you mean you never die?" i asked. "oh, yus. never die." "can teach?" i asked. "oh, yus. most simple," smiled lood. "can teach all men not die. not ever." but i was off running after the three commissioners, yelling until they stopped and stood waiting for me.... _the novels of hall caine_ the shadow of a crime a son of hagar the deemster the bondman the scapegoat the manxman the christian the eternal city the white prophet the prodigal son the woman thou gavest me the master of man the master of man the story of a sin by hall caine "_be sure your sin will find you out_" philadelphia & london j. b. lippincott company the master of man _is published also in_ england canada australia france denmark holland sweden finland copyright, , , by sir hall caine, k.b.e. _electrotyped and printed by j. b. lippincott company the washington square press, philadelphia, u.s.a._ contents first book the sin . the breed of the ballamoar . the boyhood of victor stowell . father and sons . enter fenella stanley . the student-at-law . the world of woman . the day of temptation . the call of bessie collister . the master of man . the call of the ballamoars second book the reckoning . the return of fenella . the death of the deemster . the saving of kate kinrade . the everlasting song of the sea . the woman's secret . at the speaker's . the burning boat . the great winter third book the consequence . the eve of mary . victor stowell's vow . mother's law or judge's law? . the soul of hagar . stowell in london . alick gell . the deemster's oath fourth book the retribution . the wind and the whirlwind . the judge and the man . the trial . the two women--the two men . the verdict fifth book the reparation . "victor! victor! my victor!" . the voice of the sea . the heart of a woman . the man and the law . "and god made man of the dust of the ground" . out of the depths . the escape . the grave of a sin sixth book the redemption . the birth of a lie . the call of a woman's soul . in the valley of the shadow . "he drove out the man" . the dawn of morning . "god gave him dominion" seventh book the resurrection . the way of the cross . victory through defeat . the resurrection conclusion _author's note_ _i wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to conversations, many years ago, with the late karl emil franzos for important incidents in chapter forty-four, which, founded on fact, were in part incorporated by the russo-jewish writer in his noble book, "the chief justice."_ _also i wish to say that tolstoy told me, through his daughter, that similar incidents occurring in russia (although he altered them materially) had suggested the theme of his great novel, "resurrection."_ _for as much knowledge as i may have been able to acquire of manx law and legal procedure, i am indebted to mr. ramsey b. moore, the attorney-general in the isle of man, the scene of my story._ _h. c._ _greeba castle, isle of man._ the master of man _first book_ the sin chapter one the breed of the ballamoar we were in full school after breakfast, when the principal came from his private room with his high, quick, birdlike step and almost leapt up to his desk to speak to us. he was a rather small, slight man, of middle age, with pale face and nervous gestures, liable to alternate bouts of a somewhat ineffectual playfulness and gusts of ungovernable temper. it was easy to see that he was in his angry mood that morning. he looked round the school for a moment over the silver rims of his spectacles, and then said, "boys, before you go to your classes for the day i have something to tell you. one of you has brought disgrace upon king william's, and i must know which of you it is." then followed the "degrading story." the facts of it had just been brought to his notice by the inspector of police for castletown. he had no intention of entering into details. they were too shameful. briefly, one of our boys, a senior boy apparently, had lately made a practice of escaping from his house after hours, and had so far forfeited his self-respect as to go walking in the dark roads with a young girl--a servant girl, he was ashamed to say, from the home of the high bailiff. he had been seen repeatedly, and although not identified, he had been recognised by his cap as belonging to the college. last night two young townsmen had set out to waylay him. there had been a fight, in which our boy had apparently used a weapon, probably a stick. the result was that one of the young townsmen was now in hospital, still insensible, the other was seriously injured about the face. probably a pair of young blackguards who had intervened from base motives of their own and therefore deserved no pity. but none the less the conduct of the king william's boy had been disgraceful. it must be punished, no matter who he was, or how high he might stand in the school. "i tell you plainly, boys, i don't know who he is. neither do the police--the townsmen never having heard his name and the girl refusing to speak." but he had a suspicion--a very strong suspicion, based upon an unmistakable fact. he might have called the boy he suspected to his room and dealt with him privately. but a matter like this, known to the public authorities and affecting the honour and welfare of the college, was not to be hushed up. in fact the police had made it a condition of their foregoing proceedings in the courts that an open inquiry should be made here. he had undertaken to make it, and he must make it now. "therefore, i give the boy who has been guilty of this degrading conduct the opportunity of voluntary confession--of revealing himself to the whole school, and asking pardon of his principal, his masters and his fellow-pupils for the disgrace he has brought on them. who is it?" none of us stirred, spoke or made sign. the principal was rapidly losing his temper. "boys," he said, "there is something i have not told you. according to the police the disgraceful incident occurred between nine and nine-thirty last night, and it is known to the house-master of one of your houses that one boy, and one only, who had been out without permission, came in after that hour. i now give that boy another chance. who is he?" still no one spoke or stirred. the principal bit his lip, and again looked down the line of our desks over the upper rims of his spectacles. "does nobody speak? must i call a name? is it possible that any king william's boy can ask for the double shame of being guilty and being found out?" even yet there was no sign from the boys, and no sound except their audible breathing through the nose. "very well. so be it. i've given that boy his chance. now he must take the consequences." with that the principal stepped down from his desk, turned his blazing eyes towards the desks of the fifth form and said, "stowell, step forward." we gasped. stowell was the head boy of the school and an immense and universal favourite. through the mists of years some of us can see him still, as he heaved up from his seat that morning and walked slowly across the open floor in front to where the principal was standing. a big, well-grown boy, narrowly bordering on eighteen, dark-haired, with broad forehead, large dark eyes, fine features, and, even in those boyish days, a singular air of distinction. there was no surprise in his face, and not a particle of shame, but there was a look of defiance which raised to boiling point the principal's simmering anger. "stowell," he said, "you will not deny that you were out after hours last night?" "no, sir." "then it was you who were guilty of this disgraceful conduct?" stowell seemed to be about to speak, and then with a proud look to check himself, and to close his mouth as with a snap. "it was you, wasn't it?" stowell straightened himself up and answered, "so you say, sir." "_i_ say? speak for yourself. you've a tongue in your head, haven't you?" "perhaps i have, sir." "then it _was_ you?" stowell made no answer. "why don't you answer me? answer, sir! it _was_ you," said the principal. and then stowell, with a little toss of the head and a slight curl of the lip, replied, "if _you_ say it was, what is the use of _my_ saying anything, sir?" the last remnant of the principal's patience left him. his eyes flamed and his nostrils quivered. a cane, seldom used, was lying along the ledge of his desk. he turned to it, snatched it up, and brought it down in two or three rapid sweeps on stowell's back, and (as afterwards appeared) his bare neck also. it was all over in a flash. we gasped again. there was a moment of breathless silence. all eyes were on stowell. he was face to face with the principal, standing, in his larger proportions, a good two inches above him, ghastly white and trembling with passion. for a moment we thought anything might happen. then stowell appeared to recover his self-control. he made another little toss of the head, another curl of the lip and a shrug of the shoulders. "now go back to your study, sir," said the principal, between gusts of breath, "and stay there until you are told to leave it." stowell was in no hurry, but he turned after a moment and walked out, with a strong step, almost a haughty one. "boys, go to your classes," said the principal, in a hoarse voice, and then he went out, too, but more hurriedly. something had gone wrong, wretchedly wrong, we scarcely knew what--that was our confused impression as we trooped off to the class-rooms, a dejected lot of lads, half furious, half afraid. ii at seven o'clock that night stowell was still confined to his study, a little, bare room, containing an iron bedstead, a deal washstand, a table, one chair, a trunk, some books on a hanging bookshelf, and a small rug before an iron fender. it was november and the day had been cold. jamieson (the principal's valet) had smuggled up some coal and lit a little fire for him. mrs. gale (the principal's housekeeper), bringing his curtailed luncheon, had seen the long red wheal which the cane had left across the back of his neck, and insisted on cooling it with some lotion and bandaging it with linen. he was sitting alone in the half-darkness of his little room, crouching over the fire, gloomy, morose, fierce and with a burning sense of outraged justice. the door opened and another boy came into the room. it was alick gell, his special chum, a lad of his own age, but fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with rather feminine features. in a thick voice that was like a sob half-choked in his throat, he said, "vic, i can't stand this any longer." "oh, it's you, is it? i thought you'd come." "of course you didn't do that disgraceful thing, as they call it, but you've got to know who did. it was i." stowell did not answer. he had neither turned nor looked up, and gell, standing behind him, tugged at his shoulders and said again, "don't you hear me? it was i." "i know." "you know? how do you know? when did you know? did you know this morning?" "i knew last night." going into town he had seen gell on the opposite side of the road. yes, it was true enough he was out after hours. the principal himself had sent him! early in the day he had told him that after "prep" he was to go to the station for something. "good lord! then he must have forgotten all about it!" "he had no business to forget." "why didn't you tell him?" "not i--not likely!" "but being out after hours wasn't anything. it wasn't knocking those blackguards about. why didn't you deny that anyway?" "oh, shut up, alick." again gell tugged at his shoulders and said, "but why didn't you?" "if you must know, i'll tell you--because they would have had you for it next." mrs. gale had found the big window of the lavatory open at a quarter-past nine, and when she sent jamieson down he saw gell closing it. "do you mean that.... that to save me, you allowed yourself to...." "shut up, i tell you!" there was silence for a moment and then gell began to cry openly, and to pour out a torrent of self-reproaches. he was a coward; a wretched, miserable, contemptible coward--that's what he was and he had always known it. he would never forgive himself--never! but perhaps he had not been thinking of saving his own skin only. "that was little bessie collister." "i know." if he had stood up to the confounded thing and confessed, and given her away, after she had been plucky and refused to speak, and his father had heard of it.... _her_ father also.... her stepfather.... "dan baldromma, you know what he is, vic?" "oh, yes, there would have been the devil to pay all round." "wouldn't there?" "the college, too! dan would have had something to say to old peacock (nickname for the principal) on that subject also." yes, that was what gell had thought, and it was the reason (one of the reasons) why he had stood silent when the principal challenged them. nobody knew anything except the girl. the police didn't know; the principal didn't know. if he kept quiet the inquiry would end in nothing and there would be no harm done to anybody--except the town ruffians, and they deserved all they got. how was he to guess that somebody else was out after hours, and that to save him from being exposed, perhaps expelled, his own chum, like the brick he was and always had been.... "hold your tongue, you fool!" gell made for the door. "look here," he said, "i'm going to tell the principal that if you were out last night it was on an errand for him--that can't hurt anybody." "no, you're not." "yes, i am--certainly i am." "if you do, i'll never speak to you again--on my soul, never." "but he's certain to remember it sooner or later." "let him." "and when he does, what's he to think of himself?" "that's his affair, isn't it? leave him alone." gell's voice rose to a cry. "no, i will not leave him alone. and since you won't let me say that about you, i'll tell him about myself. yes, i will, and nobody shall prevent me! i don't care what happens about father, or anybody else, now. i can't stand this any longer. i can't and i won't." "alick! alick gell! old fellow...." but the door had been slammed to and gell was gone. iii the principal was in his library, a well-carpeted room, warmed by a large fire and lighted by a red-shaded lamp. his half-yearly examination had just finished and his desk was piled high with examination papers, but he could not settle himself to his work on them. he was harking back to the event of the morning, and was not too pleased with himself. he had lost his temper again; he had inflicted a degrading punishment on a senior boy, and to protect the good name of the school he had allowed himself to be intimidated by the police into a foolish and ineffectual public inquiry. "wretched! wretched! wretched!" he thought, rising for the twentieth time from his chair before the fire and pacing the room in a disorder. he thought of stowell with a riot of mingled anger and affection. he had always liked that boy---a fine lad, with good heart and brain in spite of obvious limitations. he had shown the boy some indulgence, too, and this was how he had repaid him! defying him in the face of the whole school! provoking him with his prevarication, the proud curl of his lip and his damnable iteration: "if _you_ say so, sir...." it had been maddening. any master in the world might have lost his temper. of course the boy was guilty! but then he was no sneak or coward. good gracious, no, that was the last thing anybody would say about him. quite the contrary! only too apt to take the blame of bad things on himself when he might make others equally responsible. that was one reason the under-masters liked him and the boys worshipped him. then why, in the name of goodness, hadn't he spoken out, made some defence, given some explanation? after all the first offence was nothing worse than being out after hours for a little foolish sweethearting. the principal saw stowell making a clean breast of everything, and himself administering a severe admonition and then fighting it all out with the police for school and scholar. but that was impossible now--quite impossible! "wretched! wretched! wretched!" he thought of the boy's father--the senior judge or deemster of the island, and easily the first man in it. one of the trustees of the college also, to whom serious matters were always mentioned. this had become a serious matter. even if nothing worse happened to that young blackguard in the hospital the police might insist on expulsion. if so, what would be the absolute evidence against the boy? only that he had been out of school when the disgraceful incident had happened! the deemster, who was cool and clear-headed, might say the boy could have been out on some other errand. or perhaps that some other boy might have been out at the same time. but that couldn't be! good heavens, no! stowell wasn't a fool. if he had been innocent, why on earth should he have taken his degrading punishment lying down? no, no, he had been guilty enough. he had admitted that he was out after hours, and, having nothing else to say even about that (why or by whose permission), he had tried to carry the whole thing off with a sort of silent braggadocio. "wretched! wretched! wretched!" the principal had at length settled himself at his desk, and was taking up some of the examination papers, when he uncovered a small white packet. obviously a chemist's packet, sealed with red wax and tied with blue string. not having seen it before he picked it up, and looked at it. it was addressed to himself, and was marked "by passenger train--to be called for." the principal felt his thin hair rising from his scalp. something he had forgotten had come back upon him with the force and suddenness of a blow. off and on for a week he had suffered from nervous headaches. somebody had recommended an american patent medicine and he had written to douglas for it. the douglas chemist had replied that it was coming by the afternoon steamer, and he would send it on to castletown by the last train. the letter had arrived when he was in class, and jamieson the valet, being out of reach, he had asked stowell, who was at hand, to go to the station for the parcel after preparation and leave it on his library table. and then the headache had passed off, and in the pressure of the examination he had forgotten the whole matter! the principal got up again. his limbs felt rigid, and he had the sickening sensation of his body shrinking into insignificance. at that moment there came a knocking at his door. he could not answer at first and the knocking was repeated. "come in then," he said, and gell entered, his face flooded with tears. he knew the boy as one who was nearly always in trouble, and his first impulse was to drive him out. "why do you come here? go to your house-master, or to your head, or...." "it's about stowell himself, sir. he's innocent," said gell. "innocent?" "yes, sir--it was i," said gell. and then came a flood of words, blurted out like water from an inverted bottle. it was true that he was with the girl last night, but it was a lie that he had made a practice of walking out with her. she came from the north of the island, a farm near his home, and he hadn't known she was living in castletown until he met her in the town yesterday afternoon. they were on the darby haven road, just beyond the college cricket ground, about nine o'clock, when the blackguards dropped out on them from the hango hill ruins and started to rag him. it was true he smashed them and he would do it again, and worse next time, but it was another lie that he had done it with a stick. _they_ had the stick, and it was just when he was knocking out one of them that the other aimed a blow at him which fell on his chum instead and tumbled him over insensible. the girl had gone off screaming before that, and seeing the police coming up he had leapt into the cricket ground and got back into school by the lavatory window. "but why, boy .... why .... why didn't you say all this in school this morning?" "i was afraid, sir," said gell, and then came the explanation he had given to stowell. he had been afraid his father would get to know, and the girl's father, too--that was to say her step-father. her step-father was a tenant of his own father's; they were always at cross purposes, and he had thought if the girl got into any trouble at the high bailiff's and it came out that he had been the cause of it, her step-father.... "who is he? what's his name?" "dan collister--but they call him baldromma after the farm, sir." "that wind-bag and agitator who is always in the newspapers?" "yes, sir." "but, good heavens, boy, don't you see what you've done for me?--allowed me to punish an innocent person?" "yes, i know," said gell, and then, through another gust of sobs, came further explanations. it had all been over before he had had time to think. the principal had said that nobody knew, and he had thought he had only to hold his tongue and nothing would be found out. but if he had known that stowell knew, and that he had been out himself.... "and did he know?" "yes, sir. he saw me with bessie collister as he was going to the station and he thought he couldn't get out of this himself without letting me in for it." "do you mean to tell me that he took that punishment to .... to save you from being discovered?" gell hesitated for a moment, then choked down his sobs, and said with a defiant cry: "yes, he did--to save me, and the school, and .... and you, too, sir." the principal staggered back a step, and then said: "leave me, boy, leave me." he did not go to bed that night, or to school next day, or the day after, or the day after that. on the fourth day he wrote a long letter to the deemster, telling him with absolute truthfulness what had happened, and concluding: "that is all, your honour, but to me it is everything. i have not only punished an innocent boy, but one who, in taking his punishment, was doing an act of divine unselfishness. i am humiliated in my own eyes. i feel like a little man in the presence of your son. i can never look into his face again. "my first impulse was to resign my post, but on second thoughts i have determined to leave the issue to your decision. if i am to remain as head of your school you must take your boy away. if he is to stay i must go. which is it to be?" chapter two the boyhood of victor stowell deemster stowell was the only surviving member of an old manx family. they had lived for years beyond memory at ballamoar (the great place) an estate of nearly a thousand acres on the seaward angle of the curragh lands which lie along the north-west of the island. the fishermen say the great gulf-stream which sweeps across the atlantic strikes the manx coast at that elbow. hence the tropical plants which grow in the open at ballamoar, and also the clouds of snow-white mist which too often hang over it, hiding the house, and the lands around, and making the tower of jurby church on the edge of the cliff look like a lighthouse far out at sea. the mansion house, in the deemster's day, was a ramshackle old place which bore signs of having been altered and added to by many generations of his family. it stood back to the sea and facing a broad and undulating lawn, which was bordered by lofty elms that were inhabited by undisturbed colonies of rooks. from a terrace behind, opening out of the dining-room, there was a far view on clear days of the mull of galloway to the north, and of the morne mountains to the west. people used to say-- "the stowells have caught a smatch of the irish and the scotch in their manx blood." the deemster was sixty years of age at that time. a large, spare man with an almost jovian white head, clean-shaven face, powerful yet melancholy eyes, bold yet sensitive features and long yet delicate hands--a strong, silent, dignified, rather solemn personality. he was a man of the highest integrity. occupying an office too often associated, in his time, with various forms of corruption, the breath of scandal never touched him. he was a legislator, as well as a judge, being _ex officio_ a member of the little manx parliament, but in his double capacity (so liable to abuse) nobody with a doubtful scheme would have dared to approach him. "what does the old deemster say?"--the answer to that question often settled a dispute, for nobody thought of appealing against his judgment. "justice is the strongest and most sacred thing on earth"--that was his motto, and he lived up to it. his private life had been saddened by a great sorrow. he married, rather late in life, a young englishwoman, out of cumberland--a gentle creature with a kind of moonlight beauty. she died four or five years afterwards and the manx people knew little about her. to the last they called her the "stranger." the deemster bore his loss in characteristic silence. nobody intruded on his sorrow, or even entered his house, but on the day of the funeral half "the north" lined the long grass-grown road from the back gates of ballamoar to the little wind-swept churchyard over against the sea. he thanked none of them and saluted none, but his head was low as his coach passed through. next day he took his court as usual, and from that day onward nobody saw any difference in him. but long afterwards, janet curphey, the lady housekeeper at ballamoar, was heard to say in the village post-office, which was also the grocer's shop, that every morning after breakfast the deemster had put a vase of fresh-cut flowers on the writing-desk in his library under his young wife's portrait, until it was now a white-haired man who was making his daily offering to the picture of a young woman. "aw, yes, mrs. clucas, yes! and what did it matter to the woman to be a stranger when she was loved like that?" the "stranger" had left a child, and this had been at once the tragedy and the triumph of her existence. although an ancient family of exceptional longevity the stowells had carried on their race by a very thin line. one child, rarely two, never three, and only one son at any time--that had been all that had stood from generation to generation between the family name and extinction. after three years of childlessness the deemster's wife had realised the peril, and, for her husband's sake, begun to pray for a son. with all her soul she prayed for him. the fervour of her prayers made her a devoutly religious woman. when her hope looked like a certainty her joy was that of an angel rejoicing in the goodness and greatness and glory of god. but by that time the sword had almost worn out its scabbard. she had fought a great fight and under the fire of her spirit her body had begun to fail. the deemster had sent for famous physicians and some of them had shaken their heads. "she may get through it; but we must take care, your honour, we must take care." beneath his calm exterior the deemster had been torn by the red strife of conflicting hopes, but his wife had only had one desire. when her dread hour came she met it with a shining face. her son was born and he was to live, but she was dying. at the last moment she asked for her husband, and drew his head down to her. "call him victor," she said--she had conquered. ii it was then that the lady housekeeper took service at ballamoar. janet curphey was the last relic of a decayed manx family that had fallen on evil times, and having lost all she had come for life. she quickly developed an almost slave-like devotion to the deemster (during her first twenty years she would never allow anybody else to wait on him at table) as well as a motherly love for his motherless little one. the child called her his mother, nobody corrected him, and for years he knew nothing to the contrary. he grew to be a braw and bright little man, and was idolized by everybody. having no relations of his own, except "mother," and the deemster, he annexed everybody else's. bobbie, the young son of the ballamoar farmer (there was a farm between the mansion-house and the sea) called his father "dad," so robbie creer was "dad" to victor too. the old widow in the village who kept the post-office-grocer's shop was "auntie kitty" to her orphan niece, alice, so she was "auntie kitty" to victor also. "everybody loves that child," said janet. it was true. as far back as that, under god knows what guidance, he was laying his anchor deep for the days of storm and tempest. during his earlier years he saw little of his father, but every evening after his bath he was taken into the library to bid good-night to him, and then the deemster would lift him up to the picture to bid good-night to his mother also. "you must love and worship her all your life, darling. i'll tell you why, some day." he was a born gipsy, often being lost in the broad plantations about the house, and then turning up with astonishing stories of the distances he had travelled. "i didn't went no farther nor ramsey to-day, mother"--seven miles as the crow flies. he was born a poet too, and after the deemster had made a "limerick" on his christian name, he learnt to rhyme to the same measure, making quatrains almost as rapidly as he could speak, though often with strange words of his own compounding. thus he celebrated his pet lamb, his kid, his rabbits, the rooks on the lawn, and particularly a naughty young pony his father had given him, who "lived in the fiel'" and whom he "wanted to go to peel," but whenever he went out to fetch her she "always kicked up her heel." janet thought this marvellous, miraculous. it was a gift! the little prophet samuel might have been more saintly but he couldn't have been more wonderful. janet was not the only one to be impressed. it is known now that day by day the deemster copied the boy's rhymes, with much similar matter, into a leather-bound book which he had labelled strangely enough, "isabel's diary." he kept this secret volume under lock and key, and it was never seen by anyone else until years afterwards, when, in a tragic hour, the childish jingles in the judge's sober handwriting, under the eyes that looked at them, burnt like flame and cut like a knife. it was remarked by janet that the deemster's affection for the child grew greater, while the expression of it became less as the years went on. "is the boy up yet?" would be the first word he would say when she took his early tea to him in the morning; and if a long day in the courts kept him from home until after the child had been put to bed, he would never sit down until he had gone upstairs to look at the little one in his cot. in common with other imaginative children brought up alone the boy invented a playmate, but contrary to custom his invisible comrade was of the opposite sex, not that of the little dreamer. he called her "sadie," nobody knew why, or how he had come by the name, for it was quite unknown in the island. "sadie" lived with her mother, "mrs. corlett," in the lodge of ballamoar, which had been empty and shut up since "the stranger" died, when the coachman, who had occupied it, was no longer needed. on returning from some of his runaway jaunts the boy accounted for his absence by saying he had been down to the gate to see "sadie." he filled the empty house with an entire scheme of domestic economy, and could tell you all that happened there. "sadie was peeling the potatoes this morning and mrs. corlett was washing up, mamma." his pony's name was molly and by six years of age he had learnt to ride her with such ease and confidence that to see them cantering up the drive was to think that boy and pony must be a single creature. molly developed a foal, called derry, which always wanted to be trotting after its mother. that suited the boy perfectly. derry had to carry "sadie"--a rare device which enabled his invisible comrade to be nearly always with him. but at length came a dire event which destroyed "sadie." the master of ballamoar was rising seven when a distant relative of the derby family (formerly the lords of man) was appointed lieutenant-governor of the island. this was sir john stanley, an ex-indian officer--a man in middle life, not brilliant, but the incarnation of commonsense, essentially a product of his time, firm of will, conservative in opinions, impatient of all forms of romantic sentiment, but kindly, genial and capable of constant friendship. the deemster and the new governor, though their qualities had points of difference, became good friends instantly. they met first at the swearing-in at castle rushen where, as senior judge of the island, the deemster administered the oath. but their friendship was sealed by an experience in common--the governor having also lost a beloved wife, who had died in childbirth, leaving him with an only child. this was a girl called fenella, a year and a half younger than victor, a beautiful little fairy, but a little woman, too, with a will of her own also. the children came together at ballamoar, the governor having brought his little daughter, with her french governess, on his first call. there was the usual ceremonious meeting of the little people, the usual eyeing of each other from afar, the usual shy aloofness. then came swift comradeship, gurgling laughter, a frantic romping round the rooms, and out on to the lawn, and then--a wild quarrel, with shrill voices in fierce dispute. the two fathers rose from their seats in the library and looked out of the windows. the girl was running towards the house with screams of terror, and the boy was stoning her off the premises. "you mustn't think as this is your house, 'cause it isn't." janet made peace between them, and the children kissed at parting, but going home in the carriage fenella confided to the french governess her fixed resolve to "marry to a girl," not a boy, when her time came to take a husband. the effect on victor was of another kind but no less serious. it was remarked that the visit of little fenella stanley had in some mysterious way banished his invisible playmate. sadie was dead--stone dead and buried. no more was ever heard of her, and mrs. corlett's cottage returned to its former condition as a closed-up gate-lodge. when derry trotted by molly's side there was apparently somebody else astride of her now. but--strange whispering of sex--whoever she was the boy never helped her to mount, and when she dismounted he always looked another way. iii four years passed, and boy and girl met again. this time it was at government house and the boot was on the other leg. fenella, a tall girl for her age, well-grown, spirited, a little spoiled, was playing tennis with the three young gell girls--daughters of a manx family of some pretensions. when victor, in his straw hat and eton jacket, appeared in the tennis court (having driven over with his father and been sent out to the girls by the governor) the french governess told fenella to let him join in the game. she did so, taking a racquet from one of the gell girls and giving it to the boy. but though victor, who was now at the ramsey grammar school, could play cricket and football with any boy of his age on the island, he knew nothing about tennis, and again and again, in spite of repeated protests, sent the balls flying out of the court. the gells tittered and sniffed, and at length fenella, calling him a booby, snatched the racquet out of his hand and gave it back to the girl. at this humiliation his eyes flashed and his cheeks coloured, and after a moment he marched moodily back to the open window of the drawing-room. there the governor and the deemster were sitting, and the governor said, "helloa! what's amiss? why aren't you playing with the girls?" "because i'm not," said the boy. "victor!" said the deemster, but the boy's eyes had began to fill, so the matter ended. there was a show of peace when the girls came in to tea, but on returning to ballamoar the boy communicated to janet in "open court" his settled conviction that "girls were no good anyway." boy and girl did not meet again for yet another four years and then the boot had changed its leg once more. by that time victor had made his boy-friendship. it was with alick gell, brother of the three gell girls and only son of archibald gell, a big man in manxland, speaker of the house of keys, the representative branch of the little manx parliament. archibald gell's lands, which were considerable, made boundary with the deemster's, and his mansion house was the next on the ramsey road, but his principal activities were those of a speculative builder. in this capacity he had put up vast numbers of boarding-houses all over the island to meet the needs of the visiting industry, borrowing from english insurance companies enormous sums on mortgage, which could only be repaid by the thrift and forethought of a second generation. alick knew what was expected of him, but down to date he had shown no promise of capacity to fulfil his destiny. he had less of his father's fiery energy than of the comfortable contentment of his mother, who came of a line of manx parsons, always shockingly ill-paid, generally thriftless and sometimes threadbare. yet he was a lovable boy, not too bright of brain but with a heart of gold and a genuine gift of friendship. at the ramsey grammar school he had attached himself to victor, fetching and carrying for him, and looking up to him with worshipful devotion. now they were together at king william's college, the public school of the island, fine lads both, but neither of them doing much good there. it was the morning of the annual prize day at the end of the summer term. the governor had come to present the prizes, and he was surrounded by all the officials of man, except the deemster, who rarely attended such functions. the boys were on platforms on either side of the hall, and the parents were in the body of it, with the wives and sisters of the big people in the front row, and fenella, the governor's daughter, now a tall girl in white, with her french governess, in the midst of them. at this ceremony gell played no part, and even stowell did not shine. one boy after another went down to a tumult of hand-clapping and climbed back with books piled up to his chin. when stowell's turn came, the principal, who had been calling out the names of the prize-winners, and making little speeches in their praise, tried to improve the occasion with a moral homily. "now here," he said, making one of his bird-like steps forward, "is a boy of extraordinary talents--quite extraordinary. yet he has only one prize to receive. why? want of application! if boys of such great natural gifts .... yes, i might almost say genius, would only apply themselves, there is nothing whatever, at school or in after life...." p'shew! during this astonishing speech stowell was already on the platform, only a pace back from the principal, in full view of everybody, with face aflame and a burning sense of injustice. and, although, when the interlude was over, and he stepped forward to receive his horace (he had won the prize for classics) the governor rose and shook hands with him and said he was sure the son of his old friend, the deemster, would justify himself yet, and make his father proud of him, he was perfectly certain that fenella stanley's eyes were on him and she was thinking him a "booby." but his revenge came later. in the afternoon he captained in the cricket match, with fifteen of the junior house against the school eleven. things went badly for the big fellows from the moment he took his place at the wicket, so they put on their best and fastest bowlers. but he scored all round the wicket for nearly an hour, driving the ball three times over the roof of the school chapel and twice into the ruins beyond the darby-haven road, and carrying his bat for more than sixty runs. then, as he came in, the little fellows who had been frantic, and gell, who had been turning cart-wheels in delirious excitement, and the big fellows, who had been beaten, stood up together and cheered him lustily. but at that moment he wasn't thinking about any of them. he knew--although, of course, he did not look--that in the middle of the people in the pavilion, who were all on their feet and waving their handkerchiefs, there was fenella stanley, with glistening eyes and cheeks aglow. perhaps she thought he would salute her now, or even stop and speak. but no, not likely! he doffed his cap to the governor as he ran past, but took no more notice of the governor's winsome daughter than if she had been a crow. iv after that--nothing! neither of the boys distinguished himself at college. this was a matter of no surprise to the masters in gell's case, but in stowell's it was a perpetual problem. their favourite solution was that the david-and-jonathan friendship between two boys of widely differing capacity was at the root of the trouble--gell being slow and stowell unwilling to shame him. as year followed year without tangible results the rumour came home to ballamoar that the son of the deemster was not fulfilling expectations. "_traa de liooar_" (time enough) said robbie creer of the farm; but dan baldromma, of the mill-farm in the glen, who prided himself on being no respecter of persons, and made speeches in the market-place denouncing the "aristocraks" of the island, and predicting the downfall of the old order, was heard to say he wasn't sorry. "if these young cubs of the spaker and the dempster," said dan, "hadn't been born with the silver spoon in their mouths we should be hearing another story. when the young birds get their wings push them out of the nest, i say. it's what i done with my own daughter--my wife's, i mane. immajetly she was fifteen i packed her off to sarvice at the high bailiff's at castletown, and now she may shift for herself for me." the effect on the two fathers was hardly less conflicting. the speaker stormed at his son, called him a "poop" (anglo-manx for numskull), wondered why he had troubled to bring a lad into the world who would only scatter his substance, and talked about making a new will to protect his daughters and to save the real estate which the law gave his son by heirship. the deemster was silent. term by term he read, without comment, the principal's unfavourable reports, with the "ifs" and "buts" and "althoughs," which were intended to soften the hard facts with indications of what might have been. and he said not a word of remonstrance or reproach when the boy came home without prizes, though he wrote in his leather-bound book that he felt sometimes as if he could have given its weight in gold for the least of them. at seventeen and a half stowell became head of the school, not so much by scholastic attainment as by seniority, by proficiency in games and by influence over the boys. but even in this capacity he had serious shortcomings. gell had by this time developed a supernatural gift of getting into scrapes, and stowell, as head boy, partly responsible for his conduct, often allowed himself to become his scapegoat. then the rumour came home that victor was not only a waster but a wastrel. janet wouldn't believe a word of it, 'deed she wouldn't, and "auntie kitty" said the boy was the son of the deemster, and she had never yet seen a good cow with a bad calf. but dan baldromma was of another opinion. "the dempster may be a grand man," said dan, "but sarve him right, i say. spare the rod, spoil the child! show me the man on this island will say i ever done that with my own child--my wife's, i mane." finally came a report of the incident on the darby-haven road. john cæsar, a "lump" of a lad, son of qualtrough, the butcher (a respectable man and a member of the keys), had been brutally assaulted while doing his best to protect a young nurse-girl from the unworthy attentions of a college boy. the culprit was victor stowell, and the father of the victim had demanded his prosecution with the utmost rigour of the law. but out of respect for the deemster, and regard for the school, he was not to be arrested on condition that he was to be expelled. for three days this circumstantial story was on everybody's lips, yet the deemster never heard it. but he was one of those who learn ill tidings without being told, and see disasters before they happen, so when the principal's letter came he showed no surprise. janet saw him coming downstairs dressed for dinner (he had dressed for dinner during his married days and kept up the habit ever afterwards, though he nearly always dined alone) just as old willie killip, the postman, with his red lantern at his belt, came through the open porch to the vestibule door. taking his letter and going into the library, he had stood by the writing desk under the "stranger's" picture, while he opened the envelope and looked at the contents of it. his face had fallen after he read the first page, and it was the same as if the sun was setting on the man, but when he turned the second it had lightened, and it was just as if the day was dawning on him. then, without a moment's hesitation, he sat at the desk and wrote a telegram for old willie to take back. it was to the principal at king william's, and there was only one line in it-- "send him home--_stowell_." after that--janet was ready to swear on the holy book to it--he rose and looked up into the "stranger's" face and said, in a low voice that was like that of a prayer: "it's all right, isobel--it is well." chapter three fathers and sons next day the deemster drove to douglas to meet his son coming back. the weather was cold, he had to leave home in the grey of morning, and he was driving in an open dog-cart, but the deemster knew what he was doing. ten minutes before the train came in from castletown he had drawn up in the station yard. the passengers came through from the platform and saw him there, and he sainted some of them. cæsar qualtrough was among them, a gross-bodied and dark-faced man, darker than ever that day with a look of animosity and scorn. when, at the tail of the crowd, victor came, in the sour silence of the disgraced, no longer wearing his college cap, and with his discoloured college trunk being trundled behind him, the deemster said nothing, but he indicated the seat by his side, and the boy climbed up to it. then with his white head erect and his strong eyes shining he drove out of the station yard. it was still early morning and he was in no hurry to return home. for half an hour he passed slowly through the principal thoroughfares of the town, bowing to everybody he knew and speaking to many. it was market day and he made for the open space about the old church on the quay, where the farmers' wives were standing in rows with their baskets of butter and eggs, the farmers' sons with their tipped-up carts of vegetables, and the smaller of the farmers themselves, from all parts of the island, with their carcases of sheep and oxen. without leaving his seat the deemster bought of several of them and had his purchases packed about the college trunk behind him. it was office hours by this time and he began to call on his friends, leaving victor outside to take care of the horse and dog-cart. his first call was on the attorney-general, donald wattleworth, who had been an old school-fellow of his own at king william's, where forty odd years ago he had saved him from many troubles. the attorney was now a small, dapper, very correct and rather religious old gentleman (he had all his life worn a white tie and elastic side-boots), with the round and wrinkled face that is oftenest seen in a good old woman. for a quarter of an hour the deemster talked with him on general subjects, his courts and forthcoming cases, without saying a word about the business which had brought him to douglas. but the attorney divined it. from his chair at his desk on the upper story he could see victor, with his pale face, in the dog-cart below, twiddling the slack of the reins in his nervous fingers, and when the deemster rose to go he followed him downstairs to the street, and whispered to the boy from behind, as his father was taking his seat in front, "cheer up, my lad! many a good case has a bad start, you know." the deemster's last call was at government house, and again victor, to his relief, was left outside. but when, ten minutes later, the governor, with his briar-root pipe in his hand, came into the porch to see the deemster off, and found victor in the dog-cart, looking cold and miserable, with his overcoat buttoned up to his throat, he stepped out bareheaded, with the wind in his grey hair, and shook hands with him, and said, "glad to see you again, my boy. you remember my girl, fenella? yes? well, she's at college now, but she'll be home for her holiday one of these days--and then i must bring her over to see you. good-bye!" the deemster was satisfied. not a syllable had he said from first to last about the bad story that had come from castletown, but before he left douglas that day, it was dead and done for. "now we'll go home," he said, and for two hours thereafter, father and son, sitting side by side, and never speaking except on indifferent subjects, followed the high mountain road, with its far view of ireland and scotland, like vanishing ghosts across a broken sea, the deep declivity of the glen, with dan baldromma's flour mill at the foot of it, and the turfy lanes of the curraghs, where the curlews were crying, until they came to the big gates of ballamoar, with the tall elms and the great silence inside of them, broken only by the loud cawing of the startled rooks, and then to janet, in her lace cap, at the open door of the house, waiting for her boy and scarcely knowing whether to laugh or cry over him. ii meantime there had been another and very different homecoming. in a corner of an open third-class carriage of the train that brought victor stowell from castletown there was a little servant girl with a servant's tin box, tied about with a cord, on the seat beside her. this was bessie collister, dismissed from the high bailiff's service and being sent home to her people. she was very young, scarcely more than fifteen, with coal-black eyes and eyebrows and bright complexion--a bud of a girl just breaking into womanhood. dan baldromma had no need to say she was not his daughter. her fatherhood was doubtful. rumour attributed it to a dashing young irish captain, who sixteen years before had put into ramsey for repairs after his ship, a coasting schooner had run on the carrick rock. half the girls of "the north" had gone crazy over this intoxicating person, and in the wild conflict as to who should win him liza corteen had both won and lost, for as soon as his ship was ready for sea he had disappeared, and never afterwards been heard of. liza's baby had been born in the following spring, and two years later dan collister, a miller from "the south" who had not much cause to be proud of his own pedigree, had made a great virtue of marrying her, child and all, being, as he said, on "conjergal" subjects a man of liberal views and strong opinions. in the fourteen years that followed liza had learned the liberality of dan's views on marriage and bessie the strength of his hand as well as opinions. but while the mother's nerves had been broken by the reproaches about her "by-child," which had usually preceded her husband's night-long nasal slumbers, the spirits of the girl had not suffered much, except from fear of a certain strap which he had hung in the ingle. "the world will never grow cold on that child," people used to say in her earliest days, and it seemed as if it was still true, even in the depth of her present trouble. the open railway carriage was full of farming people going up to market, and among them were two buxom widows with their baskets of butter and eggs on their broad knees and their faces resplendent from much soap. facing these was a tough and rough old sinner who bantered them, in language more proper to the stud and the farmyard, on their late married lives and the necessity of beginning on fresh ones. the unvarnished gibes provoked loud laughter from the other passengers, and bessie's laugh was loudest of all. this led to the widows looking round in her direction, and presently, in the recovered consciousness of her situation, she heard whispers of "johnny qualtrough" and the "dempster's son" and then turned back to her window and cried. there was no one to help her with her luggage when she had to change at douglas, so she carried her tin box across the platform to the ramsey train. the north-going traffic was light at that hour, and sitting in an empty compartment she had time to think of home and what might happen when she got there. this was a vision of dan baldromma threatening, her mother pleading, herself screaming and all the hurly-burly she had heard so often. but even that did not altogether frighten her now, for she had one source of solace which she had never had before. she was wearing a big hat with large red roses, a straw-coloured frock and openwork stockings, with shoes that were much too thin for the on-coming winter. and looking down at these last and remembering she had bought them out of her wages, expressly for that walk with alick gell, she thought of something that was immeasurably more important in her mind than the incident which had led to all the trouble--alick had kissed her! she was still thinking of this, and tingling with the memory of it, and telling herself how good she had been not to say who her boy was when the "big ones" questioned her, and how she would never tell that, 'deed no, never, no matter what might happen to other people, when the train drew up suddenly at the station that was her destination and she saw her mother, a weak-eyed woman, with a miserable face, standing alone on the shingly platform. "sakes alive, girl, what have thou been doing now?" said mrs. collister, as soon as the train had gone on. "hadn't i trouble enough with thy father without this?" but bessie was in tears again by that time, so mother and daughter lifted the tin box into a tailless market cart that stood waiting in the road, climbed over the wheel to the plank seat across it, and turned their horse's head towards home. dan baldromma's mill stood face to the high road and back to the glen and the mountains--a substantial structure with a thatched and whitewashed dwelling-house attached, a few farm buildings and a patch of garden, which, though warm and bright in summer under its mantle of gillie-flower and fuchsia, looked bleak enough now with its row of decapitated cabbage stalks and the straw roofs of its unprotected beehives. as mother and daughter came up in their springless cart they heard the plash of the mill-wheel and the groan of the mill-stone, and by that they knew that their lord and master was at work within. so they stabled their horse for themselves, tipped up their cart and went into the kitchen--a bare yet clean and cosy place, with earthen floor, open ingle and a hearth fire, over which a kettle hung by a sooty chain. but hardly had bessie taken off her coat and hat and sat down to the cup of tea her mother had made her when the throb of the mill-wheel ceased, and dan baldromma's heavy step came over the cobbled "street" outside to the kitchen door. he was a stoutly-built man, short and gross, with heavy black eyebrows, thick and threatening lips, a lowering expression, and a loud and growling voice. seeing the girl at her meal he went over to the ingle and stood with his back to the fire, and his big hands behind him, while he fell on her with scorching sarcasm. "well! well!" he said. "back again, i see! and you such a grand woman grown since you were sitting and eating on that seat before. only sixteen years for spring, yet sooreying (sweet-hearting) already, i hear! with no wooden-spoon man neither, like your father--your stepfather, i mane! the son and heir of one of the big ones of the island, they're telling me! and yet you're not thinking mane of coming back to the house of a common man like me! wonderful! wonderful!" bessie felt as if her bread-and-butter were choking her, but dan, whose impure mind was not satisfied with the effect of his sarcasm, began to lay out at her with a bludgeon. "you fool!" he said. "you've been mixing yourself up with bad doings on the road, and now a dacent lad is lying at death's door through you, and the high bailiff is after flinging you out of his house as unfit for his family--that's it, isn't it?" bessie had dropped her head on the table, but mrs. collister's frightened face was gathering a look of courage. "aisy, man veen, aisy," said the mother. "take care of thy tongue, dan." "my tongue?" said dan. "it's my character i have to take care of, woman. when a girl is carrying a man's name that has no legal claim to it, he has a right to do that, i'm thinking." "but the girl's only a child--only a child itself, man." "maybe so, but i've known girls before now, not much older than she is, to bring disgrace into a dacent house and lave others to live under it. 'what's bred in the bone comes out in the flesh,' they're saying." the woman flinched as if the lash of a whip had fallen on her face, and dan turned back to the girl. "so you're a fine lady that belaves in the aristocracks, are you? well, i'm a plain man that doesn't, and nobody living in my house can have any truck with them." "but goodness me, dan, the boy is not a dale older than herself," said mrs. collister. "nineteen years at the most, and a fine boy at that." "chut! nineteen or ninety, it's all as one to me," said dan, "and this island will be knowing what sort of boy he is before he has done with it." the young cubs of the "big ones" began early. they treated the daughters of decent men as their fathers treated everybody--using them, abusing them, and then treading on them like dirt. "but manx girl are hot young huzzies," said dan, "and the half of them ought to be ducked in the mill pond.... what did you expect this one would do for you, girl, after you had been colloquing and cooshing and kissing with him in the dark roads? marry you? make you the mistress of ballamoar? bessie corteen, the by-child of liza collister? you toot! you booby! you boght! you damned idiot!" just then there was the sound of wheels on the road, and dan walked to the door to look out. it was the deemster's dog-cart, coming down the glen, with father and son sitting side by side. the women heard the deemster's steady voice saluting the miller as he went by. "fine day, mr. collister!" "middlin', dempster, middlin'," said dan, in a voice that was like a growl. and then, the dog-cart being gone, he faced back to the girl and said, with a bitter snort: "so that's your man, is it--driving with the dempster?" "no, no," said the girl, lifting her face from the table. "no? hasn't he been flung out of his college for it--for what came of it, i mane? and isn't the dempster taking him home in disgrace?" "it was a mistake--it wasn't the dempster's son," said bessie. "then who was it?" there was no reply. "who was it?" "i can't tell you." "you mean you won't. we'll see about that, though," said dan, and returning to the fireplace, he took a short, thick leather strap from a nail inside the ingle. at sight of this the girl got up and began to scream. "father! father! father!" "don't father me! who was it?" said dan. the blood was rising in the mother's pallid face. "collister," she cried, "if thou touch the girl again, i'll walk straight out of thy house." "walk, woman! do as you plaze! but i must know who brought disgrace on my name. who was it?" "don't! don't! don't!" cried the girl. the mother stepped to the door. "collister," she repeated, "for fourteen years thou's done as thou liked with me, and i've been giving thee lave to do it, but lay another hand on my child..." "no, no, don't go, mother. i'll tell him," cried the girl. "it was .... it was alick gell." "you mean the son of the spaker?" "yes." "that's good enough for me," said dan, and then, with another snort, half bitter and half triumphant, he tossed the strap on to the table, went out of the house and into the stable. an hour afterwards, in his billycock hat and blue suit of manx homespun, he was driving his market-cart up the long, straight, shaded lane to the speaker's ivy-covered mansion-house, with the gravelled courtyard in front of it, in which two or three peacocks strutted and screamed. iii the speaker had only just returned from douglas. there had been a sitting of the keys that day and he had hurried home to tell his wife an exciting story. it was about the deemster. the big man was down--going down anyway! archibald gell was a burly, full-bearded man of a high complexion. although he belonged to what we called the "aristocracy" of the island, the plebeian lay close under his skin. rumour said he was subject to paralysing brain-storms, and that he could be a foul-mouthed man in his drink. but he was generally calm and nearly always sober. his ruling passion was a passion for power, and his fiercest lust was a lust of popularity. the deemster was his only serious rival in either, and therefore the object of his deep and secret jealousy. he was jealous of the deemster's dignity and influence, but above all (though he had hitherto hidden it even from himself) of his son. stooping over the fire in the drawing-room to warm his hands after his long journey, he was talking, with a certain note of self-congratulation, of what he had heard in douglas. that ugly incident at king william's had come to a head! the stowell boy had been expelled, and the deemster had had to drive into town to fetch him home. he, the speaker, had not seen him there, but cæsar qualtrough had. cæsar was a nasty customer to cross (he had had experience of the man himself), and in the smoking-room at the keys he had bragged of what he could have done. he could have put the deemster's son in jail! yes, ma'am, in jail! if he had had a mind for it young stowell might have slept at castle rushen instead of ballamoar to-night. and if he hadn't, why hadn't he? cæsar wouldn't say, but everybody knew--he had a case coming on in the courts presently! "think of it," said the speaker, "the first judge in the island in the pocket of a man like that!" mrs. gell, who was a fat, easy-going, good-natured soul, with the gentle eyes of a sheep (her hair was a little disordered at the moment, for she had only just awakened from her afternoon sleep, and was still wearing her morning slippers), began to make excuses. "but mercy me, archie," she said, "what does it amount to after all--only a schoolboy squabble?" "don't talk nonsense, bella," said the speaker. "it may have been a little thing to begin with, but the biggest river that ever plunged into the sea could have been put into a tea-cup somewhere." this ugly business would go on, until heaven knew what it would come to. the deemster, who had bought his son's safety from a blackguard without bowels, would never be able to hold up his head again--he, the speaker never would, he knew that much anyway. as for the boy himself, he was done for. being expelled from king william's no school or university across the water would want him, and if he ever wished to be admitted to the manx bar it would be the duty of his own father to refuse him. "so that's the end of the big man, bella--the beginning of the end anyway." just then the peacocks screamed in the courtyard---they always screamed when visitors were approaching. mrs. gell looked up and the speaker walked to the window and looked out without seeing anybody. but at the next moment the drawing-room door was thrust open and their eldest daughter, isabella, with wide eyes and a blank expression was saying breathlessly, "it's alick. he has run away from school." alick came behind her, a pitiful sight, his college cap in his hand, his face pale, drawn and smudged with sweat, his hair disordered, his clothes covered with dust, and his boots thick with soil. "what's this she says--that you've run away?" said the speaker. "yes, i have--i told her so myself," said alick, who was half crying. "did you though? and now perhaps you will tell me something--why?" "because stowell had been expelled, and i couldn't stay when he was gone." "couldn't you now? and why couldn't you?" "he was innocent." "innocent, was he? who says he was innocent?" "i do, sir, because .... it was _i_." it was a sickening moment for the speaker. he gasped as if something had smitten him in the mouth, and his burly figure almost staggered. "you did it .... what stowell was expelled for?" he stammered. "yes, sir," said alick, and then, still with the tremor of a sob in his voice, he told his story. it was the same that he had told twice before, but with a sequel added. although he had confessed to the principal, they had expelled stowell. not publicly perhaps, but it had been expelling him all the same. four days they had kept him in his study, without saying what they meant to do with him. then this morning, while the boys were at prayers they had heard carriage wheels come up to the door of the principal's house, and when they came out of chapel the study was empty and stowell was gone. "and then," said the speaker (with a certain pomp of contempt now), "without more ado you ran away?" "yes, sir," answered the boy, "by the lavatory window when we were breaking up after breakfast." "where did you get the money to travel with?" "i had no money, sir. i walked." "walked from castletown? what have you eaten since breakfast?" "only what i got on the road, sir." "you mean .... begged?" "i asked at a farm by foxdale for a glass of milk and the farmer's wife gave me some bread as well, sir." "did she know who you were?" "she asked me--i had to answer her." "you told her you were my son?" "yes, sir." "and perhaps--feeling yourself such a fine fellow, what you were doing there, and why you were running away from school?" "yes, sir." "you fool! you infernal fool!" the speaker had talked himself out of breath and for a moment his wife intervened. "alick," she said, "if it was you, as you say, who walked out with the girl, who was she?" "she was .... a servant girl, mother." "but who?" "tut!" said the speaker, "what does it matter who? .... you say you confessed to the principal?" "yes, sir." "then if he chose to disregard your confession, and to act on his own judgment, what did it matter to you?" "it was wrong to expel stowell for what i had done and i couldn't stand it," said the boy. "you couldn't stand it! you dunce! if you were younger i should take the whip to you." the speaker was feeling the superiority of his son's position, but that only made him the more furious. "i suppose you know what this running away will mean when people come to hear of it?" alick made no answer. "you've given the story a fine start, it seems, and it won't take long to travel." still alick made no answer. "stowell will be the martyr and you'll be the culprit, and that ugly incident of the boy with the broken skull will wear another complexion." "i don't care about that," cried alick. "you don't care!" "i had to do my duty to my chum, sir." "and what about your duty to me, and to your mother and to your sisters? was it your 'duty' to bring disgrace on all of us?" alick dropped his head. "you shan't do that, though, if i can help it. go away and wash your dirty face and get something on your stomach. you're going back to castletown in the morning." "i won't go back to school, sir," said alick. "won't you, though? we'll see about that. i'll take you back." "then i'll run away again, sir." "where to, you jackass? not to this house, i promise you." "i'll get a ship and go to sea, sir." "then get a ship and go to sea, and to hell, too, if you want to. you fool! you damned blockhead!" after the speaker had swept the boy from the room, his mother was crying. "only eighteen years for harvest," she was saying, as if trying to excuse him. and then, as if seeking to fix the blame elsewhere, she added, "who was the girl, i wonder?" "god's sake, woman," cried the speaker, "what does it matter who she was? some castletown huzzy, i suppose." the peacocks were screaming again; they had been screaming for some time, and the front-door bell had been ringing, but in the hubbub nobody had heard them. but now the parlour-maid came to tell the speaker that mr. daniel collister of baldromma was in the porch and asking to see him. iv dan came into the room with his rolling walk, his eyes wild and dark, his billy-cock hat in his hand and his black hair 'strooked' flat across his forehead, where a wet brush had left it. "good evening, mr. spaker! you too, mistress gell! it's the twelfth to-morrow, but i thought i would bring my hollantide rent to-day." "sit down," said the speaker, who had given him meagre welcome. dan drew a chair up to a table, took from the breast pocket of his monkey-jacket a bulging parcel in a red print handkerchief (looking like a roadman's dinner), untied the knots of it, and disclosed a quantity of gold and silver coins, and a number of manx bank notes creased and soiled. these he counted out with much deliberation amid a silence like that which comes between thunderclaps--the speaker, standing by the fireplace, coughing to compose himself, his wife blowing her nose to get rid of her tears, and no other sounds being audible except the nasal breathing of dan baldromma, who had hair about his nostrils. "count it for yourself; i belave you'll find it right, sir." "quite right. i suppose you'll want a receipt?" "if you plaze." the speaker sat at a small desk, and, as well as he could (for his hand was trembling), he wrote the receipt and handed it across the table. "and now about my lease," said dan. "what about it?" said the speaker. "it runs out a year to-day, sir, and willie kerruish, the advocate, was telling me at the michaelmas mart you were not for renewing it. do you still hould to that, mr. spaker?" "certainly i do," said the speaker. "i don't want to enter into discussions, but i think you'll be the better for another landlord and i for another tenant." there was another moment of silence, broken only by dan's nasal breathing, and then he said: "mr. spaker, the dempster's son has come home in disgrace, they're saying." "what's that got to do with it?" said the speaker. "my daughter has come home in disgrace, too--my wife's daughter, i mane." mrs. gell raised herself in her easy chair. "was it your girl, then..." she began. "it was, ma'am. bessie corteen--collister, they're calling her." "what's all this to me?" said the speaker. "she's telling me it's a mistake about the dempster's son, sir. it was somebody else's lad did the mischief." "i see you are well informed," said the speaker. "well, what of it?" "cæsar qualtrough might have prosecuted but he didn't, out of respect for the dempster," said dan. "so they _say_," said the speaker. "but if somebody gave him a scute into the truth he mightn't be so lenient with another man--one other anyway." the speaker was silent. "there have been bits of breezes in the kays, they're telling me." still the speaker was silent. "cæsar and me were middling well acquaint when i was milling at ballabeg and he was hutching at port st. mary--in fact we were same as brothers." "i see what you mean to do, mr. collister," said the speaker, "but you can save yourself the trouble. my lad is in this house now if you want to know, but i'm sending him to sea, and before you can get to castletown he will have left the island." "and what will the island say to that, sir?" said dan. "that archibald gell, spaker of the kays, chairman of everything, and the biggest man going, barring the dempster, has had to send his son away to save him from the lock-up." the speaker took two threatening strides forward, and dan rose to his feet. there was silence again as the two men stood face to face, but this time it was broken by the speaker's breathing also. then he turned aside and said, with a shamefaced look: "i'll hear what kerruish has to say. i have to see him in the morning." "i lave it with you, sir; i lave it with you," said dan. "good-day, mr. collister." "good-day to you, mr. spaker! and you, too, mistress gell!" said dan. but having reached the door of the room he stopped and added: "there's one thing more, though. if my girl is to live with me she must work for her meat, and there must be no more sooreying." "that will be all right--i know my son," said the speaker. "and i know my step-daughter," said dan. "these things go on. a rolling snowball doesn't get much smaller. maybe that captain out of ireland isn't gone from the island yet--his spirit, i mane. keep your lad away from baldromma. it will be best, i promise you." then the peacocks in the courtyard screamed again and the jolting of a springless cart was heard going over the gravel. the two in the drawing-room listened until the sound of the wheels had died away in the lane to the high road, and then the speaker said: "that's what comes of having children! we thought it bad for the deemster to be in the pocket of a man like cæsar qualtrough, but to be under the harrow of dan baldromma!" "aw, dear! aw, dear!" said mrs. gell. "he was right about alick going to sea, though," said the speaker, and, touching the bell for the parlour-maid, he told her to tell his son to come back to him. alick was in the dining-room by this time, washed and brushed and doing his best to drink a pot of tea and eat a plate of bread-and-butter, amid the remonstrances of his three sisters, who, seeing events from their own point of view, were rating him roundly on associating with a servant. "i wonder you hadn't more respect for your sisters?" said isabella. "what are people to think of us--fenella stanley, for instance?" said adelaide. "i declare i shall be ashamed to show my face in government house again," said verbena. "oh, shut up and let a fellow eat," said alick, and then something about "first-class flunkeys." but at that moment the parlour-maid came with his father's message and he had to return to the drawing-room. "on second thoughts," said the speaker, "we have decided that you are not to go to sea. we have only one son, and i suppose we must do our best with him. you haven't brains enough for building, so, if you are not to go back to school, you must stay on the land and learn to look after these farms in andreas." "i'll do my best to please you, sir," said alick. "but listen to this," said the speaker, "dan baldromma has been here, and we know who the girl was. there is to be no more mischief in that quarter. you must never see her or hear from her again as long as you live--is it a promise?" "yes, sir," said alick, and he meant to keep it. chapter four enter fenella stanley the winter passed, the spring came and nothing was done for victor. his father made no effort to provide for his future, whether at another school, at college, or in a profession. "i wonder at the dempster, i really do," said auntie kitty. "leave him alone," said janet--it would all come right some day. left to himself, victor became the great practical joker of the countryside. every prank for which no other author could be found was attributed to him. if any pretentious person fell into a ridiculous mare's nest people would say, "but where was young stowell while that was going on?" in this dubious occupation of "putting the fun" on folks he soon found the powerful assistance of alick gell. that young gentleman, for his training on the land, had been handed over to the charge of old tom kermode, the speaker's steward. but tom, good man, foresaw the possibility of being supplanted in his position if the speaker's son acquired sufficient knowledge to take it, and therefore he put no unnecessary obstacles in the way of the boy's industrious efforts not to do so. on the contrary he encouraged them, with the result that alick and victor foregathered again, and having nothing better to do than to make mischief, they proceeded to make it. how much the deemster heard of his son's doings nobody knew. twice a day he sat at meat with him without speaking a word of reproof. but janet saw that when report was loudest he wrote longer than usual in his leather-bound book before going to bed, and that his head was lower than ever in the morning. at length janet entered into a secret scheme with herself for lifting it up again. this consisted in prompting her dear boy to do something, to make an effort, to justify himself. so making excuse of the deemster's business she would take victor's breakfast to his bedroom before he had time to get up to it. it was a bright room to the north-east, flooded with sunshine at that season after she had drawn the blind, and fresh, after she had thrown up the sash, with morning air that smacked of the blue sea (which came humming down from the dim ghost of galloway), and relished of the sandy soil of man, with its yellowing crops of rustling oats, over which the larks and the linnets tumbled and sang. victor was always asleep when she went in at eight o'clock, for he slept like a top, and after she had scolded him for lying late, he would sit up in bed, with his sleepy eyes and tousled hair, to eat his breakfast, while she turned his stockings, shook out his shirt, gathered up his clothes (they were usually distributed all over the room) and talked. victor noticed whatever she began upon she always ended with the same subject. it was fenella stanley. that girl was splendid, and she was getting on marvellously. still at college "across"? yes, newnham they were calling it, and she was carrying everything before her--prizes, scholarships, honours--goodness knows what. the island was ringing with her praise but janet was hearing everything direct from miss green, the governor's housekeeper, with whom she kept up a constant correspondence. that woman worshipped the girl--you never saw the like, never! as for the governor, it was enough to bring tears into a woman's eyes to see how proud he was of his daughter. when he had news that she had taken a new honour it was like new life to the old man. you would think the sun was shining all over the house, and that was saying something there--the keys being so troublesome. of course he was "longing" for his daughter to come home to him, and that was only natural, but knowing how hard she was working now--six in the morning until six in the evening, catherine green was saying--he was waiting patiently. "aw, yes, yes, that's the way with fathers," said janet. "big men as they may be themselves, they are prouder of their children's successes than of their own--far prouder." the effect of janet's scheme was the reverse of what she had expected. by a law of the heart of a boy, which the good soul knew nothing of, victor resented the industry, success and reputation of fenella stanley. it was a kind of rebuke to his own idleness. the girl was a bookworm and would develop into a blue-stocking! he had not seen her for years and did not want to see her, but in his mind's eye he pictured her as she must be now--a pale-faced young person in a short blue skirt and big boots, with cropped hair and perhaps spectacles! describing this vision to alick gell, as they were drying themselves on the shore after a swim, victor said with emphasis that if there was one thing he hated it was a woman who was half a man. "same here," said alick, who had had liberal doses of the same medicine at home, less delicately administered by his sister isabella. but where janet failed, a greater advocate, nature itself, was soon to succeed. the boys were then in their nineteenth year, a pair of full-grown, healthy, handsome lads as ever trod the heather, or stripped to the sea, but there was a great world which had not yet been revealed to either of them--the world of woman. that world was to be revealed to one of them now. ii it was a late afternoon early in september. the day had been wonderful. over the bald crown above druidsdale the sun came slanting across the irish sea from a crimsoning sky beyond the purple crests of the morne mountains. stowell and gell had been camping out for two days in the manx hills, and, parting at a junction of paths, gell had gone down towards douglas while stowell had dropped into the cool dark depths of the glen that led homewards. victor was as brown as a berry. he was wearing long, thick-soled yellow boots almost up to his knees, with his trousers tucked into them, a loose yellow shirt, rolled up to the elbows of his strong round arms, no waistcoat, his norfolk jacket thrown over his left shoulder, and a knapsack strapped on his back. with long, plunging strides he was coming down the glen, singing sometimes in a voice that was partly drowned by the louder water where it dipped into a dub, when, towards the curragh end of it, on the "brough" side of the river, he came upon a startling vision. it was a girl. she was about seventeen years of age, bare-headed and bare-footed, and standing ankle-deep in the water. her lips, and a little of the mouth at either side, were stained blue with blackberries--she had clearly been picking them and had taken off shoes and stockings to get at a laden bush. she was splendidly tall, and had bronze brown hair, with a glint of gold when the sun shone on it. the sun was shining on it now, through a gap in the thinning trees that overhung the glen, and with the leaves pattering over her head, and the river running at her feet, it was almost as if she herself were singing. with her spare hand she was holding up her dress, which was partly of lace--light and loose and semi-transparent--and when a breeze, which was blowing from the sea, lapped it about her body there was a hint of the white, round, beautiful form beneath. her eyes were dark and brilliantly full, and her face was magnificently intellectual, so clear-cut and clean. and yet she was so feminine, so womanly, such a girl! she must have heard stowell's footsteps, and perhaps his singing as he approached, for she turned to look up at him--calmly, rather seriously, a little anxiously but without the slightest confusion. and he looked at her, pausing to do so, without being quite aware of it, and feeling for one brief moment as if wind and water had suddenly stopped and the world stood still. there was a moment of silence, in which he felt a certain chill, and she a certain warmth, and both a certain dryness at the throat. the girl was the first to recover self-control. her face sweetened to a smile, and then, in a voice that was a little husky, and yet sounded to him like music, she said, as if she had asked and answered an earlier question for herself: "but of course you don't know who _i_ am, do you?" he did. although she was so utterly unlike what he had expected (what he had told himself he expected) he knew--she was fenella stanley. as often as he thought of it afterwards he could never be quite sure what he had said to her in those first moments. he could only guess at what it must have been by his vivid memory of what she had said in reply. she watched him, womanlike, for a moment longer, to see what impression she had made upon him, now that she knew what impression he had made upon her. then she glanced down at her bare feet, that looked yellow on the pebbles in the running water, and then at her shoes and stockings, which, with her parasol, lay on the bank, and said: "i suppose you ought to go away while i get out of this?" "why?" he never knew what made him say that, but she glanced up at him again, with the answering sunshine of another smile, and said: "well, you needn't, if you don't want to." after that she stepped out of the river, and sat on the grass to dry her feet and pull on her stockings. as she did so, and he stood watching, forgetting (such was the spell of things) to turn his eyes away, she shot another look up at him, and said: "i remember that the last time i was in these parts you ordered me off, sir." "and the last time i was at government house you turned me out of the tennis court," he answered. she laughed. he laughed. they both laughed together. also they both trembled. but by the time she had put on her shoes he was feeling braver, so he went down on his knees to tie her laces. it was a frightening ordeal, but he got through at last, and to cover their embarrassment, while the lacing was going on, they came to certain explanations. yesterday the governor had telegraphed to the deemster that he would like to fulfil his promise to visit ballamoar and stay the night if convenient. so they had driven over in the carriage and arrived about two hours ago, and were going back to-morrow morning. "of course you were not there when we came," she said, "being, it seems, a gentleman of gipsy habits, so when janet (i mean miss curphey) mentioned at tea that you were likely to come down the glen about sunset.... "then you were coming to meet me?" he said. she laughed again, having said more than she had intended and finding no way of escape from it. when all was done and he had helped her up (how his fingers tingled!) and they stood side by side for the first time (she was less than half a head shorter than himself and her eyes seemed almost on the level of his own) and they were ready to go, he suddenly remembered that they were on the wrong side for the road. so if she hadn't to take off her boots and stockings and wade through the water again, or else walk half a mile down the glen to the bridge, he would have to carry her across the river. without more ado she let him do it--picking her up in his quivering arms and striding through the water in his long boots. then being dropped to her feet she laughed again; and he laughed, and they went on laughing, all the way down the glen road, and through the watery lanes of the curragh, where the sally bushes were singing loud in the breeze from the sea--but not so loud as the hearts of this pair of children. iii that night, after dinner, leaving the deemster and the governor at the table, discussing insular subjects (a constitutional change which was then being mooted), victor took fenella out on to the piazza, (his mother had called it so), the uncovered wooden terrace which overlooked the coast. he was in a dark blue jacket suit, not yet having possessed evening wear, but she was in a gauzy light dress with satin slippers, and her bronze-brown hair was curled about her face in bewitching ringlets. the evening was very quiet, almost breathless, with hardly a leaf stirring. the revolving light in the lighthouse on the point of ayre (seven miles away on its neck of land covered by a wilderness of white stones) was answering to the far-off gleam of the light on the mull of galloway, while the sky to the west was a slumberous red, as if the night were dreaming of the departed day. they had not yet recovered from their experience in the glen, and, sitting out there in the moonlight (for the moon had just sailed through a rack of cloud), they were still speaking involuntarily, and then laughing nervously at nothing--nothing but that tingling sense of sex which made them afraid of each other, that mysterious call of man to maid which, when it first comes, is as pure as an angel's whisper. "what a wonderful day it has been!" she said, "the most wonderful day i have ever known," he answered. "and what a wonderful home you have here," she said. "haven't we?" he replied. and then he told her that over there in the dark lay ireland, and over there scotland, and over there england, and straight ahead was norway and the north pole. that caught them up into the zone of great things, the eternities, the vast darkness out of which the generations come and towards which they go; and, having found his voice at last, he began to tell her how the island came to be peopled by its present race. this was the very scene of the norse invasion--the vikings from iceland having landed on this spot a thousand years ago. when the old sea king (his name was orry) came ashore at the lhen (it was on a starlight night like this) the native inhabitants of man had gone down to challenge him. "where do you come from?" they had cried, and then, pointing to the milky way, he had answered, "that's the road to my country." but the native people had fought him to throw him back into the sea--yes, men and women, too, they say. this very ground between them and the coast had been the battlefield, and it must still be full of the dead who had died that day. "what a wonderful story!" she said. "isn't it?" "the women fought too, you say?" "thousands of them, side by side with their men, and they were the mothers of the manxmen of to-day." "how glorious! how perfectly glorious!" and then, clasping her hands about her knee, and looking steadfastly into the dark of the night, she, on her part, told him something. it was about a great new movement which was beginning in england for a change in the condition of women. oh, it was wonderful! miss clough, the principal, and all the girls at newnham were ablaze with it, and it was going to sweep through the world. in the past the attitude towards women of literature, law, even religion, had been so unfair, so cruel. she could cry to think of it--the long martyrdom of woman through all the ages. "do you know," she said, "i think a good deal of the bible itself is very wicked towards women .... that's shocking, isn't it?" "oh, no, no," said victor--he was struggling to follow her, and not finding it easy. "but all that will be changed some day," said fenella. it might require some terrible world-trouble to change it, some cataclysm, some war, perhaps (she didn't know what), but it _would_ be changed--she was sure it would. and then, when woman took her rightful place beside man, as his equal, his comrade, his other self, they would see what would happen. "what?" all the old laws, so far as they concerned the sexes (and which of them didn't?) would have to be made afresh, and all the old tales about men and women (and which of them were not?) would have to be re-told. "the laws made afresh, you say?" "yes, and some of the judges, too, perhaps." "and all the old tales re-told?" "every one of them, and then they will be new ones, because woman will have a new and far worthier place in them." they had left the stained-glass door to the dining-room ajar, and at a pause in fenella's story they heard the voice of the governor, in conversation with the deemster on the constitutional question, saying, "well, well, old friend, i don't suppose either the millennium will dawn or the deluge come whether the keys are reformed or not." that led victor to ask fenella what her father thought of her opinions. "oh well," she said, "he doesn't agree. but then .... (her voice was coming with a laugh from her throat now) i don't quite approve of father." this broke the spell of their serious talk, and he asked if she would like to go down to an ancient church on the seaward boundary of the old battlefield--it was a ruin and looked wonderful in the moonlight. she said she would love to, and, slipping indoors to make ready, she came back in a moment with a silk handkerchief about her head, which made her face intoxicating to the boy who was waiting for it, and feeling for the first time the thrilling, quivering call of body and soul that is the secret of the continued race. so off they went together with a rhythmic stride, down the sandy road to the shore--he bareheaded, and she in her white dress and the satin slippers in which her footsteps made no noise. the ruined church was on a lonesome spot on the edge of the sea, with the sea's moan always over it, and the waves thundering in the dark through the cavernous rocks beneath. fenella bore herself bravely until they reached the roofless chancel, where an elm tree grew, and the moonlight, now coming and going among the moving clouds, was playing upon the tomb of some old churchman whose unearthed bones the antiquaries had lately covered with a stone and surrounded by an iron railing, and then she clutched at victor's arm, held on tightly and trembled like a child. that restored the balance of things a little, and going home (it was his turn to hold on now) he could not help chaffing her on her feminine fear. was that one of the old stories that would have to be re-told .... when the great world-change came, the great cataclysm? "oh, that? well, of course .... (he believed she was blushing, though in the darkness he could not see) women may not have the strength and courage of men--the physical courage, i mean...." "only physical?" he asked. she stammered again, and said that naturally men would always be men and women, women. "you don't want that altered, do you?" she said. "oh no, not i, not a bit," said victor, and then there was more laughter (rather tremulous laughter now) and less talking for the next five minutes. they had got back to the piazza by this time, and knowing that her face was in the shaft of light that came through the glass door from the dining-room, fenella turned quickly and shot away upstairs. for the first time in his life victor did not sleep until after three o'clock next morning. he saw the moonlight creep across the cocoa-nut matting on his bedroom floor and heard the clock on the staircase landing strike every hour from eleven to three. now that he was alone he was feeling degraded and ashamed. here was this splendid girl touching life at its core, dealing with the great things, the everlasting things, attuning her heart to the future and the big eternal problems .... while he! but under all the self-reproach there was something joyous too, something delicious, something that made him hot and dizzy and would not let him sleep, because a blessed hymn of praise was singing within, and it was so wonderful to be alive. he could have kicked himself next morning when he awoke late, and found the broad sunshine in his bedroom, and heard from janet that fenella had been up two hours and all over the stables and the plantation. after breakfast (downstairs for him this time) the governor's big blue landau, with two fine irish bays, driven by an english coachman, came sweeping round to the front and he went out in the morning sunshine, with the deemster and janet, to see their guests away. the governor shook hands with him warmly, but fenella (who was wearing a coat and some kind of transparent green scarf about her neck, and thanked the deemster and kissed janet as she was stepping into the carriage) looked another way when she was saying good-bye to him. he slammed the door to, and stepped back, and the carriage started, and (while the other two went indoors) he stood and looked after it as it went winding down the drive, amid the awakened clamour of the rooks, until it came to the turn where the trees were to hide it, and then fenella faced round and waved a hand to him. at the next moment the carriage had gone--and then the sun went out, and the world was dead. that night after dinner victor told his father that he would like to go into the attorney-general's office, as a first step towards taking up the profession of the law. "good--very good," said the deemster. chapter five the student-at-law fenella stanley had not awakened early, as janet had supposed--she had never been to sleep. her bedroom had been to the north-east, and she, too, had seen the moonlight creep across her floor; and when it was gone, and all else was dark, she had felt the revolving light from the stony neck of the point of ayre passing every other minute over her closed eyelids. she was too much of a woman not to know what was happening to her, but none the less she was confused and startled. do what she would to compose herself she could not lie quiet for more than a moment. her blood was alternately flowing through her veins like soft milk and bounding to her heart like a geyser. as soon as the daylight came and the rooks began to caw she got up and dressed, and went through the sleeping house, with its drawn blinds, and let herself out by the glass door to the piazza. of course she turned towards the shore. it was glorious to be down there alone, on the ribbed sand, with the salt air on her lips and the odour of the seaweed in her nostrils and the rising sun glistening in her eyes over the shimmering and murmuring sea. but it was still sweeter to return by the sandy road, past the chancel of the old church (how silly to have been afraid of it!) and to see footsteps here and there--his and hers. the world was astir by this time, with the sun riding high and the earth smoking from its night-long draughts of dew, the sheep munching the wet grass in the fields on either side, and the cattle lowing in the closed-up byres, waiting to be milked. but the white blind of victor's room (she was sure it was victor's) was still down, like a closed eyelid, and she had half a mind to throw a handful of gravel at it and then dart indoors. back in the house there were some embarrassing moments. breakfast was rather a trying time after victor came down, looking a little sheepish, and that last moment on the path was difficult, when he was holding the carriage door open and saying good-bye to her; but she could not deny herself that wave of the hand as they turned the corner of the drive--she was perfectly sure he must be looking after them. after that--misery! every day at government house seemed to bring her an increasing heartache, and when she returned to college a fortnight later, and fell back into the swing of her former life there (the glowing and thrilling life she had described to victor) a bitter struggle with herself began. it was a struggle between the mysterious new-born desires of her awakening womanhood and the task she had supposed to be her duty--to consecrate her whole life to the liberation of her sex, giving up, like a nun if need be, all the joys that were for ever whispering in the ears of women, that she might devote herself body and soul to the salvation of her suffering sisters. three months passed in which fenella believed herself to be the unhappiest girl in the world. moments of guilty joy and defiance mingled with hours of self-reproach. and then dear, good people were sometimes so cruel! miss green, her father's housekeeper, never wrote without saying something about victor stowell. he was a student-at-law now, and was getting along wonderfully. once miss green enclosed a letter from janet asking fenella for her photograph. for nearly a week that was a frightful ordeal, but in the end the woman triumphed over the nun and she sent the picture. "dear janet," she wrote, "it was very sweet of you to wish for my photograph to remind you of that dear and charming day i spent at ballamoar, so i have been into cambridge and had one specially taken for you, in the dress i wore on that lovely august afternoon which i shall never forget...." it had been a tingling delight to write that letter, but the moment she had posted it, with the new cambridge photograph, she could have died of vexation and shame--it must be so utterly obvious whom she had sent them to. as the christmas vacation approached she began to be afraid of herself. if she returned to the island she would be sure to see victor stowell (he must be in douglas now) and that would be the end of everything. after a tragic struggle, and many secret tears, she wrote to her father to say what numbers of the newnham girls were going to italy for the holidays and how she would love to see the pictures at florence. to her consternation the governor answered immediately, saying, "excellent idea! it will do you good, and i shall be happy to get away from 'the kays' for a month or two, so i am writing at once to engage rooms at the washington." she could have cried aloud after reading this letter, but there was no help for it now. truly, the heart of a girl is a deep riddle and only he who made can read it. ii in the attorney-general's office victor stowell was going from strength to strength. there was a vast deal of ordinary drudgery in his probationary stage, but he was bearing it with amazing patience. his natural talents were recognised as astonishing and he was being promoted by rapid degrees. after a few months the attorney wrote to the deemster: "unless i am mistaken your boy is going to be a great lawyer--the root of the matter seems to be in him." not content with the routine work of the office he took up (by help of some scheme of university extension) the higher education which had been cut short by his dismissal from king william's, and in due course obtained degrees. one day, after talking with victor, the bishop of the island was heard to say: "if that young fellow had been sent up to oxford, as he ought to have been, he might have taken a first-class in _literae humaniores_ and became the most brilliant man of his year." the attorney-general's office was a large one, and it contained several other students-at-law. among them now was alick gell, who had prevailed upon his mother to prevail upon his father to permit him to follow stowell. "god's sake, woman," the speaker had said, "let him go then, and make one more rascally manx lawyer." but neither alick's industrious idleness, nor the distractions of a little holiday town in its season, could tempt stowell from his studies. his successes seemed lightly won, but alick, who lodged with him in athol street, knew that he was a hard worker. he worked early and late as if inspired by a great hope, a great ideal. his only recreation was to spend his week-ends at home. when he arrived on the saturday afternoons he usually found his father, who was looking younger every day, humming to himself as he worked in an old coat among the flowers in the conservatory. at night they dined together, and after dinner, if the evenings were cool, the deemster would call on him to stir the peats and draw up to the fire, and then the old man would talk. it was wonderful talking, but nearly always on the same subject--the great manx trials, the great crimes (often led up to by great temptations), the great advocates and the great deemsters. victor noticed that whatever the deemster began with he usually came round to the same conclusion--the power and sanctity of justice. after an hour, or more, he would rise in his stately way, to go to the blue law-papers for his next court which his clerk, old joshua scarf, had laid out under the lamp on the library table, saying: "that's how it is, you see. justice is the strongest and most sacred thing in the world, and in the end it must prevail." but victor's greatest joy in his weekly visits to ballamoar was to light his candle at ten o'clock on the mahogany table on the landing under the clock and fly off to his bedroom, for janet would be there at that hour, blowing up his fire, turning down his bed, opening his bag to take out his night-gear and ready to talk on a still greater subject. with the clairvoyance of the heart of a woman who had never had a lover of her own ("not exactly a real lover," she used to say) she had penetrated the mystery of the change in victor. she loved to dream about the glories of his future career (even her devotion to the deemster was in danger of being eclipsed by that) but above everything else, about the woman who was to be his wife. in some deep womanlike way, unknown to man, she identified herself with fenella stanley and courted victor for her in her absence. she had visions of their marriage day, and particularly of the day after it, when they would come home, that lovely and beloved pair, to this very house, this very room, this very bed, and she would spread the sheets for them. "is that you, dear?" she would say, down on her knees at the fire, as he came in with his candle. and then he, too, would play his little part, asking about the servants, the tenants, robbie creer, and his son robin (now a big fellow and the deemster's coachman) and alice and "auntie kitty," and even the manx cat with her six tailless kittens, and then, as if casually, about fenella. "any news from miss green lately, janet?" one night janet had something better than news--a letter and a photograph. "there! what do you think of that, now?" victor read the letter in its bold, clear, unaffected handwriting, and then holding the photograph under the lamp in his trembling fingers (janet was sure they were trembling) he said, in a voice that was also trembling: "don't you think she's like my mother--just a little like?" "'deed she is, dear," said janet. "you've put the very name to it. and that's to say she's like the loveliest woman that ever walked the world--in this island anyway." victor could never trust his voice too soon after janet said things like that (she was often saying them), but after a while he laughed and answered: "i notice she doesn't walk the island too often, though. she hasn't come here for ages." "oh, but she will, boy, she will," said janet, and then she left him, for he was almost undressed by this time, to get into bed and dream. iii at length, victor stowell's term as a student-at-law came to an end and he was examined for the manx bar. the examiner was the junior deemster of the island--deemster taubman, an elderly man with a yellow and wrinkled face which put you in mind of sour cream. he was a bachelor, notoriously hard on the offences of women, having been jilted, so rumor said, by one of them (a well-to-do widow), on whose person or fortune he had set his heart or expectations. stowell and gell went up together, being students of the same year, and deemster taubman received them at his home, two mornings running, in his dressing-gown and slippers. stowell's fame had gone before him, so he got off lightly; but gell came in for a double dose of the examiner's severity. "mr. gell," said deemster taubman, "if somebody consulted you in the circumstance that he had lent five hundred pounds on a promissory note, payable upon demand, but without security, to a rascal (say a widow woman) who refused to pay and declared her intention of leaving the island to-morrow and living abroad, what would you advise your client to do for the recovery of his money?" alick had not the ghost of an idea, but knowing deemster taubman was vain, and thinking to flatter him, he said, "i should advise my client, your honour, to lay the facts, in an _ex parte_ petition before your honour at your honour's next court" (it was to be held a fortnight later) "and be perfectly satisfied with your honour's judgment." "dunce!" said deemster taubman, and sitting down to his desk, he advised the governor to admit mr. stowell but remand mr. gell for three months' further study. victor telegraphed the good news to his father, packed up his belongings in his lodging at athol street, and took the next train back to ballamoar. young robbie creer met him at the station with the dog-cart, and took up his luggage, but victor was too excited to ride further, so he walked home by a short cut across the curragh. his spirits were high, for after many a sickening heartache from hope deferred (the harder to bear because it had to be concealed) he had done something to justify himself. it wasn't much, it was only a beginning, but he saw himself going to government house one day soon on a thrilling errand that would bring somebody back to the island who had been too long away from it. of course he must speak to his own father first, and naturally he must tell janet. but seeing no difficulties in these quarters he went swinging along the curragh lane, with the bees humming in the gold of the gorse on either side of him and the sea singing under a silver haze beyond, until he came to the wicket gate on the west of the tall elms and passed through to the silence inside of them. he found the deemster in the conservatory, re-potting geraniums, and when he came up behind with a merry shout, his father turned with glad eyes, a little moist, wiped his soiled fingers on his old coat and shook hands with him (for the first time in his life) saying, in a thick voice, "good--very good!" they dined together, as usual, and when they had drawn up at opposite cheeks of the hearth, with the peat fire between them, the deemster talked as victor thought he had never heard him talk before. it was the proper aspiration of every young advocate to become a judge, and there was no position of more dignity and authority. diplomatists, statesmen, prime ministers and even presidents might be influenced in their conduct by fears or hopes, or questions of policy, but the judge alone of all men was free to do the right, as god gave him to see the right, no matter if the sky should fall. "but if the position of the judge is high," said the deemster, "still higher is his responsibility. woe to the judge who permits personal interests to pervert his judgment and thrice woe to him who commits a crime against justice." victor found it impossible to break in on that high theme with mention of his personal matter, so, as soon as the clock on the landing began to warn for ten he leapt up, snatched his candle, and flew off to his bedroom in the hope of talk of quite another kind with janet. but janet was not there, and neither was his bed turned down as usual, nor his night-gear laid out, nor his lamp lighted. he had asked for her soon after his arrival and been told that she had gone to her room early in the afternoon, and had not since been heard of. "headache," thought victor, remembering that she was subject to this malady, and without more thought of the matter, he tumbled into bed and fell asleep. but the first sight that met his eyes when he opened them in the morning was janet, with a face dissolved in tears, and the tray in her hand, asking him in a muffled voice to sit up to his breakfast. "lord alive, janet, what's amiss?" he asked, but she only shook her head and called on him to eat. "tell me what's happened," he said, but not a word would she say until he had taken his breakfast. he gulped down some of the food, under protest, janet standing over him, and then came a tide of lamentation. "god comfort you, my boy! god strengthen and comfort you!" said janet. in the whirl of his stunned senses, victor caught at the first subject of his thoughts. "is it about fenella?" he asked, and janet nodded and-wiped her eyes. "is she--dead?" janet threw up her hands. "thank the lord, no, not that, anyway." "is she ill?" "not that either." "then why make all this fuss? what does it matter to me?" "it matters more to you than to anybody else in the world, dear," said janet. victor took her by the shoulders as she stood by his bed. "in the name of goodness, janet, what is it?" he said. it came at last, a broken story, through many gusts of breath, all pretences down between them now and their hearts naked before each other. fenella stanley, who, since she left newnham, had been working (as he knew) as a voluntary assistant at some women's settlement in london, had just been offered and had accepted the position of its resident lady warden, and signed on for seven years. "seven years, you say?" "seven years, dear." the governor had prayed and protested, saying he had only one daughter, and asking if she meant that he was to live the rest of his life alone, but fenella, who had written heart-breaking letters, had held to her purpose. it was like taking the veil, like going into a nunnery; the girl was lost to them, they had seen the last of her. "i had it all from catherine green," said janet. willie killip, the postman, had given her the letter just when she was standing at the porch, looking down the curragh lane for victor, and seeing him coming along with his high step and the sunset behind him, swishing the heads off the cushags with his cane. "i couldn't find it in my heart to tell you last night, and you looking so happy, so i ran away to my room, and it's a sorrowful woman i am to tell you this morning." she knew it would be bitter hard to him--as hard as it must have been to jacob to serve seven years for rachel and then lose her, and that was the saddest story in the old book, she thought. "but we must bear it as well as we can, dear, and--who knows?--it may all be for the best some day." victor, resting on his elbow, had listened with mouth agape. the flaming light which had crimsoned his sky for five long years, sustaining him, inspiring him, had died out in an instant. for some moments he did not speak, and in the intervals of janet's lamentations nothing was audible but the cry of some sea-gulls who had come up from the sea, where a storm was rising. then he began to laugh. it was wild, unnatural laughter, beginning thick in his throat and ending with a scream. "lord, what a joke!" he cried. "what a damned funny joke!" but at the next moment he broke into a stifling sob, and fell face down on to the pillow and soaked it with his tears. janet hung over him like a mother-bird over a broken nest, her wrinkled face working hard with many emotions--sorrow for her boy and even anger with fenella. "aw, dear! aw, dear!" she moaned, "many a time i've wished i had been your real mother, dear; but never so much as now that i might have a right to comfort you." at that word, though sadly spoken, victor raised himself from his pillow, brushed his eyes fiercely and said, in a firm, decided voice, "that's all right, mother. i've been a fool. but it shall never happen again--never!" chapter six the world of woman victor stowell spent his first two hours after janet left him in destroying everything which might remind him of fenella. her picture, which janet had framed and hung over his mantel-piece, he put face-down in a drawer. the flowers she had placed in front of it he flung out of the window. a box full of newspaper cuttings and extracts from books dealing with the hardships of the laws relating to women (the collection of five laborious years) he stuffed into the grate and set fire to. but having done all this he found he had done nothing. only once, since her childhood, had fenella been to ballamoar, yet she had left her ghost all over it. he could not sit on the piazza, or walk down the sandy road to the sea, without being ripped and raked by the thought of her. and sight of the turn of the drive at which she had waved her hand, and turned the glory of her face on him, was enough to make the bluest sky a blank. for a long month he went about with a look too dark for so young a face and a step too heavy for so light a foot, blackening his fate and his future. he never doubted that he had lost something that could never be regained. without blaming fenella for so much as a moment he felt humiliated and ashamed, and like a fool who had built his house upon the sand. god, how hollow living seemed! life had lost its savour; effort was useless and there was nothing left in the world but dead-sea fruit. how much the deemster had learnt of his trouble he never knew, but one night, as they drew up to the cheeks of the hearth after dinner, he said: "victor, how would you like to go round the world? travel is good for a young man. it helps him to get things into proportion." victor leapt at the prospect of escaping from ballamoar, but thought it seemly to say something about the expense. "that needn't trouble you," said the deemster, "and you wouldn't be beholden to me either, for there is something i have never told you." his mother had had a fortune of her own, and the last act of her sweet life had been to make it over to her new-born son, at the discretion of his father, signing her dear will a few minutes before she died, against every prayer and protest, in the tragic and unrecognizable handwriting of the dying. "it was five hundred a year then," said the deemster, "but i've not touched it for twenty-four years, so it's nine hundred now." "that's water enough to his wheel, i'm thinking," said dan baldromma, when he heard of it, and cæsar qualtrough was known to say: "it's a horse that'll drive him to glory or the devil, and i belave in my heart i'm knowing which." two months later victor stowell was ready for his journey. alick gell was to go with him--that gentleman having scrambled through his examination and prevailed on his mother to prevail on his father to permit him to follow stowell. "god's sake, woman," the speaker had said again, "let him go, and give him the allowance he asks for, and bother me no more about him." turning westward the young travellers crossed the atlantic; stood in awe on the ship's deck at their first sight of the new world, with its great statue of liberty to guard its portals; passed over the breathless american continent, where life scours and roars through time like a neap tide on a shingly coast, casting up its pebbles like spray; then through japan, where it flows silent and deep, like a mill race under adumbrous overgrowth; and so on through china, india and egypt and back through europe. it was a wonderful tour--to gell like sitting in the bow of a boat where the tumult of life was for ever smiting his face in freshening waves; to stowell (for the first months at least) like sitting miserably in the stern, with only the backwash visible that was carrying him away, with every heave of the sea, from something he had left and lost. but before long stowell's heavy spirit regained its wings. although he could not have admitted it even to himself without a sense of self-betrayal, fenella stanley's face, in the throng of other and nearer faces, became fainter day by day. there are no more infallible physicians for the heart-wounds inflicted by women than women themselves, and when a man is young, and in the first short period of virginal manhood, the world is full of them. so it came to pass that whatever else the young men saw that was wonderful and marvellous in the countries they passed through, they were always seeing women's eyes to light and warm them. and being handsome and winsome themselves their interest was rewarded according to the conditions--sometimes with a look, sometimes with a smile, and sometimes in the freer communities, with a handful of confetti or a bunch of spring flowers flung in their faces, or perhaps the tap of a light hand on their shoulders. thus the thought of fenella stanley, steadily worn down in victor's mind, became more and more remote as time and distance separated them, until at length there were moments when it seemed like a shadowy memory. stowell and gell were two years away, and when they returned home the old island seemed to them to have dwarfed and dwindled, the very mountains looking small and squat, and the insular affairs, which had once loomed large, to have become little, mean and almost foolish. "now they'll get to work; you'll see they will," said janet, and for the first weeks it looked as if they would. for the better prosecution of their profession, as well as to remove the sense of rivalry, they took chambers in different towns, stowell in old post office place in ramsey, and gell in preaching house lane in douglas---two outer rooms each for offices and two inner ones for residential apartments. but having ordered their furniture and desks, inscribed their names in brass on their door-posts ("victor stowell, advocate"), engaged junior assistants to sit on high stools and take the names of the clients who might call, and arranged for sleeping-out housekeepers to attend to their domestic necessities (victor's was a comfortable elderly body, mrs. quayle, once a servant of his mother's at ballamoar, afterwards married to a fisherman, and then left a widow, like so many of her class, when our hungry sea had claimed her man), they made no attempt to practise, being too well off to take the cases of petty larceny and minor misdemeanour which usually fall to the high bailiff's court, and nobody offering them the cases proper to the deemster's. those were the days of bar dinners (social functions much in favour with our unbriefed advocates), and one such function was held in honour of the returned travellers. at this dinner stowell, being the principal speaker, gave a racy account of the worlds they had wandered through, not forgetting the world of women--the sleepy daintiness of the japanese, the warm comeliness of the italian, the vivacious loveliness of the french, and above all, the frank splendour of the american women, with their free step, their upturned faces and their conquering eyes. that was felt by various young manxmen to be a feast that could be partaken of more than once, so a club was straightway founded for the furtherance of such studies. it met once a week at mount murray, an old house a few miles out of douglas, in the middle of a forest of oak and pine trees, now an inn, but formerly the home of a branch of the athols, when they were the lords of man, and kept a swashbuckler court of half-pay officers who had come to end their days on the island because the living and liquor were cheap. one room of this house, the dining-room, still remained as it used to be when the old bloods routed and shouted there, though its coat-of-arms was now discoloured by damp and its table was as worm-eaten as their coffins must have been. and here it was that the young bloods of the "ellan vannin" (the isle of man) held their weekly revel--riding out in the early evening on their hired horses, twenty or thirty together, sitting late over their cups and pipes, and (the last toast drunk and the last story told) breaking up in the dark of the morning, stumbling out to the front, where a line of lanterns would be lining the path, the horses champing the gravel and the sleepy stable-boys chewing their quids to keep themselves awake, and then leaping into their saddles, singing their last song at the full bellows of their lungs in the wide clearing of the firs to the wondering sky, and galloping home, like so many gilpins (as many of them as were sober enough to get there at the same time as their mounts) and clattering up the steep and stony streets of douglas to the scandal of its awakened inhabitants. victor stowell was president of the "ellan vannin," and in that character he made one contribution to its dare-devil jollity, which terminated its existence and led to other consequences more material to this story. ii in his heavy days at ballamoar, before he went abroad, his father's house had been like a dam to which the troubled waters of the island flowed--the little jealousies and envies of the island community, the bickerings of church and chapel, of town and country, of town and town, not to speak of the darker maelstrom of more unworthy quarrels. while the deemster had moved through all this with his calm dignity as the great mediator, the great pacifier, victor with his quick brain and wounded heart had stood by, seeing all and saying nothing. but now, making a call upon his memory, for the amusement of his fellow clubmen, out of sheer high spirits and with no thought of evil, he composed a number of four-line "limericks" on the big-wigs of the island. such scorching irony and biting satire had never been heard in the island before. if any pompous or hypocritical person (by preference a parson, a local preacher, a high bailiff or a key) had a dark secret, which he would have given his soul's salvation not to have disclosed, it was held up, under some thin disguise, to withering ridicule. a long series of these reckless lampoons victor fired off weekly over the worm-eaten table at mount murray, to the delirious delight of the clubmen, who, learning them by heart, carried them to their little world outside, with the result that they ran over the island like a fiery cross and set the manx people aroar with laughter. the good and the unco' good were scandalized, but the victims were scarified. and to put an end to their enemy, and terminate his hostilities, these latter, laying their heads together to tar him with his own brush, found a hopeful agency to their hand in the person of a good-looking young woman of doubtful reputation called fanny, who kept a house of questionable fame in the unlit reaches of the harbour south of the bridge. one early morning word went through the town like a searching wind that fanny's house had been raided by the police, in the middle of the night, about the hour when the clubmen usually clattered back to douglas. the raid had been intended to capture stowell, but had failed in its chief object--that young gentleman having gone on, when some of his comrades had stopped, put up his horse at his job-master's and proceeded to gell's chambers where he slept on his nights in town. others of his company had also escaped by means of a free fight, in which they had used their hunting crops and the police their truncheons. but alick gell, with his supernatural capacity for getting into a scrape, had been arrested and carried off, with fanny herself, to the douglas lock-up. next day these two were brought up in the magistrate's court, which was presided over by his worship the colonel of the "nunnery," a worthy and dignified man, to whom the turn of recent events was shocking. the old court-house was crowded with the excited townspeople, and as many of the clubmen were present as dare show their bandaged heads out of their bedrooms. when the case was called, and the two defendants entered the dock, they made a grotesque and rather pitiful contrast--gell in his tall, slim, fair-haired gentlemanliness, and fanny in her warm fat comeliness, decked out in some gaudy finery which she had sent home for, having been carried off in the night with streaming locks and naked bosom. in the place of the attorney-general, the prosecutor was a full-bodied, elderly advocate named hudgeon, who had been the subject of one of the most withering of the lampoons. he opened with bitter severity, spoke of the case as the worst of the kind the island had known; referred to the "most unholy hour of the morning" which had lately been selected for scenes of unseemly riot; said his "righteous indignation" was roused at such disgraceful doings, and finally hoped the court would, for the credit of lawyers "hereafter" make an example, "without respect of persons," of the representative of a group of young roysterers, who were a disgrace to the law, and had nothing better to do (so rumour and report were saying) than to traduce the good names of their elders and betters. when he had examined the constables and closed his case it looked as if gell were in danger of castle rushen, and the consequent wrecking of his career at the bar, and that nothing was before fanny but banishment from the island, with such solace as the bribe of her employers might bring her. but then, to a rustle of whispering, stowell, who was in wig and gown for the first time, got up for the defence. it had been expected that he would do so, and many old advocates who had heard much of him, had left their offices, and filled the advocates' box, to see for themselves what mettle he was made of. they had not long to wait. in five minutes he had made such play with his "learned friend's" "unholy hour of the morning," "his righteous indignation" and his "hereafter" for lawyers (not without reference to a traditional personage with horns and a fork) that the merriment of the people in court rose from a titter to a roar, which the ushers were powerless to suppress. again and again the writhing prosecutor, with flaming face and foaming and spluttering mouth, appealed in vain to the bench, until at length, getting no protection, and being lashed by a wit more cutting than a whip, he gathered up his papers and, leaving the case to his clerk, fled from the court like an infuriated bat, saying he would never again set foot in it. then stowell, calling back the constables, confused them, made them contradict themselves, and each other, and step down at last like men whose brains had fallen into their boots. after that he called gell and caused him to look like a harmless innocent who had strayed out of a sheepfold into a shambles. and finally he called fanny, and getting quickly on the woman's side of her, he so coaxed and cajoled and flattered and then frightened her, that she seemed to be on the point of blurting out the whole plot, and giving away the names of half the big men in the island. his worship of the nunnery closed up the case quickly, saying "young men will be young men," but regretting that the eminent talents exhibited in the defence were not being employed in the service of the island. the court-house emptied to a babel of talking and a burst of irrepressible laughter, and that was the end of the "ellan vannin." but the one ineffaceable effect of the incident, most material to this story, was that alick gell, who was still as innocent as the baby of a girl, had acquired a reputation for dark misdoings (especially with women) whereof anything might be expected in the future. after the insular newspapers had dwelt with becoming severity on this aspect of the "distressing proceedings," the speaker walked over in full-bearded dignity to remonstrate with the deemster. "your son is dragging my lad down to the dirt," he said, "and before long i shall not be able to show my face anywhere." "what do you wish me to do, mr. speaker?" asked the deemster. "do? do? i don't know what i want you to do," said the speaker. "i thought you didn't," said the deemster, and then the full-bearded dignity disappeared. concerning victor, although he had made the island laugh (the shortest cut to popularity), opinions were widely divided. "there's only the breadth of a hair between that young man and a scoundrel," said hudgeon, the advocate. "lave him rope and he'll hang himself," said cæsar qualtrough, from behind his pipe in the smoking-room of the keys. "clever! clever uncommon! but you'll see, you'll see," said the speaker. "i've not lost faith in that young fellow yet," said the governor. "some great fact will awaken a sense of responsibility and make a man of him." the great fact was not long in coming, but few could have foreseen the source from which it came. iii with the first breath of the first summer after their return to the island stowell and gell went up into the glen to camp. they had no tent; two hammocks swung from neighbouring trees served them for beds and the horizontal boughs of other trees for wardrobes. there, for a long month, amidst the scent of the honeysuckle, the gorse and the heather, and the smell of the bracken and the pine, they fished, they shot, they smoked, they talked. late in the evening, after they had rolled themselves into their hammocks, they heard the murmuring of the trees down the length of the glen, like near and distant sea-waves, and saw, above the soaring pine-trunks, the gleaming of the sky with its stars. as they shouted their last "good-night" to each other from the depths of their swaying beds the dogs would be barking at dan baldromma's mill at the bottom of the glen and the water would be plashing in the topmost fall of it. and then night would come, perfect night, and the silence of unbroken sleep. awaking with the dawn they would see the last stars pale out and hear the first birds begin to call; then the cock would crow at old will skillicorne's croft on the "brough," the sheep would bleat in the fields beyond, the squirrels would squeak in the branches over their heads and the fish would leap in the river below. and then, as the sun came striding down on them from the hilltops to the east, they would tumble out of their hammocks, strip and plunge into the glen stream--the deep, round, blue dubs of it, in which the glistening water would lash their bodies like a living element. and then they would run up to the headland (still in the state of nature) and race over the heather like wild horses in the fresh and nipping air. they were doing this one midsummer morning when they had an embarrassing experience, which, in the devious ways of destiny, was not to be without its results. flying headlong down the naked side of the glen (for sake of the faster run) they suddenly became aware of somebody coming up. it was a young woman in a sunbonnet. she was driving four or five heifers to the mountain. swishing a twig in her hand and calling to her cattle, she was making straight for their camping-place. the young men looked around, but there was no escape on any side, so down they went full length on their faces in the long grass (how short!) and buried their noses in the earth. in that position of blind helplessness, there was nothing to do but wait until the girl and her cattle had passed, and hope to be unobserved. they could hear the many feet of the heifers, the flapping of their tails (the flies must be pestering them) and the frequent calls of the girl. on she came, with a most deliberate slowness, and her voice, which had been clear and sharp when she was lower down the glen, seemed to them to have a gurgling note in it as she came nearer to where they lay. "come out of that, you gawk, and get along, will you?" she cried, and victor could not be quite sure that it was only the cattle she was calling to. at one moment, when they thought the girl and the cattle must be very close, there was a sickening silence, and then the young men remembered their breeches which were hanging open over a bough and their shirts which were dangling at the end of it. "get up, stupid! what are you lying there for?" cried the girl, and then came another swish of the twig and a further thudding of the feet of the heifers. "the devil must be in that girl," thought victor, and he would have given something to look up, but dare not, so he lay still and listened, telling himself that never before had two poor men been in such an unfair and ridiculous predicament. at length the feet of the cattle sounded faint over the rippling of the river, and the girl's voice thin through the pattering of the leaves. and then the two sons of adam rose cautiously from the grass, slithered down the glen-side and slipped into the essential part of their garments. half-an-hour later, the lark being loud in the sky, and the world astir and decent, they were cooking their breakfast (gell holding a frying-pan over a crackling gorse fire, and stowell, in his wellington boots, striding about with a tea-pot) when they heard the girl coming back. and being now encased in the close armour of their clothes they felt that the offensive had changed its front and stepped boldly forward to face her. she was a strapping girl of three or four and twenty, full-blooded and full-bosomed, with coal-black hair and gleaming black eyes under her sun-bonnet, which was turned back from her forehead, showing a comely face of a fresh complexion, with eager mouth and warm red lips. her sleeves were rolled back above her elbows, leaving her round arms bare and sun-brown; her woollen petticoat was tucked up, at one side, into her waist, and as she came swinging down the glen with a jaunty step, her hips moved, with her whole body, to a rhythm of health and happiness. "attractive young person, eh?" said victor. but gell, after a first glance, went back without a word to his frying-pan, leaving his comrade, who was still carrying his teapot, to meet the girl, who came on with an unconcerned and unconscious air, humming to herself at intervals, as if totally unaware of the presence of either of them. "nice morning, miss," said victor, stepping out into the path. the girl made a start of surprise, looked him over from head to foot, glanced at his companion, whose face was to the fire, recognised both, smiled and answered: "yes, sir, nice, very nice." then followed a little fencing, which was intended by victor to find out if the girl had seen them. came up this way a while ago, didn't she? aw, yes, she did, to take last year's heifers to graze on the mountains. seen anything hereabouts--that is to say on the tops? aw, no, nothing at all--had he? well, yes, he thought he'd seen something running on the ridge just over the waterfall. the girl gave him a deliberate glance from her dark eyes, then dropped them demurely and said, with an innocent air, "must have been some of the young colts broken out of the top field, i suppose." "that's all right," thought victor, not knowing the ways of women though he thought himself so wise in them. after that, feeling braver, he began to make play with the girl, asking her how far she had come, and if she wouldn't be lonesome going back without company. she looked at him quizzically for a moment, and then said, with her eyes full of merriment, "what sort of company, sir?" "well, mine for instance," he answered. she laughed, a fresh and merry laugh from her throat, and said, "you daren't come home with me, sir." "why daren't i?" "you'd be afraid of father. he's not used of young men coming about the place, and he'd frighten the life out of you." victor put down his tea-pot and made a stride forward. "come on--where is he?" but the girl swung away, with another laugh, crying over her shoulder, "aw, no, no, plaze, plaze!" "ah, then it's you that are afraid, eh?" said victor. "it's not that," replied the girl. "what is it?" said victor. she gave him another deliberate glance from her dark eyes--he thought he could feel the warm glow of her body across the distance dividing them--and said, "the old man might be sending somebody else up with the heifers next time, and then...." "what then?" she laughed again with eyes full of mischief, and seemed to prepare to fly. "then maybe i'd be missing seeing something," she said, and shot away at a bound. victor stood for a moment looking down the glen. "god, what a girl!" he said. "i've a good mind to go after her." "i shouldn't if i were you," said gell. "you know who she is?" "who?" "bessie collister." "the little thing who was in castletown?" "yes." "then i suppose she belongs to you?" "not a bit. i haven't spoken to her from that day to this," said gell, and then he told of the promise he had made to his father. "but lord alive, that was when you were a lad." "maybe so, but 'as long as you live'--that was the word, and i mean to keep it. besides, there's dan baldromma." "that blatherskite?" said victor. "he'd be an ugly customer if anything went wrong, you know." "but, good lord, man, what is going to go wrong?" when they had finished breakfast and gell was washing up at the water's edge, victor was on a boulder, looking down the glen again, and saying, as if to himself, "my god, what a girl, though! such lips, such flesh, such...." "i say, old fellow!" cried gell. victor leapt down and laughed to cover his confusion. "well, why not? we're all creatures of earth, aren't we?" chapter seven the day of temptation fenella stanley had been two and a half years at the head of the women's settlement. her work as lady warden had been successful. it had been a great, human, palpitating experience. there were days, and even weeks, when she felt that it had brought her a little nearer to the soul of the universe and helped her to touch hands across the ages with the great women who had walked through gethsemane for the poor, despoiled and despairing victims of their own sex. but nevertheless it had left her with a certain restlessness which at first she found it hard to understand. only little by little did she come to realise that nature, with its almighty voice, was calling to her, and that under all the thrill of self-sacrifice she was suffering from the gnawing hunger of an underfed heart. the seven years that had passed since her last visit to the island had produced their physical effects. from a slim and beautiful school-girl she had developed into a full and splendid woman. when the ladies of her committee (matrons chiefly) saw the swing of her free step and the untamed glance of her eye they would say, "she's a fine worker, but we shall never be able to keep her--you'll see we shall not." and as often as the men of the committee (clergymen generally, but manly persons, for the most part, not too remote from the facts of life) came within range of the glow and flame of her womanhood, they would think, "that splendid girl ought to become the mother of children." during the first year of her wardenship her chief touch with home (her father being estranged) had been through correspondence with his housekeeper. miss green's letters were principally about the governor, but they contained a good deal about victor stowell also. victor had been called to the bar, but for some reason which nobody could fathom he seemed to have lost heart and hope and the deemster had sent him round the world. fenella found herself tingling with a kind of secret joy at this news. she was utterly ashamed of the impulse to smile at the thought of victor's sufferings, yet do what she would she could not conquer it. her tours abroad with her father had ceased by this time, but in her second year at the settlement she took holiday with a girl friend, going through switzerland and italy and as far afield as egypt. during that journey fate played some tantalizing pranks with her. the first of them was at cairo, where, going into cook's, to enter her name for a passage to italy, her breath was almost smitten out of her body by the sight of victor's name, in his own bold handwriting, in the book above her own--he had that day sailed for naples. the second was at naples itself (she would have died rather than admit to herself that she was following him), where she saw his name again, with alick gell's, in the visitors' list, and being a young woman of independent character, marched up to his hotel to ask for him--he had gone on to rome. the third, and most trying, was in the railway station at zurich, where stepping out of the train from florence she collided on the crowded platform with the attorney-general and his comfortable old wife from the isle of man, and was told that young stowell and young gell had that moment left by train for paris. but back in london she found her correspondence with miss green even more intoxicating than before, and every new letter seemed like a hawser drawing her home. victor stowell had returned to the island, but he was not showing much sign of settling to work. he seemed to have no aim, no object, no ambition. in fact it was the common opinion that the young man was going steadily to the dogs. "so if you ever had any thoughts in that direction, dear," said miss green, "what a lucky escape you had (though we didn't think so at the time) when you signed on at the settlement!" but the conquering pull of the hawser that was dragging her home came in the letters of isabella gell, with whom she had always kept up a desultory correspondence. the deemster was failing fast ("and no wonder!"); and janet curphey, who had been such a bustling body, was always falling asleep over her needles; and the speaker (after a violent altercation in the keys) had had a profuse bleeding at the nose, which dr. clucas said was to be taken as a warning. but the only exciting news in the island just now was about victor stowell. really, he was becoming impossible! not content with making her brother alick the scapegoat of his own misdoings in a disgraceful affair of some sort (her father had forbidden alick the house ever since, and her mother was always moping with her feet inside the fender), he was behaving scandalously. a good-looking woman couldn't pass him on the road without his eyes following her! any common thing out of a thatched cottage, if she only had a pretty face, was good enough for him now!! the simpletons!! perhaps they expected him to marry them, and give them his name and position? but not he!! indeed no!! and heaven pity the poor girl of a better class who ever took him for a husband!!! fenella laughed--seeing through the feminine spitefulness of these letters as the sun sees through glass. so mistress isabella herself had been casting eyes in that direction! what fun! she had visions of the gell girls having differences among themselves about victor stowell. the idea of his marrying any of them, and keeping step for the rest of his life with the conventions of the gell family, was too funny for anything. but those manx country girls, with their black eyes and eager mouths, were quite a different proposition. fenella had visions of them also, fresh as milk and warm as young heifers, watching for victor at their dairy doors or from the shade of the apple trees in their orchards, and before she was aware of what was happening to her she was aflame with jealousy. that isabella gell was a dunce! it was nonsense to say that the manx country girls out of the thatched cottages expected victor to marry them. of course they didn't, and neither did they want his name or his position. what they really wanted was victor himself, to flirt with and flatter them and make love to them, perhaps. but good gracious, what a shocking thing! that should never happen--never while she was about! of course this meant that she must go back to save victor. naturally she could not expect to do so over a blind distance of three hundred miles, while those manx country girls in their new whitsuntide hats were shooting glances at him every sunday in church, or perhaps hanging about for him on week-evenings, in their wicked sun-bonnets, and even putting up their chins to be kissed in those shady lanes at the back of ballamoar, when the sun would be softening, and the wood-pigeons would be cooing, and things would be coming together for the night. that settled matters! her womanhood was awake by this time. seven years of self-sacrifice had not been sufficient to quell it. after a certain struggle, and perhaps a certain shame, she put in her resignation. her committee did not express as much surprise as she had expected. the ladies hoped her native island would provide a little world, a little microcosm, in which she could still carry on her work for women, (she had given that as one of her excuses), and the gentlemen had no doubt her father, "and others," would receive her back "with open arms." she was to leave the settlement at the close of the half year, that is to say at the end of july, but she decided to say nothing, either to her father or to miss green, about her return to the island until the time came for it at the beginning of august. she was thinking of victor again, and cherishing a secret hope of taking him unawares somewhere--of giving him another surprise, such as she gave him that day in the glen, when he came down bareheaded, with the sea wind in his dark hair, and then stopped suddenly at the sight of her, with that entrancing look of surprise and wonder. and if any of those manx country girls were about him when that happened .... well, they would disappear like a shot. of course they would! ii meantime, another woman was hearing black stories about victor, and that was janet. she believed them, she disbelieved them, she dreaded them as possibilities and resented them as slanders. but finally she concluded that, whether they were true or false, she must tell victor all about them. yet how was she to do so? how put a name to the evil things that were being said of him--she who had been the same as a mother to him all the way up since he was a child, and held him in her arms for his christening? for weeks her soft heart fought with her maidenly modesty, but at length her heart prevailed. she could not see her dear boy walk blindfold into danger. whatever the consequences she must speak to him, warn him, stop him if necessary. but where and when and how was she to do so? to write was impossible (nobody knew what might become of a letter) and victor had long discontinued his week-end visits to ballamoar. one day the deemster told her to prepare a room for the governor who was coming to visit him, and seizing her opportunity she said, "and wouldn't it be nice to ask victor to meet him, your honour?" the deemster paused for a moment, then bowed his head and answered, "do as you please, miss curphey." five minutes afterwards janet was writing in hot haste to ramsey. "he is to come on saturday, dear, but mind you come on friday, so that i may have you all to myself for a while before the great men take you from me." victor came on friday evening and found janet alone, the deemster being away for an important court and likely to sleep the night in douglas. she was in her own little sitting-room--a soft, cushiony chamber full of embroidered screens and pictures of himself as a child worked out in coloured silk. a tea-tray, ready laid, was on a table by her side, and she rose with a trembling cry as he bounded in and kissed her. tea was a long but tremulous joy to her, and by the time it was over the darkness was gathering. the maid removed the tray and was about to bring in a lamp, but janet, being artful, said: "no, jane, not yet. it would be a pity to shut out this lovely twilight. don't you think so, dear?" victor agreed, not knowing what was coming, and for an hour longer they sat at opposite sides of the table, with their faces to the lawn, while the rooks cawed out their last congress, and the thrush sang its last song, and janet talked on indifferent matters--whether mrs. quayle (his sleeping-out housekeeper) was making him comfortable at ramsey, and if robbie creer should not be told to leave butter and fresh eggs for him on market-day. but when, the darkness having deepened, there was no longer any danger that victor could see her face, janet (trembling with fear of her nursling now that he had grown to be a man) plunged into her tragic subject. people were talking and talking. the manx ones were terrible for talking. really, it ought to be possible to put the law on people who talked and talked. "who are they talking about now, janet? is it about me?" said victor. "well, yes .... yes, it's about you, dear." oh, nothing serious, not to say serious! just a few flighty girls boasting about the attentions he was paying them. and then older people, who ought to know better, gibble-gabbling about the dangers to young women--as if the dangers to young men were not greater, sometimes far greater. "not that i don't sympathise with the girls," said janet, "living here, poor things, on this sandy headland, while the best of the manx boys are going away to america, year after year, and never a man creature younger than their fathers and grandfathers about to pass the time of day with, except the heavy-footed omathauns that are left." what wonder that when a young man of another sort came about, and showed them the courtesy a man always shows to a woman, whatever she is, when he is a gentleman born--just a smile, or a nod, or a kind word on the road, or the lifting of his hat, or a hand over a stile perhaps--what wonder if the poor foolish young things began to dream dreams and see visions. "but that's just where the danger comes in, dear," said janet. "oh, i'm a woman myself, and i was young once, you know, and perhaps i remember how the heavens seem to open for a girl when she thinks two eyes look at her with love, and she feels as if she could give herself away, with everything she is or will be, and care nothing for the future. but only think what a terrible thing it would be if some simple girl of that sort got into trouble on your account." "don't be afraid of that, janet," said victor in a low voice. "no girl in the island, or in the world either, has ever come to any harm through me--or ever will do." there came the sound of a faint gasp in the darkness, and then janet cried: "god bless you for saying that, dear! i knew you would! and don't think your silly old janet believed the lying stories they told of you. 'deed no, that she didn't and never will do, never! but all the same a young man can't be too careful!" there were bad girls about also--real scheming, designing huzzies! some of them were good-looking young vixens too, for it wasn't the good ones only that god made beautiful. and when a man was young and handsome and clever and charming and well-off and had all the world before him, they threw themselves in his way, and didn't mind what disgrace they got into if they could only compel him to marry them. "but think of a slut like that coming to live as mistress here--here in the house of isobel stowell!" then the men folk of such women were as bad as they were. there was a wicked, lying, evil spirit abroad these days that jack was as good as his master, and if you were up you had to be pulled down, and if you were big you had to be made little. "only think what a cry these people would make if anything happened," said janet, "wrecking your career perhaps, and making promotion impossible." "don't be afraid of that either, janet. i can take care of myself, you know." "so you can, dear," said janet, "but then think of your father. forty years a judge, and not a breath of scandal has ever touched him! but that's just why some of these dirts would like to destroy him, calling to him in the courts themselves, perhaps, with all the dirty tongues at them, to come down from the judgment-seat and set his own house in order." "my father can take care of himself, too, janet," said victor. "i know, dear, i know," said janet. "but think what he'll suffer if any sort of trouble falls on his son! more, far more, than if it fell on himself. that's the way with fathers, isn't it? always has been, i suppose, since the days of david. do you remember his lamentations over his son absalom? i declare i feel fit enough to cry in church itself whenever the vicar reads it: 'o my son absalom! would god i had died for thee, o absalom, my son, my son.'" there was silence for a moment, for victor found it difficult to speak, and then janet began to plead with him in the name of his family also. "the deemster is seventy years old now," she said, "and he has four hundred years of the ballamoars behind him, and there has never been a stain on the name of any of them. that's always been a kind of religion in your family, hasn't it--that if a man belongs to the breed of the ballamoars he will do the right--he can be trusted? that's something to be born to, isn't it? it seems to me it is more worth having than all the jewels and gold and titles and honours the world has in it. oh, my dear, my dear, you know what your father is; he'll say nothing, and you haven't a mother to speak to you; so don't be vexed with your old janet who loves you, and would die for you, if she could save you from trouble and disgrace; but think what a terrible, fearful, shocking thing it would be for you, and for your father, and for your family, and .... yes, for the island itself if anything should happen now." "nothing _shall_ happen--i give you my word for that, janet," said victor. "god bless you!" said janet, and rising and reaching over in the darkness she kissed him--her face was wet. after that she laughed, in a nervous way, and said she wasn't a puritan either, like some of the people in those parts whom she saw on sunday mornings, walking from chapel in their chapel hats, after preaching and praying against "carnal transgression" and "bodily indulgence" and "giving way to the temptations of the flesh"--as if they hadn't as many children at home as there were chickens in a good-sized hen-roost. "young men are young men and girls are girls," said janet, "and some of these manx girls are that pretty and smart that they are enough to tempt a saint. and if david was tempted by the beauty of bathsheba--and we're told he was a man after god's own heart--what better can the lord expect of poor lads these days who are making no such pretensions?" she was only an old maid herself, but she supposed it was natural for a young man to be tempted by the beauty of a young woman, or the lord wouldn't have allowed it to go on so long. but the moral of that was that it was better for a man to marry. "so find a good woman and marry her, dear. the deemster will be delighted, having only yourself to follow him yet. and as for you," she added (her voice was breaking again), "you may not think it now, being so young and strong, but when you are as old as i am .... and feeling feebler every year .... and you are looking to the dark day that is coming .... and no one of your own to close your eyes for you .... only hired servants, or strangers, perhaps...." it was victor's turn to rise now, and to stop her speaking by taking her in his arms. after a moment, not without a tremor in his own voice also, he said, "i shall never marry, and you know why, janet. but neither will i bring shame on my father, or stain my name, as god is my help and witness." the rooks were silent in the elms by this time, but the gong was sounding in the hall, so, laughing and crying together, and with all her trouble gone like chased clouds, janet ran off to her room to wipe her eyes and fix her cap before showing her face at supper. iii next morning the deemster returned from douglas, and in the afternoon, the governor arrived. they took tea on the piazza, the days being long and the evenings warm. the deemster was uneasy about the case they had tried the day before, and talked much about it. a farmer had killed a girl on his farm after every appearance of gross ill-usage. the crime and the motive had been clear and therefore the law could show no clemency. but there had been external circumstances which might have affected the man's conduct. down to ten years before he had been a right-living man, clean and sober and honest and even religious. then he had been thrown by a young horse and kicked on the head and had had to undergo an operation. after he came out of the hospital his whole character was found to have changed. he had become drunken, dishonest, a sensualist and a foul-mouthed blasphemer, and finally he had committed the crime for which he now stood condemned. "it makes me tremble to think of it," said the deemster, "that a mere physical accident, a mere chance, or a mere spasm of animal instinct, may cause any of us at any time to act in a way that is utterly contrary to our moral character and most sincere resolutions." "it's true, though," said the governor, "and it doesn't require the kick of a horse to make a man act in opposition to his character. the loudest voice a man hears is the call of his physical nature, and law and religion have just got to make up their minds to it." next morning, sunday morning, they went to church. janet drove in the carriage by way of the high road, but the three men walked down the grassy lane at the back, which, with its gorse hedges on either side, looked like a long green picture in a golden frame. the deemster, who walked between the governor and victor, was more than usually bent and solemn. he had had an anonymous letter about his son that morning--he had lately had shoals of them. the morning was warm and quiet; the clover fields were sleeping in the sunlight to the lullaby of the bees; the slumberous mountains behind were hidden in a palpitating haze, and against the broad stretch of the empty sea in front stood the gaunt square tower from which the far-off sound of the church bells was coming. nowhere in the island could they have found a more tragic illustration of the law of life they had talked about the evening before than in the person of the vicar of the church they were going to. his name was cowley, and down to middle life he had been all that a clergyman should be. but then he had lost a son under circumstances of tragic sorrow. the boy had been threatened with a consumption, so the father had sent him to sea, and going to town to meet him on his return to the island, he had met his body instead, as it was being brought ashore from his ship, which was lying at anchor in the bay. the sailors had said that at sight of them and their burthen, parson cowley had fallen to the stones of ramsey harbour like a dead man, and it was long before they could bring him to, or staunch the wound on his forehead. what is certain is that after his recovery he began to drink, and that for fifteen years he had been an inveterate drunkard. this had long been a cause of grief and perhaps of shame to his parishioners; but it had never lessened their love of him, for they knew that in all else he was still a true christian. if any lone "widow man" lay dying in his mud cabin on the curragh, parson cowley would be there to sit up all the night through with him; and if any barefooted children were going to bed hungry in the one-roomed hovel that was their living-room, sleeping-room, birth-room and death-room combined, parson cowley would be seen carrying them the supper from his own larder. but his weakness had become woeful, and after a shocking moment in which he had staggered and fallen before the altar, a new bishop, who knew nothing of the origin of his infirmity, and was only conscious of the scandal of it, had threatened that if the like scene ever occurred again he would not only forbid him to exercise his office, but call upon the governor (in whose gift it was) to remove him from his living. the bells were loud when the three men reached the white-washed church on the cliff, with the sea singing on the beach below it, and illiam christian, the shoemaker and parish clerk, standing bareheaded at the bottom of the outside steps to the tower to give warning to the bell-ringers that the governor had arrived. in expectation of his visit the church was crowded, and with victor going first to show the way, the governor next, and the deemster last, with his white head down, the company from ballamoar walked up the aisle to the family pew, in which janet, in her black silk mantle, was already seated. the deemster's pew was close to the communion rails, and horizontal to the church with the reading-desk and pulpit in the open space in front of it, and a marble tablet on the wall behind, containing the names of a long line of the ballamoars, going as far back as the sixteenth century. the vestry was at the western end of the church, under the tower, and as soon as the bells stopped and the clergy came out, it was seen that the vicar was far from sober. nevertheless he kept himself erect while coming through the church behind his choir and curate, and tottered into the carved chair within the rail of the communion. the curate took the prayers, and might have taken the rest of the service also, but the vicar, thinking his duty compelled him to take his part in the presence of the governor, rose to read the lessons. with difficulty he reached the reading-desk, which was close to the deemster's pew, and opened the book and gave out the place. but hardly had he begun, in a husky and indistinct voice, with "here beginneth the first chapter of the second book of samuel" (for it was the sixth sunday after trinity) when he stopped as if unable to go farther. for a moment he fumbled with his spectacles, taking them off and wiping them on the sleeve of his surplice, and then he began afresh. but scarcely had he said, in a still thicker voice, "now it came to pass" .... when he stopped again, as if the words of the book before him had run into each other and become an unreadable jumble. after that he looked helplessly about him for an instant, as if wondering what to do. then he grasped the reading-desk with his two trembling hands, and the perspiration was seen to be breaking in beads from his forehead. a breathless silence passed over the church. the congregation saw what was happening, and dropped their heads, as if knowing that for their beloved old vicar this (before the eyes of the governor) was the end of everything. but suddenly they became aware that something was happening. quietly, noiselessly, almost before they were conscious of what he was doing, victor stowell, who had been sitting at the end of the deemster's pew, had risen, stepped across to the reading-desk, put a soft hand on the vicar's arm, and was reading the lesson for him. "_saul and jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided .... i am distressed for thee, my brother jonathan; thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women._" people who were there that morning said afterwards that never before had the sublime lament of the great king, the great warrior and the great poet, for his dead friend and dead enemy been read as it was read that day by the young voice, so rich and resonant, that was ringing through the old church. but it was not that alone that was welling through every bosom. it was the thrilling certainty that out of the greatness of his heart the son of the deemster (of whom too many of them had been talking ill) had covered the nakedness of the poor stricken sinner who had sunk back in his surplice to a seat behind him. when the service was over, and the clergy had returned to the vestry, the congregation remained standing until the governor had left the church. but nobody looked at him now, for all eyes were on the two who followed him--the deemster and victor. the deemster had taken his son's arm as he stepped out of his pew, and as he walked down the aisle, through the lines of his people, his head was up and his eyes were shining. "did thou see that, mistress?" said robbie creer, in triumphant tones to janet curphey, as she was stepping back, with a beaming face, into her carriage at the gate. "thou need have no fear of thy lad, i tell thee. _the ballamoar will out!_" but the day of temptation was coming, and too soon it came. chapter eight the call of bessie collister it was the first saturday in august, when the throbbing and thunging of the vast machinery of the mills and factories of the english industrial counties comes to a temporary stop, and for three days at least, tens of thousands of its servers, male and female, pour into the island for health and holiday. stowell and gell had never yet seen the inrushing of the liberated ones, so with no other thought, and little thinking what fierce game fate was playing with them, they had come into douglas that day, in flannels and straw hats, in eager spirits and with high steps, to look on its sights and scenes. it was late afternoon, and they made first for the pier, where a crowd of people had already assembled to witness the arrival of an incoming steamer. she was densely crowded. every inch of her deck seemed to be packed with passengers, chiefly young girls, as the young men thought, some of them handsome, many of them pretty, all of them comely. with sparkling eyes and laughing mouths they shouted their salutations to their friends on the pier, while they untied the handkerchiefs which they had bound about their heads to keep down their hair in the breeze on the sea, and pinned on their hats before landing. the young men found the scene delightful. a little crude, perhaps a little common, even a little coarse, but still delightful. then they walked along the promenade, and that, too, was crowded. from the water's edge to the round hill-tops at the back of the town, every thoroughfare seemed to be thrilling with joyous activity. hackney carriages, piled high with luggage and higher still with passengers, were sweeping round the curve of the bay; windows and doors were open and filled with faces, and the whole sea-front, from end to end, seemed to be as full of women's eyes as a midnight sky of stars. for tea they went up to castle mona--a grave-looking mansion in the middle of the bay, built for a royal residence by one of the earls of derby when they were lords of man before the athols, but now declined to the condition of an hotel for english visitors, with its wooded slopes to the sea (wherein more than one of our old manx kings may have pondered the problems of his island kingdom), transformed into a public tea-garden, on which pretty women were sitting under coloured sunshades and a string band from london was playing the latest airs from paris. the young men took a table at the seaward end of the lawn, with the rowing boats skimming the fringe of the water in front, the white yachts scudding across the breast of the bay, the brown-sailed luggers dropping out of the harbour with the first flood of the flowing tide; and then the human tide of joyous life running fast on the promenade below--girls chiefly, as they thought, usually in white frocks, white stockings and white shoes, skipping along like human daisy-chains with their arms entwined about each other's waists, and sometimes turning their heads over their shoulders to look up at them and laugh. the sun went down behind the hills at the back of the town, the string band stopped, the coloured sunshades disappeared, the gong was sounded from the hall of the hotel and they went indoors for dinner. they sat by an open window of the stately dining-room (wherein our old earls and their countesses once kept court), and being in higher spirits than ever by this time, they ate of every dish that was put before them, drank a bottle of champagne, toasted each other and every pretty woman they could remember of the many they had seen that day ("here's to that fine girl with the black eyes who was standing by the funnel"), and looked at intervals at the scenes outside until the light failed and the darkness claimed them. at one moment they saw the dark hull of another steamer, lit up in every port-hole, gliding towards the pier, and at the next (or what seemed like the next), shooting across the white sheet of light from the uncovered windows of their dining-room, a large blue landau, drawn by a pair of irish bays, driven by a liveried coachman. gell leapt up to look at it. "vic," he cried, "i think that must be the governor's carriage." "it is," said stowell. "and that's the governor himself inside of it." "no doubt." "and the lady sitting beside him is .... yes, no .... yes ..... upon my soul i believe it was his daughter." "impossible," said stowell, and, remembering what janet had told him, he thought no more of the matter. they returned to the lawn to smoke after dinner, and then the sky was dark and the stars had begun to appear; the tide was up but the sea was silent; the rowing-boats were lying on the shingle of the beach; the yachts were at anchor in the bay; the last of the fishing-boats, each with a lamp in its binnacle, were doubling the black brow of the head, and from the farthest rock of it the revolving light in the lighthouse was sweeping the darkness from the face of the town as with an illuminated fan. the young men were enraptured. it was wonderful! it was enchanting! it was like walking on the terrace at monte carlo! then suddenly, as at the striking of a clock, the town itself began to flame. one by one the façades of the theatres and dancing palaces that lined the front were lit up by electricity. it raced along like ignited gunpowder and in a few minutes the broad curve of the bay from headland to headland, was sparkling and blazing under ten thousand lights. it was now the beginning of night in the little gay town. the young men could hear the creak of the iron turn-stile to one of the dancing-halls near at hand, and the shuffling of the feet of the multitudes who were passing through it, and then, a few minutes later, the muffled music of the orchestra and the deadened drumming of the dancing within. that was more than they could bear, in their present state of excitement, without taking part in the scene of it, so within five minutes more, they were passing through the turn-stile themselves and hurrying down a tunnel of trees, lit up by coloured lamps, to the open door of the dancing-hall--deep in a dark garden which seemed to sleep in shadow on either side of them. the vast place, decorated in gold and domed with glass, was crowded, but going up into the gallery the young men secured seats by the front rail and were able to look down. what a spectacle! never before, they thought, though they had travelled round the world, had they seen anything to compare with it. to the clash of the brass instruments and the boom of the big drums, five thousand young men and young women were dancing on the floor below. most of the men wore flannels and coloured waist-scarves, and most of the girls were in muslin and straw hats. they were only the workers from the mills and factories of lancashire and yorkshire, but the flush of the sun and the sea was in their faces and the joy and health of young life was in their blood. stowell felt himself becoming giddy. waves of perfume were floating up to him, with the warmth of women's bright eyes, red lips and joyous laughter. his nerves were quivering; his pulses were beating with a pounding rush. he was beginning to feel afraid of himself and he had an almost irresistable impulse to get up and go. ii one other person important to this story had come to douglas that day--bessie collister. during the first three years after her return home from castletown she had lived in physical fear of dan baldromma; but during the next three years, having grown big and strong and become useful on the farm, she had been more than able to hold her own with him, and he had even been compelled to pay her wages. "i don't know in the world what's coming over the girls," he would say. "in my young days they were content with priddhas and herrings three times a day, and welcome, but nothing will do now, if it's your own daughter itself, but ten pounds a year per annum, and as much loaf bread and butcher's mate as would fill the inside of a lime kiln." "aw, but the girl's smart though," mrs. collister would answer. "i'm saying nothing against her," dan would reply. "a middling good girl enough, and handy with the bases, but imperent grown--imperent uncommon and bad with the tongue." there was scarcely a farmer on the island who would not have given bessie twice the wages dan paid her, but she remained at home, partly for reasons of her own and partly to protect her mother from dan's brutalities by holding over his head the threat of leaving him. mrs. collister, who had been stricken with sciatica and was hobbling about on a stick, had by this time taken refuge from her life-long martyrdom in religion, having joined the "primitives," whose chapel (a whitewashed barn) stood at the opposite angle of the glen and the high road. she had tried to induce her daughter to follow her there, but bessie had refused, having come to the conclusion that the "locals" on the "plan-beg," whose favourite subject was the crucifixion of the flesh, were always preaching at her mother, or pointing at her. so on sunday mornings when the church bells were ringing across the curragh, and the chapel-going women of the parish were going by with their hymn-books in their handkerchiefs, and old will skillicorne, who was a class-leader, was coming down from his thatched cottage in his tall beaver, black frock coat and black kid gloves, bessie, in her sunbonnet and a pair of dan's old boots, and with her skirt tucked up over her linsey-wolsey petticoat, would be seen feeding the pigs or washing out a bowl of potatoes at the pump. and on sunday evenings, while the primitives were singing a hymn outside their chapel before going in for service, she would be tripping past, lightly shod, and wearing a hat with an ostrich feather, on her way to town, where a german band played sacred music on the promenade, and young people, walking arm-in-arm, laughed and "glimed" at each other under the gas-light. "i wonder at herself though, bringing up her daughter like a haythen in a christian land," old will would say. "but then what can you expect from a child of sin and a son of belial"--the latter being a dig at dan, whose lusty voice could always be heard over the singing, reading aloud to himself in the kitchen the "rights of man" or "the mistakes of moses." bessie was a full-developed and warm-blooded woman by this time, living all day and every day in the natural world of the farmyard, ready to break loose at the first touch of the hand of a live man if only he were the right one, and having no better relief for the fever of her womanhood than an occasional dance in the big barn at kirk michael fair. but then came her adventure with stowell and gell in the glen and it altered everything. running down in her excitement she told her mother what had happened, and her mother, in a moment of tenderness, told dan, and dan, in the impurity of his heart, drew his own conclusions. "it's the spaker's son again," he said, making a noise in his nostrils. the young men had camped out there expressly to meet bessie, and it wasn't the first time the girl had gone up to them. "goodness sakes, man veen, how do thou know that? and what's the harm done anyway?" said mrs. collister. "wait and see what's the harm, woman. girls is not to trust when a wastrel like that is about. we've known it before now, haven't we?" to one other person bessie told the story of the glen, and that was her chief friend, susie stephen, the english barmaid at the ginger hall inn--a girl of fair complexion and some good looks who had shocked the young wives of the parish by wearing short frocks, transparent stockings and a blouse cut low over the bosom. it was at closing-time a few nights after the event, and as the girls stood whispering together by the half-open door, with the lights put out in the bar behind them, they squealed with laughter, laid hold of each other and shuddered. the young men had gone from the glen by that time, but the august holidays were coming, so they decided to go up to douglas on the saturday following to dance off their excitement. at five o'clock that day, having milked her cows, and given a drink of meal and water to her calves, bessie was in her bedroom making ready for her journey. it was a stuffy little one-eyed chamber over the dairy, entered from the first landing of the stairs, open to the whitewashed scraas (which gave it a turfy odour), having a skylight in the thatch, a truckle bed, a deal table for wash-stand and a few dried sheepskins on the floor for rugs. bessie threw off the big unlaced boots and the other garments of the cow-house, kicking the one into a corner and throwing the others in a disorderly mass on to the bed over her pink-and-white sunbonnet, washed to the waist and then folded her arms over each other in their warmth and roundness and laughed to herself in sheer joy of bounding health and conscious beauty. while doing so she heard her step-father's voice in the kitchen below, loud as usual and as full of protest, but she had a matter of more moment to think of now--what to wear out of her scanty wardrobe. the question was easily decided. after putting on white rubber shoes and white stockings, she drew aside a sheet on the wall that ran on a string and took down a white woollen skirt and a new cream-coloured blouse cut low at the neck like susie's. but the anchor of her hope was her hat, which she was to wear for the first time, having bought it the day before in ramsey. it was shaped like a shell, with a round lip in front, and to find the proper angle for it on her head was a perplexing problem. so she stood long and twisted about before an unframed sheet of silvered glass which hung by a nail on the wall, with a lash comb in her hand, a number of hat-pins across her mouth, while the floor creaked under her, and the conversation went on below. she got it right at last, just tilted a little aside, to look pert and saucy, with her black hair, which was long and wavy, creeping up to it like a cushion. and then, standing off from her glass to look at it again over her shoulder, with eyes that danced with delight, she turned to the door and walked with a buoyant step downstairs. iii dan baldromma also had made an engagement for that day, handbills having been distributed in ramsey during the morning saying that "mr. daniel collister of baldromma" would deliver an address in the market-place at seven o'clock in the evening. at five dan had strapped down the lever which stopped the flow of water on to his overshot wheel and stepped into the dwelling-house, where liza, his wife, had laid tea for two and was blowing up a fire of dry gorse to boil the kettle. "tell your girl to put a lil rub on my sunday boots," he said. "but she's upstairs dressing for douglas," said mrs. collister. "you don't say?" said dan. "so that's the way she's earning her living?" "chut, man," said mrs. collister. "if a girl's in life she wants aisement sometimes, doesn't she? and her ragging and tearing to keep the farm going, and a big wash coming on next week, too." "well, that's good! that's rich! i thought it was myself that was keeping the farm going. douglas, you say? well, well! i wonder at you, encouraging your girl to go to such places, and you a bound methodist. tell her to put a rub on my boots, ma'am." "i'll do it myself, dan," said mrs. collister. "it's little enough time the girl will have to catch the train, and her fixing on her new hat, too." "new hat, eh?" "aw, yes, man, the one she bought at miss corkill's yesterday." "what a woman! and you telling me, when you got five goolden sovereigns out of me on monday that she was for wearing it at the sulby anniversary. i wonder you are not afraid for your quarterly ticket." "but it was only the girl's half year's wages, and the labourer is worthy of his hire. thou art always saying so at the cross anyway." "hould thy tongue, woman, and don't be milking that ould cow any more--it's dry, i tell thee." it was at this moment that bessie came downstairs, and dan, who was on the three-legged stool before the fire, making wry faces as he dragged off his mill-boots with a boot-jack, fell on her at first with his favourite weapon, irony. "aw, the smart you are in your new hat, girl--smart tremenjous!" "i didn't think you'd have the taste to like it," said bessie, sitting at the table. "taste, is it?" said dan. "aw, the grand we are! the pride that's in some ones is extraordinary though. there'll be no holding you! you'll be going up and up! your mother has always been used of a poor man's house and the wind above the thatch. but you'll be wanting feather beds and marble halls, i'm thinking." "they won't be yours to find then, so you needn't worry," said bessie. "you think not? i'm not so sure of that. man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards .... so you're for douglas, are you?" "yes, i am, if you'll let me take my tea in time for the train." "aisy, bogh, aisy!" said mrs. collister. "well, you're your own woman now, so i suppose you've got lave to go," said dan. and then rising to his stockinged feet, his face hard and all his irony gone, he added, "but i'm my own man, too, and this is my own house, i'm thinking, and if you're not home for eleven o'clock to-night, my door will be shut on you." bessie leapt up from the table. "shut your door if you like. there'll be lots of ones to open theirs," she cried, and swept out of the house. "there you are, woman!" said dan. "what did i say? imperent uncommon and dirty with the tongue! she'll have to clane it this time though. if she's not back for eleven she'll take the road and no more two words about it." mrs. collister struggled to her feet and followed bessie, pretending she had forgotten something. "bessie! bessie!" bessie stopped at the end of the "street" and her mother hobbled up to her. "be home for eleven, bogh," she whispered. "it's freckened mortal i am that himself has some bad schame on." "what schame?" asked bessie. "i don't know what, but something, so give him no chance." "what do i care about his chance?" "aw, bolla veen, bolla veen, haven't i enough to bear with thy father and thee? catch the ten train back--promise me, promise me." "very well, i promise," said bessie, and at the next moment she was gone. five minutes later, arm-in-arm with susie, she was swinging down the road to the railway station for douglas. the little gay town, when they reached it, was at full tide, with pianos banging in the open-windowed houses, guitars twanging in the streets, and lines of young men marching along the pavements and singing in chorus. the girls, fresh from their twinkling village by the lonely hills, with the river burrowing under the darkness of the bridge, were almost dizzy with the sights and sounds. when they came skipping down the steep streets to the front, and plunged into the electric light which illuminated the bay, they could scarcely restrain themselves from running. and when, bubbling with the animal life which had been suppressed, famished and starved in them, they passed through the turn-stile to the dancing-palace and hurried down the tunnel of trees, lit by coloured lamps, and saw the stream of white light which came from the open door, and heard the crash of the band and the drumming of the dancers within, their feet were scarcely touching the ground and they felt as if they wanted to fly. and when at last, having entered the hall, the whole blazing scene burst on them in a blinding flash, they drew up with a breathless gasp. "oh! oh!" one moment they stood by the door with blinking and sparkling eyes, their linked arms quivering in close grip. then bessie, who was the first to recover from the intoxicating shock, looked up and around, and saw stowell and gell sitting in the gallery. "good sakes alive," she whispered, "they're there!" "who? the gentlemen?" "yes, in the front row. be quiet, girl. they see us. don't look up. they might come down." and then the girls laughed with glee at their conscious make-believe, and their arms quivered again to the rush of their warm blood. iv "alick, isn't that our young friend of the glen?" "bessie collister? where?" "down there, standing with the fair girl, just inside the door." "well, yes, upon my word, i think it is!" "i've a great mind to go down to them. let us go." "no? really? in a place like this?" "why not, man?" "well, if you don't mind, i don't." a few minutes later, in an interval between the dances, victor, coming behind bessie, touched her on the shoulder. "how are those sweet-smelling heifers----still grazing on the mountains?" bessie, who had watched the young men coming downstairs, and felt them at her back, turned with a look of surprise, then laughed merrily and introduced susie. for a few nervous moments there were the light nothings which at such times are the only wisdom. then the violins began to flourish for another dance, and the two couples paired off--victor with bessie and susie with gell. victor took bessie's hand with a certain delicacy to which she was quite unaccustomed and which flattered her greatly. the dance was a waltz, and she had never waltzed before, so they had to go carefully at first, but when the dance was coming to an end she was swinging to the rhythm of the orchestra as if she had waltzed a hundred times. in the interval the two couples came together again, and there was much general chatter and laughter. gell joined freely in both, and if at first he had had any backward thoughts of the promise he had given to his father they were gone by this time. another dance began and without changing partners they set off afresh, stowell taking bessie's hand with a firmer grasp and bessie holding to his shoulder with a stronger sense of possession. his nerves were tingling. turning round and round among women's smiling faces, and with bessie's smiling face by his side, he had the sense of sweeping his partner along with an energy of physical power he had never felt before. when the orchestra stopped the second time and they went in search of their companions, they discovered susie on a seat, panting and perspiring, and gell fanning her with the brim of his straw hat. victor's excitement was becoming feverish. he wanted bessie to himself, and during the third dance he felt himself dragging her to the opposite side of the hall. she knew what he was doing, and found it enchanting to be carried off by sheer force. when the dance came to an end victor put bessie's moist hand through his arm and walked up and down with her. her throat was throbbing and her breast rising and falling under her low-cut blouse. they spoke little, but sometimes he turned his head to look at her, and then she turned her eyes to his. he thought her black eyes were looking blacker than ever. the evening was now at its zenith, and the orchestra was tuning up for the "shadow-dance." the white lights on the walls went out, and over the arc lamps in the glass roof a number of coloured disks were passed, to throw shadows over the dancers, as of the sunrise, the sunset, the moon and the night with its stars. the dance itself was of a nondescript kind in which at intervals, the man, with a whoop, lifted his partner off her feet and swung her round him in his arms--a sort of symbol of marriage by capture. when the shadow-dance ended there was much hand-clapping among the dancers. it had to be repeated, this time with a more rapid movement and to the accompaniment of a song, which, being sung by the men in chorus, made the hall throb like the inside of a drum. many of the dancers fell out exhausted, but victor and bessie kept up to the last. then the big side doors were thrown open, and amid a babel of noise, cries and laughter, nearly all the dancers trooped out of the hall into the garden to cool. victor gave his arm to bessie and they went out also. lights gleamed here and there in the darkness of the trees, throwing shadows full of mystery and charm. after a while the orchestra within was heard beginning again, and most of the dancers hastened back to the hall, but victor said, "let us stay out a little longer." bessie agreed and for some minutes more they wandered through the garden, in and out of the electric light, with the low murmur of the sea coming to them from the shore and the muffled music from the hall. she was breathing deeply, and he was feeling a little dizzy. they found themselves talking in whispers, both in the anglo-manx, and then laughing nervously. "did you raelly, raelly see the young colts racing on the tops, though?" "'deed no, not i, woman. but i belave in my heart i know who did." "who?" "why you!" at that word, and the touch of his hand about her waist, she made a nervous laugh, and turned to him, her eyes closed, her lips parted and her white teeth showing, and they drew together in a long kiss. at the next moment a clock struck coldly through the still air from the tower of a neighboring church and bessie broke away. "gracious me, that must be ten o'clock. i have to catch the ten train home." "you can't now. it's impossible," he said, and he tried to hold her. "i must--i promised," she cried, and she bounded off. he called and followed a few steps, but she was gone. feeling like a torn wound he returned to the dancing-hall. the scene was the same as before but it seemed crude and tame and even dead to him now. where was gell? he must have gone to see the fair girl off by the ten train. he would come back presently. victor returned to the hotel. to compose his nerves while he waited he called for another half bottle of wine, and drank it, iced. the music was still murmuring in his ears. after a while it stopped; there were a few bars of the national anthem, and then the pattering like rain of innumerable feet on the paved way from the dancing-hall to the promenade. it was now a few minutes to eleven, and remembering that that was the hour of the last train to the north he walked up to the station. a noisy throng was on the platform, chiefly young manx farming people of both sexes, returning to their homes in the country. the open third-class carriages were full of them, all talking and laughing together. victor walked down the line of the train and looked into each of the dim-lit carriages for bessie, thinking it impossible that she could have caught the earlier one. not finding her, he inquired if the ten train had left promptly and was told it had been half-an-hour late. she must have gone. he got into an empty first-class compartment, folded his arms and closed his eyes and the train started. while it ran into the dark country the farming people, being unable to talk with comfort, sang. over the rolling of the wheels their singing came in a dull roar, and when the train stopped at the wayside stations it went up in the sudden silence in a wild discord of male and female voices. victor was beginning to feel cold. he put up the window. his brain which had been blurred was becoming lucid. he recalled the scenes he had taken part in and some of them seemed to him now to have been crude and common and even a little vulgar. he thought of bessie and felt ashamed. when the train drew up at the station for the glen he turned his face from the direction of the mill, and to defeat a desire to look at it he opened the window at the other side of the carriage and put out his head. the free air was refreshing to body and brain, but when his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness he saw the broad belt of the trees of ballamoar. that brought a stabbing memory of janet and the promise he had given her, and then of the deemster and his conversation with the governor. he began to shiver, and to feel as if he were awakening from a fit of moral intoxication. to-morrow he would go home, and since he could not trust himself any longer, he would put himself out of the reach of temptation by living at ballamoar in future. when the train drew up at ramsey it was half-past twelve. as he walked out of the quiet station into the echoing streets of the sleeping town he was drawing a deep breath and saying to himself: "thank god!" it was all over. chapter nine the master of man dan baldromma's meeting in the market-place had not been the success he had expected. standing on the steps of the town lamp, between the saddle inn and the ship store, he had discoursed on the rights of the labourer to the land he cultivated. the earth was the lord's, and the fulness thereof. therefore it could not belong to the big ones who were adding field to field--least of all to their wastrels of sons who were doing nothing but hang about the roads and the glens to ruin the daughters of decent men. the moral of this was that the land belonged to the people and the time was coming when they would pay no rent for it. dan's audience of manx farmers had listened to this new gospel with manx stolidity, but a group of young english visitors, clerks from the cotton factories, looking down from the balcony of the saddle inn, had received it with open derision. dan had ignored their opposition as long as possible, merely saying, when his audience laughed at their sallies, "we must make allowance for some ones, comrades--children still, they've not been rocked enough." but when at length they had called him bradlaugh junior and ingersoll the second and told him to keep his tongue off better men, dan had looked up at the balcony and cried, "if you're calling me by them honoured names i'm taking my hat off to you" (suiting the action to the word), "but if you're saying you are better men we'll be going into a back coort somewheres and taking off our jackets and westcots." to preserve the peace the police had had to put an end to the meeting, whereupon dan, spitting contemptuously and snorting about "the cottonies" and "the cotton balls," had harnessed his horse at the plough inn and driven home in a dull rage. it had been ten o'clock when he got back to baldromma, and after unharnessing his horse in his undrained stable, and wiping his best boots with a wisp of straw, he had stepped round to the kitchen. his wife was there, beating time on the hearthstone to a long-drawn methodist hymn while she stirred the porridge in a pot that hung over a slow peat fire. "_tell me the old, old story, .... of jesus and his love._" "your daughter isn't back then?" said dan with a growl. "be raisonable, man," said mrs. collister. "eleven o'clock thou said, and it's only a piece after ten yet." she poured out the porridge and hobbled to the dairy for a basin of milk, and then dan, after a sour silence, sat down to his supper. "they were telling me in ramsey," he said, making noises with his spoon, "that the spaker's son went up to douglas to-day." "like enough!" said mrs. collister. "i'll go bail your girl went up to meet him." "sakes alive, man veen, what for should thou be saying that?" "she's fit enough for it anyway." "but what has the girl done? twenty-four years for spring and not a man at her yet." "chut! once they cut the cables that sort is the worst that's going. she'd be an angel itself though to stand up against a waistrel like yander." "bessie will be home for eleven," said mrs. collister. "she'd better, or she'll find dan baldromma a man of his word, ma'am." after that there was another sour silence in which both watched the open-faced clock whose pendulum swung by the wall. tick, tick tick, said the clock. to the man it was going slowly, to the woman it seemed to fly. but hardly had the fingers pointed to eleven, or the chain begun to shake for the first stroke of the hour, when dan was at the door, bolting and locking it. "will thou not give the girl a few minutes' grace, even?" "not half a minute." "but the ten train hasn't whistled at the bridge yet." "i've nothing to do with trains, misthress collister. eleven o'clock, i said, and now it's eleven and better." "but surely thou'll never shut thy door on a poor girl in the middle of the night?" "there's others that's open to her--she said so herself, remember. she's not for coming home to-night, so take your candle and get to bed, woman." "but the train must be late--i'll wait up myself for her." "you might burn your candle to the snuff--she's not for coming, i tell you." "but she promised me--faithfully promised me...." "get to bed, ma'am. i wonder you're not thinking shame, making excuses for the bad doings of your by-child, and you a methodist." the woman was on the verge of tears. "shame enough it is, dan collister, when a mother has to shut her heart to her own child if she's not to show disrespect to her husband." in the intimacy of the bedroom dan threw off all disguise. winding his silver-lever watch and hanging it with its albert on a hook in the bed-post, and then sitting on the side of the bed to undress, he almost crowed over his prospects. that son of the speaker would have to pay for his whistle this time! baldromma would be his by heirship, and a father had a right to damages for the loss of the services of his daughter. "there'll be no more rent going paying by me, i'm thinking," said dan. so that was his scheme! mrs. collister stood long in her cotton nightdress, fumbling with the strings of her night-cap, and wondering if she could ever lie down with the man again. "are you never for putting out that candle and coming to bed, woman?" half-an-hour passed and the mother lay still and listened. dan was asleep by this time and breathing audibly, but there was no sound outside save the slipping of the water from the fixed wheel and the stamping of the horse in the stable. at last came the whistling of the train, and a few minutes later, bessie's step on the "street" and then the rattling of the latch of the kitchen door. mrs. collister tried to slip out of bed without awakening dan, but her sciatica had made her limbs stiff and she knocked over the candlestick that stood on a chair beside her. this awakened her husband, and hearing the noise downstairs, he rolled out of bed, saying, in a threatening voice, "lie thou there--i'll settle her." he went out to the stairhead, slamming the bedroom door behind him, threw up the sash of a window on the landing, and shouted into the darkness: "who's there?" "me, of course," cried bessie. a fierce altercation followed, in which dan's voice was harsh and coarse, and bessie's shrill with anger. "then find your bed where you've found your company," shouted dan. and shutting down the window with a crash he returned to the bedroom. the mother heard bessie going off, and the fading sound of the girl's footsteps tore her terribly. but after a few minutes more dan was making noise in his nostrils again and she got up and crept downstairs to the kitchen (where the dull red of the dying turf left just enough light to see by), slid the bolts back noiselessly, opened the door and called in a whisper: "bessie!" no answer came back to her, so she stepped out to the end of the cobbled way, barefooted and in her nightdress and nightcap, and called again: "bessie! bessie!" still there was no reply; so she returned to the kitchen, leaving the door on the latch, and sat for a long hour in a rocking chair by the hearth (souvenir of the days when bessie was a child, and she had rocked her to sleep in it), fighting, in the misery of her heart, with the black thought which dan had put there. at length she remembered susie and persuaded herself that bessie must have gone to the ginger hall to sleep. "yes, bessie must have gone to susie." being comforted by this thought, and feeling cold, for the fire had gone out, she crept upstairs. it was hard to go by bessie's room on the landing. every night for years she had stopped there on her way to bed. and in the winter, when the wind in the trees in the glen made a roar like the sea, she had called through the closed door: "art thou warm enough, bessie, or will i bring thee my flannel petticoat?" and now the door was open and the room was empty! dan was still asleep when she got back to the bedroom and her approach did not awaken him, so she fumbled her way to the bed (knowing where she was when her feet touched the warm sheepskin that lay by the side of it) and then opened the clothes and crept in. the cold air she brought with her awakened dan, and he turned on the pillow and said, "you've not been letting in that girl of yours, have you?" "no!" dan made a grunt of satisfaction, and then said, with his face to the wall, "remember, you'll have to be up early to milk for yourself in the morning." "yes." then came a yawn, and then a snore, and then silence fell on the little house. ii bessie had run all the way to the station and then found that the train had nearly half-an-hour to wait for the passengers by the last of the day's steamers. the carriages were full of english visitors, but there were very few manx people and she could not see susie anywhere. this vexed her with the thought of having to tear herself away a good hour earlier than anybody else. it was all her mother's fault--getting her to make that ridiculous promise. from such thoughts, as the train ran into the country, her mind swung back to the memory of stowell. she recalled his looks, his smile, his whole person, and every word he had said to her down to the moment of that burning kiss. what pleased her most was the certainty that he had never kissed a girl before. the trembling of his lips, when they were lip to lip, told her that. and in spite of all that had been said of him she was sure he had never had a woman in his arms until to-night--never! and she? well, she had never before been kissed by a man. alick gell? she was only a child then. kiss-in-the-ring at michael fair? chut! a girl felt that no more than the wind blowing over her bare cheek. by the clocks at the wayside stations she saw she was going to be late getting home, but she didn't care. dan baldromma wasn't fool enough to shut her out. but let him if he liked to! where would he go to get another girl to work for her wages--summer and winter, as if the creatures had been her own, up all hours calving, and out before the dawn in the lambing season, when the hoar-frost was on the fields? it was twenty minutes past eleven when she got down at the glen station, and there was susie getting down also! susie was in the sulks. not only had bessie deliberately lost her in the dancing-hall, but after she had hurried away to catch the ten train, knowing bessie had promised to return by it, she had had to come back alone! this added to bessie's vexation, and when she reached the house, and found the door locked on her, it expressed itself in her hand when she rattled the kitchen latch. then came the scene with dan baldromma who shouted down at her from the upper window as if she had been a thief--it was suffocating! and when he said, "find your bed where you've found your company," and banged down the sash on her, she flung away, crying, as well as she could for the anger that was choking her, "so i will, and you'll be sorry for it some day." at that moment she meant to sleep with susie at the ginger hall inn, and offer herself next day to one or other of the farmers who had so often asked for her. but she had not gone many steps before she reflected that all the farmers' houses would be full now and nobody could take her in until michaelmas. no matter! she might have been no better off. those old farmers were all the same. if it wasn't the bullying of brutes like dan baldromma it was the meanness of old hypocrites like teare of lezayre, who laid foundation stones, and put purses of money on top of them, and then went home and gave his girls cold potatoes and salt herrings for supper! that made her think of young willie teare. she had met him in ramsey the day before, when he had said he was tired of slaving for his father, and meant to set up in a farm for himself as soon as he could find the right wife. but no thank you, no marrying with a farmer for her! after a woman had worn herself to the bone, keeping things together and gathering the stock, and she was doubled up with sciatica, and ought to be in bed, with somebody to wait on her, the husband was nagging and ragging her from morning to night. that was marriage! hadn't she seen enough of it? bessie had reached the ginger hall by this time, and, seeing a light in susie's window, she was about to call up when (with dan's insult 'find your bed, etc.' still rankling in her mind) a startling thought seized her and made her heart leap and the hot blood to rush through and through her. there was one way to escape from dan baldromma and his tyrannies--mr. stowell! mr. stowell would return by the last train to ramsey, having bachelor rooms there, in which he lived alone--so people were saying. if she were to meet him on his arrival and tell him what had happened he would find some way out for her. of course he would! she was sure he would! ashamed? why should she be? people had said all they could say about a girl like her while she was a baby in arms, and who was there to say anything now? and then mr. stowell wouldn't care either. he was rich, therefore he had no need to be afraid of anybody. and if he were fond of a girl he would stand up for her and defy the whole island--that was the sort of young man he was! the last train could not reach ramsey before midnight, and it might be later. it was only half-past eleven yet. there was still time. why shouldn't she? "'find your bed,' indeed! we'll see! we'll see!" three-quarters of an hour later she was approaching ramsey. the stars had gone out; the night was becoming gloomy; she was tired and her spirit of defiance was breaking down under a chilling thought. what if mr. stowell did not want her? it was one thing for a young man to amuse himself with a girl in the glen or in a dancing-hall, but to become responsible for her.... "if he felt like that and found me in ramsey what would he think?" afraid and ashamed she was slowing down with the thought of returning to the ginger hall when she heard the train whistle behind her, and looking back, saw its fiery head forging through the darkness. that sent the hot blood bounding to her heart again, and within a few minutes she was walking slowly down the main street of the town, which was all shut up and silent. she knew where mr. stowell's rooms were--in old post office place--and that he would have to come this way to get to them. she heard the train drawing up in the station, the passengers trooping out, parting in the square and shouting their good-nights as they went off by the streets to the north and south. one group was coming behind, on the other side of the way, laughing over something they had seen at a place of entertainment. they passed and turned down a side street and the echo of their voices died away at the back of the houses. then came a few moments of sickening silence. bessie, as she walked on, could hear nothing more, and another chilling thought came to her. what if mr. stowell had not returned by the train and were sleeping the night in douglas? all her courage and defiance ebbed away, and she saw herself for the first time as she was--a miserable girl, cast out of her step-father's house, in which she had worked so hard but in which nothing belonged to her, homeless, penniless (for she had spent her half-year's wages on her clothes) without a shelter, in the middle of the night, alone! it was beginning to rain and bessie was crying. all at once she heard a firm step behind her. it was he! she was sure of it! her heart again beat high and all her nerves began to tingle. he was overtaking her. she turned her head aside and wiped her eyes. he was walking beside her. she could hear his breathing. "bessie!" "mr. stowell!" "good gracious, girl, what are you doing here?" and then she told him. iii "the brute! the beast! did you tell him your train was late?" "no. he ought to have known that for himself." "so he ought. you are quite right there, bessie. but didn't your mother...." "mother is afraid of her life of the man. she daren't say anything." "was there any other house he might have thought you would go to--any neighbour's, any relation's?" "i have no relations, sir." "ah! .... then he deliberately shut you out of his house in the middle of the night, knowing you had nowhere else to go to?" "yes!" "the damned scoundrel!" bessie, who had been crying again, was looking up at him with wet but shining eyes. "well, what are you going to do now? do you know anybody in town who can take you in for to-night?" "no." "then i must knock up one of the inns for you. here's the old plough--what do you say to the plough?" "dan baldromma goes there--mrs. beatty would get into trouble." "the saddle then?" "i go there myself, every market-day, with butter and eggs--people would be talking." there was only the mitre hotel left, and stowell himself shrank from that. to go to the mitre with a girl at this time of night would be like shouting into the mouth of a megaphone. within twenty-four hours the whole town would hear the story, with every explanation except the right one. "but, good heavens, girl, i can't go home and go to bed and leave you to walk about in the streets." "i'll do whatever you think best, sir," said bessie, crying again and stammering. they were at the corner of old post office place by this time, and, after a moment's hesitation, he took the girl's hand and drew it through his arm and then turned quickly in the opposite direction, saying: "come, then, let us think." it was still raining but stowell was scarcely aware of that. with the girl walking close by his side he was only conscious of a return of the faint dizziness he had felt in the garden at douglas. to conquer this and to keep up his indignation about dan baldromma, while they walked round the square of streets, he asked what the man had said when he finally shut down the window. "he said i was to find my bed where i had found my company," said bessie, stammering again and with her head down. "meaning that you had been in bad company?" "yes." "the foul-minded ruffian!" his nerves were quivering, and he knew that the hot tide of his indignation was ebbing rapidly. suddenly an idea came to him and he felt an immense relief--mrs. quayle! she was a good, religious woman, who had seen sorrow herself, and that was the best kind to go to in a time of trouble. she would take bessie in for to-night, and to-morrow they would all three go back together to baldromma, and then--then he would tell that old blackguard what he thought of him. "that's it, bessie! i wonder why in the world i didn't think of it before?" bessie was answering "yes" and "yes," but her beaming eyes were looking sideways up at him, and the blood was pounding through his body with a rush. they had got back to the corner of old post office place when stowell stopped and said: "wait! mrs. quayle's house is rather a long way off--one of the little fishermen's cottages on the south beach, you know. i'm not quite sure that she has a second bed. and then she might be alarmed if two of us turned up at this time of night. what if i run over first and make sure?" again bessie answered "yes" and "yes." "but it's raining heavily now, and, of course, you can't stay out in the streets any longer. here are my rooms--just here. why shouldn't you step in and wait? i shall have to go upstairs for an overcoat anyway." bessie showed no embarrassment, and victor felt at first that what he was doing was something a little courageous and rather noble. but as soon as they reached the door, and he began to fumble with his key to open it, he became nervous and a voice within him seemed to say, "take care!" "come in," he said bravely, but when bessie brushed him on entering the house he trembled, and from that moment onwards he was conscious of a struggle between his blood and his brain. as he was closing the door on the inside he saw that there was a letter in the letter-box at the back of it, but he left it there, and held out his hand to bessie to guide her up the stairs, saying: "it's dark here. give me your hand. now come this way. don't be afraid. you shan't fall. i'll take care of you." there were two short flights and then a landing, from which a door opened on either side--on the right to victor's offices, on the left to his living-rooms. he opened the door on the left, leaving bessie to stand on the landing until he had found matches and lit the gas. he was long in finding them, and while rummaging in the dark room he heard the girl's quick breathing behind him. "ah, here they are at last!" he cried in a tremulous voice, and then he lit up a branch under a white globe on one side of the mantelpiece. "now you can come in," he said, and turning to the window he loosened the cord of the venetian blind and it came clattering down. bessie stepped into the room. it was a warm and cosy chamber, with a thick persian carpet, two easy chairs, an open bookcase full of law books, a desk-table with ink-stand, writing-pad and reading-lamp (looking so orderly as to suggest that no work was done there) and a large pier-glass with a small bust of a pretty neapolitan girl and a little silver-cased clock in front of it. the clock was striking one. "one o'clock! it was stupid to stay out in the streets so long, wasn't it?" "yes." "your hat is dripping. hadn't you better take it off for the few minutes you'll have to stay?" "should i?" "do; and i'll light the gas-fire--a bachelor has to have gas-fires, you know." while he was down on his knees lighting the fire, and regulating its burning from blue to red, bessie, with trembling fingers, was drawing the pins out of her hat--the wonderful new hat of a few hours ago, now wet and bedraggled. in doing so she pulled down her hair and made a faint cry, "oh!" "don't mind that at this time of night," said victor. but at sight of the girl's face, now framed in its shower of waving black hair, his nervousness increased. he had always thought her a good-looking girl, but he had never known before that she was beautiful. "my coat is wet, too. i must change it," he said, getting up and going towards his bedroom door. "it would be foolish to put an overcoat over a wet jacket, wouldn't it?" "yes." "but your blouse seems to be soaking. why shouldn't you take it off and dry it at the fire while i'm away at mrs. quayle's?" "should i?" "why not?" while he was in the inner room, opening and closing his wardrobe, and changing his wet coat for a dry one, he kept on talking. mrs. quayle was a good creature who had lost her husband in that january gale a few years ago. she would take bessie in--he was sure she would. but this was only to drown the clamour of two voices within himself, one of which was saying, "must you go?" and the other "certainly you must! be a man and play the game, for god's sake." when he returned to the sitting-room the breath was almost smitten out of his body by what he saw. bessie had taken off her blouse, and was kneeling by the fire to dry it. she did not raise her eyes to his, and after a first glance he did not look at her. opening the outer door to the landing, where the hat-rail stood, he pulled on a cap and dragged on an ulster, saying, in a nervous voice, "it's only a hop-skip-and-a-jump to mrs. quayle's. i shall be back presently." suddenly there came a flash of lightning which lit up the dark bedroom, and then a clap of thunder, loud and long, which rattled the window frames. "it would be foolish to go out in a storm like that, wouldn't it?" he said. "'deed it would," said bessie. she had risen with a start, but now she knelt again and held her steaming blouse before the fire. stowell took off his cap and ulster and dropped them on to a chair. then he walked about the room, trying to keep his eyes from the girl, and to fill the difficult silence by talking on indifferent subjects--other storms he had seen in other countries. after a while the thunder went off in the direction of ireland, its echo becoming fainter and fainter in the sonority of the sea. "it's gone--now i can go," he said. but hardly had he taken up his cap again when the rain, which had ceased for a moment, came in a sudden torrent. "only a thunder shower--it will soon be over," he said. but the rain went on and on. good lord, were the very forces of nature conspiring to keep him there all night? it was half-past one by the clock on the mantelpiece, and the rain was still pelting on the pavement of the street outside with a sound like that of an army in retreat. stowell was feeling alternately hot and cold, and the voice within him was saying, "must you go? you would be drenched through before you got back from mrs. quayle's, and the girl would be as wet in getting there as if you had dropped her into the sea." after a few minutes more he said, "bessie, i'm afraid we shall have to give up the idea of going to mrs. quayle's." "yes?" "but you can stay here, and i can go over to the mitre." "no, no." "it's nothing--only two yards away." johnny kelly, the boots, slept on the ground floor--he could get him up without ringing the bell. of course he would have to tell the old man some cock-and-bull story--that he had lost his key or something. "but it's the very thing. i wonder i didn't think of it before." he half hoped and half feared she might make some further protest. but she did not, so he picked up his cap and ulster and was making for the door when he thought of the gas. would bessie, who had been brought up in a thatched cottage, know how to put it out? "well, no, no," she stammered. "it's quite simple. you turn the tap, so...." he had to kneel by her side to show her, and he was feeling the warm glow he had felt in the glen. "but not being used of it...." "then i know--the reading-lamp!" he leapt up to light it, and having done so, he turned out the branch under the white globe, saying, with a laugh, it was lucky he had thought of the lamp, for if old johnny had seen the light in the window the story of the key would have sounded thin, wouldn't it? then she laughed too, and they laughed together, but their laughter broke into a sharp and breathless silence. he carried the lamp into the bedroom, put it on the table by the bedside and then pulled down the white window-blind, breaking the cord by the tug of his trembling fingers. he was feeling as if another storm, a storm of emotions, were now thundering within him. "must you go?" "you must! you shall! good lord, could a man of any conscience .... never! never!" when he returned to the sitting-room bessie had risen to her feet. she was standing at the opposite side of the mantelpiece and the intoxicating red light of the fire was over her. stowell thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. but he could not trust himself to look twice. "you'll be all right here, bessie," he said, in a loud voice, snatching up his coat and cap and making for the door. "you can let yourself out of the house as early as you like in the morning; and if you decide to go back to that damned old devil at baldromma you can tell him from me where you passed the night, and i'll stand up for you--why shouldn't i?" then he heard a breathless cry behind him, and then the words, "must you go?" he stopped and turned. was it bessie who had spoken? she had taken a step towards him, was breathing irregularly and looking at him with gleaming eyes. he felt as if the floor were rocking under his feet, as if the walls were reeling round him, as if he were seeing the face of woman for the first time. at the next moment they were clasped in each other's arms. chapter ten the call of the ballamoars "what a mistake! what a hideous blunder!" stowell, who had slept little, was awakening as from a bad dream. a dull lead-coloured light was filtering through the white window-blind. he could not help seeing it--bessie was not as pretty as he had thought. there was something common about her beauty when she was asleep which had been effaced by her eyes while she was awake. ashamed to look any longer he stepped into the sitting-room. a close odour hung in the air. the gas fire was still burning, and bessie's blouse was lying, where she had flung it, on the floor. with a sense of moral and physical suffocation, he went downstairs and out into the streets. the morning was fine and the dawn was breaking, but the town was still asleep. so great was the upheaval within himself that in some vague way he expected everything to look changed. but no, everything was the same--the shops, the signs, the lamps, which had not yet been put out. there was no sound except that of his own footsteps on the pavement, and to deaden this he walked in the middle of the streets. he wanted to be alone, to leave the town behind him. turning northward he crossed the harbour bridge and made for the red pier which stood out into the bay with a light-house at the end of it. the tide hummed far off on the shore. it was the bottom of the ebb. trading schooners were lying half on their sides in the mud. seagulls were calling over it. sand, slime, sea-wrack and the broken refuse of the town lay uncovered at the harbour's mouth, and the last draught of the ebbing water was playing about them with a guttural sound. when he came to the light-house he saw that some fragments of stone and glass were lying about, but his mind was too confused to ask itself what had happened. he sat down on the light-house steps, looked down into the harbour-basin and tried to think. good lord, what a fool he had been! to ask the girl into his rooms, being who and what she was, alone, in the middle of the night, just after he had formed the resolution to go home and put himself out of the reach of temptation .... what a fool! he thought of the stories people had told of him and how he had justified the very ugliest and worst of them .... what a fool! he remembered what he had said to janet, that no girl on the island or in the world had ever come to any harm through him, or ever should. that was only a little while ago and now .... what a fool! he recalled the white heat of his indignation against dan baldromma for what he had done to his step-daughter. that was only last night, and now he himself .... what a fool! what a fool! then the sense of his folly gave way to a sense of shame. down to yesterday he had lived a decent life. reckless, heedless, careless, stupid perhaps, but decent anyway. and now .... what shame! the light was then clearing, and raising his eyes he saw on the south beach a one-story fisherman's cottage from which the smoke was rising. it was mrs. quayle's cottage. she was making her early breakfast, and presently she would go to his room to make his. he shuddered at a vision of what she would find there--the close air, the gas fire, the girl's blouse on the floor, the girl herself .... how degrading it all was! he saw dan baldromma ferreting out the facts (as of course he would, having to find excuses for his own barbarity), and then blazoning them abroad to his own disgrace and the discredit of his class. or worse--a hundredfold worse--holding them as a threat over his father. what a disgusting bog he had strayed into! he saw the truth leaking out one way or other and putting an end to his career at the bar. it was not the same here as in the greater communities, where a man might commit a fault and then submerge it in the fathomless tide of life. in this little island, where everybody knew everybody, it was the man himself who was submerged. if the story of last night became known to anyone it would become known to everyone, from the governor himself to the meanest beggar on the roads. no position of honour or authority would ever be possible to him after that. the black fact would be a clanking chain which he would have to drag after him as long as he lived. when he thought of this--that the event of one night might alter the whole course of his life, and bring scandal upon the deemster, and that it was due to a miserable accident in the first instance--the accident of meeting bessie on the streets after midnight--he was filled with a fierce and consuming rage, and for one bad moment he had an almost uncontrollable desire to return to his rooms and drive her out of them. that horrified him. he hated himself for it, and after a while his self-pity gave place to pity for the girl. "good heavens, what are my risks compared to hers?" he asked himself. the poor girl had so many excuses. back in the past, before she was born even, she had been condemned and branded, and the damned hypocritical world had been deepening the injury every day since. if he had found her in the streets it was only because her brutal step-father had turned her from his door. and if she had come into his rooms it was because she had no other shelter. she had been a good girl too. no other man had been allowed to lead her astray. he could hear her voice still, repeating his own words after him: "you _will_ stand up for me, won't you?" and he had promised that he would. he could not cast her off now without being a scoundrel. could the son of deemster stowell be a scoundrel? "no, by god!" a few minutes later he saw himself going back to bessie and saying, "look here, my dear girl. it was neither your fault nor mine, but take this, and this, and remember if you ever find it is not enough, there'll be more where that comes from." but no, he could not do that either. if he made the girl take money he would put her in the position of a harlot; and once a woman accepted that position there was no bottom to the unguessed depths to which she might descend. bessie's future stood up before him like a spectre. other men, each more brutal than the last, quarrels, violence, all the miseries of such a life--until some day, perhaps, some hideous fact with which he had had nothing to do, would look at him with accusing eyes and say, "you are responsible for this, because you were the first." down to that moment he had been thinking of the event of last night as a blunder, but now he saw it as a crime. to prevent the possible consequences of that crime he must keep the girl with him, take care of her, protect her as the saying was. but no, that was impossible also. justification for such a relation there might be--no doubt was--where law or custom or other impediment were keeping apart a man and woman who belonged together. but to put a girl into the position of a mistress, because she was unworthy to be a wife, and to hide her away behind a curtain of duplicity and lies, was to destroy her body and soul. again bessie's future stood up before him as a spectre--that high-spirited girl who, but for him, might have married a decent man of her own class, and held her head proud, declining, after a few vain months of fine clothes and idleness, to the condition of a slattern, and going down to the dirt and degeneration of drink. and then he saw that what had happened last night was not merely a crime--it was a sin. but what was he to do? what? what? just at that moment the sun had come up out of the sea in crimsoning clouds, and the white mist that is the shroud of night had risen above the houses of the town, the steeples of the churches, the hills and the mountain tops, and was vanishing away in that new birth of morning light that is the world's daily resurrection. "i know! i know!" he thought, and he leapt to his feet. he had remembered something that janet had said about the men of his family--that it had always been a kind of religion with them to do the right. four hundred years of the ballamoars and not a stain on the name of any of them! that was something to be born to, wasn't it? it was worth all the titles and honours the world had in it. and then, in that moment of strange and solemn splendour, when the things of the other world appear to be as real as the things of this one, it seemed as if the ballamoars were calling to him! four hundred years of the dead ballamoars were calling to the last of their sons--"_do the right!_" "i must marry that girl," he told himself. but at the next moment there came, with the shock of a blow, the memory of his mother. marriage had always been associated in his mind with such different conditions. such a different woman; somebody who would be your equal, perhaps your superior; somebody who would sustain and inspire you; somebody who would help you feel the throbbing pulse of life, and listen to all the suffering hearts that beat; somebody who, if she had to go before you, would leave behind her, for as long as your life should last, the fragrance of flowers and the halo of a holy saint. that was marriage as he had always thought of it. and now this girl--illiterate, inadequate, with that mother, that father .... in the presence of the deemster .... the home of isobel stanley .... oh, god! then a mocking voice seemed to say, "good lord, what a joke! if every man who ever made a tragic blunder (there have been hundreds of thousands of you) had acted on your exaggerated sense of responsibility, what a mess the old world would be in by this time! why, there is scarcely a man alive who would not laugh at you and call you a fool." "let them," he thought, for louder at that moment than any other voice was the voice that cried, "_do the right!_" the marriage need not take place immediately. bessie could be educated. she was bright; there was no saying how quickly she might develop. that would soften the blow to his father, and anyhow the deemster would see that he was trying to be true to his blood, his race. "yes, yes, i must do the right; whatever it may cost me." but then came another chilling thought. love! there could be no love in such a marriage. this brought, with the pain of a bleeding wound, the memory of fenella. in spite of all he had said to himself through so many years he had never really been reconciled to the loss of her. down in some dark and secret chamber of his consciousness there had always been a phantom hope that notwithstanding her devotion to her work for women, and the dedication to celibacy (as stern as the consecration of the veil) which she believed to be demanded by it, fenella would return to the island, and his great love would be rewarded. that had been the real cause of his idleness. he had been waiting, waiting, waiting for fenella to come back and make it worth while .... and now .... by his own act .... the consequences of it .... oh, god! oh, god! for the first time, save once since he was a child, he felt tears in his eyes, but he brushed them away impatiently. "it's too late to think of that now," he thought. a duty claimed him. he must put such dreams away. besides where was the merit of doing the right if you had not to sacrifice something? love might be the light of life, but men and women all the world over had for one reason or other to marry without it. millions of hearts in all ages were like old battlefields, with dead things, which nobody knew of, lying about in the dark places. and yet the world went on. he might have struggles, heart-aches, heart-hunger, and more than he could do to keep the pot boiling, with the fire out and the hearth cold, but nobody need know anything about that. this girl need never know. fenella need never know. nobody need know. it was a matter for himself only. "yes, yes, i must do the right," he kept on saying, "whatever it may cost me." having arrived at this decision he felt an immense relief and got up to go back. the windows of the town were reflecting the morning sun and the smoke was rising from the chimneys. he saw an elderly woman, with a little shawl pinned over her head and under her chin, trudging along past the storm-cone station on the other side of the harbour. it was mrs. quayle, on her way to his rooms. but he shuddered no longer at the thought of her. she was a good creature and when she heard what he meant to do she would help him with the care of bessie. as he walked towards the town he told himself he had another reason now for setting to work in earnest--he had to justify what he was going to do in the eyes of the island and of the deemster. therefore the event of last night might be a good thing after all, little as he had thought so. at the mouth of the bridge he met the harbour-master, whose face wore a look of dismay. "this is a ter'ble shocking thing that has happened in the night, mr. stowell." stowell caught his breath and asked "what?" "why, the light-house. struck by lightning in the storm. didn't you see it, sir?" "oh yes, of course, certainly." "i'm just after telegraphing to the governor and the receiver-general. the old light has gone out with the tide, sir, and it will be middlin' bad for the boats coming in at night until we get a new one." "it will, captain, it will. good-morning!" his eyes were positively shining with joy as he walked sharply through the town, and as he opened his door he was saying to himself again, "i must do the right, _whatever_ it may cost me." he was closing the door on the inside when he saw in the letter-box the letter which had caught his eye last night. now he could open it. it was marked "immediate." recognising the ballamoar crest and janet's handwriting, he trembled and turned pale. "a line in frantic haste, dear, to say i have just heard from miss green that fenella is crossing by the steamer due to arrive at eight o'clock this evening. she has left her settlement and is coming back to stay in the island for good. i thought you might like to go up to douglas to meet her. trust me, dear, she will be simply delighted. "robbie creer is taking this into town by hand, so that you may receive it at the earliest possible moment. i am frightfully excited, and oh, so glad and happy." stowell reeled and laid hold of the hand-rail. and when at length he went upstairs he staggered as if he were carrying a crushing load. end of first book _second book_ the reckoning chapter eleven the return of fenella "fate has played me a scurvy trick," thought stowell. "no matter! i'll go on." within an hour he settled bessie collister temporarily with mrs. quayle. he told her they were to be married ultimately, but meantime (that she might feel more comfortable in her new condition) he intended to find some suitable place in which she would complete her education. he tried to say this tenderly so as not to hurt the girl's pride, and even affectionately, so as to convey the idea that it was she who would be doing the favour. but a certain shallowness in bessie's nature disappointed him. while he unfolded his plans she said "yes" and "yes," looking alternately surprised and startled, but it was with a troubled face, rather than a glad one, that she went off with mrs. quayle, whose own face was grave also. two days later stowell went up to see gell. he had determined to say nothing about his intimate relations with bessie. why should he? if it was his duty to marry the girl, it was equally his duty to protect her honour--the honour of the woman who was to become his wife. gell was astounded. he listened, with a twinkling eye, to stowell's story of how he had come upon bessie in the street, after midnight, friendless and homeless, being shut out by her abominable father, and how he had taken her to mrs. quayle's. but when stowell went on to say that, feeling a certain responsibility for the girl's misfortune, having been a principal cause of it (by keeping her out too late at night) and having seen something of her since, he had come to like and even to love her, and had made up his mind to marry her, gell broke into exclamations of astonishment which cut stowell to the quick. "but bessie? bessie collister? do you really mean it?" "why not?" "well .... it is not for me to say why not. she was a sort of old flame of my own, you know." stowell flinched at this, but went on with his story. for bessie's sake he had decided to put back the marriage until she could be educated a little. and if gell knew of any school, not too well known, and far enough away.... "why, yes, of course i do," said gell. it was that of the misses brown at derby haven--a remote village at the south of the island. two old maids who had formerly been governesses to his sisters. only yesterday the elder of them had written asking if there was anything he could put in her way. it looked like the very thing. at all events he would go down and see. and if stowell wished to keep things quiet for a while, as of course he would, if it was only for the sake of the deemster, he was ready to act as go-between. "what a good fellow you are, alick!" "not a bit! it's no more than you would have done for me--less than you've done already." next day stowell had a letter from gell saying he had arranged everything. the misses brown, who had no other pupil at present, would be only too delighted. bessie might be sent up at any time and he would see her to her destination. within a week the girl was despatched to douglas, with such belongings as mrs. quayle had bought for her, and in due course stowell had a second letter from gell, saying, "it's all right. i've delivered the goods! of course i made no unnecessary explanations, and old miss brown, smelling a secret, thinks i am to be the happy man. what larks! but i don't mind if you don't. bessie looked a little wistful when i came away, so i had to promise to run down and see her sometimes. that's all right, i suppose?" then stowell set to work. letting it be known that he was willing to accept cases of all kinds it was not long before he was fully occupied. common assault, drunkenness, petty larceny--he took anything and everything that came his way. he did his work well. in a little while people began to whisper that he was a chip of the old block and to employ the deemster's son was to ensure success. meantime he saw nothing of fenella. having made up his mind to do the right thing he tried his best to banish all thought of her. but everybody was talking of the governor's daughter. she was beautiful; she was charming; she was wonderful! oh, the joy of it all! but the pain and the misery of it, also! one day he met janet driving in the street, and after she had asked if he had received her letter, and he had answered no, it had arrived too late, she said, "but of course you'll call, dear. i'm sure she'll expect it." the governor sent out invitations to a garden-party in honour of his daughter's return home, but stowell excused himself on the ground of urgent work. a little later fenella herself issued invitations to a meeting towards the establishment of a league for the protection of women, but again stowell excused himself--a case in the courts. still later he went out to ballamoar to see his father, whom he had neglected of late, and the deemster (who looked older and feebler and had a duller light in his great but melancholy eyes) flamed up with a kind of youth when he talked of fenella. "it's extraordinary," he said. "do you know, victor, she is the only woman i have ever met who has reminded me of your mother? and if i close my eyes when she is speaking, i can almost persuade myself it is the same." stowell began to think he hated the very name of fenella. but there were moments when he felt that he could have given the whole world, if he had possessed it, just to look upon her face. one day gell came to "report progress" about bessie. she was getting on all right, but "longing" a little in those unaccustomed surroundings, so he had to go down in the evenings sometimes to take her out for walks. "we'll have to be careful about that, though," he said, "for what do you think?" "what?" "dan baldromma suspects _me_, and is having me watched." stowell was startled and ashamed. where had his head been that he had not thought of this before? he had got up from his desk and was looking vacantly out of the window when he became aware that the governor's big blue landau was drawing up in the street below. at the next moment there was a light step on the stairs, and at the next the door of his room was opened by his young clerk, and through the doorway came someone who was like a vision from a thousand of his dreams, but now grown in her stately height out of the beauty of a bewitching girl into the full bloom of womanly loveliness. it was fenella stanley. ii "you wouldn't come to see me, so i've come to see you." stowell never knew what answer he made when he took her outstretched hand; but after a moment he said, "you know my friend gell?" "indeed i do .... and how's isabella? .... and adelaide? .... and verbena?" while fenella was talking to gell, stowell had time to look at her. she was the most beautiful woman in the world! those dark eyes, beaming with bluish opal; those lips like an opening rose; that spacious forehead, with its brown hair shot with gold--they had not told him the half. gell made shift to answer for the sisters he had not seen for months, and then went off. and then fenella, taking the chair that stowell had set for her, and dropping her voice to a deeper note, said, "and now to business. you know we've established on the island a branch of the women's protection league?" "i know." "one of its objects is to protect women from the law." "the law?" "yes, sir, the law," said fenella smiling. "your law can be very cruel sometimes--especially to women. but our first case is not one of that kind. it is a case in which the law, if rightly guided, can best do justice by showing mercy." a young wife in castletown had killed her husband. she had already appeared at the high bailiff's court and been committed for trial to the court of general gaol delivery--the manx court of assize. "there seems to be no question of her guilt," said fenella, "so we can neither expect nor desire that she should escape punishment altogether. the poor thing--she's scarcely more than a girl--will say nothing in self-defence, but when we remember how the soul of a woman shrinks from a crime of that kind we feel that she must have suffered some great injustice, some secret wrong, which, if it could be brought out in court...." "i see," said stowell. fenella paused a moment and then said, in a voice that was becoming tremulous, "therefore we have thought that for this case we need an advocate who loves women as women and can see into the heart of a woman when she's down and done, because god has made him so. and that's why...." "yes?" "that's why i've brought this first case to you." stowell could scarcely speak to answer her. but after a moment he stammered that he would do his utmost; and then fenella brought out of her hand-bag some printed papers that were a report of the preliminary inquiry. "i'll read them to-night," he said, putting them into his breast pocket. "of course you'll require to see the prisoner?" "yes." "she hasn't opened her lips yet, but you must get her to speak." "i'll try." "that's all for the present," said fenella, rising; and at the next moment she was smiling again, and her eyes were beginning to glow. "so this is where you live?" "no, this is my office; i live at the other side of the house." "really? i wonder...." "you would like to see my living rooms?" "i'd love to. i've always wanted to see how young bachelors live alone." "come this way then." stowell had not realised what he was doing for himself until he was on the landing, with the key in the lock, and fenella behind him, but then came a stabbing memory of another woman in the same position. "come in," he cried (his voice was quivering now), and drawing up the venetian blind he let in a flood of sunshine and the soft song of the sea. "what a comfy little room!" said fenella. as she looked around her eyes seemed to light up everything. "it's easy to see that you've been racing all over the earth, sir. that neapolitan girl on the mantelpiece came from rome, didn't she?" "she did." "and that lamp from venice, and that silver bowl from cairo, and that cedar-wood photograph frame from sorrento?" "quite right." "books! books! books! all law books, i see. not a human thing among them, i'll be bound. and yet they're all terribly, fearfully, tragically human, i suppose?" "that's so." "gas fire? so you have a gas fire for the cold wet nights?" "yes, a bachelor has to have...." but another stabbing memory came, and he could get no further. "and so this is where you sit alone until all hours of the night--reading, reading, reading?" he tried to speak but could not. she glanced at the bedroom door which stood open, and said, with eyes that seemed to laugh, "is that your....?" he nodded, breathing deeply, and trying to turn his eyes away. "may i perhaps....?" "if you would like to." "what fun!" she stood in the doorway, looking into the room for a moment, with the sunlight on her bronze-brown hair, and then, turning back to him with the warmer sunshine of her smile, she said, "well, you young bachelors know how to make yourselves comfortable, i must say. but i seem to scent a woman about this place." he found himself stammering: "there's my housekeeper, mrs. quayle. she comes every morning...." "ah, that accounts for it." she walked downstairs by his side, and said, as he opened the carriage door for her, "you'll do your best for that poor girl?" "my very best." "and by the way, the deemster has invited the governor and me to ballamoar. we go on monday and stay a week. of course you'll be there?" "i'm afraid...." "oh, but you must." "i'll .... i'll try." "au revoir!" he stood, after the carriage had gone until it had crossed to the other side of the square, where, from the shade of the inside (it had been closed in the meantime) fenella reached her smiling face forward and bowed to him again. then he went back to his room--now empty, silent and dead. oh, god, why had that senseless thing been allowed to happen! lord, what a little step in front of him on life's highway a man was permitted to see! stowell did not return to his office that afternoon. his young clerk locked up, left the keys, went downstairs and shut the door after him, but still he sat in the gathering darkness like a man nursing an incurable wound. he would never forgive himself for allowing fenella to come into his rooms--never! "you fool!" he thought, leaping up at last. "what's done is done, and all you've got to do now is to stand up to it." then he lit the gas and taking the report out of his pocket he began to read it. what a shock! as, little by little, through the thick-set hedge of question and answer, the story of the wretched young wife came out to him, he saw, to his horror, that it was the story of bessie collister as he had imagined it might be if he deserted her. what devil out of hell had brought this case to him as a punishment? by the hand of fenella, too! no matter! if the unseen powers were concerning themselves with his miserable misdoings perhaps it was only to strengthen him in his resolution--to compel him to go on. suffer? of course he would suffer! it was only right that he should suffer. and as for the haunting presence of fenella's face in that room, there was a way to banish that. so, sitting at his desk, he wrote, "dear bessie,--please go into castletown to-morrow and have your photograph taken, and send it on to me immediately." after that he felt more at ease and sat down before the fire to study his case. iii "i must not go to ballamoar while she's there. it would be madness," thought stowell. to escape from the temptation he made a still deeper plunge into the cauldron of work, going to courts all over the island and winning his cases everywhere. twice he went to castle rushen to see the young wife in her cell. what happened there was made known to the frequenters of the "manx arms" by tommy vondy, the gaoler. tommy, who had been coachman at ballamoar in the "stranger's" days, and appointed to his present post by the deemster's influence, was accustomed to scenes of loud lamentation. but having listened outside the cell door, and even taken a peep or two through the grill, he was "free to confess" that "the young master" could not get a word out of the prisoner. as the week of fenella's visit to ballamoar was coming to a close, stowell's nervousness became feverish. one day, as he was walking down the street, a dog-cart drew up by his side and a voice called, "mr. stowell!" it was dr. clucas, a jovial, rubicund full-bearded man of middle age, not liable to alarms. "i've just been out to ballamoar to see the deemster, and i think perhaps you ought to keep in touch with him." "is my father....?" "oh no, nothing serious, no immediate danger. still, at his age, you know...." "i'll go home to-morrow," said stowell. on the following afternoon he walked to ballamoar. it was a bright day in early september. there was a hot hum of bees on the gorse hedges and the light rattle of the reaper in the fields, but inside the tall elms there was the usual silence, unbroken even by the cawing of the rooks. the house, too, when he reached it, seemed to be deserted. the front door was open but the rooms were empty. "janet!" he cried, but there came no answer. then he heard a burst of laughter from the back, and going through the dining-room to the piazza, he saw what was happening. the yellow corn field which had been waving to a light breeze when he was there a fortnight before, was now bare save for the stooks which were dotted over part of it, and in the corner nearest to the mansion house a group of persons stood waiting for the cutting of the last armful of the crop--the deemster, leaning on his stick; the governor smoking his briar-root pipe; parson cowley, with his round red face; janet in her lace cap; the house servants in their white aprons; robbie creer, in his sleeve waistcoat; young robbie, stripped to the shirt; a large company of farm lads and farm girls, and--fenella, in a sunbonnet and with a sickle in her hand. it was the melliah--the harvest home. "now for it," cried robbie, "strike them from their legs, miss." and at a stroke from her sickle fenella brought the last sheaf to the ground. then there was a shout of "hurrah for the melliah!" and at the next moment robbie was dipping mugs into a pail and handing them round to the males of the company, saying, when he came to the parson, "the parson was the first man that ever threw water in my face" (meaning his baptism), "but there's a jug of good manx ale for his own." the rough jest was received with laughter, and then the deemster, being called for, spoke a few words with his calm dignity, leaning both hands on his stick: "'custom must be indulged with custom, or custom will weep.' so says our old manx proverb. the sun is going west on me, and i cannot hope to see many more melliahs. but i trust my dear son, when he comes after me, will encourage you to keep up all that is good in our old traditions." then there was another shout, followed by some wild horseplay, with the farm-boys vaulting the stocks and the girls stretching straw ropes to trip them up, while the deemster and his company turned back to the house. fenella, coming along in her sun bonnet (a little awry) and with her sheaf over her arm, was the first to see victor, and she cried, "at last! the stranger has come at last!" janet was in raptures, and the deemster said, while his slow eyes smiled, "you are sleeping at home to-night, victor?" "yes, father." "good!" after saluting everybody victor found himself walking by fenella's side, and she was saying in a low voice, with a side-long glance, "and how do you like me in a sun bonnet, sir? you rather fancy sun bonnets, i believe." but at that moment a wasp had settled on her arm and he was too busy removing it to reply. at dinner that night stowell found himself drawn into the home atmosphere as never before since his days as a student-at-law. the dining-table was bright with silver and many candles, and the wood fire, crackling on the hearth, filled the low-ceiled room with the resinous odour of the pine. everybody except himself and the doctor (who had arrived as they were sitting down) had dressed. the beauty of fenella, who came in with the deemster, seemed to be softened and heightened by her pale pink evening gown--like the beauty of a flower-bud when it opens and becomes a rose. with janet's complete approval fenella had taken control of everything, and as victor entered she said, "that's your place, mr. stranger," putting him at the end of the table, with janet and the doctor on either side. she herself sat by the deemster, whose powerful face wore an expression of suffering, although, as often as she spoke to him, he turned to her and smiled. "she's lovelier than ever, really," whispered janet, and then (with that clairvoyance in the heart of a woman which enables her to read mysteries without knowing it), "what a pity she ever went away!" as a sequel to the melliah the talk during dinner was of the ancient customs and old life of the island. the deemster, who could have told most, said little, but the governor spoke of the riots of the manx people (especially the copper riot when they wanted to burn down government house), and janet of the roysterers and haffsters of the athols who kept racehorses and fought duels--her mother in her girlhood had seen the blue mark of the bullet on the dead forehead of one of them. such sweetness, such nobility, the men, the women, and the manners! fenella joined in the talk with great animation, but stowell was silent and in pain. here they were, his family and friends, without a suspicion that some day, perhaps soon, he would bring quite another atmosphere into this house, this room. visions of the mill, the miller, his wife and his daughter rose before him, and he felt like a traitor. but it was not until they went into the library (it was library and drawing-room combined) that he knew the full depth of his humiliation. the deemster, who was by the fire, asked fenella to sing to them, and she did so, sitting at the piano, with doctor clucas (who in his youth had been the best dancer in the island) tripping about her with old-fashioned gallantry to find the music and turn over the leaves. "this is for the stranger," she said (cutting deeper than she knew), and then followed a series of old manx ballads, some of them like the wailing of the wind among the rushes on the curraghs, and some like the dancing of the water in the harbour before a fresh breeze on a summer day. then the doctor brought out from a cupboard a few faded sheets inscribed "isobel stowell," and fenella sang "allan water" and "annie laurie." and then the deemster closed his eyes, and it seemed to victor who sat on a hassock by his side, that his father's blue-veined hands trembled on his knees. "and this is for myself," said fenella, dropping into a deeper tone as she sang: _less than the weed that grows beside thy door.... even less am i._" victor wanted to fly out of the room and burst into tears. but just then the clock on the landing struck, and fenella rose from the piano. "ten o'clock! time to go upstairs, deemster." the old man seemed to like to be controlled by the young woman, and leaning on her arm, he bowed all around in his stately way, and permitted himself to be led from the room. then the governor (being a privileged person) lit his pipe with a piece of red turf from the fire, and janet whispered to the maid who had come back for the coffee-tray, "see that mr. victor's night-things are laid out, jane." but victor himself was in the hall, helping the doctor with his overcoat, and saying, "can you take me back to town with you?" "certainly, if you'll wait at the lodge while i look in on the cowman's wife." "why, what's this mischief you are plotting?" it was fenella coming downstairs. the doctor explained, and victor said, "there's that case. it comes on soon. i must see the poor woman again in the morning." "well, if you must, you must, and i'll go down to the gate with you," said fenella. and putting something over her head she walked by his side (the doctor having gone on), taking his arm unasked and keeping step with him. "i was just wanting a word with you." "yes?" "it's about your father. you must really come back to live with him." "has he asked...." "not to say asked! 'victor doesn't come to see me very often'--that's all." "after this case is over i'll...." "do. you can't think how much it will mean to him." on the way back to ramsey, with the lamps of the dog-cart opening up the dark road in front of them, stowell was silent, but the doctor talked continuously, and always on the same subject. "i've seen something of the ladies in my time, mr. stowell, sir, but i really think .... yes, sir i really do think...." and then rapturous praises of fenella. they rang like joy-bells in stowell's ear but struck like minute-bells also. when he closed the street door to his chambers he found a large envelope in the letter-box behind it. bessie's photograph! as he held it under the gas globe in his cold room the pictured face gave him a shock. beautiful? yes, but there was something common in its beauty which he had never observed before. his first impulse was to hide the photograph out of sight. but at the next moment he tore open the cedar-wood frame on the mantelpiece, removed the portrait it contained, inserted bessie's in its place, and then put it to stand on the table by the side of his bed. "there! that shall be the last face i see at night and the first i see in the morning!" but oh vain and foolish thought! with the first sleep of the night another face was in his dream. chapter twelve the death of the deemster the deemster had not intended to sit at the next court of general gaol delivery, and had already arranged for the second deemster to take his place, but when, next morning at breakfast, he heard from fenella that victor was to plead, he determined to preside. "i must hear victor's first case at the general gaol," he said. "we shall have to be careful, then," said dr. clucas. "no excitement, your honour! no more heart-strain!" on the morning of the trial he was up early. janet heard him humming to himself in the conservatory as he cut the flowers for the vase in front of his young wife's picture. when he was ready to go she helped him on with his overcoat, turning up the collar and putting a muffler about his neck. and when young robbie came round with the dog-cart he stepped up into it with surprising strength. and then janet, who had smuggled a brandy-flask into the luncheon basket at the back of the dog-cart, stood with a swollen heart and watched the old man as he went off in the morning mist, with the awakened rooks cawing over the unseen tops of the trees. three hours later, the deemster arrived at castletown. the sun was up, and there was a crowd at the castle gate. all hats were off as he passed through the judge's private passage-way to the dark robing-room with its deeply recessed window. the governor, in general's uniform, was there already, for he sat also in the high court of the island. a few minutes later they were in the court-house. it was densely crowded, and all rose as they entered. but at that moment the deemster was conscious of one presence only--his own youth in wig and gown (himself as he used to be forty years before) in the curved benches for the advocates immediately below. it was victor. then the prisoner was brought in--a forlorn-looking creature of three or four-and-twenty, not without traces of former comeliness, but now a rag of a woman, ill-clad and slatternly. when asked to plead she said nothing, therefore the customary plea of not guilty was made for her, and without more ado the attorney-general embarked on the history of her crime. it was not a case for refinement; the crime was palpable; it had no redeeming feature, and for the protection of life in the island it called for the extreme penalty of the law. then, with the usual long pauses, the woman's story was raked out of the witnesses--her neighbours in the low streets that crept under the castle walls, the police and the doctor. she had been an orphan from her birth, brought up at the expense of the parish by a woman who had ill-treated her. as a young servant-girl she had been "taken advantage of" in the big house she lived in, perhaps by the footman, more probably by an officer of the regiment then garrisoned in the town. finally she had married the dead man, lived a cat-and-dog life with him (there was a dark record of drink and assaults) and at last stabbed him to the heart in a fatal quarrel and been found standing over his body with a table-knife in her hand. stowell's cross-examination consisted of three questions only. when the dead man was found had he anything in his hand? "yes, a poker," said the policeman. when the prisoner was arrested were there any wounds on her? "yes, three on the head," said the doctor. were there any wounds on the dead man's body except the heart-stab from which he died? "none whatever." "ah!" said the deemster, and he reached forward to make a note. when the court adjourned for luncheon, the case for the crown was over, and it almost seemed as if the rope of the hangman were already about the prisoner's neck. stowell did not leave the court-house. he sat in his place with folded arms and closed eyes. tommy vondy, the gaoler, looked in on him sitting alone, and presently returned (from the direction of the deemster's room) with a plate of sandwiches and something in a glass, but he sent back both untouched. when the court resumed it appeared to be still more crowded and excited than before. as the deemster took his seat, he saw that his son's face was strongly illumined by the sun (which was now streaming from a lantern light in the roof) and that it was pale and drawn. immediately behind victor a lady was sitting--it was fenella stanley. then stowell rose for the defence. there was a hush, and the deemster found himself breathing audibly and wishing that he could pour something of himself into his son--himself as he used to be in the old days when god had given him strength. but that was only for a moment. stowell began slowly, almost nervously, but was soon speaking with complete command, and the deemster, who had been bending forward, leaned back. he did not intend to call witnesses. neither would he put the prisoner into the box. he would content himself with the evidence for the crown. he knew no more about the crime than the jury did. the accused had told him nothing, and degraded as they might think her, he had not thought it right to invade the sanctity of a woman's soul. that she had killed her husband was clear. if killing him was a crime she was guilty. but was it a crime? to answer that let the jury follow him while he did his best to piece together, from the evidence before them, the torn manuscript of this poor creature's story. then followed such speaking as none could remember to have heard in that court before. flash after flash of spiritual light seemed to recreate the stages of the prisoner's life. first, as the child, who should have been happy as the birds and bright as the flowers, but had never known one hour of the love and guidance of her natural protectors. next, as the young girl, pretty perhaps, with the light of love dawning on her, but betrayed and abandoned. next, as the deserted creature, braving out her disgrace with "wait! only wait! my gentleman will come back and marry me yet!" next, as the badgered and shame-ridden woman, with all hope gone, saying to her despairing heart, "what do i care what happens to me now? not a toss!" and then marrying (as the last cover for a hunted dog) the brute who afterwards had beaten her, brutalized her, cursed her, taught her to drink, and brought her down, down, down to .... what they saw. kill him? yes, she had killed him--there couldn't be a doubt about that. but if she had three wounds on her body, and he had only the wound from which he died, was it not clear as noonday that she had been the victim of a murderous assault, and had struck back to save her life? if so her act was not murder and the only righteous verdict would be not guilty. for the last passage of his defence stowell faced full upon the jury, and spoke in a ringing and searching voice: "long ago, in galilee, out of the supreme compassion which covered with forgiveness the transgressions of one who had sinned much but loved much, it was said, 'let him that is without sin among you cast the first stone.' we have all done something we would fain forget, and when we lay our heads on our pillow we pray that the darkness may hide it. but does anybody doubt that if the all-seeing justice could enter this court this day another figure would be standing there in the dock by the side of that unhappy woman--a man in scarlet uniform perhaps, with decorations on his breast, and that the deemster would have to say to him, 'you did this, for you were the first.' mercy, then--mercy for the beaten, the broken, the scapegoat, the sinner." people said afterwards that stowell was a full half minute in his seat before anybody seemed to be aware that he was no longer speaking. the spectators had listened without making a sound; the jury (a panel of stolid manx farmers) had sat without moving a muscle; the prisoner had raised her head for the first time during the trial and then dropped it lower than before and her shoulders had shaken as if from inaudible sobs; the governor, who had all day been drawing geometrical patterns on the sheet of foolscap in front of him, had let his pencil fall and stared down at the paper, and the deemster had looked up at the lantern light from which the sunlight (it had moved on) was now streaming upon his face, showing at last a solitary tear that was rolling slowly down his cheek to the end of his firm-set mouth. then there was a rustle, as if the windows of a room on the edge of the sea had suddenly been thrown open. the attorney-general was speaking again. after the defence they had just listened to (there being no evidence to rebut) he would waive his right of reply--the crown desired justice, not revenge. the deemster's summing-up was the shortest that had ever been heard from him. there were legal reasons which justified the taking of human life, but the cases to which they applied were few. if the jury thought the prisoner had wilfully killed her husband they would find her guilty. if they were satisfied from what they had heard that she had reasonable grounds for thinking that a felony was being committed upon her which endangered her own life they would find her not guilty. without leaving their box the jury promptly gave a verdict of not guilty; and then the deemster in a loud, clear, almost triumphant voice said: "let the prisoner be discharged." a few minutes later there was a scene of excitement on the green within the castle walls. the spectators, being turned out of the court-house with difficulty, were waiting for the chief actors in the life-drama to come down the stone steps, and from the private door to the deemster's room. "wonderful! he snatched the woman out of the jaws of death, sir!" "the deemster's a grand man, but he'll have to be looking to his laurels!" "man alive, that was a speech that must have been dear to a father's heart, though!" stowell was one of the first to appear. he looked pale, almost ill, and was carrying his soft felt hat in his hand, for the courthouse had been close and there was perspiration on his forehead still. a way was made for him and he passed through the courtyard without speaking or making sign, until he came under the arch of the portcullis and there he was stopped by someone. it was fenella. she was waiting for the governor and hoping she might come upon stowell also. her eyes were red and swollen. "how magnificent you were!" she said. and then with a half-tremulous laugh: "but how could you see into a woman's heart like that? i shall always be afraid of you in future, sir!" the deemster came next. he was muffled in his great-coat and scarf, and was walking heavily on his stick, but there was a proud look in his uplifted face. with his left hand he grasped victor's right, but he did not look at him, and he passed on without a word. fenella followed, offering her arm, but he insisted on giving his--the grand old gentleman to the last. but this time the attorney-general had taken possession of stowell. he had lost his case, but one of his "boys" had won it. "i've just been telling your father i always knew the root of the matter was in you," he said, and then others gathered around. the governor came last, having had documents to sign, and taking stowell's arm, he carried him away, saying, "come along--they'll kill you." the deemster's dog-cart had now gone, but the governor's carriage was at the gate, with fenella inside. "don't forget your promise about ballamoar," she said. "i'm going to-morrow," said stowell. just then there was a commotion among the crowd. the liberated woman was coming out of the castle, surrounded by a tumultuous company of her friends from the back streets. she saw stowell by the carriage door, and breaking away from her companions she rushed up to him, threw herself at his feet, laid hold of his hand and covered it with kisses. "that settles it," said fenella, in a thick voice, after the woman had been carried off. "now you know what the future of your life is to be--that of the champion of wronged and helpless women." at the railway station, and in the railway carriage, stowell's fellow advocates overwhelmed him with congratulations, but he hardly heard them. at last he folded his arms and closed his eyes, and, thinking he was tired, they left off troubling him. on arriving at ramsey his pulses were beating fast, and on going down the high street, past the old plough inn, he hardly felt the ground under his feet. clashing his door behind him he went into his bedroom and threw himself down on his bed. an immense joy had taken possession of him. ambition, dead so long, had been restored to vivid life under fenella's last words. and then came a shock. turning to the table by his bedside, his eyes fell on the photograph that stood upon it. bessie collister! ii the deemster had a cheerful homegoing. young robbie creer said afterwards that he had never seen the old man so strong and hearty. driving himself, he saluted everybody on the roads, always by name and generally in the anglo-manx. all the way back it was "how do, john?" or "grand day done, mr. killip." janet was waiting for him at the porch of ballamoar. "you must be tired after your long day, your honour?" "not at all!" "and victor--how did he get on, sir?" "wonderfully! won his case and covered himself with honour." at dinner (he insisted on janet dining with him) he talked of nothing but victor and the trial. "he has got his foot on the ladder now, miss curphey, and there is no height to which he may not ascend." janet could do nothing but wipe her shining eyes and say, "aw, well now! think of that now!" and then, with a wise shake of her old head, "but nobody can say i didn't know he would make us proud of him some day." night fell. janet began to be afraid of the deemster's excitement. she remembered doctor clucas's order (privately given to her) to knock at the deemster's door between six and seven every morning, and, if she got no answer, to go into the room. she would do so to-morrow. after janet had gone to bed the deemster sat at his desk in the library and wrote for a long time in his leather-bound book. when he rose the clock on the landing was striking twelve. he closed the book, but instead of putting it under lock and key, as he had always done before, he left it open on the desk, merely shutting the lid on it. then with a long look round the room he put out the lamps and turned to go upstairs. the reaction had begun by this time, and he staggered a little and laid hold of the handrail. he paused three times on the stairs, but his weakness did not frighten him. lighting his candle on the landing, he wound the clock, extinguished the lamp that stood by it and faced the last flight with a smile. all was silent in the house now. on reaching his own bedroom he paused again, and then stepped down the corridor to victor's. the door was ajar. he pushed it open, took a step into the empty room and looked round--at the cocoa-nut matting, the rugs, the bed in the shadow, the discoloured school trunk in the corner. and then he smiled again. but he was breathing deeply at intervals and had the look of a man who knew that he was doing familiar things for the last time. the window in his own room was open, and the smell of tropical plants (especially the magnolia, with its sleep-inducing odour) was coming up from the garden. he remembered that his own father had brought them from the east long ago, when he was himself a boy. the sky was dark, but the hidden moon broke through silvery clouds for a moment, and, looking through the surrounding blackness, he saw the bald crown of snaefell, far beyond the trees and above the glen. he remembered that he had seen it so all the way up since he was a child. he closed the curtains slowly and taking his candle again he walked around the room and looked long at the pictures on the walls. they were chiefly portraits or miniatures of victor, at various periods of childhood and youth--the latest being a photograph sent home to him from abroad. that was the last oscillation of the pendulum. when he was about to prepare for bed he found his strength exhausted, and he was compelled to sit several times while he undressed. but he continued to smile, and when he lay down at length and put his head on the-pillow he did it with a will. then he closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath, as one who has gone through a long day's labour but has seen it finish up well at the end. and then he closed his eyes and the surge of sleep passed over him. outside the house everything seemed to slumber. it was a night strangely calm and dark. the tall elms stood like soundless sentinels in the darkness. not a leaf stirred. the rivers flowed without noise, as if a supernatural hand had been laid on them to silence them. the only sound was the slow boom of the sea, which seemed to come up out of the ground and to be the pulse of the earth itself. the deep mystery of night was over all. towards morning there was a faint waft of wind in the trees and along the grass. was it the movement in the earth's bosom of the new day about to be born? or some invisible presence striding along with noiseless footsteps? within the house everything seemed to sleep. but the deemster lay dead. iii "mr. victor, sir! mr. victor!" it was robbie creer, who, after knocking in vain at stowell's door in the grey hours of morning, was shouting up at his window. he had driven into town in the dog-cart and the little mare was steaming with perspiration. stowell threw up the window and heard the dread news. after a moment he answered, in a voice that sounded strange in robbie's ears: "wait for me. i will go back with you." when he was ready to go he wrote a message to fenella, and left it for mrs. quayle to send off as soon as the telegraph office opened: "_he has gone, heaven, forgive me. i am going home now._" it was sunday morning, and the sleeping streets echoed to the rattle of the flying wheels. when they got into the country (they were taking the shortest cuts) the farms were lying idle and quiet. stowell sat with folded arms while they raced past the whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs, and scattered flocks of geese that went off with screams and stretched necks. on arriving at ballamoar he paused before entering the house. the pastoral tranquillity of the place was heart-breaking. the sun had risen, the rooks were cawing, the linnets were twittering in the eaves, a kitten was playing with a butterfly in the porch--it was just as if nothing had happened during the night. janet was in his father's room, with red eyes and a handkerchief in her hand. she did not speak, but her silence seemed to say, "why didn't you come before?" stowell advanced to the side of the bed. the august face on the pillow, in the majesty and tranquillity of death, had never before looked so calm and noble, but that also seemed to say: "why didn't you come before?" he reached over and put his lips to the cold forehead. and then, with head down, he hurried from the room. he could never afterwards remember what he did during the rest of that day--only that to escape from the vague cheerfulness, the hushed bustle, the half-smothered hysteria, which come to a house after a death, he had strolled along the shore and past the ruined church in which he had walked with fenella. at length janet came to him in the library to say "good-night" and to sob out something about not grieving too much. and then he was left alone. sitting at the desk, where his father had sat the night before, he took up the leather-bound book and read it from end to end--not without a sense of looking into the sanctuary of another soul, where only god's eyes should see. it was a large volume, of some five hundred quarto pages, with "isobel's diary" inscribed on its first page, and these words below: "inasmuch as i cannot believe that my beloved companion who has died to-day is lost to me even in this life, and being convinced that the divine purpose in leaving me behind is that i may care for and guard her child, i dedicate this book to the record of my sacred duty." then followed, in the deemster's steady handwriting, a daily entry, sometimes only a phrase or a line, sometimes a page, but always about his son: "this morning in the library, making my desk under your portrait his altar, parson cowley baptised your boy--janet curphey standing godmother, and the attorney his other sponsor. we called him victor, so the last of your dear wishes has been fulfilled." stowell looked up and around him. he was on the very spot of that scene of so many years ago. then came records of his childhood, his childish talk, his childish rhymes, his childish ailments: "your boy contracted a cold yesterday, and fearing it might develop into bronchitis, i sat up most of the night that i might go into the nursery at intervals to mend the fire under the steam kettle, janet being worn out and sleepy. thank god his breathing is better this morning!" stowell felt as if he were choking. then came the records of his school-days; his expulsion; the slack times before he set to work; the bright ones when he was a student-at-law; the dark ones when he was going headlong to the dogs. after these latter entries it would be: "a son is a separate being, isobel. i can only stand and wait." or sometimes, as if for comfort, a line from one of the great books, not rarely the bible: "thy way is in the sea, and thy path is the great waters, and thy footsteps are not known." it was now the middle of the night. a dog was howling somewhere in the farm. stowell paused and thought of the superstition about a howling dog and a dead body. when he resumed his reading he turned the pages with a trembling hand: "it is six months since victor returned to the island and he has only been here twice. i had hoped he would come to live with me at ballamoar. but i must not complain. nature looks forward, not backward. no son can love his father as the father loves the son. that is the law of life, isobel, and we who are fathers must reconcile ourselves to it." stowell felt his head reel and his eyes swim. if he had only known. if somebody had only told him! the fire behind him had gone out by this time and he had begun to shiver. but he turned back to the book for the few remaining pages. and then came a shock. they were all about fenella, and the deemster's hope that she and his son would marry. "never were two young people better matched to the outer eye, isobel--that splendid girl with her conquering loveliness or your son with his mother's face. her influence on him seems to be wonderful. she has only been a month back from london, but he is like a new man already." overwhelmed with confusion stowell tried to close the book, but he could not do so. "a man looks for a woman who is a heroine, and a woman for a man who is a hero, and please god these two have found each other." then came a glowing account of the trial at castle rushen, and then: "so it's all well at last, isobel. your son can do without me now. he needs his father no longer. with that fine woman by his side he will go up and up. they will marry and carry on the tradition of the ballamoars. it is the dearest wish of my heart that they should do so." there was only one entry after that, and it ran: "i am tired and my work is done. now i can rejoin you, having waited so long. when i close my eyes to-night i shall see your face--i know i shall. so good-night, isobel! or should i say, good-morning?" the clock on the landing was striking three--the most solemn hour of day and night, for it is the hour between. stowell, with a heavy heart, the book in one hand and his candle in the other, was going to bed. reaching the door of his father's room he dropped to his knees. "forgive me! forgive me! forgive me!" but after a while a light seemed to break on him. where his father now was he would know that there was no help for it--that he, too, must follow the line of honour. "yes," he thought, rising and going on to his own room. "i must do the right, whatever it may cost me." iv on the morning of the burial, stowell received a letter from bessie collister: "dere victor, "i am sorry to here from alick about the death of the deemster you must feel it verry much the loss of such a good kinde father everrybody is talking about him and saying he was the best gentleman that everr was thank you for the nice cloths mrs. quayle bought me. alick is very kinde-- "bessie." the poor, illiterate, inadequate, ill-spent message made stowell's heart grow cold, and with a certain shame he read it by stealth and then smuggled it away. the news of the deemster's death had fallen on the manx people like a thunder-bolt. the one great man of man had gone. it was almost as if the island had lost its soul. no work was done on the day of the funeral. at ten o'clock in the morning the whole population seemed to be crossing the curragh lanes to ballamoar. by eleven the broad lawn was covered with a vast company of all classes, from the officials to the crofters. a long line of carriages, cars and stiff carts, lined the roads that surrounded the house. the day had broken fair, with a kind of mild brightness, but out on that sandy headland the wind had risen and white wreaths of mist were floating over the land. it was late september and the leaves were falling rapidly. nobody entered the house. according to manx custom all stood outside. at half-past eleven the front door was opened and the body was brought out, under a pall, and laid on four chairs in front of it. a moment later victor stowell came behind, bare-headed and very pale. a wide space was left for him by the bier. a creeper that covered the house was blood-red at his back. somebody started a hymn--"abide with me"--and it was taken up by the vast company in front. the rooks swirled and screamed over the heads of the singers. the bald head of old snaefell looked down through the trees. then the procession was formed. it took the grassy lane at the back by which the deemster had always gone to church. everybody walked, and six sets of bearers claimed the right "to carry the old man home." they sang two hymns on the way: "lead, kindly light" and "rock of ages." between the verses the wind whistled through the gorse hedges on either side. sometimes it raised the skirt of the pall and showed the bare oak beneath. when they reached the cross roads in front of the church the bell began to toll. at that moment a white mist was driving across the church tower and almost obscuring it. the bishop of the island was at the gate, waiting for the procession, but parson cowley, pale and trembling, was also there, and he would have fought to the death for his right to bury the deemster. "i am the resurrection and the life," he began in his quavering voice, as the procession came up, and at the next moment the mists vanished. the little churchyard with its weather-beaten stones, seemed to look up at the wonderful sky and out on the sightless sea. the bearers had to bend their knees as they passed through the low door. every seat in the body of the church was occupied, and great numbers had to remain outside. but victor stowell sat alone in the pew of the ballamoars with the marble tablet on the wall behind him--four hundred years of his family and he the last of them. during the reading of the epistle the lashing and wailing of the wind outside almost drowned the bishop's voice. the service ended with the singing of another hymn, "o god our help in ages past." everybody knew the words, and they were taken up by the people outside: "_time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away._" thus far victor stowell had gone through everything in a kind of stupor. he was conscious that the island was there to do honour to her greatest son, but that was nothing to him now. when he came to himself he was standing by the open vault of the stowells. a line of stones lay over the closed part of it, some of them old and worn and with the lettering almost obliterated. but a cross of white marble, which had been dislodged from its place, lay at his feet, and it bore the words: "_to the dear memory of isabel, the beloved wife of douglas stowell, deemster of this isle._" victor's throat was throbbing. he was losing (what no man can lose twice) his father and greatest friend, whose slightest word and wish should be as sacred to him as his soul. he heard the words "dust to dust" and they were like the reverberation of eternity. then came a dead void, after parson cowley's voice had ceased, and it was just as if the pulse of the world had stopped. and then, at that last moment as he stepped forward and looked down, and everybody fell back for him, and only the sea's boom was audible as it beat on the cliffs below, somebody (he did not turn to look, for he knew who it was) coming up to his side, and putting her arm through his, said in a tremulous voice, "he is better there. in their death they are not divided." it was fenella. at the next moment, something he could not resist, something unconquerable and overwhelming, made him put his arms about her and kiss her. chapter thirteen the saving of kate kinkade the governor was waiting for stowell at the side gate to ballamoar. "you look ill, my boy, and no wonder," he said. "fenella and i are to take a short cruise in the yacht before the autumn ends. you must come along with us." for the farmers and fishermen who had travelled long distances a meal had been provided in the barn--a kind of robustious after-wake for the deemster, presided over by the elder and younger robbie creers. alick gell alone returned with stowell to the house. in his black frock coat and tall silk hat he had walked back from the church by stowell's side, snuffling audibly but saying nothing. to stowell's relief he was still silent through luncheon and for several hours afterwards. it was not until they were in the porch, and gell was on the point of going, that anything of consequence was said. "what about bessie?" asked stowell. "oh, bessie?" said gell (he looked a little confused) "bessie's all right, i think. but there's trouble coming in that quarter, i'm afraid." "what trouble?" "as we were walking along langness yesterday--i went down to tell her about the deemster--we met cæsar qualtrough coming from the farm." "qualtrough?" "you know--father of the young scoundrel who got us into that scrape at king william's." "i remember." "he's a friend of dan baldromma's, and dan is a tenant of my father's and .... but good lord, what matter! i've worse things than that to worry about." as gell was going out of the gate, the night was falling and the stars were out, and he was saying to himself, "does he really care for the girl, or is it only a sense of duty?" and stowell, as he closed the door and went back into the house (empty and vault-like now, as a house is on the first night after the being who has been the soul of it has been left outside) was thinking, "i can't allow alick to be my scapegoat any longer." but at the next moment he was thinking of fenella. with mingled shame and joy he was asking himself what was being thought of the incident in the churchyard--by fenella herself, by the governor, by everybody. next day the attorney-general came with the will. except for a few legacies to servants, the deemster had left everything to his son. "so, with your mother's fortune, you are one of the rich men of the island, now, victor. a great responsibility, my boy! i pray god you may choose the right partner. but" (with a meaning smile) "that will be all right, i think." during the next days stowell occupied himself with joshua scarff, the deemster's clerk (a tall, thin, elderly man wearing dark spectacles) in paying-off the legacies. only one of these gave him any anxiety. this was janet's, and it was accompanied by a pension, in case victor should decide to superannuate her. against doing so all his heart cried out, but something whispered that if janet were gone it might be the easier for bessie. janet was in floods of tears at the possibility. "i couldn't have believed it of the deemster!" she said. "i really couldn't! you can keep the legacy, dear. i have no use for it except to give it back to you. but i won't leave ballamoar. 'deed, i won't! not until another woman comes to be mistress in it, and wants me to go. and she never will, the darling--i'll trust her for that, anyway." a day or two later stowell was in his father's room, when he came upon an envelope inscribed: "_to be opened by my son._" it contained a ring, a beautiful and valuable gem, with a note saying: "_this was your mother's engagement ring. i wish you to give it to fenella stanley. take it yourself._" stowell was stupefied. struggling with a sense of his duty to the girl whom he had sent to derby haven he had been telling himself that he must never see fenella again. but here was a sacred command from the dead. for three days he thought he could not possibly go to government house. on the fourth day he went. the beauty and charm of the atmosphere of fenella's home were heart-breaking. and fenella herself, in a soft tea-gown, was almost more than he could bear to look upon. she, too, seemed embarrassed, and when miss green (an english counterpart of janet) left them alone with each other, and he gave her the ring, saying what his father had told him to do with it, her embarrassment increased. she held it in her fingers, turned it over and looked at it, and said, "how lovely! how good of him!" and then, trembling and tingling, and with a slightly heightened colour, she looked at stowell. suddenly a thought flashed upon him. why had his father told him to take the ring to her himself? the answer was speaking in fenella's eyes--that, at the topmost moment of their love, he should put it on. at the next instant the governor entered the drawing-room, and fenella, holding up her hand (she had put the ring on for herself by this time) cried: "see what the deemster has left to me!" "beautiful!" said the governor, and then he looked from stowell to his daughter. stowell rose to go. he had the sense of flying from the house. fenella must have thought him a fool. the governor must have thought him a fool. but better be a fool than a traitor! a week passed and then an idea came to him. he would tell the truth to bessie's people--the whole truth if necessary. that would commit him once for all to the line of honour. having taken that public plunge there could be no looking back, and the bitter struggle between his passion and his duty would then be over. with a certain pride at the thought of being about to do an heroic thing he set out one day for ramsey, intending to return by baldromma. but on entering his outer office his young clerk told him that mr. daniel collister was in his private room, that he had been waiting there for two hours, and refusing to go away. dan, with his short, gross figure, was standing astride on the hearthrug, and without so much as a bow he plunged into his business. a respectable man's house was in disgrace. his step-daughter had run away. been carried off by a scoundrel--there couldn't be a doubt of it. a month gone and not the whisper of a word from her. the mother was broken-hearted, so he had been traipsing the island over to find the girl. "i belave i'm on the track of her at last though. she's down castletown way, and the man that's been the cause of her trouble isn't far off, i'm thinking." "and whom do you say it is, mr. collister?" "somebody that's middling close to yourself, sir--mr. alick gell, the son of the spaker." "no, no, no!" "who else then?" stowell tried to speak but could not. "wasn't he the cause of her disgrace at the high bailiff's? and hasn't he been keeping up his bad character ever since--standing by the side of disorderly walkers in the douglas coorts, they're saying?" he must have promised to marry the girl. but he hadn't. he (dan) had been to the registrar's at douglas and found that out. "the toot! the boght! the booby! i was warning her enough. the man that takes advantage of a dacent girl isn't much for marrying her afterwards." remembering dan's share in the catastrophe, stowell was feeling the vertigo of a temptation to take the gross creature by the neck and fling him through the window. "why do you come to me?" he asked. "to ask you to tell your friend that he's got to make an honest woman of the girl." "is that all you are thinking about?" dan drew a quick breath, then dug both hands into the upright pockets of his trousers, thrust forward his thick neck, with a gesture peculiar to the bull, and answered: "no, i'm thinking of myself as well, and what for shouldn't i? i'm going to stand up for my own rights, too. the man that treats my girl like that has got to marry her, and i'm not going to be satisfied with nothing less." then picking up his billycock hat and making for the door he said: "i lave it with you, mr. stowell, sir. if the dempster was the grand gentleman people are saying, his son will be seeing justice done to me and mine. if not, the island will be too hot for the guilty man, i'm thinking." when dan had gone stowell felt sick and dizzy, and as if he were drawing back from the edge of a precipice. his heroic act of self-sacrifice had dwindled to a ridiculous weakness. this man, with his blatant vulgarity of mind and soul, at ballamoar! his father-in-law! a member of his family! riding over him with a degrading tyranny! in the dining-room, with his broad buttocks to the fire--never, never, never! hardly had dan's footsteps ceased on the stair when the young clerk came from the outer office in great excitement. "his excellency is here. he's coming upstairs, sir." ii "helloa, i've found you." the governor was in yachting costume. "well, the yacht is lying outside, and fenella and i are doing a little circumnavigating of the island, so come along." stowell tried to excuse himself, but the governor would listen to no excuses. "everybody says you are looking like a ghost these days, and so you are. therefore come, let's get a breath of sea-air into you." "but your excellency...." "i've brought one of the ship's boys ashore for your bag, so pack it quick...." "but really...." "where's your bedroom and i'll pack it myself." "no, no! but if i must...." "that's better! i'll smoke a pipe and wait for you." "after all, why not?" thought stowell, as he packed his bag and put on flannels and a blue jacket. this flying away from fenella was unworthy of a man. it was cowardly, contemptible. he must learn to resist temptation. half an hour later he was riding with the governor in a dinghy over the fresh waters of the bay towards a large white yacht, "the fenella," with the red ensign fluttering over her. the gangway was open and as stowell stepped on to the spotless deck of the ship, her namesake, also in yachting costume, was waiting to receive him. the mainsail, mizzen and jib being set, the grey-bearded captain, in blue with brass buttons, called on his boys to swing the dinghy up to the davits and haul in the anchor. in a few minutes more, to the hiss and simmer of the sea, the yacht was running free before the wind, leaving the town to the south behind it. the bell rang for luncheon, and with the governor and fenella, stowell crossed to the companion and went down to the saloon. books and field-glasses were lying about the sofas and the table was glistening with silver and glass. blue silk curtains, with the sunlight shining through them, were fluttering over the skylight and the port-holes. how fresh! how charming! when they came up on deck an hour afterwards they were doubling the point of ayre, and the lighthouse at the northernmost end of it was looking like a marble column with a glittering eye. towards six o'clock they cast anchor for the night off peel. the sun was then setting, and the herring fleet (a hundred boats) going out for the night were passing in front of the red sky like a flight of black birds. by the time dinner was over the drowsy spirit of the sunset had died over the waters behind them, the twilight had deepened to a ghostly grey, and the moon had risen over the little fishing town in front and the gaunt walls of the ruined peel castle which stands on an island rock. the governor, who had sent ashore for the day's newspapers, remained in the cabin to read them. but stowell and fenella sat on deck under the moon and the stars. the air had become very quiet. there was no sound anywhere except the tranquil wash of the waves against the yacht and the whispering of the sea outside. fenella talked and laughed. stowell laughed and talked. they found it so easy to talk to each other. the night wore on. the moon going westward made the broken walls of the castle stand up black above the shore, with its empty window-sockets like eyes looking from the lighter sky. stowell talked of the old ruin and its legendary and historical associations--st. patrick, the spectre hound (_the mauthe doa_), the ecclesiastical prison and the graves in the roofless cathedral. "but i'll tell you a story that beats all that," he said. "about a woman of course?" said fenella. "yes--a fallen woman." "ah!" "her name was kate kinrade. she gave birth to an illegitimate child, and the bishop--he was a saint--thinking that her conduct tended to the dishonour of the christian name, ordered that, for the saving of her soul, she should be dragged after a boat across the bay of peel on the fair of st. patrick at the height of the market." "and was she?" "the fishermen refused at first to carry out the censure, and then excused themselves on the ground that st. patrick's day was too tempestuous. but being threatened with fines, they did it at last--in the depth of winter." fenella's gaiety had gone. stowell gazed at her face in the moonlight. it was quivering and her bosom was heaving. "and the bishop was a saint, you say?" "if ever there was one." "he ordered the woman to be dragged through the sea at the tail of a boat?" "yes." "and what did he do to _the man_?" stowell gasped. there was silence for a moment, and then the governor's voice came from the skylight of the cabin: "are you people never going to turn in?" "presently." "i am, anyway." it was late. the lights of the little town had blinked out one by one. only the red light on the stone pier was burning. fenella recovered her gaiety after a while, shouted for echoes to the castle rock, and then took stowell's arm to go down the companion. on reaching the darkened saloon she stepped on tiptoe and dropped her voice under pretence of not disturbing her father, who would be asleep. at the door of her cabin she ceased laughing and said, "hush! i'm going to say something." "what?" "i don't know if you're aware of it, but ever since i came home you've been calling me 'miss stanley,' and i've been calling you--anything." "well?" "we used to call each other by our christian names before. couldn't we go back to that?" "would you like to?" there was a pause, and then, in a whisper, "victor!" "fenella!" "good-night!" it had been like a kiss. stowell went to his cabin in rapture, in pain, with a delicious thrill and a sense of stifling hypocrisy. what a hypocrite he had been! it was not to resist temptation but to dally with it that he had come on this cruise. he was there under false pretences. he had pledged himself to the girl at derby haven, and yet.... thank god, he had gone no farther! there was only one way of escape from the perpetual fire of temptation--to hasten his marriage with bessie collister. he must see her as soon as possible and suggest that they should marry immediately. it was heart-breaking, but there was no help for it, if he was to stand upright as an honourable man. dan baldromma? well, what of him? he could shut the door on dan--of course he could! next morning stowell was the first on deck. the air was salt and chill; the day had not yet opened its eyes; there was a whirring of wings and a calling of sea-birds; and through a sleepy white mist, that might have been the smoke of the moon, the herring fleet were coming like pale ghosts back to harbour. a fresh breeze sprang up with the sunrise and the captain lifted anchor and stood out towards the south. sheep were bleating on the head-land of contrary, and as they opened the broad bay of the niarbyl the thatched cottages under the cliffs were smoking for breakfast. when they reached port erin the governor came up and ordered anchor to be cast again, saying they would lie there and go out with the herring fleet in the evening. seeing his opportunity, stowell said he would like to go ashore for a few hours--a little business. "mind you're back by four o'clock then--we'll sail at high-water." as stowell was being sculled ashore in the dinghy he was saying to himself: "no kate kinrade for me--never, never!" iii an hour later stowell was in derby haven, a little fishing village, smelling of sea-wrack and echoing with the cry of gulls. the misses brown, in their oiled ringlets and faded satin dresses, received him, in their old maids' sitting-room, with much ceremony, and he speedily realised that gell, in trying to shield him, had gone farther than he expected. "you wish to see miss collister? well, since you are such a close friend of mr. gell there can be no objection.... bessie! a gentleman to see you." stowell heard bessie coming downstairs with great alacrity, but on seeing him she drew up with a certain embarrassment. "oh, it's you?" she was shorter than he had thought, and the impression made by her photograph of something common in her beauty was deepened by the reality. "should we take a walk?" he said. she hesitated for a moment, then went upstairs and returned presently in a round hat and a close-fitting costume which sat awkwardly upon her. what a change! where was the free, warm, natural, full-bosomed girl with bare neck and sunburnt arms who had fascinated him in the glen? they took the unfrequented path on the western side of langness--a long serpentine tongue of land which protruded from the open mouth of the sea. he tried to begin upon the subject of his errand but found it impossible to do so. "bye and bye," he thought, "bye and bye." bessie kept step with him, but was almost silent. he asked if she was comfortable in her new quarters, and she said they were lonesome after the farm, but old miss brown was a dear and miss ethel a "dozey duck." the common expression humiliated him. he inquired if she had been able to relieve her mother's anxiety, and she answered no, how could she, without letting her stepfather know where she was? "they're telling me he's travelling the island over looking for me, but i don't know why. he was always dead nuts on me when i was at home." again he felt ashamed. he found it impossible to keep up a conversation with the girl. to attempt to do so was like throwing a stone into the sand--no echo, no response. only once did bessie say anything for herself. she was walking on the landward side of the path, and seeing an old man, with a pair of horses, grubbing a hungry-looking field, with a cloud of sea-gulls swirling behind him, she said it was dirty land, full of scutch, and the farmer was laying it open to the frosts of winter. stowell was feeling the sweat on his forehead. how was it possible to lift up a girl like this? she would be the farm girl to the last. good lord, what magic was there in marriage to change people and ensure their happiness? ballamoar? that lonesome place inside the tall trees! he might shut out her family, but would not she--illiterate, uninteresting, inadequate--shut out his friends? and then, he and she together there, with nothing in common, alone, in the long nights of winter .... oh god! ashamed of thinking like that of the girl, and having reached the lighthouse by this time, he drew her arm through his and turned to go back. the warmth of the contact revived a little of the former thrill, and he laughed and talked. the voice of the sea was low that day, and across the bay came shouts and cheers in fresh young voices--the boys of king william's were playing football. that brought memories to both of them and he began to talk about gell. "dear old alick, he's such a good fellow, isn't he?" "'deed he is," said bessie. "by the way, he's a sort of old flame of yours, i believe," said stowell, looking sideways at the girl, and bessie blushed and laughed, but made no answer. those black eyes, those full red lips. yes, this was the girl who.... but the idea of a marriage founded on the passion which had brought them together revolted him now, and he let bessie's arm fall to his side. when they got back to the old maid's cottage he had still said nothing of what he had come to say. "later on," he was telling himself, but a secret voice inside was whispering, "never! it is impossible!" the elder of the miss browns followed him to the gate to ask if he did not see a great improvement in her charge, and when he said that bessie seemed to be a little subdued, she cried: "bessie? oh dear no, not generally! ask mr. gell." perhaps the girl was not well to-day--they had thought she had not been very well lately. "and how is she getting on with...." (the word stuck in his throat) "with her lessons?" "wonderfully! of course she has long arrears to make up, but the way she works to fit herself for her new station .... well, it's enough to make a person cry, really." stowell felt as if something were taking him by the throat. "in fact my sister and i used to wonder and wonder what she did with her bedroom candles until we found out she was sitting up after everybody had gone to sleep to learn her grammar and spelling." stowell felt as if something had struck him in the face. every hard thought about bessie seemed to be wiped out of his mind in a moment. going back to port erin (he walked all the way) he could think of nothing but that girl sitting up in her bedroom to educate herself, in her poor little way, that she might become worthy to be his wife. if he disappointed her now what would become of her? would she kill herself? would the world kill her? kate kinrade? the days of the bishop and the woman were not over yet. no, he must keep his pledge, and make no more wry faces about it. if it had been his duty before it was more than ever his duty now. but fenella? he must put her out of his mind for ever. he would be the most unhappy man alive, but then his own happiness was not the only thing he had to think about. he could not live any longer under false pretences. he must find some way of telling fenella that he had engaged himself while she was away--that he was a pledged man. but what then? there would be nothing more between them as long as they lived--not a smile or the clasp of a hand! she whom he had loved so long, never having loved anybody else! it would be like signing his death-warrant. the dead leaves from the roadside were driving over his feet; his eyes ached and his throat throbbed, but he gulped down his emotion. after all he would be the only sufferer! thank god for that anyway! as he reached port erin, he saw the white sails of the yacht against the blue sea and sky. "yes, i must tell fenella--i must tell her to-night," he thought. chapter fourteen the everlasting song of the sea "ah, here you are at last! just in time! a breeze sprang up an hour ago, and the captain would have gone without you but for me. the herring fleet have gone already. look, there they are, sailing into the sunset." fenella was in high spirits. having prevailed upon the governor to let them have a real night with the herrings (turning the yacht into a fishing boat) she had borrowed a net and hired fishermen's clothes--oilskins and a sou'-wester for herself and a "ganzy" and big boots for stowell. it was impossible to resist the contagion of fenella's gaiety. "why try?" thought stowell. it would be his last night of happiness. to-morrow he would have to bury it for ever. in a few minutes, having cleared the harbour, they had opened the land on either side and were standing out for the fishing ground. within two hours, in the midst of the fleet, they were sailing over the carlingford sands, midway between the island and ireland, and the sea-birds skimming above the water were showing them the shoal. dinner was over, and stowell, in jersey and big boots up to his thighs, saw fenella come on deck in her oilskin coat and sou'-wester--with the new and surprising beauty which fresh garments, whatever they are, give to every woman in the eyes of the man who loves her. what shouts! what laughter! stowell kept saying to himself: "why not? it will soon be over." they slackened sail and waited for the sun to go down before shooting their nets. presently the great ball of flame descended into the sea, the admiral of the fleet ran his flag to his masthead, and the captain cried, "shoot!" then the brown net, with its floats, was dropped over the stern (fenella taking a hand and shouting with the men), the foresail was hauled down, and the mizzen set to keep the ship head to the wind. and then, all being snug for the night, came the fisherman's prayer: "_dy hannie patrick noo shin as nyn maaty_" (may st. patrick bless us and our boat) with something about the living and the dead--the crew and the fish. after that came the throwing of the salt, a more robustious and less religious ceremony, which threw fenella into fits of laughter. "what does it mean?" she asked. "goodness knows!" "how delightful!" the grey twilight came down from the northern heavens, and then night fell--a dark night without moon but with a world of stars. stowell and fenella were leaning over the side to watch the phosphorescent gleams which, like flashes of light under the surface, came from the fish that were darting away from the prow. "isn't it wonderful--the fish going on and on to the goal of their perpetual travels?" said fenella. "they always come back to the place they were spawned, though," said stowell. "like humans, are they? you remember--'back to the heart's place here i keep for thee.'" stowell felt as if a hand were at his throat again. "bye and bye," he thought. before they turned in for the night he would tell her everything. suddenly there was a crash at the stern--the anchor had been lifted up and then banged down on the deck. "what's that?" cried fenella. "they're proving the nets to see if the fish are coming," said stowell, and hurrying aft together they found the water milky white and full of irridescent rays. a couple of warps of the net were hauled aboard, and twelve or fifteen herring fell on to the deck. fenella picked them up, wriggling, cheeping and twisting in her hands and threw them into a basket--she was in a fever of excitement. after that several of the boats that were fishing alongside called across to know the result of the proving, and the captain answered them in manx, with the crude symbolism of the sea. "let me do it next time," said fenella. "do you think you can, miss?" asked the captain. "she can do anything," said stowell, and when the next boat called, fenella (with stowell to prompt her) stood ready to reply. "_r'ou promal, bhoy?_" cried the voice out of the darkness. "what's he saying? quick!" "he's asking were you proving, boy. say '_va_--i was.'" fenella put her open palms at each side of her mouth, under her sou'-wester, and cried, "_va!_" "_quoid oo er y piyr?_" "he asks what you found in your net. say '_pohnnar_--a child.'" "oh my goodness! _pohnnar_," cried fenella. "_cre'n eash dy pohnnar?_" "he asks what is the age of your child. say '_dussan ny quieg-yeig_--twelve to fifteen.'" "my goodness gracious! _dussan ny quieg-yeig_," cried fenella. by this time everybody was in convulsions of laughter, and stowell could scarcely resist the impulse to throw his arms about fenella and kiss her. "soon! soon! i must tell her soon!" he thought. the wind had dropped and a great stillness had fallen on the sea. the glow from the lights of the dublin was in the western sky; the revolving light of the chicken rock (the most southerly point of man) was in the east; and for two miles round lay the herring boats, with their watch-lights burning on the roofs of their net houses, and looking like stars which had fallen from the darkening sky on to the bosom of the sea. fenella began to sing, and before stowell knew what he was doing he was singing with her: she: _oh molla-caraine, where got you your gold?_ he: _lone, lone, you have left me here._ it was entrancing--the hour, the surroundings, the charm and sonority of the sea! "but this is madness," thought stowell. it would only make it the harder to do--what he had to do. nevertheless he went on, and when they came to the end of another manx ballad _kiree fo naightey_ (the sheep under the snow) he said: "would you like to know where that old song was written?" "where?" "in castle rushen--by a poor wretch whose life had been sworn away by a vindictive woman." "and what had he done to her? betrayed her, and then deserted her for another woman, i suppose. that's the one thing a woman can never forgive--never should, perhaps." "i must tell her soon," thought stowell. but he could think of no way to begin--no natural way to lead up to what he had to say. the night was now very dark and silent. the majesty and solemnity around were grand and moving. fenella, who had been laughing all the evening, was serious enough at last. "it's almost as if the sea, grown old, had gone to sleep with the going down of the sun, isn't it?" she said. "the sea isn't always like this, though," said stowell. "no, it can be very cruel, can't it? rolling on and on, with its incessant, monotonous roar through the ages! what heartless things it has done! millions and millions of women have prayed and it has no heed to them." "how can i do it? how can i do it?" stowell was asking himself. "oh, what a thing it is to be a sailor's wife!" said fenella. "only think of her with her little brood, in her cottage at peel, perhaps, when a sudden storm comes on! giving the children their supper and washing them and undressing them, and hearing them say their prayers and hushing them to sleep, and then going downstairs to the kitchen, and listening to the roar of the sea on the castle rocks, and thinking of her man out here in the darkness, struggling between life and death." stowell knew, though he dare not look, that she was brushing her handkerchief over her eyes. "victor," she said, "don't you think women are rather brave creatures?" "the bravest creatures in the world!" he answered. "i knew you would say that," said fenella, in a low voice. "and that's why i always think of you as their champion, fighting their battles for them when they are wronged and helpless." stowell felt as if he were choking. he could not go on with this hypocrisy any longer. he must tell her now. it would be like committing suicide, but what must be, must be. "fenella...." but just then the loud voice of the captain cried "strike!" and at the next moment fenella was flying aft, to tug at the net and shake out the herrings that came up with it. what shouts! what screams! what peals of laughter! it was midnight before the joy and bustle of the catch were over, and the net was shot again. the governor was then smoking his last pipe in the captain's cabin, and stowell, with fenella on his arm, was walking to and fro on the deck. "need i tell her at all?" he was thinking. he felt as if he were being swept along by an irresistible flood. he could not doom himself to death. with fenella by his side he could think of nobody and nothing but her. sometimes, when they crossed the light from the skylight, they turned their faces towards each other and smiled. after a while stowell found himself bantering fenella. catching a flash of her ring (his mother's ring) on the hand that was on his arm, he pretended it was gone and asked if it had fallen off while she was pulling at the net. "gone! the ring you ga-- .... i mean the deemster gave me! no, here it is! what a shock! i should have died if i had lost it." she was radiant; he was reckless; the little trick had uncovered their hearts to each other. they heard a step on the other side of the deck. "fenella!" it was the governor going down the companion. "time to turn in, girl! we are to breakfast at port st. mary at nine in the morning, you know." "i'm coming, father." "good-night, stowell!" "good-night, sir!" but he could not let fenella go. it was a sin to go to bed at all on such a heavenly night. at last, at the top of the companion, he loosed her arm, with a slow asundering, and said, "the governor says we are to breakfast at port st. mary--do you think we shall if this calm continues?" she laughed (her laugh seemed to come up from her heart) and said, "i'm not worrying about that." "no?" "when a woman has all she wants in the world in one place why should she wish to go to another?" "and have you?" "good-night!" she said, holding out both hands. he caught them, and the touch communicated fire. at the next moment he had lifted her hands to his lips. she drew them down, and his hands with them, pressed them to her breast and then broke away, and was gone in an instant. stowell gasped. "she loves me! she loves me! she loves me!" nothing else mattered! let the world rip! ii stowell did not go below that night. for two hours he tramped the deck, laughing to himself like a lunatic. "she loves me! she loves me! she loves me!" when the watch had to be changed at two o'clock he sent the man to his berth and took his place. and when the dawn broke and the lamps of the fishing fleet blinked out, and the boats showed grey, like ghosts, on the colourless waste around, and the monotonous chanting of the crews far and near told him the nets were being hauled in, he shouted down the fo'c'sle for the men. and when they came on deck he helped them to haul in their own net and to empty their catch (it was the governor's order) into the first "nickey" that came along. the grey sky in the east had reddened to a flame by this time. then up from the round rim of the sea rose the everlasting sun, and lo, it was day! god, what an enchanted world it was! all the glory and majesty of the sea seemed to be singing hymns to the same tune as that of his own heart: "she loves me! she loves me! she loves me!" a light wind sprang up, a cool blowing from the south, just enough to ripple the surface of the water. already some of the fishing boats had swung about and were standing off for home. stowell helped to haul the mainsail, and shouted with the men as they pulled at the ropes and the white canvas rose above them. "she loves me! she loves me! she loves me!" within half an hour the wind had freshened to a summer gale and they were running before a roaring sea. the sails bellied out, the yacht listed over, the scuppers were half full of water, but stowell would not go below. for a long hour more he held on and looked around at the fishing boats as they flew together in the brilliant sunshine between the two immensities of sky and sea. "she loves me! she loves me! she loves me!" helloa! here was his own little island with the sun riding over the mountain-tops! the plunging and rearing of the yacht gave the notion that the mountains were nodding to him. "good morning, son." what nonsense came into a man's head when his heart was glad! "she loves me! she loves me! she loves me!" ah, here were the cliffs of the calf, with their hoary heads in the flying sky and their feet in the thunder of the sea! and here was the brown-belted lighthouse of the chicken rock, which fenella and he had picked up last night! and here was the shoulder of spanish head, and here was the belly of the chasms, ringing with the cry of ten thousand sea fowl! "she loves me! she loves me! she loves me!" suddenly there came a shock. they were opening the bay of port st. mary, with the little fishing town lying asleep along its sheltered arm, when he saw across the poolvaish (the pool of death) the grey walls of castle rushen, and the long reach of langness. and then memory flowed back on him like a tidal wave. derby haven! the old maids' house! the girl burning her candle in her bedroom to educate herself that she might become worthy to be his wife! "oh god! oh god!" if fenella loved him he had stolen her love. he had no right to it, being married already, virtually married--bound by every tie that could hold an honourable man. he felt like a traitor--a traitor to fenella now. he recalled what he had said last night. one step more and---- thank god, he had gone no farther! if he had allowed fenella to engage herself to him, and then the facts about bessie collister had become known, as they might have done through dan baldromma---- he must go. he must go immediately. his miserable mistake must not bring disgrace on fenella also. the yacht was sliding into the slack water of the bay, and the row-boats of the fish-buyers, each flying its little flag, were coming out to meet the fishing boats, when stowell went down to the saloon--still dark with its blue silk curtains over skylight and portholes. he took off his fisherman's clothes, put on his own, and sat down at the table to scribble a note to the governor: "excuse me! i must go up to douglas by the first train. have just remembered an important engagement. hope to call at government office to-morrow." as he was leaving the saloon he looked back towards the cabin in which fenella lay asleep. his eyes were wet, his heart throbbed painfully, he felt as if he were being banished from her presence as by a curse. renunciation--life-long renunciation--that was all that was left to him now. the fleet were in harbour when he went on deck, a hundred boats huddled together. and when he stepped ashore the fish salesmen were selling the night's catch by auction, and the bronze-faced and heavy-bearded fishermen, in their big boots, were counting their herrings in mixed english and manx: "nane, jeer, three, kiare, quieg .... warp, tally!" chapter fifteen the woman's secret when stowell awoke next morning at ballamoar a flock of sheep, liberated from a barn, were bleating before a barking dog. he had passed a restless night. all his soul revolted against the renunciation he had imposed upon himself. it was like life-long imprisonment. yet what was he to do? he must decide and decide quickly. suddenly he thought of the governor. the strong sense and practical wisdom of the governor might help him to a decision. but fenella's father! how could he tell his story to fenella's father? at last an idea came to him whereby he could obtain the governor's counsel without betraying his secret. he was at the crisis. on what he did now the future of his life depended. and not his own life, only, but fenella's also, perhaps, and .... bessie collister's. at three o'clock he was at the government offices in douglas. police inspectors were at the door and moving about in the corridors. one of them took him up to the governor's room--a large chamber overlooking the street and noisy from the tram-cars that ran under the windows. the governor's iron-grey head was bent over a desk-table. "sit down--i shall not be long." stowell felt his heart sink in advance. never would he be able to say what he had come to say. "well, you gave us the slip nicely, didn't you?" said the governor, raising his head from his papers. "i'm sorry, sir," said stowell (he felt his lip trembling). "it was an important matter, and i've come to town to-day to ask your advice on it." "something you've been consulted about?" "well .... yes." "i'm no authority on law, you know." "it's not so much a matter of law, sir, as of morality--what an honourable man ought to do under difficult circumstances." the governor looked up sharply. stowell struggled on. "a client .... i should say a friend .... engaged himself to a young woman awhile ago, and now, owing to circumstances which have arisen since, he finds it difficult to decide whether it is his duty to marry her." "manxman?" "yes." "what class?" stowell felt his voice as well as his lips trembling. "oh, good enough class, i think." the governor picked up his pipe from the table, charged it, lighted it, turned his chair towards the fireplace, threw his leg over the rail-fender and said: "fire away." then trembling and ashamed, but making a strong call on his resolution, stowell told his own story--as if it had been that of another man. when he had come to an end there was a long silence. the governor pulled hard at his pipe and there was no other sound in the room except the rattle of the tram-cars in the street. stowell felt hot, his lips felt dry, and pushing back his black hair, he found sweat on his forehead. "it was a shocking blunder, of course," he said. "my man doesn't defend himself. still he thinks the circumstances...." "you mean it wasn't deliberate?" "good lord, no!" "in fact a kind of accident?" "one might say so." "any harm done?" "harm?" stowell turned white and began to stammer. "i .... no, that is to say .... no, i've never heard...." "and yet he promised to marry the girl?" "he felt responsible for her. he couldn't be a scoundrel." "did he care for her--love her?" "i can't say that, sir. he might have thought he did." "and now he loves another woman?" "with all his heart and soul, sir." "but" (the governor was puffing placidly) "he has promised to marry the little farm girl, and she's away somewhere educating herself to become his wife?" "that's it, sir," said stowell (his head was down), "and now he is asking himself what it is his duty to do. i have told him it is his duty as a man of honour to carry out his promise--to marry the girl, whatever the consequences to himself. am i right, sir?" there was another moment of silence, and then the governor, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and bringing his open palm down on the table, said: "no!" "no?" "it would be marrying the wrong woman, wouldn't it?" "well .... yes, one might say that, sir." "then it would be a crime." "a crime?" "a three-fold crime." the governor rose, crossed the floor, then drew up in front of stowell and spoke with sudden energy. "first, against the girl herself. she's an attractive young person, i suppose, eh?" stowell nodded. "but uneducated, illiterate, out of another world, as they say?" stowell nodded again. "then does your man suppose that by sending her to school for a few months he will bridge the gulf between them? is that how he expects to make her happy? ten to one the girl will be a miserable outsider in her husband's house to the last day of her life. but that's not the worst, by a long way." "no?" "if he marries her it will out of a sense of duty will it not?" "ye-es." "well, what woman on god's earth wants to be married out of a sense of duty? and if he loves another woman do you think his wife will not find it out some day? of course she will! and when she does what do you think will happen? i'll tell you what will happen. if she's one of the sensitive kind she'll feel herself crushed, superfluous, and pine away and die of grief and shame, or perhaps take a dose of something .... we've heard of such happenings, haven't we? and if she's a woman of the other sort she'll go farther." "you mean...." "suspicion, jealousy, envy! she may not care a brass farthing about her husband, but her pride as a wife will be wounded. she won't give him a day's peace, or herself either. he'll never be an hour out of her sight but she'll think he's with the other woman. and then--what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander! if he has another woman as likely as not she'll have another man--we've heard of that, too, haven't we?" stowell dropped his head. his heart was beating high, and he was afraid his face was betraying it. the governor touched him on the shoulder, and continued, "in the next place, it would be a crime against the man himself. he's a young fellow of some prospects, i suppose?" "i .... i think so." "and the girl has some family, hasn't she?" "yes." "they may be good and worthy folk of whom he would have no reason to be ashamed. but isn't it just as likely that they are people of quite another kidney? sisters and brothers and cousins to the tenth degree? some vulgar and rapacious old father, perhaps, who hasn't taken too much trouble to keep the girl out of temptation while she has been at home, but freezes on to her fast enough after she has made a good marriage. possible, isn't it?" "quite possible, sir." "well, what are your man's own friends going to do with him with a menagerie like that at his heels? no, he has fettered himself for life to failure as well as misery, and while his wife is railing at him about the other woman he is reproaching her with standing in his light. so the end of his noble endeavour is that he has set up a little private hell for himself in the house he calls his home." stowell was wincing at every word, but all the same he knew that his eyes were shining. the governor looked sharply up at him for a moment, lit his pipe afresh and said, "then there's the other woman. i suppose her case is worthy of some consideration?" "indeed, yes." "if she cares for the man...." "i can't say that, sir." "well, if she does, she too will suffer, will she not? and what has she done to deserve suffering? nothing at all! she's the innocent scapegoat, isn't she?" "that's true." "fine woman, i suppose?" "the finest woman in the world, sir." "just so! but your man would doom her to renunciation--a solitary life of sorrow and regret. and so the only result of his praiseworthy principles, his sense of duty, as you say, and all the rest of it, is that he will have ruined three lives--the life of the woman he marries and does not love, the life of the woman he loves and does not marry, and his own life also." "then you think, sir .... you think he should stop even yet?" "even at the church door, at the altar-steps--if there's no harm done, and he is sure she is the wrong woman." stowell felt as if the vapours which had clouded his brain so long had been swept away as by a mountain breeze, but he thought it necessary to keep up the disguise. "i feel you must be right, sir," rising to go. "at all events i cannot argue against you. but i think you'll agree that .... that if my man can wipe out this bad passage in his life without injury to anybody and without scandal .... i think you will agree that his first duty is to tell the woman he loves...." "eh? what the deuce .... good heavens, no!" "but surely he couldn't ask a pure-minded girl...." "to take the other woman's leavings? certainly he couldn't if she knew anything about it. but why should she? why should a pure-minded girl, as you say, be told about something that happened before she came on to the scene?" stowell's scruples were overcome. he had argued against himself, but he knew well that he had wished to be beaten. he was going off when the governor, following him to the door, laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "when a man has done wrong the thing he has got to do next is to say nothing about it. that's what your man has got to do now. it's the woman secret, isn't it? very well, he must never reveal it to anybody--never, under any circumstances--never in this world!" ii next day, at ballamoar, after many fruitless efforts to begin, stowell was writing to bessie collister. "dear bessie,--i am sorry to send you this letter and it is very painful for me to write it. but i cannot allow you to look forward any longer to something which can never happen. "the truth is--i must tell you the truth, bessie--since you went to derby haven i have found that i do not love you as i ought, to become your husband. that being so, i cannot do you the great wrong of marrying you. it would not be either for your good or for mine. and since i cannot marry you i feel that we must part. i am miserable when i say this, but i see that in justice to you, as well as to myself, nothing else can be...." he could go no further. a wave of tenderness towards bessie came over him. he had visions of the girl receiving and reading his letter. it would be at night in her little bedroom, perhaps--the room in which she burnt her candle to learn her lessons. no, it would be too cruel, too cowardly. he would not write--he would go to derby haven and break the news to the girl himself. but that evoked other and more fearful visions. they would be walking along the sandy path at langness with the stark white lighthouse at the end of it. "bessie," he would be saying, "we must part; it will be better for both of us. it has all been my fault. you have nothing to reproach yourself with. but you must try to forget me, and if there is anything else i can do...." and then the reproaches, the recriminations, the tears, the supplications, the appeals: "don't throw me over! you promised to stand up for me, you know. i will be good." it would be terrible. it would make his heart bleed. nevertheless he must bear it. it was a part of his punishment. he had torn up his letter and was putting his hand on the bell to order the dog-cart to be brought round to take him to the railway station, when a servant came into the room and said, "mr. alick gell to see you, sir." gell came in with a gloomy and half-shamefaced look. his tall figure was bent, his fair hair was disordered, and his voice trembled as he said, "can't we take a walk in the wood, old fellow? i have something to say." "i don't know how to tell you," he began. they were crossing the lawn towards the plantation. "its about bessie." "bessie?" "i .... i'm madly in love with her." stowell stopped and looked without speaking into gell's twitching face. "i knew you wouldn't be able to believe it, but don't look at me like that." "tell me," said stowell. and then, stammering and trembling, gell told his story. he didn't know how it began. perhaps it was pity. he had been sorry for the girl, over there in that lonely place, so he went down at first just to cheer her up. then he had found himself going frequently, buying her presents and taking her out for walks. when he had realised how things were he had tried to pull up, but it was too late. he had struggled to be loyal--to strengthen himself by talking of stowell--praising him to the girl, excusing him for not coming to see her--but it was useless. his pity had developed into love, and before he had known what he was doing bessie was in his arms. at the next instant he had felt like a traitor. he was frantically happy and yet he wanted to kill himself. "it was terrible," he said. "i couldn't sleep at night for thinking of it. bessie wanted you to be told. in fact she wrote you a letter, saying we couldn't help loving each other, and asking you to release her. but i couldn't let her go that far. 'then go to ballamoar and tell him yourself,' she said. and at last i've come. and now .... now you know." stowell listened in silence. his first feeling was one of wounded pride. he had really been a great fool about the girl! what fathomless depths of conceit had led him to think she would break her heart if he gave her up? and then the long struggle between his love and his duty--what a mountebank fate seemed to have made of him! but his next feeling was one of relief--boundless, inexpressible relief. the iron chain he had been dragging after him had been broken. he was free! gell, who was breathing hard, was watching stowell from under his cap, which was pulled down over his forehead. they were walking in a path that was thick with fallen leaves, and there was no sound for some moments but that of the rustling under their feet. "why don't you speak, old fellow? i've behaved like a cad, i know. but for god's sake, don't torture me. strike me in the face with your fist. i would rather that--upon my soul, i would." "alick," said stowell, putting his arm through gell's. "i'm going to tell you something." "what?" "do you know what i was on the point of doing when you came? going down to derby haven to ask bessie to let me off." "is that true? you're not saying it merely to .... but why?" "because what's happened to her has happened to me also--i love somebody else." "no? really? .... but who .... who is the other girl? .... is it .... it's fenella, isn't it?" "yes." "how splendid! i'm glad! and of course i congratulate you .... no? .... you've not asked her yet? but that will be all right--of course it will!" taking off his cap to fan himself with, gell broke into fits of half hysterical laughter. then he said: "you don't mind my saying something now that it's all over? no? well, to tell you the truth i could never believe you really cared for bessie. i thought you were only marrying her as a sort of duty, having got her into trouble with dan baldromma. and it was so--partly so--wasn't it? that didn't excuse me, though, did it? lord, what a relief! i feel as if you had lifted ten tons off my head." a dark memory came to stowell. "has she told him?" "bessie will be relieved, too, and just as glad as i am. do you know, there's a heart of gold in that girl. she's never had a dog's chance yet. not much education, i admit, but such spirit, such character! such a woman too--you said so yourself, remember." a still darker memory of something the governor had said came to stowell. "didn't you say bessie had written to me?" he asked. "yes, she did, yesterday; but i destroyed her letter." "do you know, i wrote to bessie to-day, and i destroyed my letter also." "no? what fun if your letters had crossed in the post," said gell, and tossing his cap into the air, he broke into still louder peals of laughter. again stowell felt immense relief. it was impossible that bessie could have told him. and if she hadn't, why should he? why injure the girl in gell's eyes? why tarnish his faith in her? it was the woman's secret, therefore he must never reveal it--never in this world. they were walking on. gell with a high step was kicking up the withered leaves. "what about your people?" asked stowell. "ah, that's what i've got to find out. i'm going home now to tell them. my mother is always advising me to marry and settle down, but of course she'll jib at bessie, and the sisters will follow suit. as for my father, he has only one son, as he says, and i must have a better allowance. he cut it down after that affair in the courts, you know." they were at the gate to the road, and pulling it open, gell said: "phew! how different i feel from what i did when i was coming in here half an hour ago! i thought you would kick me out the minute i had told you. but now we're going to be better friends than ever, aren't we?" "good-bye and good luck, old fellow," said stowell. "good-bye, and god bless you, old chap," said gell. stowell stood at the gate and watched him going off with long strides, his shoulders working vigorously. "never again! we can never be the same friends again," thought stowell, as he turned back to the house. he was feeling like a man who in a moment of passion has secretly wronged his life-long friend and can never look straight into his eyes again. but the sense of a barrier between gell and himself was soon wiped out by the memory of fenella. he was free to love her at last! no more hypocrisy! no more self-denial! no more struggles between passion and duty! the past was dead. life from that day forward was beginning again for all of them. "was that alick gell in the wood with you?" asked janet, who had come to the door to call stowell in to tea. "yes." "goodness me! he must be a happy boy. he was laughing enough, anyway." iii stowell went to bed early that night, slept soundly and was up with the coming of light in the morning. the farm lads were not yet astir, but going round to the stable he saddled a horse for himself (a young chestnut mare that had been born on one of his own birthdays) and set off for a ride to relieve the intoxication of his spirits. the air was keen, but both he and his horse sniffed it with delight. as they passed out of ballamoar the sun rose and played among the red and yellow leaves of the plantation, for the summer was going out in a blaze of glory. they crossed the curragh, dipped into the glen, and climbed the corkscrew path to the mountain. stowell thought he had never felt so well. and the little mare, catching the contagion of his high spirits, snorted and swung her head at every stride and dug her feet into the ringing ground. "helloa, molly, here we are at the top!" looking hack he saw the flat plain below, dotted over with farms, each with its little farmhouse surrounded by its clump of sheltering trees. god, how good to think that every one of them was a home of love! love! that was the great uniter, the great comforter, the great liberator, the great redeemer! and to think that all this had been going on since the beginning of the world! that generation after generation some boy had come up this lovely glen to court his girl! lord, what a glorious place the world was, after all! his eyes were beaming like the sunshine, and to make his joy complete he galloped over the mountain-tops until he came to a point at which he could look down on douglas and catch a glimpse of fenella's home in the midst of its trees. "_peace in her chamber, wheresoe'er it be, a holy place...._" then back to ballamoar at a brisk canter, with the air musical with the calls of cattle, the bleating of sheep and the songs of birds. and then breakfast for a hungry man--cowrie and eggs and fresh butter and honey and junket, which the manx called pinjean. at three o'clock in the afternoon he was on his way to government house, and by that time the intoxication of his high spirits had suffered a check. what had fenella thought of his flight from the yacht? had she believed his excuse for it? what interpretation had she put upon his intention of calling at government offices the following day? and the governor--had he seen through the thin disguise of that story? but the cruellest question of all, and the hardest to answer, was whether after all, even now that he was free, he had any right to ask fenella to become his wife? he, a sin-soiled man, and she a stainless woman! he felt as if he ought to purge his soul by telling fenella everything. yet how could he do that without inflicting an incurable wound on her faith in him? and then what had the governor said? "never under any circumstances." as he walked up the carriage drive to government house he saw the governor's tall figure, and the attorney-general's short one, through the windows of the smoking-room. the governor came to the door to meet him. "the very man we were talking about. come in! sit down. we have something to propose to you." the governor was going up to london on urgent business at the home office and the attorney had to go with him. in these circumstances it had been necessary to arrange that the court of general gaol delivery (interrupted by the deemster's death, but now summoned to resume) should sit without the governor, and the attorney had been suggesting that stowell should represent him in an important case. "what is it, sir?" asked stowell. "murder again, my boy; but of a different kind this time." a peel fisherman had killed his wife with shocking brutality, yet everybody seemed to sympathise with him, and there was a danger that a manx jury might let him off. "splendid opportunity to uphold law and order! you'll take the case?" "with pleasure!" "good! the attorney will send you the papers. and now, i suppose, you would like to see fenella?" "may i?" "why not? you'll find her in the drawing-room." on his way to the drawing-room stowell met miss green coming out of it. she smiled at him, and said, in a half-whisper, "i think you are expected." when he opened the door he saw fenella sitting with her back to him at a little desk on one side of the bay window, with a glint of its light on her bronze-brown hair. "who is it?" she said as he entered. but at the next moment she seemed to know, and, rising, she turned round to him and smiled. he thought she had never looked so beautiful. he wanted to crush her in his arms, and at the same time to fall at her feet and kiss the hem of her dress. there was a moment of passionate silence. he stepped towards her but stopped when two or three paces away. a riot of conflicting emotions were going on within him. he felt strong, he felt weak, he felt brave, he felt cowardly, he felt proud, he felt ashamed. still nothing was said by either of them. her eyes were glistening, she was breathing quickly and her bosom was heaving. he saw her moving towards him. her hand was trailing along the desk. he felt as if she were drawing him to her, and by a nervous, but irresistible impulse he held out his arms. "fenella," he said, hardly audibly. at the next moment, as in a flash of light, she sprang upon his breast, and at the next her arms were about his neck, his own were around her waist, her mouth was to his mouth, and the world had melted away. ten minutes later, with faces aflame, they went, hand in hand, into the smoking-room. the governor wheeled about on his revolving chair to look at them. "well," he said, "it's easy to see what you two have come about. but not for six months! i won't agree to a day less, remember." chapter sixteen at the speaker's before alick gell reached his father's house another had been there on the same errand. earlier in the afternoon dan baldromma, while running his hands through the ground flour in the mill, with the wheel throbbing and the stones groaning about him, had been struck by a new idea. "liza," he said, returning to the dwelling house and standing with his back to the fire and his big hands behind him, "that young wastrel ought to be freckened into marrying the girl, and i'm thinking i know the way to do it, too." "it's like thou do, dan," said mrs. collister. dan's device was of the simplest. it was that of sending the mother of bessie collister to the mother of alick gell to threaten and intimidate her. "but sakes alive, man, that's an ugly job, isn't it?" "it's got to be done, woman, or there'll be worse to do next, i tell thee. thou don't want to see thy daughter where her mother was before her." "well, well, if i must, i must," said mrs. collister. "but, aw dear, aw dear! if thou hadn't thrown the girl into the way of temptation by shutting the door on her...." "hould thy whist, woman, and do as i tell thee, and that will be the best night's work i ever done for her." half an hour later, having swept the earthen floor, hung the kettle on its sooty chain, and laid the table for dan's tea, mrs. collister toiled upstairs to dress for her journey, and came down in the poke bonnet and satin mantle which she wore to chapel on sunday. meantime dan had harnessed the old mare to the stiff cart and brought it round to the door. having helped his wife over the wheel and put the rope reins in her hands, he gave her his parting instructions. "see thou stand up for thy rights, now! this is thy chance and thou's got to make the best of it!" "aw well, we'll see," said the old woman, and then the stiff cart rattled over the cobbled "street" on its way to the speaker's. in her comfortable sitting-room, thickly carpeted and plentifully cushioned, mrs. gell was awakened from her afternoon nap by the scream of the peacocks. "it's mistress daniel collister of baldromma to see you, ma'am," said the maid. at the next moment, mrs. collister, with a timid air, hobbled into the room on her stick, and the two mothers came face to face. "you wish to speak to me," said mrs. gell. "if you plaze, ma'am," said mrs. collister, huskily. isabella gell, a sour-faced young woman, came into the room and stood behind her mother's chair. mrs. collister took the seat that was assigned to her, and fumbled the ribbons of her bonnet to loosen them. "it's about my daughter, ma'am." "well?" "my daughter and your son, ma'am." "eh?" "cæsar qualtrough of the kays has seen them together. they're living down castletown way, they're saying." "living .... my son and your daughter?" "so they're saying, ma'am." "i don't believe it! i don't believe a word of it!" "i wish in my heart i could say the same, ma'am. but it's truth enough, i'm fearing." "and if it is--i don't say it is, but if it is--why have you come to me?" then trembling all over, mrs. collister continued her story. her poor girl was in trouble. when a girl was in trouble the world could be cruel hard on her. nobody would think the cruel hard it could be. if a girl did wrong it was because somebody she was fond of had promised to marry her. what else would she do it for? when a young man had behaved like that to a poor girl he ought to keep his word to her. and if he had a mother, and she was a good christian woman.... mrs. gell, who was beating her foot on the carpet, broke in impatiently. "in short, you think my son ought to marry your daughter?" "it's nothing but right, ma'am." "and you've come here to ask me to tell him to do so?" "if you plaze, ma'am." "well, i never!" said isabella. "she's a mother herself, i was thinking, and if one of her own girls was in the same position...." "the idea!" said isabella. "mrs. collister," said mrs. gell, with a proud lift of her head, "i was sorry when i heard of the trouble your daughter had brought on you, but what you are doing now is a piece of great assurance." "but bessie is a good girl, ma'am. and if she married your son you would never have raison to be ashamed of her." "good indeed! if a girl isn't ashamed to be living with a young man the less said about her goodness the better." "aw well, ma'am," said mrs. collister (her faltering tongue had become firmer and her timid eyes had begun to flash), "if she's living with the young man, he's living with her, and the shame is the same for both, i'm thinking." mrs. gell drew herself up in her chair. "i'm astonished at you, mrs. collister! a woman yourself, and not seeing the difference." "aw yes, difference enough, ma'am! and when a young man doesn't keep his word it's the woman that's knowing it best by the trouble that's coming on her." mrs. gell, whose anger was rising, lifted her chin again and said, "if your daughter is in trouble, mrs. collister, how are we to know that she had not brought it on her own head, just to get alick to marry her?" "the creature!" said isabella. "and how are we to know that you and your husband have not encouraged the girl in her wickedness just to get our son for your son-in-law?" "aw well, ma'am," said mrs. collister (she was fumbling at the strings of her bonnet to tighten them), "if you are thinking as bad of me as that...." "you talk of the danger to your daughter if my son doesn't marry her," said mrs. gell. "but what of the danger to my son if he does? his life will be ruined. he will never be able to raise his head in the island again. his father will disown him. marry your daughter indeed! not only will i not ask him to marry her, but if i see the slightest danger of his doing anything so foolish i will do everything i can to prevent it." "aw well, we'll say no more, ma'am," said mrs. collister, and she shuffled to her feet. but mrs. gell was up before her. "alexander gell, son of the speaker and grandson of archdeacon mylechreest, married to the step-daughter of dan baldromma and the nameless offspring of liza collister.... "ma'am!" mrs. collister had hobbled to the door, and was going out, humbled and beaten, when mrs. gell's last words cut her to the quick. for more than twenty years she had taken the punishment of her own sin and bowed her head to the lash of it, but at this insult to her child the weak and timid creature turned about, as brave as a lion and as fierce as a fury. "i'm not your quality, i know that, ma'am," she said, breathing quickly, "but a day is coming, and maybe it's near, when we'll be standing together where we'll both be equal. just two old mothers, and nothing else between us. if you've loved your son, i've loved my daughter, whatever she is, ma'am. and when the one who reads all hearts is after asking me what i did for my child in the day of her trouble, i'll be telling him i came here to beg you on my knees to save her from a life of sin and shame, and you wouldn't, because your worldly pride prevented. and then it's himself, ma'am, will be judging between us!" ii there had been a sitting of the keys that day, and when the speaker returned home he found his wife on the sofa with a damp handkerchief over her forehead and a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. she told him what had happened. "well, well," he said, "so that's what it means. but there's no knowing what hedge the hare will jump from." his figure was less burly than before, his head was more bald and his full beard was whiter, but his eyes flashed with the same ungovernable fire. "that girl must be a thoroughly bad one," said mrs. gell. "it's not the first time she has got our alick into trouble, remember. we must save our son from the designing young huzzy." "tut! it's not the girl i'm troubling about." "who else, then?" "the man! i might have expected as much, though!" coming home in the train he had had some talk with kerruish, his advocate and agent. dan baldromma, who was back with his rent, was refusing to pay, and saying "let the spaker fetch me to coort, and i'll tell him the raison." "then can't you settle with the man, archie?" "settle with dan? i'll settle with alick first, bella, and if he has given that scoundrel the whip hand of me i'll break every bone in his body." "but it may not be true. it cannot be true. unless alick tells me so himself i'll never believe a word of it." they were at tea in the dining-room, country fashion, the speaker at the head of the table with a plate of fish before him, and his wife and daughters at either side, when alick entered. "helloa!" he cried, with a forced gaiety. but only his mother responded to his greeting and made room for him by her side. she saw that he was paler and thinner, and that his hand trembled when he took his cup. the speaker, who had turned his rough shoulder to his son, tried to restrain himself from breaking out on him until the meal would be over and he could take him into his own room, but before long his impatience overcame him. "what's this we're hearing about you--that you are carrying on with a girl?" "do you mean bessie collister, sir?" said alick. "certainly i mean bessie collister. and i thought you gave me your word that you would see no more of her." "but that was the promise of a boy, sir. did you expect it to bind the man also?" "the man? the man!" said the speaker, mimicking his son's voice in a mincing treble. "do you call yourself a man, bringing disgrace on your name and family." "what disgrace, sir?" "what disgrace? all the island seems to have heard of it. is it necessary to tell you? living secret, so they say, with a woman who isn't fit company for your mother and sisters." "if anybody told you that, sir," said alick (his lower lip was trembling), "he told you a lie--a damned lie, sir!" "there!" cried mrs. gell, turning to her husband. "what did i say? it isn't true, you see." "of course it isn't true, mother; and the best proof that i'm not behaving dishonourably to bessie collister is that i intend to marry her." it was a sickening moment for mrs. gell, and the speaker, for an instant, was dumbfounded. "eh? what? you intend to marry...." "yes, sir; and that's why i'm here to-day--to bring you the news, and to ask you to restore the allowance you cut down in the spring, you know." "that .... that .... that bast--...." "archie!" cried mrs. gell, indicating their daughters. "bessie is a good girl, father," said alick. "what happened before she was born wasn't her fault, sir." "so you've come to bring us the news and to ask me to double your allowance? "if you please, sir. you couldn't wish your son and his wife...." "his wife! there you are, bella! that's what i've been working day and night thirty years for--to see my son throw half my earnings--all that i can't will away from him--into the hands of a man like dan baldromma!" "but alick will be reasonable," said mrs. gell. "he'll give the girl up." "he'll have to do that, and quick too, or i'll cut off his allowance altogether." "do you mean it, sir?" said alick--he was pushing his chair back. "do i mean it? certainly i mean it. you'll give the girl up or never another penny of mine shall you see as long as i live!" "all right," said alick, rising from the table, "i'll earn my own living." the speaker broke into a peal of scornful laughter. "you earn your living! that's rich!" "give her up?" cried alick. "i'll break stones on the highway or porter on the pier before i'll give up her little finger!" "you fool! you confounded fool! but no fear! she'll give you up when she finds you've lost your income." "will she? i'll trust her for that, sir." "then get away back to her--you'll not be the first by a long way." alick, who had been trying to laugh, stopped his laughter suddenly, and said, "what do you mean by that, sir?" "mean? do you want me to tell you what i mean?" "archie," cried mrs. gell, and again she indicated their daughters. "get out of this, will you?" cried the speaker to the girls, who had been sitting with their noses in their teacups. the girls fled from the room, but stood outside to listen. "father," said alick, "you must tell me what you mean." "mean! mean! don't stand there cross-examining your own father. you know what i mean! if half they say about the young b-- .... is true she's fit enough for it, anyway." "if any other man had said that," said alick, quivering, "i should have knocked him down, sir." "what's that? you threaten me?" cried the speaker. his voice was like the scream of a sea-gull, and making a step towards alick he lifted his clenched fist to him. mrs. gell intervened, and alick retreated a pace or two. "take care, sir," he said. "you can't treat me like that now. i'm not a child any longer." "then get away to your woman .... and to hell, if you want to." "there was no need to tell me twice, sir. i'm going. and as god is my witness, i'll never set foot in this house again." at the next moment the peacocks were screaming outside, and the speaker, who had thrown up the window, was shouting through it in a broken roar, "alick! alick gell! come back, you damned scoundrel! alick! alexander...." they had to carry him upstairs and send for dr. clucas. it had been another of his paralysing brain-storms. it was not to be expected that he could bear many more of them. chapter seventeen the burning boat two days later, gell was stepping into the train for castletown on his way to derby haven. "give me up because my income is gone? not bessie! not bessie collister!" but bessie had gone through deep waters since he had seen her last. from the first victor stowell had disappointed her. to live in the dark--hidden away, unrecognised, suppressed--it had not been according to her expectations. her pride, too, had been wounded by being sent back to school. it was true that without being asked, mr. stowell had promised to marry her at some future time, but perhaps that was only because he was the son of the deemster and therefore afraid of her step-father and of the cry there would be all over the island if anything became known. if it had only been alick! alick would not have been ashamed of her. he would have taken her just as she was and never seen any shortcomings. after the first days at derby haven she had found herself looking forward to alick's visits. when she knew he was coming everything brightened up in her eyes and even her tiresome lessons became delightful. before long she felt her heart leap up whenever the misses brown called, "bessie, a gentleman to see you!" it is easy to kindle a fire on a warm hearth. alick had been bessie's first sweetheart, perhaps her only one. suddenly a wonderful thing happened to her. she found herself in love. she had thought she had always been in love with somebody, but now she realized that she had never been in love before. she was in love with alick gell. and she wished to become his wife. that altered everything. she began to see how ignorant she was compared with alick and how much she was beneath him. she remembered his three tall sisters who held their heads so high at anniversaries and bazaars, and thought what a shocking thing it would be if they were able to look down on her. how she worked to be worthy of him! she had no qualms about stowell. her only anxiety was about alick. she was certain that he loved her, yet what a fight she had for him! he was always talking about stowell, and praising him up to her. when he excused his friend for not coming to see her she was quite sure it was all nonsense. and when he gave her presents and said they were from stowell she knew where they came from. one day he brought a wrist-watch with the usual message, and after he had put it on (how his hands were trembling!) she tried to thank him, but didn't know how to do so. at last an idea occurred to her. they were walking on the langness, just by the ruin of a windmill, whose walls and roof had been carried away by a gale. "alick," she said, "i wonder if my new watch is right by the clock at castle rushen?" alick put his hands to his eyes like blinkers (for the sun was setting) and looked across the bay. while he did so, bessie slipped off on tiptoe and hid behind the walls of the windmill. as soon as she was missed there was a laugh and a shout and then a chase. bessie dodged and alick doubled, bessie dodged again, but at length she slipped into a hole, and at the next moment alick caught her up and kissed her. "now, what have you done?" she said, and her face was suffused with blushes. after that there could be no disguise between them. bessie felt no shame, and it never occurred to her that she had been guilty of treason. but gell talked about disloyalty and said he would never be at ease until she had made a clean breast of it to stowell. "then go and tell him we couldn't help loving each other," she said. when he was gone she was very happy. mr. stowell would give her up. of course he would. what had happened between them was dead and buried. whatever else he was victor stowell was a gentleman. he would say nothing to alick. then came a shock. on the following morning she felt unwell. she had often felt unwell since she came to derby haven, and the misses brown, simple old maids, seeing no cause except the change in the girl's way of life, wanted to send for a doctor. but doctors were associated in bessie's mind with death. if you saw a doctor going into a farmhouse one day you saw a coffin going in the next. chemists were not open to the same objection. often on market days, after she had sold out her basket of butter and eggs, she had called at the chemist's at ramsey for medicine for her mother. so, saying nothing to her housemates, she slipped round to the chemist's at castletown and asked for a bottle of mixture. the chemist, an elderly man with a fatherly face, smiled at her, and said: "but what is it for, miss?" bessie described her symptoms, and then the smiling face was grave. "are you a married woman, ma'am?" asked the chemist. bessie caught her breath, stared at the man for a moment with eyes full of fear, and then turned and fled out of the shop. all that day she felt dizzy and deaf. the earth seemed to be slipping from under her. memories of what she had heard from older women came springing to the surface of her mind, and she asked herself why she had not thought of this before. for a long time she struggled to persuade herself that the chemist was wrong, but conviction forced itself upon her at last. then she asked herself what she was to do, and remembering what she had learned as a child at home of her mother's miserable life before her marriage, she found only one answer to that question. she must ask mr. stowell to marry her. the thought of parting from alick was heart-breaking. but the most terrible thing was that she found herself hoping that stowell would refuse to release her. it had been a wretched day, dark and cheerless, with driving mist and drizzling rain. towards nightfall the old maids lighted a fire for her in the sitting-room, which was full of quaint nicknacks and old glass and china. the tide, which was at the bottom of the ebb, was sobbing against the unseen breakwater, and the gulls on the cobbles of the shore were calling continually. bessie was crouching over the fire with her chin in her hand when she heard the sneck of the garden gate, a quick step on the gravel, a light knock at the front door, a familiar voice in the lobby, and then old miss ethel saying behind her: "a gentleman to see you, bessie." her heart did not leap up as before, and she did not rise with her former alacrity, but alick gell came into the room like a rush of wind. "what's this--unwell?" he cried. "it's nothing! i shall be better in the morning," she said. "of course you will." and then, after a kiss, gell sat on a low stool at bessie's feet, stretched his long legs towards the fire, and began to pour out his story. he had seen stowell and the matter had turned out just as she had expected. splendid fellow! best chap in the world, bar none! "but what do you think, bess? the most extraordinary coincidence! dear old vic, he has been busy falling in love, too! fact! fenella stanley, daughter of the governor! magnificent girl, and vic is madly in love with her! so there's to be no heart-breaking on either side, and that's the best of it. makes one think there must be something in providence, doesn't it?" he was laughing so loud that the china in the room rang, but bessie was turning cold with terror. "and .... what about your father?" she faltered. "my father?" "well .... to tell you the truth there was a bit of a breeze there," he said, and then followed the story of the scene at the speaker's. "but no matter! i'm not without money, so we can be married at once, and the sooner the better." "but alick," she said (he was stroking her hand and she was trying to draw it away), "do you think it's best?" "best? why, of course i think it's best. don't you?" she did not reply. "don't you?" he said again, and then, getting no answer, he became aware that she, who had been so eager for their marriage before he went to ballamoar, was now holding back. "bessie," he said, "has anything happened while i've been away?" "no! oh no!" "you're .... you're not thinking of the loss of the income, are you?" "no, no; 'deed!, no!" "i knew you wouldn't. when my father taunted me with that, saying you would give me up as soon as you knew my allowance was gone, i said, 'not bessie! i'll trust her for that, sir.'" bessie began to cry. alick was bewildered. "what is it, then? tell me! are you .... are you thinking of stowell?" at that name she was seized by the mad impulse which comes to people on dizzy heights when they wish to throw themselves over--she wanted to blurt out the truth, to confess everything. but before she could speak alick was saying, "i shouldn't blame you if you were. i'm not his equal--i know that, bessie. but even if he were free i shouldn't give you up to him now. no, by god, not to him or to anyone." his voice was breaking. she looked at him. there were tears in his eyes. she could bear up no longer. with the cry of a drowning soul she flung her arms about him and sobbed on his breast. an hour later, having comforted and quietened her, gell was going off with swinging strides through the mist to catch the last train back to douglas. "she was thinking of me--that was it," he was telling himself. "thought i would come to regret the sacrifice and wanted to save me from being cut off by my family. so unselfish! never thinking of herself, bless her!" and bessie, in her bedroom was saying to herself, "he's that fond of me that he'll forgive me, whatever happens." she lay a long time awake, with her arms under her head, looking up at the ceiling. "yes, alick will forgive me, whatever happens," she thought. and then she blew out her candle, buried her head in her pillow, and fell asleep. ii when gell reached the railway-station he found the carriages waiting at the platform, half-full of impatient passengers. a trial, which was going on in the castle, was nearing its close, and the station-master had received orders that the last train to town was to be kept back for the judges and advocates. "the peel fisherman," thought gell. and, remembering that this was the case in which stowell was to represent the attorney-general, he walked over to the court-house, whose lantern-light was showing like a hazy white cloud above the castle walls. the little place was thick with sea mist, hot with the acid odour of perspiration, and densely crowded but breathlessly silent. the trial was over, the prisoner had been found guilty, and the deemster (it was deemster taubman, sitting with the clerk of the rolls as acting governor) was beginning to pronounce sentence: "prisoner at the bar, it will be my duty to communicate to the proper quarter the jury's recommendation to mercy, but i can hold out no hope that it will be of any avail. you have been found guilty of the wilful murder of your wife, therefore i bid you prepare...." and then followed those dread words in that dead stillness, which bring thoughts of the day of doom. gell caught one glimpse of the prisoner, as he stood in the dock, in his fisherman's guernsey, looking steadfastly into the face of his judge, and another glimpse as a way was cleared through the spectators and he walked with a strong step to the door leading to the cells. then the court-house cleared to a low rumble that was like the muffled murmuring that is heard after a funeral. gell asked for stowell, and was told that his friend had gone down to the deemster's room with one of the advocates for the defence to draw up the terms of the recommendation. therefore he returned to the station with a group of his fellow advocates, and on the way back he heard the story of the trial--little knowing how close it was to come to him. the prisoner (his name was morrison) had married the murdered woman in the winter. she had been a comely girl who had always borne a good character. on their wedding morning they had received many presents, one of them being a fishing-boat. this had been the gift of a distant relation of the bride's, a middle-aged man who had since married a rich widow. at easter, morrison had gone off with the fleet to the mackerel fishing at kinsale, and while there he had received an anonymous letter. it told him that his young wife had given birth, less than six months after their marriage, to a still-born child. morrison had said nothing about the letter, but he had made inquiries about the man who had given him the boat, and been told that he had borne a bad reputation. at the end of the mackerel season morrison had returned to the island with the rest of the fleet, and for everybody else there had been the usual joyful homecoming. it had been late at night on the first of june, when the stars were out and the moon was in its first quarter. as soon as the boats had been sighted outside the castle rock the sound signal had gone up from the rocket house, and within five minutes the fishermen's wives had come flying down to the quay, with their little shawls thrown over their heads and pinned under their chins. then, as the boats had come gliding into harbour, there had been the shrill questions of the women ashore and the deep-toned answers of the man afloat: "are you there, bill?" "is it yourself, nancy?" some of the younger women, who had had babies born while their husbands had been away, had brought them down with them, and one young wife, holding up her little one for her man to see, by the light of the moon and the harbour-master's lantern, had cried: "here he is, boy! what do you think of him?" almost before the boats could be brought to their moorings the fishermen had leapt ashore in their long boots and gone off home with their wives, laughing and talking. morrison had not gone. his wife had not been down to meet him. somebody had shouted from the quay that she was still keeping her bed and was waiting at home for him. but he had been in no hurry to go to her. when everything was quiet he had shouldered his boat to the top of the harbour, unstepped her mast, and run her ashore on the dry bank above the bridge. then going back to the quay, which was now deserted, he had broken the padlock of an open yard for ship's stores, taken possession of a barrel of pitch, rolled it down to the bank by the bridge, fixed it under his boat, pulled out its plug, applied a match to it, and then waited until both barrel and boat were afire and burning fiercely. after that he had walked home through the little sleeping town to his house in the middle of a cobweb of streets at the back of the beach. opening the door (it had been left on the latch for him) he had bolted it on the inside, and then going to the bedroom and finding his young wife in bed, with a frightened look under a timid smile, he had charged her with her unchastity, compelled her to confess to it, and then strangled her to death with his big hands--the marks of his broad thumbs, black with tar, being on her throat and bosom. in the middle of the night the fishermen who lived in the streets nearest to the harbour, awakened by a red glow in their bedrooms, had said to their wives: "what for are they burning the gorse on peel hill at this time of the year?" but others, who were neighbours of morrison's, having heard cries from his house in the night, had gathered in front of his door in the morning, and, getting no answer to their knocking, had burst it open and found the woman lying dead on the bed and the man huddled up on the floor at the foot of it. and when they had pushed him and roused him he had lifted his haggard face and said, "i've killed my sweetheart." such was the fisherman's story, and when the defence had concluded their case, asking for an acquittal on the ground of unbearable moral provocation, and saying that never could there have been better grounds for the application of the unwritten law, the jury was obviously impressed, and somebody at the back of the court was saying, "if they hang him for that they'll hang a man for anything." against this sympathy for the accused, stowell had risen to make his reply for the crown. he did not deny the dead woman's transgression. it was true that she must have known when she married the prisoner that she was about to become the mother of a child by another man. but if that moral fact could be urged against the wife, was there nothing of the same kind that could be advanced in her favour? she had been cruelly betrayed and abandoned. looking to the future she had seen the contempt of her little world before her. what had happened? in the dark hour of her desertion the prisoner had come with the offer of his love and protection. it was in evidence that for a time she had held back and that he had pressed himself upon her. none could know the secret of the dead woman's soul, but was it unreasonable to think that standing between the two fires of public scorn and the prisoner's affection she had said to herself, as poor misguided women in like cases did every day: "he loves me so much that he will forgive me whatever happens." but had he forgiven her? no, he had killed her, wilfully, cruelly, brutally, not in the heat of blood, but after long deliberation--he, the big powerful brute and she the weak, helpless, half-naked woman--the woman who had been faithful to him since the day he married her, the woman he had sworn to love and cherish until death parted them. no, the plea of moral justification was rotten to the heart's core, and had nothing to say for itself in a court of law. the defence had urged that it was founded on the laws of nature--that marriage implied chastity on the woman's part, and this woman had come to her husband unchaste. on the contrary, it was founded on the barbarous law of man--the infamous theory that a wife was the property of her husband and he was at liberty to do as he liked with her. a wife was not the property of her husband. he was not at liberty to do as he liked with her. there was no such thing as the unwritten law. what was not written was not law. and if, as the result of the verdict in that court, it should go forth that any man had a right to kill his wife in any circumstances--to be judge and jury and accuser and executioner over her--the reign of law and order in this island would be at an end, no woman's life would be secure, the daughter of no member of that jury would any longer be safe, and human society would dissolve into a welter of civilised savagery--the worst savagery of all. the effect of stowell's reply had been overwhelming. the jury had either been frightened or convinced, and even the prisoner himself, during the more intimate passages, had held down his head as if he felt himself to be the vilest scoundrel on earth. among the advocates (they had reached the station by this time, got into their carriages, and lit up their pipes) opinion was more divided. the younger men were enthusiastic, but some of the older ones thought the closing speech for the crown had been false in logic and bad in law. one of the latter, with a special cock of the hat, (it was old hudgeon, the young men called him "fanny" now), sat with his shaven chin on the top of his stick and said: "well, it's a big gospel the young man has got to live up to, with all his tall talk about women. but we'll see! we'll see!" gell, who was wildly excited by his friend's success, was walking to and fro on the platform waiting for stowell's arrival. when he came (he was the last to come) he had a graver look on his face than gell had ever seen there before, except once, and he seemed to be painfully preoccupied. "ah, is it you?" he had said, when gell laid hold of him--he had started as if he had seen a ghost. they got into the train together and had a carriage to themselves. gell began with his congratulations, but stowell brushed them aside, and said: "what happened with your father?" gell told his story as he had told it at derby haven--that the speaker had cut up badly and turned him out of the house. "but what do i care? not a ha'porth! best thing that ever happened to me, perhaps." "and bessie?" "oh, bessie? well, that's all right now. a bit troubled at first about my being cut off by the family and losing my income. just like a woman! so unselfish!" there was silence for some time after that save for the rumble of the carriage wheels. then gell said he was sorry he had told bessie about the loss of the income. she would always be thinking he would regret the sacrifice he had made for her. if he could only find some way of showing her it didn't matter, because he could always get plenty of money.... "and why can't you?" said stowell. "how?" "it's two pounds a week you draw on me for miss brown, isn't it?" "yes." "then i'll make it ten on condition that you don't pay me back a penny until i ask for it." "what a good chap...." but gell could get no farther--his eyes were full and his throat was hurting him. on arriving at douglas he saw stowell across the platform to the northern train, and just as it was about to start, he said: "by the way, old man, you don't mind my saying something?" "not a bit! what is it?" "you've hanged that poor devil of a peel fisherman, and i suppose he deserved it. but i caught a glimpse of him as he was going down to the cells, and i thought he looked a fine fellow." "he _is_ a fine fellow." "do _you_ say that? he made a big mistake in killing the wife, though, didn't he? if i had been in his place do you know what _i_ should have done?" "what?" "_killed the other man._" stowell drew back in his seat and at the next moment the train started. as it ran into the country a black thought, a vague shadow of something, was swirling like a bat in the darkness of stowell's brain. that was not the first time it had come to him. it had come to him in court, while he was speaking, startling him, stifling him, almost compelling him to sit down. "but bessie's case was different," he thought. "she was not deserted. she sent alick to me herself. therefore it's impossible, quite impossible." nevertheless, he slept badly that night, and as often as he awoke he had the sense of a red glow in his bedroom and of being blinded by the fierce glare from a burning boat. chapter eighteen the great winter "come in, my boy. sit down. take a cigarette. i have important news for you." the governor had returned from london and was calling stowell into his smoking-room. "first, about that recommendation to mercy. it has gone through. the death sentence has been commuted to ten years' imprisonment." "i am glad, sir--very glad." "next, your speech, deputizing for the attorney, was reported--part of it--in the london newspapers and made a good impression." "i'm very proud, sir." "i dined with the home secretary the following night, and the lord chief justice, who was among the guests, was warm in his approval. acid old fellow with noisy false teeth, but quite enthusiastic about your defence of law and order. crime was contagious like disease, and there was an epidemic of violence in the world now. if society was to be saved from anarchy then law alone could save it. some of their english courts--judges as well as juries--had been criminally indulgent to crimes of passion. our little manx court had shown them a good example." "that is very encouraging, sir." "very! and now the last thing i have to tell you is that tynwald court this morning voted a sum for a memorial to your father, leaving the form of it to me. i've decided on a portrait by mylechreest, your manx artist, to be hung in the court-house at castle rushen. mylechreest knew the deemster (saw him at his last court, in fact) and thinks he can paint the portrait from memory. but if you have any photographs let him have them without delay. and now off you go! somebody's waiting for you in the drawing-room." during the next six months stowell worked as he had never worked before. four hours a day at his office or in the courts, and uncounted hours at home. janet used to say she could never look out of her bedroom window at night without seeing his light from the library on the lawn. nevertheless he was at government house every day, and fenella and he had their cheerful hours together. winter came on. it was such a winter as nobody in the island could remember to have seen before. first wind that lashed the sea into loud cries about the coast, blew over the curraghs with a perpetual wailing, ran up the glen with a roar, and brought the "boys" out of their beds to hold the roofs on their houses by throwing ropes over the thatch and fastening them down, with stones. then rain that deluged the low-lying lands, so that women had to go to market in boats; and then mist that hid the island for a week and brought more ships ashore than anybody had seen since the days of the ten black brothers of jurby who (long suspected of wrecking) were caught stuffing the box tombs in the churchyard with rolls of irish cloth. but neither wind, nor rain, nor mist, kept stowell from fenella. clad in boots up to his thighs, with an oilskin coat tightly belted about the waist and a sou'wester strapped down from crown to chin, he would cross the mountains on his young chestnut mare, with the island roaring about him like a living thing, and arrive at fenella's door with his horse's flanks steaming and his own face ablaze. after the wind and the rain came a long frost, which laid its unseen hand on the rivers and waterfalls, making a deep hush that was like a great peace after a great war. in the middle of the island (the valley of baldwin) there was a tarn into which the mountains drained, and as soon as this was frozen over stowell and fenella skated on it. what a delight! the ice humming under their feet like a muffled drum; the air ringing to their voices like a cup; the sun sparkling in the hoar frost on the bare boughs of the trees; the blue sky sailing over the hilltops, capped with white clouds that looked like soft lamb's wool. god, how good it was to be alive! then came a great snow that brought a still deeper silence, broken at ballamoar only by the skid of the steel runners of the stiff carts, whose wheels had been removed, and the smothered calling of the cattle which had been shut up in the houses. but what rapture! every morning the farmers looked out of their windows, thick with ice, to see if the snow had gone, but as stowell drew his blind and the snow light of the winter's sun came pouring in upon him, he thought only of another joyous day with fenella. then up to injebreck in white sweaters and woollen helmets to fly down the long slopes on ski, with all the world around them robed and veiled like a bride. there was a broad ridge on the top, a great divide, separating the north of the island from the south, and as they skimmed across it from sight of eastern to sight of western sea, it was just as if they were sailing through the sky with the white round hills for clouds and the earth lying somewhere far below. they were doing this one day when stowell came upon a place where the snow was honeycombed with holes. "helloa! there's something here!" he cried. digging into the snow he found a buried sheep, still alive but unable to stand. so, taking it by its front and back legs he swung it over his head on to his shoulders and carried it to a shepherd's hut a mile away, where a turf fire was burning, and dogs, with snow on their snouts, were barking about a pen of bleating sheep that had been similarly recovered. his delight at this rescue was so boisterous that he went back and back for hours and brought in other and other sheep. fenella, who followed him with his ski staffs, was in raptures. this was a new side of victor stowell, and she had a woman's joy in it. he was not only clever, he was strong. he could not only make speeches (as nobody else in the world could), he could ride and skate and ski, and (if he liked) he could lift a woman in his arms and throw her over his shoulder. something would come of this some day--she was sure it would. they were at the top of the pass, stamping the snow off their ski, and shaking it out of their gloves, before going down to the governor's carriage which (also on runners) was waiting for them at the inn at the bottom of the hill. the sun was setting and the red light of it was flushing fenella's face. she looked sideways at stowell with a mischievous light in her eyes and said, "now i know what you are, sir." "yes?" "you are not a lawyer, really." "no?" "you're an old viking, born a thousand years after your time." "you don't say." "yes," she said, making ready for flight, "one of those sea robbers you told me of, who came to take possession of the island and capture its women." "really?" "i dare say you're sorry you're not back with your ridiculous old ancestors, catching a woman for your wife." "not a bit! i've caught one already." "eh? what? if you mean .... don't be too sure, sir! you've not caught me yet!" "haven't i? look out then--i'm going to catch you now." "catch me!" she cried, and away she flew down the slopes, laughing, screaming, rocking, reeling, and leaping over the drifts, until at length she tumbled into a deep one, with head down and ski in air, and came up half blind, with stowell's arms about her and his lips kissing the snow off her chin and nose. what a winter! could there be any sorrow or sin or crime in the world at all? and what did it want its prisons and courts for? but the thaw came at length, and then the noises of the garrulous old island began again with the rattle of the cart wheels, the rumble of the rivers running to the sea, and the mooing and bleating of the liberated cattle and sheep, coming out of their ark and going back to the discoloured grass of the fields. stowell and fenella felt as if they were descending to a world of reality from a world of dreams. "good-night!" they were in the porch at government house after the last of their winter expeditions. he was crushing her in his arms again, to the ruin of her beautiful hair, and whispering of the time that was coming when there would be no need for such partings. "three months yet, sir!" "heavens, what an age!" and then home to ballamoar, with his young chestnut under him sniffing the night air, and over his head a paradise of stars. ii "_come immediately. important news for you._" it was a telegram from the governor, who had been in london again. stowell went up to douglas by the first train. "it's about the deemstership." "ah!" "old taubman, as you know, has been complaining of overwork ever since your father died. the winter had crippled him and he is down with rheumatism. fortnightly courts being postponed, cases in arrears--it was necessary to do something. so i went up to whitehall last week and told them a successor would have to be appointed. they asked me to recommend a name and i recommended yours." "mine, sir?" "yours! it was all right, too, until i had to tell them your age, and then--phew! a judge and not yet thirty! i stood to my ground, said this was the age of youth, quoted the classical examples. anyhow, there was my recommendation--take it or leave it." "and what was the result, sir?" "the result was that the lord chief was consulted, and then our insignificance saved us. yes, there was precedent enough for young judges in colonies and dependencies. and this being a case of a worthy son succeeding a worthy father .... and so on and so forth." "well?" "well, the end of it is that you are to go up to see the home secretary after the house has risen at easter." stowell's heart was beating high, yet he hardly knew whether he was more proud than afraid. he mumbled something about the claims of his seniors at the bar. "oh yes, i know! all the old stick-in-the-muds! but keep your end up in london and i'll keep mine up here." "you are very good, sir. you have always been good to me." the governor, who had been rattling on, in a rush of high spirits, suddenly became grave and spoke slowly. "not at all," he said. "and i'm not thinking of you as .... what you are going to be. i'm thinking of you as your father's son, and expecting you to live up to your traditions. we want the spirit of the great deemster in the island these days. violence! violence! violence! i agree with the lord chief. it seems as if the world is getting out of hand. justice is the only thing that can save it from anarchy--utter anarchy and ruin. let's have no more recommendations to mercy! when people commit crime let them suffer. when they take life--no matter who or what they are--let them die for it." "and by the way" (stowell was leaving the room), "your father's portrait is finished. we must unveil it before you go up to london." trembling all over, stowell went into the library to tell fenella. "how splendid!" she said. she was glowing with excitement. "you've done magnificent work for women as an advocate, but only think what you will be able to do as a judge! there isn't a poor, wronged girl in the island who won't know that she has a friend on the bench!" end of second book _third book_ the consequence chapter nineteen the eve of mary bessie collister had passed through a very different winter. when she read in the insular newspaper the long report of the trial of the peel fisherman she was terrified. men did not forgive their wives, then, in such cases? on the contrary the more they loved them the less they forgave them. gell came bounding into the sitting-room while she had the newspaper in her hand and before she had time to hide it away he saw what she had been reading. "terrible, isn't it?" he said. "poor devil, i was sorry for him. when a woman deceives a man like that the law ought to allow him to put her away. he did wrong, of course, but he had no legal remedy--not an atom. old vic made out a magnificent case for the woman, but she deserved all she got, i'm afraid." bessie gave a frightened cry, and then gell said, as if to conciliate her. "i'll tell you what, though. if the woman was guilty there was somebody else who was ten times guiltier, and that was the other man. the scoundrel! the treacherous, deceitful scoundrel, skulking away in the dark! i should like to choke the life out of him. that's what i said to stowell going up in the train. 'if i had been in the husband's place do you know what i should have done?' i said. 'i should have killed the other man.'" bessie's terror increased ten-fold. dread of what gell might do sat on her like a nightmare. to marry him seemed to be impossible, yet not to marry him, now that she loved him so much, seemed to be impossible also. a secret hope came to her. it was early days yet. perhaps something would happen to her bye-and-bye, which, being over and done with, would leave her free to marry alick with a clean heart and conscience. to help it to come to pass, she stayed indoors, took no exercise, and ate as little as possible. her health declined, and her face in the glass began to look peaky. she took a fierce joy in these signs of increasing weakness. the miss browns kept a few chickens in their back garden, and one morning, after the snow had begun to fall, they found bessie in bare feet going out to feed them. "bessie, what are you doing?" they cried. "it's nothing," she said. "i'm used of it, you know. i was eight years old before i wore shoe or stocking." meantime she was putting gell off and off. "time enough yet, boy," she would say as often as he asked her. "she's thinking of me again," thought gell, and he began on a long series of fictions to account for his new-found prosperity. he was getting along wonderfully in his profession, and was better off now than he had been before he lost his allowance. but still it was "bye-and-bye! time enough yet, boy!" one day gell came with an almost irresistible story. he had bespoken a house in athol street. it was just what they wanted. close to the law library and nearly opposite the new court house. two rooms on the ground floor for his offices, two on the first floor for their living apartments, and two on the top for the kitchen and for the maid. it is the temptation that no woman can resist--the desire to have a home that shall be all her own--and for a few weeks bessie fell to it. evening after evening, she and alick sat side by side in the sitting-room making catalogues of all they would require to set up a household. gell took charge of the tables and chairs and side-boards. bessie was the authority on the blankets and linen. it was such a delight to construct a home from memory! and then what laughs and thrills and shamefaced looks when, in spite of all their thinking, they remembered some intimate and essential thing which they had hitherto forgotten. "sakes alive, boy, you've forgotten the bedstead." "lord, so i have. we shall want a bedstead, shan't we?" but even this fierce gambling with her fate broke down at last with bessie. the certainty had fallen on her. the natural strength of her constitution had withstood all the attacks she had made upon it. whether she married gell, or did not marry him, there was nothing before her except suffering and disgrace. how could she keep his love against the shame that was striding down on her? christmas had come. it was christmas eve. the manx people call it oie'l verry (the eve of mary), and during the last hour before midnight they take possession of their parish churches, over the heads of their clergy, for the singing of their ancient manx carvals (carols). the old miss browns were to keep oie'l verry at their church in castletown. they had always done so, and this time bessie was to go with them. it was a clear cold winter's night with crisp snow underfoot, and overhead a world of piercing stars. as the two old maids in their long black boas, and bessie in a fur-lined coat which gell had sent as a christmas present, crossed the foot-bridge over the harbour and walked under the blind walls of the dark castle, the great clock in the square tower was striking eleven. but it was bright enough in the market place, with the light from the church windows on the white ground, and people hurrying to church at a quick trot and stamping the snow off their boots at the door. it was brighter still inside, for the altar and pulpit had been decorated with ivy and holly, and, though the church was lit by gas, most of the worshippers, according to ancient custom, had brought candles also. the church was very full, but the old miss browns, with bessie behind them, walked up the aisle to the pew under the reading-desk which they had always rented. the congregation about them was a strangely mixed one, and the atmosphere was half solemn and half hilarious. the gallery was occupied by farm lads and fisher-lads chiefly, and they were craning their necks to catch glimpses of the girls in the pews below, while the girls themselves (as often as they could do so without being observed by their elders) were glancing up with gleaming eyes. in the body of the church there were middle-aged folks with soberer faces, and in the front seats sat old people, with slower and duller eyes and cheeks scored deep with wrinkles--the mysterious hieroglyphics of life's troubled story, sickness and death, husbands lost at half-tide and children gone before them. an opening hymn had just been sung, the last notes of the organ were dying down, the clergyman, in his surplice, was sitting by the side of the altar, and the first of the carol singers had risen in his pew, candle in hand, to sing his carval. he was a rugged old man from the mountains of rushen, half landsman and half seaman, and his carol (which he sang in the manx, while the tallow guttered down on his discoloured fingers) was a catalogue of all the bad women mentioned in the bible, from eve, the mother of mankind, who brought evil into the world, to "that graceless wench, salome." after that came similar carols, sung by similar carol-singers and received by the boys in the gallery with gusts of laughter which the clerk tried in vain to suppress. but at last there came a carval sung in chorus by twelve young girls with sweet young voices and faces that were chaste and pure and full of joy--all carrying their candles as they walked slowly up the aisle from the western end of the church to the altar steps. their carol was an account of the nativity, scarcely less crude than the carols that had gone before it, though the singers seemed to know nothing of that--how joseph, being a just man, had espoused a virgin, and finding she was with child before he married her, he had wished to put her away, but the angel of the lord had appeared to him and told him not to, and how at last he had carried his wife and child away into the land of egypt, out of reach of the wrath of herod the king, who was trying to disgrace and destroy them. a little before midnight the clergyman rose and asked for silence. and then, while all heads were bowed and there was a solemn hush within, the great clock of the castle struck twelve in the darkness outside. after that the organ pealed out "hark, the herald angels sing," and everybody who had a candle extinguished it, and all stood up and sang. the bells were ringing joyfully as the congregation trooped out of the church, but for some while longer they moved about on the crinkling snow in front of it, saluting and shaking hands, everybody with everybody. "a merry christmas and a happy new year to yea." "same to you, and many of them." they saluted and shook hands with bessie also. then the verger put out the lights in the church behind them, and in the sudden darkness the crowd broke up, one more oie'l verry over, and under the slow descent of the starlight the cheerful voices and crinkling footsteps went their various ways home. back at derby haven, bessie, who had been on the point of crying during the latter part of the service, ran up to her room, flung herself face down on her bed and burst into a flood of tears. if she, too, could only fly away, and stay away, until her trouble was over! but how could she do that? and where could she go to? ii two months passed. bessie's time was fast approaching, and the nearer it came the more she was terrified by the signs of it. the symptoms of coming maternity which are a joy and a pride to married mothers were a dread and a terror to her. had she brought herself so low that she could not live through the time that was before her? at one moment she thought of going to fenella. everybody said how good miss stanley was to girls in trouble. but when she remembered fenella's relation to stowell, and stowell's to gell, and her own to all three, she told herself that fenella stanley was the one woman in the world whom she must never come face to face with. at length, thinking death was certain, she saw only one thing left to do--to go back to her mother. it was not thus that she had expected to return, but nothing else was possible now. in her helplessness and ignorance, having no one to reassure her, the high-spirited girl became a child again. twenty years of her life slipped back at a stride, and she felt as she used to do when she ran bare-foot on the roads and fell and bruised her knees, or tore her little hairy legs in the gorse and then went home to lie on her mother's lap and be rocked before the fire and comforted. but going home had its terrors also. there was dan baldromma! what could she do? was there no way out for her? one day the elder of the miss browns (she gave music lessons to old pupils at their own homes) came back from castletown with a "shocking story." it was about a witch-doctor at cregnaish--a remote village at the southernmost extremity of the island, where the inhabitants were supposed to be descended from a crew of spanish sailors who had been wrecked on the rocky coast below. the witch-doctor was a woman, seventy years of age, and commonly called nan. hitherto she had lived by curing ringworms on children and blood-letting in strong men by means of charms that were half in latin and half in manx. but now young wives were going to her to be cured of barrenness, or for mixtures to make their husbands love them; and worst of all, the young girls from all parts of the island were flocking to her to be told their fortunes--whether their boys at the mackerel fishing were true to them, or going astray with the irish girls of kinsale and cork. "it's shocking, this witchcraft," said old miss brown. "in my young days it was given for law that the women who practised such arts should stand in a white sheet on a platform in the marketplace with the words _for charming_ and _sorcery_ in capital letters on their breasts." bessie said nothing, but next day, after breakfast, making excuse of her need of a walk, she hurried out, took train to port erin, and climbed, with many pauses, the zigzag path up the mull hills to where a druids' circle sits on the brow, and cregnaish (like a gipsy encampment of mud huts thatched with straw) sprawls over the breast of them. it was a fine spring morning, with the sea lying still on either side of the uplands, and the sun, through clouds of broken crimson, peering over the shoulder of the calf like a blood-shot eye. bessie had no need to ask her way to the witch-doctor's house, for troops of young girls were coming down from it, generally in pairs, whispering and laughing merrily. at length she came upon it--a one-storey thatched cottage with a queue of girls outside. when the last of the girls had gone, and bessie still stood waiting on the opposite side of the rutted space which served for a road, a wisp of a woman, with hair and eyebrows as black as a shoe, but a face as wrinkled as the trunk of the trammon tree, came to the door and said, "come in, my fine young woman. there's nothing to be freckened of." it was nan, the witch-doctor, and bessie followed her into the house. the inside was a single room with a fire at one end and a bed at the other. the floor was of hardened clay and the scraas of the roof were so low overhead that a tall man could scarcely have stood erect under them. bundles of herbs hung from nails in the sooty rafters and when the old woman closed the door, bessie saw that the _crosh cuirn_ (the cross of mountain ash) was standing at the back of it. "i'm in trouble, ma'am," said bessie, who was on the verge of tears, "and i'm wanting to know what to do and what is to happen to me." the witch-doctor, whose quick eyes had taken in the situation at a glance, said, "aw yes, bogh, trouble enough. but knock that cat off the cheer in the choillagh and sit down and make yourself comfortable." bessie loosened her fur-lined cloak and sat in the ingle, with the fire at her feet and a peep of the blue sky coming down on her from the wide chimney. "they were telling me a fine young woman was coming," said the witch-doctor (she meant the invisible powers), "and it was wondering and wondering i was would she have strength to climb the brews. but here you are, my chree, and now a cup o' tay will do no harm at all." bessie tried to refuse, but the old woman said, "chut! a cup o' tay is nothing and here's my taypot on the warm turf and the tay at the best, too." while bessie sipped at her cup the witch-doctor went on talking, but she took quick glances at the girl from time to time and sometimes asked a question. at length she bolted the door, drew a thick blind over the window, knelt before the hearth, and called on bessie to do the same, so that they were kneeling side by side, with no light in the darkened room except the red glow from the fire on their faces and the blue streak from the sky behind the smoke from the chimney. after that the witch-doctor mumbled some rhymes about st. patrick and the blessed st. bridget, then put her ear to the ground, saying she was listening to the _sheean ny feaynid_, the invisible beings who were always wandering over the world. and then she began on the fortune, which bessie, who was trembling, interrupted with involuntary cries. "there's a fair young man in your life, my chree (_yes_) and if you're not his equal you're the apple of his eye. there's a poor ould woman, too, and she praying and praying for her bogh-millish to come home to her (_oh!_) and the longing that's taking the woman at times is pitiful to see. 'where is my wandering girl to-night,' she's singing when she's sitting by her fireside; and when she's going to bed she's saying, 'in jesu's keeping nought can harm my erring child.'" at this bessie broke down utterly, and the witch-doctor had to stop for a moment. then she began again in a different strain, "there's an ould man too .... yes .... no .... (_yes, yes!_) as imperent as sin and as bould as a white stone, and with a vice at him as loud as a trambone. aw, yes, woman-bogh, yes, there's trouble coming on you, but take heart, gel, for things will come out right before long and it's a proud woman you're going to be some day. but you must go home to the mother, my chree, and never take rest till you're laying your head under the same roof with her." "and will the young man be true to me whatever happens?" "true as true, my chree, and his heart that warm to you at last that it will be like gorse and ling burning on the mountains." "and will the old man be able to do him any injury?" "lough bless me, no! neither to him nor you, gel. roaring and tearing and mad as a wasp, maybe, but nothing to do no harm at all." bessie had crossed the old woman's palm with sixpence as she came into the house, but she emptied her purse into it going out, and then went down the hill with a light step and a lighter heart. alick gell was at derby haven when she got back, having been waiting for more than an hour. seeing her coming down the road with her face aglow, he dashed off to meet her, and broke into a flood of joyous words. "helloa! here you are at last! looking as fresh as a flower, too? what did i say? didn't i tell you that you had only to get about and take exercise and you would be as right as rain in no time? but, look here, bess" (he had drawn her arm through his), "you've kept me waiting all winter and now that you're getting better i'm going to stand no more nonsense." bessie was laughing. "i'm not! upon my soul, i'm not! you wouldn't let me put up the banns at malew, thinking dan baldromma would hear of them through cæsar qualtrough, and come here making a noise at miss brown's, though he has no more right over you than the coroner, and no more power over me than a tomtit. but there are other ways of marrying besides being called in church, and one of them is by bishop's licence." "bishop's licence?" "certainly! you just go up to the registrar's in douglas, sign your names in a book, pay a few pounds, get the bishop's certificate, and then you can be married wherever you like and as quietly as you please. and that's what we're going to do now." "now? you mean to-day?" "well, no, not to-day. i have to go to the castle this afternoon. they're unveiling a portrait of the old deemster. and what do you think, bess?" "what?" "there's a whisper that stowell is to be made deemster in succession to his father. glorious, isn't it? splendid chap! straight as a die! rather young, certainly, but there's not one of the old gang fit to hold a candle to him. he's to go up to london to-morrow, so i want to see the last of him. but i'll be down by the first train after the boat sails in the morning, and then we'll go back to douglas together." they had reached the gate of the old maid's house by this time and gell was looking at his watch. "pshew! i must be off! ceremony begins at three and it's that already. wouldn't miss it for worlds. by-bye! ... another one! .... oh, but you must, though." bessie looked after him as he hurried down the road, swinging his arms and pitching his shoulders, as he always did when his heart was glad. then she went indoors, ran upstairs and set herself to think things out. she must go before alick could get back. when he arrived to-morrow she must be on her way to her mother's. it was earlier than she had intended, but there was no help for that now. and then it would be all right in the end--the _sheean ny feaynid_ (the voices of infinity) had said so. after her child had been born her mother would take it and bring it up as her own--she had heard of such things happening in manx houses, hadn't she? and when all was over and everything was covered up, she would come back, and then .... then alick and she would be married. in the light of what the witch-doctor had said it seemed to her so natural, so simple, so sure. but later in the evening, it tore her heart woefully to think of alick coming from douglas on the following day and finding her gone. so she wrote this note and stole out and posted it: "don't come to-morrow. i'll be writing again in the morning, telling you the reason why." chapter twenty victor stowell's vow the old court-house at castle rushen was full to overflowing. nearly all the great people of the island were there--the legislative council, the keys, the leaders of the bar, the more prominent members of the clergy, the long line of insular officials, with their wives and daughters. a pale shaft of spring sunshine from the lantern light was on the new portrait of the deemster, which had been hung on the eastern wall and was still covered by a white sheet. the time of waiting for the proceedings to begin was passed in a low buzz of conversation, chiefly on one subject. "is it true that he is to follow his father?" "so they say." "so young and with so many before him--i call it shocking." "so do i, but then he's the son of the old deemster, and is to marry the daughter of the governor." at the last moment stowell and fenella arrived and were shown into seats reserved for them at the end of the jury-box. then the conversation (among the women at least) took another turn. "well, they're a lovely pair--i will say that for them." the governor, accompanied by the bishop and the attorney-general, stepped on to the crimson-covered dais, and the proceedings commenced. the governor's own speech was a short one. they had gathered to do honour to the memory of one of the most honoured of their countrymen. the memory of its great men was a nation's greatest inheritance. if that was true of the larger communities it was no less true of the little realm of man. "hence the island," said the governor, "is doing a service to itself in setting up in this court-house, the scene of his principal activities, the memorial to its great deemster which i have now the honour to unveil." when the governor pulled a cord and the white sheet fell from the face of the picture there was a gasp of astonishment. the impression of reality was startling. the deemster had been painted in wig and gown and as if sitting on the bench in that very court-house. the powerful yet melancholy eyes, the drawn yet firm-set mouth, the suggestion of suffering yet strength--it was just as he had been seen there last, summing up after the trial of the woman who had killed her husband. as soon as the spectators, who had risen, had resumed their seats, the governor called on the attorney-general. the old man was deeply moved. the deemster had been his oldest and dearest friend. it was difficult for him to remember a time when they had not been friends and impossible to recall an hour in which their friendship had been darkened by so much as a cloud. if it was true that the memory of its great men was a nation's greatest inheritage, the island had a great heritage in the memory of deemster stowell. he had been great as a lawyer, great as a judge, great as a gentleman, as a friend, as a lover, as a husband, and (with a glance in the direction of the jury-box) as a father also. "i pray and believe," said the attorney, "that this memorial to our great deemster may be a stimulus and an inspiration to all our young men whatsoever, particularly to such as are in the profession of the bar, and especially to one who bears his name, has inherited many of his splendid talents, and may yet be called, please god, to fill his place and follow in his footsteps." when the old man sat down there was general applause, a little damped, perhaps, by the last of his references, and then followed the event of the afternoon. by the blind instinct that animates a crowd, all eyes turned in the direction of victor stowell. he sat by fenella's side, breathing audibly with head down and hands clasped tightly about one of his knees. there was a pause and then a low stamping of feet and fenella whispered, "they want you to speak, dear." but stowell did not seem to hear, and at length the governor called on him by name. when he rose he looked pale and much older, and bore a resemblance to the picture of his father on the opposite wall which few had observed before. he began in a low tense voice, thanking his excellency for asking him to speak, but saying he would have given a great deal not to do so. "the only excuse i can have for standing here to-day," he said, "is that i may thank you, sir, and this company, and my countrymen and countrywomen generally, in the name of one whose voice, so often heard within these walls, must now be silent." after that he paused, as if not quite sure that he ought to go further, and then continued, "if my father was a great judge, it was chiefly because he was a great lover of justice. justice was the most sacred thing on earth to him, and no man ever held higher the dignity and duty of a judge. woe to the judge who permitted personal motives to pervert his judgment, and thrice woe to him who committed a crime against justice. therefore, if i know my father's heart and have any right to speak for him, i will say that what you have done this afternoon is not so much to perpetuate the memory of douglas stowell, deemster of man, as to set up in this old court-house, which has witnessed so many tragic scenes, an altar to the spirit of justice, so that no judge, following him in his place, may ever forget that his first and last and only duty is to be just and fear not." he paused again and seemed to be about to stop, but, in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible, he said, "as for myself i hardly dare to speak at all. what my dear master has said of me makes it difficult to say anything. some people seem to think it is a great advantage to a young man to be the son of a great father. but if it is a great help it is also a great responsibility and may sometimes be the source of a great sorrow. i never knew what my father had been to me until i lost him. i had always been proud of him, but i had rarely or never given him reason to be proud of me. that is a fault i cannot repair now. but there is one thing i can do and one thing only. i can take my solemn vow--and here and now i do so--that whatever the capacity in which my duty calls me to this place, i will never wilfully do anything in the future, with my father's face on the wall in front of me, that shall be unworthy of my father's son." there were husky cheers and some clapping of hands when stowell sat down, but most of the men were clearing their throats and wiping the mist off their spectacles, and nearly all of the women were coughing and drying their eyes. others were to have spoken but the governor closed up the proceedings quickly, and then there was a general conversazione. the officials were talking in groups:--"wonderful! the governor and the old attorney were grand, but the young man was wonderful!" "we might go farther and fare worse." "like his father, you say?" (it was the attorney-general) "so like what his father was at his age that sometimes when i look at him i think i'm a young man myself again, and then it's a shock to go home and see an old man's face in the glass." a group of old ladies had gathered about fenella, whose great eyes were ablaze. "it was beautiful, my dear, but there was just one other person who ought to have been here to hear it." "who?" "the old deemster himself, dear." "but he was," said fenella. the governor drew stowell aside. "it's all right, my boy! must have been instinct, but you touched your people on their tenderest place. pretty hard on you, perhaps, but i knew what i was doing. the opposition in the island is as dead as a door nail already. get into the saddle in london and you'll never hear another word about it." there were only two dissentients. "aw well, we'll see, we'll see," said the speaker--he was going out of the castle (head down and his big beard on his breast), with old hudgeon the advocate. as he passed through the outer gate his son alick came running hotfoot up to it. it was a cruel moment. ii victor stowell left the island for london at nine o'clock next morning. the first bell of the steamer had been rung, the mails were aboard, and the more tardy of the passengers were hurrying to the gangway, with their porters behind them, when the governor's carriage drew up and stowell leapt out of it. a large company of the younger advocates (all former members of the "ellan vannin") were waiting for him. "come to see me off? yes? jolly good of you," said stowell, and he stood talking to them at the top of the pier steps till the second bell had been rung. down to that moment nobody had said a word about the object of his journey, although every eye betrayed knowledge of it. but just as he was crossing the gangway to the steamer one of the advocates (a little fat man with the reputation of a wag) cried, with a broad smatch of the anglo-manx, "bring it back in your bres' pockat, boy"--meaning the king's commission for the deemstership. "you go bail," said stowell, and there was general laughter. he was settling himself with his portmanteau in the deck cabin that had been reserved for him when somebody darkened the doorway. "helloa!" it was gell. his cheeks were white, his face looked troubled, and he was breathing rapidly as if he had been running. "what's amiss?" said stowell. "something has happened to you. what is it?" gell stepped into the cabin, and with a suspicion of tears both in his eyes and voice, told his story. it was bessie again. he didn't know what had come over the girl. she had been holding off all winter. first one excuse, then another. "i've done all i can think of. taken a house in athol street and furnished it beautifully (thanks to you, old fellow), but it's no use, seemingly." "when did you see her last?" "yesterday, and i thought i had settled everything at last. she wouldn't be called in church, so i arranged that i was to go down to derby haven this morning, as soon as your boat sailed, and we were to come up to the registrar's to sign for a bishop's license. and now, by the first post .... this." with a trembling hand gell took out of his pocket the letter which bessie had written the night before and handed it to stowell. with a momentary uneasiness stowell read the letter. "reason? what is it likely to be, think you?" "i don't know. i can't say. it's a mystery. i've racked my brains and can only think of one thing now." "and what's that?" "that she finds out at last that she doesn't care enough for me to marry me." "nonsense, old fellow." "what else can it be? there can be nothing else, can there?" stowell's uneasiness increased. "what do you intend to do?" "go down just the same. i've been telegraphing saying i'm coming. that's why i'm late getting down to the boat." "and if she persists?" "give her up and clear out, i suppose." "you mean leave the island?" "why shouldn't i? i've only been a stick-in-the-mud here and couldn't do much worse anywhere else, could i? besides" (his voice was breaking) "there's my father. you remember what he said. i couldn't face it out if the girl threw me over." "she's not well, is she?" "not very." "nothing serious?" "no--nothing, the miss browns think, that we might not expect after such a change in her life and condition." "then that's it! cheer up, old man! it will all come right yet. women suffer from so many things that we men know nothing about." "if i could only think that...." "you may--of course you may." "victor," said gell, taking stowell's hand, "will you do one thing more for me?" "certainly--what is it?" "nobody can read a woman as you can--everybody says that. if bessie gives me the same answer to-day will you go down to derby haven with me when you come back, and find out what's amiss with her?" "assuredly i will .... that is to say .... if you think...." "is it a promise?" "undoubtedly. it shall be the first thing i do when i return to the island." "all ashore! all ashore!" a sailor was shouting on the deck outside the cabin door, and the third bell was ringing. gell was the last to cross the gangway. "good-bye and god bless you, and good luck in london! you deserve every bit of it!" at the next moment the gangway was pulled in, the ropes were thrown aboard, and the steamer was gliding away. the young advocates on the pier-head were beginning to make a demonstration. one of them (the wag of course) was singing a sentimental farewell in a doleful voice and the others were joining in the chorus: "_better lo'ed ye canna be, will ye no come back again?_" some of the other passengers (english commercial travellers apparently) were looking on, so to turn the edge of the joke stowell sang also, and when his deep baritone was heard above the rest there was a burst of laughter. "good-bye! good-luck! bring it back, boy!" gell was standing at the sea-end of the pier, waving his cap and struggling to smile. at sight of his face stowell felt ashamed of his own happiness. a vague shadow of something that had come to him before came again, with a shudder such as one feels when a bat strikes one in the dusk. at the next moment it was gone. the steamer was swinging round the breakwater and opening the bay, and he was looking for a long white house (government house) which stood on the heights above the town. he had slept there last night, and this morning fenella, parting from him in the porch, while the governor's high-stepping horses were champing on the gravel outside, had promised to signal to him when she saw the steamer clearing the harbour. ah, there she was, waving a white scarf from an upper window. stowell stood by the rail at the stern and waved back his handkerchief. fenella! he could see nothing but her dark eyes and beaming smile, and gell's sad face was forgotten. it was a fine fresh morning, with the sun filtering through a veil of haze and the world answering to the call of spring. as the boat sailed on, the island seemed to recede and shrink and then sink into the sea until only the tops of the mountains were visible--looking like a dim grey ghost that was lying at full stretch in the sky. at length it was gone; the sea-gulls which had followed the steamer out had made their last swirl round and turned towards the land, but stowell was still looking back from the rail at the stern. the dear little island! how good it had been to him! how eager he would be to return to it! the sun broke clear, the waters widened and widened, the glistening blue waves rolled on and on, the ship rose and fell to the rhythm of the flowing tide, the throb of the engines beat time to the deep surge of the sea, and the still deeper surge of youth and love and health and hope within him. dear god, how happy he was! what had he done to deserve such happiness? chapter twenty-one mother's law or judge's law? bessie had passed a miserable night. having been awake until after five in the morning she was asleep at nine when somebody knocked at her bedroom door. it was old miss ethel with a telegram. bessie opened it with trembling fingers. "_nonsense dear am coming up as arranged alick._" with fingers that trembled still more noticeably bessie returned the telegram to its envelope and slid it under her pillow, saying (with a twitching of the mouth which always came when she was telling an untruth), "it's from mr. gell. he wants me to meet him in douglas. i am to go up immediately." "that's nice," said miss ethel. "the change will do you a world of good, dear. i'll run down and hurry your breakfast, so that you can catch the ten-thirty." bessie dressed hastily, put a few things into a little handbag, and then sat down to write her promised letter. it was a terrible ordeal. what could she say that would not betray her secret? at length she wrote: "dear alick,--do forgive me. i must go away for a little while. it is all my health. i have been ill all winter and suffered more than anybody can know. but god is good, and i will get my health and strength back soon, and then i will return and we can be married and everything will be alright. do not think i do not love you because i am leaving you like this. i have never loved you so dear as now. but i am depressed, and i cannot get away from my thoughts. and please, alick dear, don't try to find me. i shall be quite alright, and i shall think of you every night before i go to sleep, and every morning when i awake. so now i must close with all my love and kisses. --bessie, xxxxx" having written her letter, and blotted it with many tears, she pinned it to the top of her pillow, without remembering that the telegram lay underneath. then she hurried downstairs, swallowed a mouthful of breakfast standing, said good-bye to her old housemates with an effort at gaiety, and set off as for the railway station. she had no intention of going there. the morning haze was thick on the edge of the sea, and as soon as she was out of sight of the house she slipped across the fields to a winding lane which led to the open country. during the night, crying a good deal and stifling her sobs under the bed-clothes, she had thought out all her plans. it was still two months before her time, and to be separated from alick as long as that was too painful to think about. it was also too dangerous. long before the end of that time he would search for her and find her, and then her secret would become known, and that would be the end of everything. she had been to blame, but what had she done to be so unhappy? why should nature be so cruel to a girl? was there no way of escape from it? at length a light had dawned on her. remembering what she had heard of women doing (wives as well as unmarried girls) to get rid of children who were not wanted, she determined that her own child should be still-born. why not? it threatened to separate her from alick--to turn his love for her into hatred. why should it come into the world to ruin her life, and his also? yes, she would tire herself out, expose herself to some great strain, some fearful exhaustion, and thereby bring on a sudden and serious illness. instead of taking the train she would walk all the way home to her mother's house--twenty odd miles, fifteen of them over a steep and rugged mountain road. it would be dangerous to a girl in her condition, but not half so dangerous as marrying alick now, and running the risk of an end like that of the poor young wife of the peel fisherman. and then it would be so much fairer. if her fault, her misfortune, could be wiped out before she married alick, nobody could say she had deceived her husband. such was the wild gamble with life and death which bessie had decided upon at the prompting of love and shame and fear. the consequences were not long in coming. the winding lane had to cross the railway line near to a village station before it reached the open country, and coming sharply upon the level-crossing at a quick turning she found the gates closed and a train drawing up at the platform. she knew at once that this must be the train from douglas which alick gell was to travel by, and in a moment she saw him. he was sitting alone in a first-class carriage, looking pale and troubled. in the next compartment were four or five young advocates from the south side of the island, who had been up to see stowell off by the steamer. they were smoking and laughing, and one of them, who appeared to have been drinking also, seeing bessie coming up to the gate, dropped his window and swung off his hat to her. bessie dropped back to the partial cover of the fence. only her fear of attracting attention restrained her from flying off altogether. alick had not yet seen her. it tore her terribly to see how ill he looked. he was only three or four yards away from her. his head was down. at one moment he took off his cap and ran his fingers through his fair hair as if his head were aching. she could scarcely resist an impulse to pass through the turnstile and hurry up to him. one look, one smile, one word, and she would have thrown everything to the winds even yet. but no, the guard waved his flag, the engine whistled, the train jerked backward, then forward, and at the next instant it had slid out of the station. alick had not seen her. he was gone. it had been like a stab at her heart to see him go. ii half an hour later she was on the rugged mountain road that led to her mother's house in the north of the island. her first fear was the fear of being overtaken and carried back. at silverburn, where a deep river gurgles under the shadow of a dark bridge, she heard the crack of whips, the clatter of horses' hoofs and the whoop of loud voices. it was nothing. only two farm shandries, the first containing a couple of full-blooded farm girls, and the second a couple of lusty farm lads, racing home after market, laughing wildly and shouting to each in the free language of the countryside. it was like something out of her former life--one of the outbreaks of animal instinct that had brought her to where she was. but no matter! she would be a proud and happy woman yet--the _sheean ny feaynid_ had said so. after the fear of being pursued came the fear of being lost--becoming an outcast and a wanderer. she had toiled up to the black fort on the breast of the hill. the morning haze had vanished by this time, the sun had come out, the larks were singing in the cloudless sky, the smell of spring was rising from the young grass in the fields, the roadsides were yellow with primroses and daffodils, and the whole world was looking glad with the promise of the beautiful new year that was already on the wing. it was heart-breaking. feeling hot and tired after her climb, she sat on a stone. the sea was open from that point, and on the farthest rim of it she could see a red-funnelled steamer and two black shafts of smoke. stowell! never before had she thought bitterly of him. but he was there, going up to london in comfort, in luxury, while she.... it was cruel. but crueller than her bitter thoughts of stowell were her tender thoughts of gell. he would be at derby haven now, reading (with that twitching of the lower lip which she knew so well) the letter she had left behind for him, while she was here, running away from the arms of the man who loved her. but no matter about that, either! one day, two days, three days, a week perhaps, and she would return to him. she was to be a proud and happy woman yet--the _sheean ny feaynid_ had said so. hours passed. the road stretched out and out, became steeper and steeper. bessie felt more and more tired. she was often compelled to sit by the wayside, and sometimes, being worn out by the want of sleep, she fell into a doze. the sky darkened and dropped; the sun went down behind the mountains to the west with a straight black bar across its face that was like a heavy lid over a sullen eye. would she be able to reach home that night? she would! she must! alick was waiting for her to come back. she dare not keep him long. evening had closed in before she reached the top of the hill. it was a long waste of bracken and black rock, with no farms anywhere, and only a few thatched cottages that crouched in the sheltered places like frightened cattle in a storm. feeling weak and faint from long climbing and want of food, she was about to sit down again and cry, having lost hope of reaching her mother's house that night, when she came upon a little lamb, scarcely a month old, which had strayed away from the flock and was too tired to go farther. the poor creature bleated piteously into her face, and she lifted it up in her arms and carried it a long half mile (the lost carrying the lost, the desolate comforting the desolate) until she came to a high gate at which a mother sheep was plunging furiously in her efforts to get out to them. bessie put the lamb to its feet, and it clambered through the bars, plucked at the teat, and then there was peace and silence. this strengthened her and she went on for some time longer with a cheerful heart. yes, she must reach home that night. and if it was as late as midnight before she got there, so much the better! nobody must see her come, and then her mother would be able to conceal everything. night fell. it began to rain and the wind to rise. she had never been afraid of darkness or bad weather, but now she took a wild delight in them. remembering what other women had done, she took off her shoes and walked on the wet roads in her stockings. it was risky but she cared nothing about that. it might bring on a fever, but she was strong--she would soon get over it. farmers returning empty from market offered her a lift, but she declined and toiled on. the lighted windows of the farmhouses, gleaming through the darkness, called her into warmth and shelter, but she struggled along. the soles of her stockings were soon worn to shreds and the stones of the roads were beginning to cut her feet, but she would not put on her shoes. in her frenzy she hardly felt the pain. and besides, what she was suffering for alick was as nothing compared to what alick had suffered for her. only one night! it would soon be over. she had walked at her slow pace down a deep descent and through a long valley when she came upon an inn and a big barn that was a scene of great festivity. she knew what it was. it was one of the "bachelors' balls" which, beginning with _oiel thomase dhoo_ (the eve of black thomas) and going on through the spring of the year, the unmarried men in remote places gave to the unmarried girls of the parish. the rain was now falling in torrents and the wind had risen to the strength of a gale, but it must have been close and hot inside the barn, for as bessie passed on the other side of the way, the doors were thrown open. the rude place was densely crowded. stable lamps hung from the rough-hewn rafters. at one end the musicians sat on a platform raised on barrels; at the other end girls in white blouses were serving tea from a long plank covered with a table-cloth and resting on trestles. in the space between, a dense group of young men and women were dancing with furious energy. this, too, was like something out of her own life. ah, if somebody had only told her .... but what matter! she would be a proud and happy woman yet--the _sheean ny feaynid_ had said so. it was now midnight by the wrist-watch that alick had given her, and she had still another hill to climb, steeper than the last if shorter. while she was going up the rain flogged her face as with whipcord, and, when she reached the top, the wind, sweeping across the low-lying lands from the sea, tore at her skirts as if it were trying to strip her naked. at one moment it brought her to her knees, and she thought she would never be able to rise to her feet again. it was very dark. she was feeling weak and helpless. once more she remembered stowell. he would be on his way to london now. she could see him (alick had often painted such pictures) sitting in a brightly-lit first-class railway carriage, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee. at this thought her whole soul rose in revolt. why was he there while she was here? she had never loved him; he had never loved her; they had both done wrong. but why for the same fault should there be such different punishment? people who went to churches and chapels talked of nature and god. they said god was good and he was the god of nature. it was a lie--a deception! if god was good he was not the god of nature. if he was the god of nature he was not good. nature was cruel and pitiless. only to a man was it kind. if you were a woman it had no mercy on you. it never forgot you; it never forgave you. therefore a woman had a right to fight it, and when it threatened to destroy her happiness, and the happiness of those who loved her, she had a right to kill it. that was what she was doing now. perhaps she had done it already. the heavy burden that had been lying so long under her heart had given no sign of life for hours. so much the better! that passage in her life must be dead and buried. victor stowell must be wiped out for ever. then she could marry alick gell with a clean heart and conscience. therefore, courage, courage! she would be a proud and happy woman yet--the _sheean ny feaynid_ had said so. only the great thing was to get home before daybreak, so that nobody might see her until all was over. somewhere in the dead and vacant dawn a pale, forlorn-looking woman, whom nobody could have known for bessie collister, was approaching the village of the glen. she had been eighteen hours on her journey, most of the time on her feet. her fur-lined cloak was sodden and heavy. her black hair had been torn from its knot and was hanging dank over her neck and shoulders. her feet, in her dry boots, were cold and bleeding. a silk scarf which had been tied over her closely-fitting fur cap was dripping, and a little bag on her arms was wet through with all that was contained in it. she had expected to arrive before break of day, but nobody in the village was yet stirring. in the long street of whitewashed houses all the window blinds were still down and looking like closed eye-lids. she tied up her hair, removed the scarf and put on a veil from her handbag, drew it closely over her face, and then walked with head down and a step as light as she could make it, through the sleeping village. she met nobody. not a door was opened; not a blind was drawn aside; she had not been seen. she drew a long breath of relief. but suddenly, with the first sight of the mill, came a stab of memory, dan baldromma! since the witch-doctor had told her that though dan might rage and tear he could do no harm to her or to alick she had ceased to think of him. but why had she not thought of the harm he might do to her mother? all the way up since she was a child she had seen the tyrannies he had inflicted upon her mother through her. what fresh tyranny would he inflict on her now?--now that she was coming home like this to be a burden to.... for a moment bessie told herself she must go back even yet. but she was too weak and too ill to go one step farther. all the same she could not face her step-father in her present condition. if she could only get upstairs to her bedroom and sleep--sleep, sleep! she listened for the mill-wheel--it was not working. she looked at the mill-door--it had not yet been opened. it was impossible that dan could be in bed--he was such an early riser. he must have gone up the brews to look at the heifers in the top fields. with a slow step she went over to the dwelling-house. the door was shut, but she could hear sounds from the kitchen. there was the shuffling of slow feet, accompanied by the tap of a walking-stick; then the blowing and coughing of bellows and the crackling of burning gorse; and then the measured beating of a foot on the hearthstone, keeping time to a husky and tremulous voice that was singing-- "_safe in the arms of jesus, safe in his tender care._" with a palpitating heart bessie lifted the latch, pushed the door open and took one step into the kitchen. her mother, who was still wearing her night-cap, was sitting on the three-legged stool in the choillagh, stirring porridge in the oven-pot that hung from the slowrie. she had heard the click of the latch and was looking round. there was silence for a moment. bessie tried to speak and could not. the old woman rose on rigid limbs and her hand on the handle of her stick was trembling. it was just as if the spirit of someone she had been thinking about had suddenly appeared before her. "is it thyself, girl?" she said, in a breathless whisper. "mother!" cried bessie, and she took another step forward. again there was a moment of silence. with her heart at her lips bessie saw that her mother's eyes were wandering over her figure. then the stick dropped from the old woman's hand to the floor and she stretched out her arms, and her thin hands shook like withered leaves. "bolla veen! bolla veen!" she cried, in a low voice that was a sob. "it's my own case over again." and then the girl fell into her mother's arms and buried her head in her breast and cried, as only a suffering child can cry, helplessly, piteously. a moment later, there was a heavy footstep outside, and the ring of an iron tool thrown down on the "street." the old woman raised her face with a look of fear. "it's thy father," she whispered. iii dan baldromma had risen earlier than usual that morning. for more than a week there had not been water enough to his mill-wheel for his liking, and suspecting the cause of the shortage he had put a pick over his shoulder and walked up the glen. there was a little croft on the top of the brews half a mile nearer to the mountain. it was called baldromma-beg (the little baldromma) and its occupants (sub-tenants of dan baldromma) were a quaint old couple--will skillicorne, a long, slow-eyed, slow-legged person who was a class-leader among the "primitives," and his wife, bridget, a typical little manxwoman of her class, keen-eyed, quick-tongued, illiterate and superstitious. their croft was thirsty land, though water in abundance was so near, and to every request that it should be laid on in pipes from the glen, dan had said, "let your wife carry it---what else is the woman there for?" bridget had carried it for ten years. then her anger getting the better of her, she put on a pair of her husband's big boots and rolled two great boulders into a neck of the river, with the result that a deep stream of sweet water came flowing down to her house and fields. this was just what dan had suspected, and coming upon the new-made dam, he stretched his legs across it, swung his pick and sent the boulders tumbling down the glen, with a torrent of water from baldromma-beg at the back of them. but bridget, also, had risen earlier than usual that morning, and, hearing the sound of dan's pick, she went out to him at his bad work and fell on him with hot reproaches. "was there nothing doing down at the mill, dan collister," she cried, "that thou must be coming up here to put thy evil eye on other people's places?" "get thee indoors, woman," growled dan, "and put thy house in order." "my house in order? mine? and what about thine? thine that is a disgrace to the parish and the talk of the island." "keep a civil tongue in thy head, mrs. skillicorne, or maybe i'll be showing thee the road at hollantide." "turn me out of the croft, will thou? do it and welcome! i give thee lave. it would be middling aisy to find a better farm, and satan himself couldn't find a worse landlord. but set thou one foot on this land until my year is over and if there's a bucket of dirty water on the cowhouse floor i'll throw it over thee. put my house in order indeed! where's thy daughter, eh? where's thy daughter, i say?" "i've got no daughter, woman, and well thou knows it," said dan. "'deed i do. no wonder the lord wouldn't trust thee with a daughter of thy own, the way thou's brought up this one. the slut! the strumpet! away with thee and look for her--it will become thee better." but dan having finished his work was now plunging down the glen and old will skillicorne had come out of his house half dressed, with his braces hanging behind him. "come in, woman--lave the man to god," said will. "god indeed! the dirt! the ugly black toad! god wouldn't bemane himself talking to the like." "thou's done it this time, though, i'm thinking. thou heard what he said about hollantide?" "chut! get thee back to bed. what's thou putting thy mouth in for? who knows where the man himself will be by that time?" with a face like a black cloud after this encounter, dan threw down his pick on the cobbles of the street and went into the kitchen to work off his anger on his wife. "that's what thou's done for me, ma'am! there's not a trollop in the parish that isn't throwing thy daughter's bad doings in my face." the kitchen was full of smoke, for the porridge in the oven-pot had been allowed to burn, and it was not until he was standing back to the fire, putting his pipe in the pocket of his open waistcoat, that dan saw bessie where she had seated herself, after breaking out of her mother's arms, by the table and in the darkest corner. he took in the girl's situation at a glance, but after the manner of the man he pretended not to do so. "god bless my soul," he cried. "back, is she? well, well! but what did i say, mother? 'no need to send the cross vustha (the fiery cross) after her, she'll come home.' and my goodness the grand woman's she's grown! fur caps and fur-lined cloaks and i don't know the what! just come to put a sight on the mother and the ould man, i suppose. no pride at all at all! i wouldn't trust but there's a grand carriage waiting for her at the corner of the road." "aisy, man, aisy," said mrs. collister, picking up her stick, "don't thou see the girl has walked?" "walked, has she?" said dan, raising his thick eyebrows in pretended astonishment. "you don't say! all the way from castletown? well, well! so that's how it is, is it? the young waistrel has thrown her over, has he?" bessie had to put her hand to her throat to keep back the cry that was bubbling up. "aisy, man, aisy with the like," said the old woman. but dan was for showing no mercy. "goodness me, the airs she gave herself going away! i might shut my door on her, but there would be others to open theirs. and now they have opened them, and shut them too, i'm thinking." bessie, crushed and silent, was clutching the end of the table. dan stepped over to her, laid hold of her left hand, lifted it up, as if looking for her wedding ring, and then flung it away. "nothing!" he said. "she's got nothing for it neither. i might have followed her to castletown, but i didn't. 'i'll lave her to it,' i thought. 'maybe the girl's cleverer than we thought, and will come home mistress of baldromma and a thousand good acres besides.' but no, not a ha'porth! and now she has come back to ate us up for the rest of our lives! the toot! the boght! the booby!" "dan collister," said the old woman, "don't thou see the girl is ill?" "ill, is she?" said dan. "i wouldn't trust but she is, ma'am. so it's worse than i thought, and maybe before long there'll be another mouth to feed." bessie dropped her head on the table. "but not in this house, if you plaze, miss. it happened here once before, and the island would be having a fine laugh at me if it happened again." once more dan stepped over to bessie and touched her arm. "you're like a dead letter, you've come to the wrong address, mistress. it wasn't dan baldromma's thatched cottage you were wanting, but the big slate house down the road where the paycocks are scraming. i'll trouble you to go there." "sakes alive, man," cried the old woman, "thou'rt not for turning the girl out of doors?" "i am that, ma'am," said dan, going over to the door. "no trollop shall be telling me again that my house is the disgrace of the parish and the talk of the island." then throwing the door wide and rattling the catch of it, he said, "out of my house, miss! out of it! out of it!" bessie, who had been sitting motionless, raised her head and rose to go, although scarcely able to take a step forward, when she felt a hand that was trembling like a leaf laid on her shoulder. "stay thou there, and leave this to me." it was the old woman who had been crouching over the fire on the three-legged stool and had now risen, thrown her stick away as if she had no longer any need of it, and was facing her husband with blazing eyes. "thou talks and talks of this house as thine and thine," she said. "what made it thine?" "the law, if thou wants to know, woman," said dan. "then the law is a robber and a thief." dan looked at his wife in astonishment, and then burst into a fit of forced laughter. "well, that's good! that's rich! that's wonderful! what next, i wonder?" "do you want me to tell thee the truth, dan collister? before the girl, too? then there's not a stick or a stone in the place that in the eyes of heaven does not belong to me." "what?" "not a stick or a stone, except the landlord's, that wasn't bought with my father's money--john corteen, a man of god, if ever there was one." "pity his daughter didn't take after him, then." "pity enough, dan collister. but when i brought shame into his house he forgave me. and when the finger of death was on the man the only trouble he had in life was what was to become of his girl when he was gone." "truth enough, ma'am, he had to find thee a husband, hadn't he?" "he hadn't far to look, though. and if thou had nothing in thy pocket and not much on thy back thou had plenty in thy mouth to make up for it. thou were not afraid of scandal! thou didn't mind marrying a girl who had been talked of with another man!" "and i did, didn't i?" "thou did, god forgive thee! but not till the man's trembling hand had reached up to the hole in the thatch over his bed for his stocking purse and counted the money out to thee. three hundred good manx pounds he had worked thirty years for and saved up for his daughter. and then thou swore on the holy book to be good to his girl and her baby, and the man's dying eyes on thee. and now--now thou talks of turning my girl out of the house--this house that would have been her house some day if thou had not come between us. but no! thou shan't do that." "shan't i?" "'deed thou shan't! she may have done wrong, but if she has it's no more than her mother did before her, and if _i_ daren't turn her out for it thou shalt not." "we'll see, ma'am, we'll see," said dan. he was buttoning up his waistcoat and putting on his coat. "it's no use talking to a woman. there's not much sense to be got out of the like anyway. but when a man marries, the property of the wife becomes the property of the husband--that's dempster's law, isn't it? and standing up for your legal rights, and not being forced by your wife, or anybody else, to find maintenance for another man's offspring when it comes--that's dempster's law too, i belave." "yes," said the old woman, "and standing up for your own flesh and blood when she's sick and weak and the world is going cold on her and she has nowhere else to lay her head in her trouble--that's mother's law, dan collister, and it's older than the dempster's, i'm thinking." "do as you plaze, ma'am," said dan. "if you want more noising about the bad doings of your daughter it's all as one to me." he took his billycock hat down from the "lath" under the ceiling and continued, "i'll hear what the speaker has to say about this, though. his wife wasn't for doing much for thee when the honour of this house was in question, but maybe she'll alter her tune now that it's the honour of her own." he drew his whip from its nail over the fireplace and stepped to the door. "and if this matter ends as i expect i'll be hearing what the coorts have to say about it, too. young mr. sto'll is to be made dempster they're telling me. they're putting him in for it, anyway, and he is bosom friend to the spaker's son. but friend or no friend," he said, with his hand on the hasp, and ready to go, "maybe his first job when he comes back to the island will be to send his coroner to this house to turn the man's mistress and her by-child into the road." "tell him to send her coffin at the same time, then," cried the old woman, almost screaming. "mine too, dan collister. that's the only way he'll turn my daughter out of this house, i promise thee." but the old woman collapsed the moment her husband had gone, and staggering to the rocking-chair she dropped into it and cried. then bessie, who had not yet spoken, rose and said, crying herself, "don't cry, i'll go away myself, mother." but the old woman was up again in a moment. "no, thou'll not," she said. "thou'll go up to thy bedroom in the dairy loft--the one thou had in the innocent old times gone by. come, take my arm--my good arm, girl. lean on me, woman-bogh." chapter twenty-two the soul of hagar two hours had passed. bessie was in her bedroom--the little one-eyed chamber (entered from the first landing on the stairs) in which she had dressed for douglas. but the sheet of silvered glass on the whitewashed wall which had shone then with the light of her beaming eyes was now reflecting her broken, tear-stained, woebegone face. she knew that her journey had been in vain, that her sufferings had been wasted. her child was not to be stillborn. through the closed door she heard dan baldromma going off in the stiff cart. he was going to the speaker, to threaten him with the shame of her unborn child, and to call upon him to compel his son to marry her. wild, blind error! but what would be the result? alick would hear of her whereabouts and learn of her condition and that would be the end of everything between them. all her secret scheme to wipe out her fault, to keep her name clean for alick, to preserve his beautiful faith in her, would be destroyed, and he would be dead to her for ever. but no, come what would that should not be! and if the only way to prevent it was to make away with her child when it came she must do so. only nobody must know--not even her mother. time and again the old woman came hobbling upstairs, bringing food and trying to comfort her. "will i send for doctor clucas, bessie?" "no, no. i shall be better in the morning." the day passed heavily. she could not lie down. sometimes she sat on the edge of the bed; sometimes stood and held on to the end of it; and sometimes walked to and fro in the narrow space of her bedroom floor. having no window in her room her only sight of the world without was through the skylight in the thatch, which showed nothing but the sky. the only sound that reached her was the squealing of a pig that was being killed at a neighbouring farm. at length darkness fell. hitherto she had been thinking of her unborn child with a certain tenderness, even a certain pity. but now, in the wild disorder of her senses, she began to hate it. it seemed to be some evil spirit that was coming into the world to destroy everybody. why shouldn't she kill it? she would! only she must be alone--quite alone. shivering, perspiring, weak, dizzy, she was sitting in the darkness when her mother came to say good-night. "here are a few broth. take them. they'll warm thee." "no, no." "come, let me coax thee, bogh." bessie refused again, and the old woman's eyes began to fill. "will i stay up the night with thee, bessie?" "oh, no, no!" "i'll leave my door open then, and if thou art wanting anything thou'll call." "yes, yes." "thy father isn't home yet, and if thou'rt no better when he goes by thy door thou must tell him and he'll let me know." bessie raised her eyes in astonishment, and the old woman, with a shamefaced look, began to apologize for her husband. he was not so bad after all, and when a woman had taken a man for better or worse.... "do you say that, mother?" something quivered in the old woman's wrinkled throat. "well, we women are all alike, thou knows." "good-night and go to sleep, mother." bessie hustled her mother out of the room, but hardly had she gone than she wanted to call her back. "mother! mother!" she cried in the sudden access of her pain, but though her door was ajar her mother, who was going deaf, did not hear her. at the next moment she was glad. her mother believed in god and religion. to burden her conscience with any knowledge of what she meant to do would be too cruel. but bessie's terror increased at every moment. the night outside was quiet, yet the air seemed to be full of fearful cries. at the bidding of some instinctive impulse she blew out the candle, and then, in the darkness and solitude, a great terror took hold of her. "alick! alick!" she cried, but only the deep night heard her. at last, in the paroxysm of her pain, she fell back on the bed--she was unconscious. when she came to herself again she had a sense of blessed ease, like that of sailing into a quiet harbour out of a tempestuous sea. before she opened her eyes she heard a faint cry. she thought at first it was only a memory of the bleating of the lost lamb on the mountains. but the cry came again and then she knew what had happened--her child had been born! time passed--how long or what she did in it, she never afterwards knew. her weakness seemed to have gone and she had a feeling of surprising strength. the bitterness of her heart had gone too, and a flood of happiness was sweeping over her. it was motherhood! to bessie too, in her misery and shame, the merciful angel of mother-love had come. her child! hers! hers! make away with it? kill it? no, not for worlds of worlds! it was a boy too! thank god it was a boy! a woman was so weak; she had so much to suffer, so many things to think about. but a man was strong and free. he could fight his own way in life. and her boy would fight for her also, and make amends for all she had gone through. it was the middle of the night. the glimmering and guttering candle on the wash-table (she had been up and had lit it afresh) was casting dark shadows in the room. only a little dairy loft with the turfy thatch overhead, and the sheepskin rugs underfoot, but oh, how it shone with glory! bessie was singing to her baby (words and tune springing to her mind in a moment) when suddenly she heard sounds from outside. they were the rattle of cart wheels and the clatter of horse's hoofs on the cobbles of the "street." dan baldromma had come home! her heart seemed to stop its beating. she blew out her candle and listened, scarcely drawing breath. she heard her step-father tipping up his stiff-cart and then shouting at his horse as he dragged off its harness in the stable. after that she heard him coming into the house and throwing his heavy boots on to the hearthstone. then she heard the thud, thud, thud of the old man's stockinged feet on the kitchen floor--he was about to come upstairs. at that moment the child, who had been asleep on her arm, awoke and cried. only a feeble cry, half-smothered by the closeness of the little mouth to her breast, but in bessie's ears it sounded like thunder. if her step-father heard it, what would he do? involuntarily, and before she knew what she was doing, she put her hand over the child's mouth. then thud, thud, thud! dan baldromma was coming upstairs. bessie could hear his thick breathing. he had reached the landing. he seemed to stop for a moment outside her door. but he passed on, went up the second short flight, pushed open the door of her mother's room and clashed it noisily behind him. then bessie drew breath and turned back to her child. she was shocked to find that in her terror she had been holding her trembling hand tightly down on the child's mouth. it had only been for a moment (what had seemed like a moment), but when she took her hand away and listened, in the throbbing darkness, for the child's soft breathing, no sound seemed to come. with shaking fingers she lit her candle again, and then held the light to the baby's face. the little, helpless, innocent face lay still. "can it be possible .... no, no, god forbid it!" but at length the awful truth came surging down on her. she had killed her child. ii when bessie awoke the next day the sun was shining on her eye-lids from the skylight in the thatch. she had some difficulty in realising where she was. before opening her eyes she heard the muffled lowing of the cows in the closed-up cow-house, and had an impulse to do as she had done in earlier days--get up and milk them. at the next moment she heard her mother's shuffling step on the kitchen floor, and then the tide of memory swept back on her. but she was a different woman this morning. she had no remorse now, no qualm, no compunction. what she had done, she had done, and after all it was the best thing that could have happened--best for her, best for alick, best for everybody. her child being dead she no longer loved it. all she had to do was to bury it away somewhere, and then everything would go on as she had intended. meantime (before going to sleep) she had taken her precautions. nobody must know. if there had been reasons why she should not take her mother into her confidence last night they were now increased tenfold. after a while her mother came up with her breakfast. a veil seemed to dim the old woman's eyes--she looked as if she had been crying. "how are thou now, bogh?" "better! much better! i told you i should be better in the morning." the old woman was silent for a moment and then said, "thou were not up and downstairs in the night, bessie?" "'deed no! why should you think so?" "because i shut the wash-house door when i went to bed and it was open when i came down in the morning." bessie's lips trembled, but she made no answer. a little later she heard her step-father talking loudly in the kitchen. he had seen the speaker, having waited all day for him. there had been a stormy scene. the big man had foamed at the mouth, talked about blackmail, threatened to turn him out of the farm at hollantide, and finally shouted for tom kertnode, his steward, to fling him into the road. "i lave it with you, sir," dan had answered. "if you prefer the new dempster, when he comes, to see justice done to the girl, it's all as one to me." bessie could have laughed. wicked, selfish, scheming--how she was going to defeat it! all morning she lay quiet, thinking out her plans. half a mile up the glen there was a large stone of irregular shape, surrounded by a wild tangle of briar and gorse. the manx called it the _claghny-dooiney-marroo_--the dead man's stone, the body of a murdered man having been found on it. by reason of this gruesome association of the bloody hand upon it, few approached the stone by day and the bravest man (unless he were in drink) would hesitate to go near it by night. bessie decided to bury her child under the _clagh-ny-dooiney_. it would lie hidden for ever there; nobody would find it. the day was long in passing, for bessie was waiting for the night. she heard the young lambs bleating in the fields and the cocks crowing in the haggard. a linnet perched on the ledge of her skylight (her mother had opened it) and looked in on her and sang. at length the sky darkened and night fell. the moon (it was in its first quarter) sailed across her patch of sky and disappeared. once or twice the skylight was aglow with a palpitating red light--someone was burning gorse on the mountains. but the fires died down and then there was nothing save the sky with its stars. her mother came again to say good-night. she had the pitiful look of a woman who was struggling to keep back her tears. "wilt thou not sit up, bessie, while i make thy bed for thee?" bessie started and then stammered: "oh, no! i mean .... it will do in the morning." the old woman looked down at her with eyes which seemed to say, "can thou not trust thy mother, girl?" but she only sighed and went off to bed. somewhere in the early morning (dan having gone to bed also) bessie got up to make ready. she found herself very weak, and it took her a long time to dress. when she was about to put on her shoes she remembered that they were new and told herself they would creak as she went downstairs, so she decided to go barefoot again. having finished her dressing she took from under the bed-clothes what she had hidden there, and began to wrap it in a large silk scarf. it was the scarf she had worn in the storm--a present from alick; with "bessie" stamped on one corner. seeing her name at the last moment, she tore a strip of the scarf away, and threw it aside (intending to destroy it in the morning), opened her door, listened for an instant and then crept downstairs and out of the house. the night was chill and the ground struck cold into her body. it was very dark, for the moon and stars had gone out, and there was no light anywhere except the dull red of the gorse fires on the mountains, which had sunk so low as to look like a dying eye. but bessie could have found her way blindfolded. carrying her burden she crossed the wooden bridge and reached the path that went up the glen. just as she did so she heard the sound of singing, of laughter and of carriage-wheels on the high road. a company of jolly girls and boys were driving home after one of their bachelor balls in a neighbouring parish. that cut deep, but bessie thought of alick and the wound passed away. she would return to him in a few days; they would be married soon, and then she, too, would be glad and happy. how dark it was under the trees, though! she had left it late. the dawn was near, for the first birds were beginning to call. "it must be here," she thought, and she slipped down from the path to the bed of the glen. but the trees were thicker there, and, being already in early leaf, they obscured the little light that was left in the sky. where could the stone be? the briars were tearing at her dress and the tall nettles were stinging her hands. she was feeling weak and lost and had begun to cry. how the dogs howled at her stepfather's farm! suddenly a breeze rose and fanned the gorse fires on the mountains to a crackling glow. and then a red flame rent the darkness and lighted up the valley from end to end, making it for a few moments almost as clear as day. bessie was terrified. here was the _clagh-ny-dooiney_ almost at her feet, but this bright light was like an accusing eye from heaven looking down on her and pointing her out. for a moment she wanted to drop down among the briars and hide herself. but making a call on her resolution she crept up to the big stone, stooped, pushed her burden under the overlapping lip of it, and then rose, turned about and ran. trembling and weeping she stumbled her way home. it was lighter now. the day was coming rapidly and the small spring leaves were shivering in the cold wind that runs over the earth before the dawn. the lambs were bleating in the unseen fields, and the newly-born ones were making their first pitiful cry. it sounded like the cry of her child as she had heard it last night, and it tore her terribly. the little face, the little hands, the little feet she had left behind--why had she not been brave and strong and faced the world with them? should she stop and go back! she tried to do so but could not. the more she wanted to return the faster she ran away. her strength was failing her, and she was scarcely able to put one foot before another. often she stumbled and fell and got up again. was she going the right way home? "alick! alick!" she cried, and the hot tears fell over her cold cheeks. at last she saw the dark roof of the mill-house against the leaden grey of the sky. she had reached the bridge over the millrace when she felt a light on her face and saw a figure approaching her. somebody was coming up the glen and the lantern he carried was swinging by his side as he walked. then the instinct of self-preservation took possession of her. dizzy, dazed, breathing rapidly and trembling in every limb, she crossed the bridge quickly, crept up to the door of the dwelling house, stumbled upstairs to her room, tore off her outer garments, dropped back on to her bed, and then fell (almost in a moment) into the sleep of utter exhaustion. iii bridget skillicorne had had a cow sick that night. it had been suffering from a colic, probably due to grazing among the rank grass which had been lying under the water that had been drained away. but bridget was sure that "that dirt baldromma" had "wutched" it (bewitched it) just to spite her for what she had said. she had tried a hot bran mash in vain. the cow still writhed and roared, so nothing remained, if they were not to lose their creature, but that will should go to the ballawhaine (a witch-doctor who lived nine or ten miles away on the seaward side of the curragh) and get a charm to take off the witching. old will, being a class-leader, was well aware that such sorcery was the arts of satan. but if the cow died it would make a big hole in their stocking-purse to buy another, so his conscience compounded with his pocket, and he agreed to go. "aw well, a few good words will do no harm at all," he said, and carrying his stable lantern he set out towards nine o'clock on his long journey. then bridget, taking another lantern, a half-knitted stocking and a three-legged stool, went into the cow-house to sit up with her cow and watch the progress of its malady. towards midnight the creature became easier, and, gathering her legs under her, lay down to sleep. but bridget remained three hours longer in the close atmosphere of the cow-house, waiting for old will but thinking of dan, and making her needles go with a furious click at the thought of his threat to evict her. the upper half of the cow-house door stood open, and somewhere in the dark hours towards dawn she was startled by a bright light and the hissing and crackling of a sudden fire outside. she knew what it was (such fires on the mountains were not uncommon), but nevertheless she stepped out to see. she saw more than she had expected. in the glen below her brew, where every bush and tree stood out for a moment in the flare of the burning gorse, she saw the figure of a woman. the woman was standing by the _clagh-ny-dooiney_. she had something white under her arm. after a moment she knelt, put her parcel under the lip of the stone and then hurried away. who was she? in her present mood, with her mind running on one subject, bridget could have no uncertainty. it was the collister girl! it must be! what had she been doing down there? in her own walk through life bridget had never stepped aside, therefore she was severe on those who had. there was only one thing that could bring a girl out of bed in the middle of the night to a place like that. the slut! the strumpet! when will skillicorne reached home half-an-hour afterwards he was carrying a wisp of straw. with this he was to make the sign of the cross on the back of the sick cow, and say some good words about st. patrick and st. bridget, giving it at the same time a hot drink of meal and water. "but the craythur is better these three hours," said bridget. "praise the lord!" said will. "that must have been the very minute the good man came down from his bed to me in his flannel drawers!" "but did thou meet anybody as thou was coming up the glen?" "maybe i did." "was it a woman?" "it's like it was, now." "did she go into the mill-house?" "i believe in my heart she did, though." bridget was triumphant. it was the collister girl! there could not be a doubt about it. and at break of day she would go down to the glen and see what she had left under the _clagh-ny-dooiney_. "show me the road at hollantide, will he? the dirt! the dirty black toad! we'll see! we'll see!" iv bessie's sleep of exhaustion deepened to delirium and for a long day she lay in the grip of it. when she floated out of her unconsciousness, she had a sense of confusion. a babel of meaningless voices, like the many sounds of a wild night, were clashing in her brain. a man and a woman were in her bedroom, talking like somnambulists. "her feet have been bleeding. where has she been, think you?" the man's voice must be that of doctor clucas, and then came some vague answer in the woman's voice, with a thick snuffle and a suppressed sob--her mother's. bessie heard no more. a cloud passed over her brain that was like the rolling mist that alternately reveals and conceals a bell-buoy at sea. when it cleared she heard a strange woman's voice outside the house--her bedroom door had been left open that her mother might hear her if she called. "i didn't know thy daughter had come home, liza collister." "and how dost thou know now, bridget skillicorne?" "how? there's someones coming will tell thee how, woman." bessie felt as if somebody had struck her in the face. had anything become known? later she heard her step-father speaking in the kitchen. "is she herself yet." "not yet." "better she never should be." "sakes alive, man, what art thou saying?" "i'm saying that old trollop on the brews is after finding something under the _clagh-ny-dooiney_ and sending her man to the police to fetch it." "fetch what?" "just a parcel in a silk scarf with a lil arm sticking out--that's all, ma'am." the doctor at the hospital had been holding a post-mortem, and now cain, the constable, was to make a house to house visitation of the parish to find the mother of the child. bessie covered her mouth to suppress a scream. but something whispered, "hush! keep still! they know nothing!" early next day she was awakened by the sound of many men's voices downstairs, and her mother's voice in angry protestation. "i tell thee, i know nothing about it. the girl came home to me three days ago, and i put her to bed, and she has never since been out of it." "they all say that, ma'am," said one of the men. it was cain, the constable. a little later, while bessie lay with closed eyes and her face to the wall, she became aware of several persons in her bedroom, and one of them leaning over her. she knew it was cain--she could hear his asthmatical breathing. "is she really unconscious, doctor?" "undoubtedly she is. you can leave her for a few days anyway. she'll not run away, you see." after that, listening intently, bessie heard the constable ranging the room as if examining everything. "what's this?" he asked. bessie drew a quick breath, but dared not look around. "only a remnant seemingly," said the doctor. "we'll be taking it with us, though," said the constable, and then the rolling mist of unconsciousness covered everything again. when it passed bessie knew that the police were suspecting her. they thought they had found her out, and they were going to bring the whole machinery of the law to punish her. what a wicked thing the law was! she had injured nobody--nobody that anybody had ever seen in this world. she had only tried to save somebody she loved from shame and pain. and yet the constables, the courts and the coroners were all in a conspiracy to crush one poor girl! no matter! she would deny everything. next day was sunday. bessie heard the church bells ringing across the curragh, and, before they stopped, the singing of a hymn. the primitives were holding a service at the corner of the high road before going into their chapel. after the hymn somebody prayed. it was will skillicorne. bessie (listening through her open skylight) recognised the high pitch of his preaching voice. he would be standing on the chapel steps. there was a great deal about "carnal transgression," about "brands plucked from the burning," about "the judgments of the lord," and finally about the "conscious sinner," throwing herself upon her saviour and repenting of "the sin she had committed against god." at the close of his prayer will gave out the first two lines of another hymn-- "_i was a wandering sheep, i did not love the fold._" bessie knew whom all this was meant for. the primitives were torturing her. but they were torturing somebody else as well. through the singing and praying she heard her mother's sighs downstairs, and the beating of her foot on the hearthstone, as she sat by the fire and listened to the service for her guilty child. what a cowardly thing religion was! sin? what sin had she committed? she had never intended to do wrong, and only those who had gone through it could know what she had suffered. anyway, such as she was god had made her. she would admit nothing. nothing whatever. two days passed. bessie's heart softened and became calm. the police were leaving her alone--they must have given up that nonsense about punishing her. everything was going to turn out as she had expected. on the third day, her mother, coming into her bedroom, found her with widely-opened eyes and all her face a smile. yes, she was herself once more. in fact there had not been much amiss with her. only, never having been ill before, she had been frightened and had come home to be nursed by her mother. but now she was better and must soon go back .... back to where she came from. she told her mother about alick and how fond he was of her--parting from his father and sisters and even his mother for her sake. it was quite a mistake to suppose that alick had refused to marry her. he would have married her long ago, and it was she who had been holding back. why? she wished to be strong and well first. it wasn't fair to a man to let him marry a sick wife--was it? the old woman, with a broken face, looking sadly down at the girl, said, "yes, bogh! it's like it isn't, bogh," and turned her eyes away. on the fourth day bessie got out of bed and moved about the room just to show how strong she was. "see what a step i have now. i could walk miles and miles, mother." the moral of that was that she must go back to derby haven without more delay. alick was waiting for her and he would be growing anxious. she must take the first train in the morning. "it's rather early, but never mind about breakfast. a cup of tea and a piece of barley bonnag--that will do." late that night, when mrs. collister, going to bed with a heavy heart, looked in to say good-night, bessie asked to be called in good time in the morning. "don't forget to waken me. i used to be the first up, you know, but now i'm a sleepy-head." and then she kissed her mother (never having kissed her since she was a child) and the old woman's eyes overflowed. left alone, in the dark, she began to think how good god had been to her after all. only those who had sinned and suffered knew how good he could be. she remembered the text about the friend who, when all earthly friends forsake you, sticketh closer than a brother. also, with a certain shame, she recalled the hymn the primitives had sung on sunday morning, and, covering her head in the bedclothes, she sang two lines of it-- "_but now i love my father's voice, i love my father's home._" how happy she was! at that time to-morrow she would be in bed at derby haven, having seen alick and arranged everything. next morning, when she awoke, she was startled to find the sun pouring into the room. she knew by the line it made on the wall that the first train must have gone. the chickens, too, were clucking at the kitchen door, and they never came round before breakfast. she had risen on her elbow intending to call, when she heard the roll of a van-like vehicle drawing up in front of the house, and immediately afterwards, a man's husky, asthmatical voice in the kitchen, mingling with her mother's shrill treble. "go upstairs and tell her to make ready, ma'am." "no, no; the girl's not fit for it, i tell thee." "she's fit enough for the prison hospital, anyway." "she has never been out of my door since she came into it." "we'll lave that to the high bailiff and the dempster, if you plaze." bessie, supporting herself on her trembling arm, could scarcely restrain herself from screaming. one moment she sat and gasped, and then, grasping her head with both hands, she turned about and fell forward and buried her face in her pillow. at the next moment she was conscious of somebody coming into her room, and at the next, from somewhere at the foot of the bed, she heard her mother say, in a strange voice she had never known before--throbbing, choking, scarcely audible-- "they have come for thee, bessie." chapter twenty-three stowell in london victor stowell had been more than a week in london. fortune had favoured him from the first. the home secretary (a tall, spare, elderly man, with a clean-shaven face of rather severe expression) rose when stowell entered his room as if a spirit had appeared before him. "my youth again," the young man thought, but it was a different matter this time. "has anybody ever told you that you resemble your father, mr. stowell?" it turned out that the old deemster and the home secretary (a barrister before he became a statesman) had been in chambers together in the middle temple while reading for the bar, and that the politician had never lost respect for the man who, in spite of brilliant promise of success in england (he might have become an english high court judge with six times his manx salary), had returned to the obscurity of his little island and the service of his own people. "you have high traditions to live up to, young man. sit down." then came the subject of the interview. the authorities had satisfied themselves that on the score of legal capacity the governor's recommendation was not unjustified. the only serious difficulty was stowell's youth. the principles on which the crown selected elderly and even old (sometimes very old) men for the positions of judges were simple and sound. first, seniority of service, and next, maturity of character, so as to avoid the dangers that come from the temptations, the trials, even the turbulent emotions of early life, which might easily conflict with the calm of the judicial office. still, these principles could be too rigidly followed--particularly in remote colonies and small dependencies where the range of suitable selection was limited. after this came a personal catechism, the old man looking at the young one over the rims of his tortoise-shell spectacles. married? not yet. expect to be? yes, sir. soon? not, not for a long time. how long? six weeks at least, sir. the ends of the severe mouth rose perceptibly, and in any other face they might have broken into a smile. daughter of the governor, isn't she? yes, but that isn't her chief characteristic, sir. what is? that she is the loveliest and noblest woman in the world. "oh!" again the severe mouth relaxed, and the home secretary asked stowell where he was staying. stowell told him (the inns of court hotel, holborn) and he made a note of it. "remain there until you hear from me again, mr. stowell, and meantime say nothing about this interview to anybody." "not anybody whatever, sir?" the home secretary's stern old face became genial and charming as he rose and held out his hand. "well, that supreme being, perhaps .... good day!" "so here i am, my dear fenella," wrote stowell, "back in the bedroom of my hotel, telling you all about it. how long i may have to remain in london, goodness knows, therefore i propose to tell you something about my ways of life while i wait. "such a change in me! when i was in london last (with alick gell, you remember) i spent my days and nights in the hotels, restaurants, theatres and music-halls that are the lovely and beloved world of woman. it is the world of woman still, but quite another realm of it. "two nights ago i strolled westward along oxford street, and thought (with a lump in my throat) about de quincey and his ann. then, cutting through clare market to the temple and finding the gate closed, i tipped the porter to let me walk through the brick court, and stood a long half hour before a house in the silent little square, thinking of the day when the women of the town sat on the stairs while poor noll (oliver goldsmith) lay dead in his rooms above. and then, coming out into fleet-street (midnight now) where the big printing presses were throbbing behind dark buildings, i tried to think i saw the great old johnson, god bless him, picking up the prostitute from the pavement, carrying her home on his back and laying her on his bed. "last night i strolled eastward to look at the outside of the settlement in which you used to be lady warden (in the unbelievable days before you came back to man), and returning by a dark side street, i came upon a queue of women crouching in the cold before the doors of a salvation shelter. they were waiting for four in the morning when they would have a fighting chance of one of the beds (_i.e._, boxes like open coffins lying cheek by jowl on the floor of a big hall) after the washerwomen who were then asleep in them would get up and go to work. "but the climax came this morning (sunday morning) when i went to service at the foundling hospital. such a sweet scene--at first sight at all events. the little women, like little nuns, in their linen caps and aprons, singing like little angels in their sweet young voices. but my god, what tragedy lurked behind that picture also! "i did not hear much of the sermon for thinking of the mothers of these 'children of shame' and the conditions under which they must have given birth to them--sometimes in a garret, in secret, alone, driven to dementia by a sense of impending shame. how often a poor miserable girl in the degradation of childbirth (which should be the crown of a woman's glory) must have been tempted to kill her child in fear of the fate that awaited both it and her! and to think of the giant arm of the mighty law coming down on a creature like that to punish her! lord, what crimes are committed in the name of justice! "there you are now! that's what you've done for me. 'deed you have though. it's truth enough, girl. you've opened my ears to the cry of the voice of suffering woman, and that is the saddest sound, perhaps, that breaks on the shores of life. and the moral of it all is that if i do become a judge (god knows i'm almost afraid to hope for it) you must be my helper, my inspirer, the tower of my strength. "oh, my darling, how much i love you! it seems to me that i lost all my life until i came to love you. how well i recall the blessed day when i loved you first! it was the first time i saw you--the first time really. don't you remember? in the glen, that glorious autumn afternoon. the vision has followed me ever since and i wish i could blot out every day of my life when i have not thought of you. "there you are again! you see what you've done, ma'am. but i'm not always on the heights. what do you think? i've bought a motor car, and every morning i go up to hampstead with a teacher to learn to drive. "it is for our honeymoon. you called me a viking once, and i'm not going to be a viking for nothing. as soon as you are mine, mine wholly, i am going to pick you up and carry you off to all the inaccessible places in the island--the bent-strewn plains of ayre, where a lighthouse-man lives alone with his wife and nothing else save the sea for company; the shepherd's hut on snaefell, where there is nothing but the sky, and the sandy headlands of the calf with the mists of the atlantic sweeping over them. "meantime, think of me in a box of a bedroom five storeys up, with the roaring tide of london traffic running, like a canadian river, sixty feet below, and write--write, write! tell me what is happening in the 'lil islan'' which is lying asleep to-night in the irish sea. god bless it, and all the kind and cheery souls in it! god bless it for evermore! "stowell." ii "my dear victor,--you cannot imagine what a joy your letter was. do you know it was my first love-letter? of course i behaved like a dairymaid--took it up to bed, put it on my pillow and said, 'you are victor, you know,' and laid my cheek on it. "whatever have you done to make me so foolish? was it only half of you (the physical half) that went away, leaving the spirit half with me? i want the other half, though, the substantial half, so tell your home secretary (i like him) to hurry up and send you home. "you do wrong not to see the beautiful women, dear. the woman who is afraid of her husband looking at other women is building her house on the sand. i should like to say to myself, 'he has seen the loveliest women in the world, yet he comes back to me.' "all the same i love you for looking at the darker side of woman's life. it is more apparent in the greater communities, but it is here, too, and that is why i am looking eagerly forward to your appointment as deemster, which will make you a creator of the law as well as an administrator of it. you must have no misgivings, though. why should you? a man who has a stainless scutcheon is just what women want for their champion. and if i may help you how happy i shall be! "you ask what is happening in the island. well, apart from politics (of which i know nothing except that they seem to be always the same story) the only thing of consequence is the case of a young woman charged with the murder of her illegitimate child. "she is a country girl who, having run away from home some months ago, returned recently very ill and was put to bed, and remained there until arrested. but in the meantime the body of a new-born infant was found under a large stone half a mile away, and it is said to have been hers. "she denies all knowledge of the child, but the medical testimony seems to be sadly against her, and there is some direct evidence also, though it is not above the suspicion of being tainted by malice. "she has been up before the high bailiff and committed to the next sitting of the general gaol delivery, so you are likely to hear more of the case. poor thing, whatever her sin, she has already had a fearful punishment, for she is very ill, having apparently exposed herself to dreadful sufferings in the hope of preventing her baby from being born alive. "she is now in the prison hospital, and this morning i drove over to see her. a good-looking girl, almost beautiful (with the sort of beauty which attracts the less worthy side of a certain type of man), but her cheeks are now terribly thin and pale, and her big black eyes (her finest feature) have that wild look which one sees in a captured animal that gazes and gazes. "i liked the girl, but she did not seem to like me. in fact she shrank from me (the only girl who ever did so) and when i tried to be nice to her, and asked her to trust me, and to tell me who was responsible for her condition, so that i might find him and fetch him to her, she broke into a flood of fierce denial. "either the girl is a great story-teller or she is a great heroine, and i am half inclined to think she may be both. my guess would be that she is trying to shield the guilty man. the clothes she had worn were better than a farm girl could afford to buy, and that suggests that her fellow-sinner belongs to a class above her. "isn't it shocking that the law provides no punishment for the man who ruins a girl's life--ruining her soul at the same time, for that is what it often comes to. but, please god, you will be on the bench, so she is sure to have justice. "our society has decided to undertake her defence, but we are at a loss whom to employ. we cannot afford a high fee either--ten or fifteen guineas at the outside. can you suggest anybody? "i intend to be present at the trial, and to stand by the girl's side, for she will have nobody else, poor creature. but oh, how i wish i might plead for her! although her fellow-sinner will not stand for judgment, how i should like to tear the mask from his face and cry in open court, 'thou art the man!' "good-night, dear! it's p.m., and such delicious dreams are waiting for me upstairs. bring your motor-car back, and when the time comes (i shall not keep you long) you may carry me off to wherever you please. "listen, i am going to say something. there is not much in the heart of a woman that you don't know already, but i am about to let you into a secret. the woman who does not want her husband (if only he loves her) to control her, command her, and do anything and everything he likes with her, isn't really a woman at all--she's only a mistake for a man! "victor, after that burst of nonsense i cannot conclude without telling you again how much i love you. i love you for yourself, just yourself alone, quite apart from anything you may do or have done, whether good or bad, right or wrong, and i shall go on loving you whatever may happen to you in the future, whether you become deemster or not, go up or go down. "but when i think of the life that is so surely before you, and that i shall walk through it by your side, perfectly united with you, sharing the same hopes and aims and desires, enjoying the same sunshine and weathering the same storms, i have a vision of happiness that makes me cry for joy. "come back to me soon, dearest. the spring is here in all her youthful beauty; the daffodils are nodding; the gorse on the hedges is a blaze of gold; the sky is blue; the sea is lying asleep under a divine shimmer of sunshine, and your island--your island that is going to be so proud of you--is waiting to clasp you to her heart. "and so am i, my victor! "fenella." iii "my own dear fenella,--i am so troubled about the young woman who is to be charged with the murder of her child that (time being short) i must write at once on the subject. it looks like a case of the temporary mania which so often prompts women to take life (their own or their children's) in the hope of avoiding shame. "god, when i think of it, that in all ages of the world tens of thousands of women have gone through that fiery furnace and that never one man since the days of adam has come within sight of it, i want to go down on my knees to the meanest and lowest of them as the martyrs of humanity. "infanticide is of course a serious crime in any country, and especially serious in the isle of man now, when the governor has made up his mind to show no mercy to persons guilty of fatal violence. but the killing of a new-born child is usually treated as felonious homicide. therefore, if you carry out your intention of standing by the girl's side, you may safely tell her (in order to save her from possible shock) that even a verdict of guilty will not mean death. "how i wish you could plead for the poor thing! but instruct counsel for the defence and you will really be pleading, and i, for one, if i am present, will hear your quivering voice in every word he says. "as for the choice of an advocate--why not alick gell? he has not had too many chances, poor chap, and it will hearten him (he was rather down when i saw him last) to be entrusted with a serious case like this. "tell him to look up galabin and murrell on forensic medicine--he'll find both in the law library. the first step is to make sure that the poor creature (i assume she is not too well educated) has not mistaken infanticide for concealment; and the next, to insist on proof of 'a live birth,' which it is practically impossible to establish (except on the girl's confession) in a case of solitary delivery. "yes, you are almost certainly right in thinking she is trying to shield the guilty man, and, criminal though she is, she may be (as you say) an absolute heroine. in that event i trust it may not fall to my lot to try her. god save me from sitting in judgment on a woman who stands silent in her shame to shield the honour of the man she loves! "but as for hunting down the guilty man, that (don't you think so?) is perhaps another matter. if it has to be done at all it is only a woman--a pure and stainless woman--who has a right to do it. no man who knows himself, and how near every mother's son of us has been to the verge of the pit, will be the first to throw a stone. you remember--'but for the grace of god there goes john wesley.' oh, my darling, how can i ever be grateful enough for what you have done for me.... * * * * * * * "helloa! the page boy has just been up with a letter from the home secretary. 'i have the pleasure to inform you that the king has been pleased to approve of your appointment to the position of the deemster of the isle of man....' "how glorious! here i have been all day saying to myself, 'who, in god's name, are you that you should be judge over anybody?' and now i'm glad--damned glad, there is no other word for it. "i shall telegraph the news to you in a few minutes, but i feel as if i want to take the first boat home and become my own messenger. that is impossible, for i have to call on the lord chancellor to-morrow about my commission. and then i have to see to the transport of my car, and the purchase of my judge's wig and gown. but wait, only wait! three days more i shall have you in my arms. "my respectful greetings to the governor. say i know how much i owe to him for this unprecedented appointment. say, too, i shall hold myself in readiness for the ceremony of the swearing-in, whenever he desires it to take place; also for the next court of general gaol delivery if deemster taubman is still down with his rheumatism. "and now bless you again, dearest, for all your beautiful faith in me. god helping me, i'll do my best to deserve it. but you must be my guardian watcher, my sentinel, my star. "what a dear old world it is, darling! it seems as if there ought to be no suffering of any kind in it now--now that the sky is so bright for you and me. "victor." "p.s. _important_. don't forget to employ gell in that case of the girl who killed her baby. alick's her man. _mind you, though--he must compel her to tell him everything._" chapter twenty-four alick gell for ten days alick gell had been searching for bessie collister. when he first read her letter on reaching derby haven (he read it a hundred times afterwards) he remembered something his father had said in taunting him--"you'll not be the first by a long way!" then he recalled the case of the peel fisherman and a black thought came hurtling down on him. at the next moment he hated himself for it. "what devil out of hell made me think of that?" he asked himself. but why had bessie run away from him? the only explanation he could find was the one stowell had given on the steamboat--women had illnesses which men knew nothing about, and in the throes of their mania they sometimes hid themselves, like sick animals, from their friends--most of all from those they loved. were not the newspapers full of such cases? "that's it! that's it! my poor girl!" having arrived at this explanation of bessie's flight, he had no compunction about going in search of her. her malady might be only temporary, but, while it lasted, heaven alone knew what dangers she might expose herself to. at first it occurred to him to call in the assistance of the police. but no, that would lead to publicity, and publicity to misunderstanding. bessie would get better; he must keep her name clear of scandal. his voice shook and his lip trembled as he told the misses brown to say nothing to anybody. his warning was unnecessary. the terrified old maids, who had at length begun to scent the truth, had decided to keep their own counsel. within half an hour alick was on the road. he had no doubt of overtaking bessie--she was only half an hour gone. but which way would she go? it was easier to say which way she would not go. she would not go to the north of the island where she would be known to nearly everybody. above all, she would not go home--the home of dan baldromma. all that day he wandered through castletown--every street and alley. at nightfall he was back at derby haven. had bessie returned? no! had anything been heard of her? nothing! next day he set out on a wider journey--all the towns and villages of the south, port st. mary, port erin, fleswick, ballasalla, colby, ballabeg and cregneash. he walked from daylight to dark, and asked no questions, but at every open door he paused and listened. when he saw a farm-house that stood back from the high road he made excuse to go up to it--a drink of milk or water. day followed day without result. his heart was sinking. more than once he met somebody whom he knew and had to make excuse for his rambling. wonderful what a walking tour did to blow the cobwebs from a fellow's brain after he had been shut up too long in an office! his friends looked after him with a strange expression. he had been something of a dandy, but his hair was uncombed and his linen was becoming soiled and even dirty. at length he became a prey to illusions. he always slept in the last house he came to, and one night, in a fisherman's cottage near fleswick, he was awakened by the wind blowing over the thatch. he thought it sounded like the voice of bessie, and that she was wandering over the highway in the darkness, alone and distraught. next day he began to inquire if anything had been seen of such a person. he was told of a young woman who, found walking barefoot on the lonely road to dreamlang, had been taken to the asylum, and he hurried there to inquire. no, it was not bessie. some poor young wife who (only six months married and beginning to be happy in the prospect of a child) had lost her husband in an accident at the mines at foxdale. the dread of suicide took hold of him. one day a fish-cadger on the road told him that a young woman's body had been washed ashore at peel. again it was nothing--nothing to him. the wife of the captain of a norwegian schooner which had been wrecked off contrary--with her eyes open and her baby locked in her rigid arms. alick's heart was failing him. do what he would to keep down evil thoughts they were getting the better of him. sometimes he rested on the seat that usually stands outside the whitewashed porch of a manx cottage, and although he thought he said so little he found that the women (especially such of them as were mothers of grown-up girls) seemed to divine the object of his journey. "aw, yes, that's the way with them, the boghs, especially when there's a man bothering them. was there any man, now...." but alick was up and gone before they could finish their question. thus ten days passed. absorbed in his search, perplexed and tortured, he had seen no newspaper and heard nothing of what was happening in the island. suddenly it occurred to him that bessie could not have left him so long without news of her. she could not be so cruel; she must have written, and her letter must be lying at his office. people who knew him, and saw him return to douglas, could scarcely recognise him in the pale, unwashed, unshaven man who climbed the steps from the station, looking like a drunkard who had been sleeping out in the fields. his chambers, when he turned the key (he had no clerk now), were stuffy and cheerless. the ashes of his last fire were on the hearth, and his desk was covered with dust. behind the door (he had no letter-box) a number of circulars and bills lay on the ground, but, running his trembling fingers through them, he found no letter from bessie. there was a large and bulky envelope, though, with the seal of government house, and marked "immediate." what could it be? on the top of a thick body of folio paper he found a letter. it was from fenella stanley. "dear mr. gell,--at the suggestion of mr. stowell, who is still in london, i am writing on behalf of the women's protection league, to ask you if you can undertake the defence of the young woman in the north of the island who is to be charged with the murder of her new-born child." alick paused a moment to draw breath. "you will see by the report of the high bailiff's inquiry and the copy of the depositions which i enclose that the girl denies everything, and that her mother supports her, but the evidence is only too sadly against her--particularly that of the doctors and of two neighbours who live higher up the glen." alick felt his heart stop and his whole body grew cold. "her step-father...." the letter almost dropped from his fingers. "her step-father has not been asked by the prosecution to depose, and it is doubtful if the defence ought to call him." he was becoming dizzy. the lines of the letter were running into each other. "innocent or guilty, the girl has suffered terribly. she has been several days in hospital at ramsey, but she was to be removed to castle rushen this morning. her case is to come on next week at the court of general gaol delivery, so perhaps you will send me a telegram immediately saying if you can take up the defence. "as you see the poor creature is herself an illegitimate child--the name by which she is commonly known being bessie collister." alick shrieked. he had seen the blow coming, but when it came it fell on him like a thunderbolt. it was all a lie--a damned lie! nobody would make him believe it. bessie arrested for the murder of her child! she had never had a child. he leapt to his feet and tramped the room on stiffened limbs and with a heart throbbing with anger. then, half afraid, but doing his best to compose himself, he took the report and the depositions out of the big envelope, and, sitting before the dead hearth with his shaking feet on the fender, and holding the folio pages in his dead-cold hands, he read the evidence. as he did so he shrieked again, but this time with laughter. what a tissue of manifest lies! the skillicornes and their quarrel with dan baldromma--what a malicious conspiracy! lord, what blind fools the police could be! and the attorney, had he come to his second childhood? again and again alick thumped the desk with his fist and filled the air of the room with the dust that rose in the sunshine which was now pouring through the windows. there was a photograph of bessie on the mantelpiece--a copy of the same that she had sent to stowell. he snatched it up and kissed it. never had bessie been so dear to him as now--now when she was in prison under a false accusation. and the best of it was that he was to get her off. he must see her at once, though. "my poor girl! in castle rushen!" the first thing to do was to wash and change (he cut himself badly in shaving), but in less than half-an-hour he was at the post-office telegraphing to fenella. "gladly." brief as the message was, the clerk at the counter could hardly decipher the agitated handwriting. a few minutes later he was at the police-office, asking the chief constable for an order to allow him, as bessie's advocate, to see her alone in her cell. at two o'clock he was back at the railway-station, taking the train for castletown. as he stepped into his carriage the newsboys were calling the contents of the evening paper: _victor stowell appointed deemster._ glorious! bessie would have a human being on the bench. thank god for that anyway! ii "i don't know what you are talking about--i really don't. you make me laugh. whatever will you say next! i was ill and i came home to have my mother nurse me, and that was all i knew until cain, the constable, came to bring me here." it was bessie before the high bailiff. her face was thin and pale, and she was clutching the rail of the dock in an effort to keep herself erect, while her shrill voice echoed to the roof. the magistrate was about to commit her to prison when dr. clucas rose in the body of the court-house. "your worship," he said (his voice was husky and his eyes had a look of tears), "the defendant is suffering from the temporary mania which is not unusual in such cases. i suggest that she should be sent to the hospital." bessie fainted. the next thing she knew was that she was in bed in a hospital ward, and that another doctor (a younger man with thin hair and a large pugnacious mouth) was leaning over her, and laying his hand on her breast. she pushed it off, and then he said, in an authoritative tone, "my good woman, if you are innocent, as you say, the best proof you can give is that of a medical examination." at this bessie broke into fierce wrath. "if you touch me again," she cried, "i'll tear your eyes out!" then she fainted once more, and for two days lay in a strong delirium. when she came to herself a nurse with a kind face was by her side, saying "hush!" and doing something at her breast with a glass instrument. she knew she had been delirious (having a vague memory of crying "alick! alick!" as she returned to consciousness) and was in fear of what she might have said. "is it morning?" she asked. "yes, dear." "then it's the next day?" "the next but one." "have i been wandering?" "a little." "did i call for anybody?" "yes." she dare not ask whom, but lay wondering if alick knew where she was and what had happened to her. after a while she said, "is it in the papers?" the nurse nodded, and after a moment, with her eyes down, bessie said, "has anybody been here to ask for me?" "yes, your mother--she comes night and morning." "nobody else?" "nobody." bessie broke into sobs and turned her face to the wall. alick knew! he had given her up! she had lost him! when she recovered from an agony of tears her eyes were glittering and her heart was bitter. what did she care what became of her now? they might do what they liked with her. deny? what was the good? she would deny no longer. she would tell the truth about everything. then fenella stanley came. bessie thought she liked miss stanley better than any woman, except her mother, she had ever known. but that only made it the harder to hold to her resolution, for if she told the truth she would surely hurt fenella. "oh, why do you come to torture me?" she cried, when fenella asked who was her "friend." and not another word would she say. two days later, before breakfast, cain, the constable, came with a sergeant of police to take her to castle rushen. she did not care! why should she? but as she was leaving the hospital the nurse with the kind face whispered, "good-bye, dear. you're all right now. i'm going away and will say nothing." it was a cruelly beautiful morning, with a golden shimmer from the rising sun upon a tranquil sea. the railway station was full of townspeople going up to douglas (it was market day there), so bessie was hurried into the last compartment. when the train ran into the country a flood of memories swept over her and she found it hard to keep back her tears. the young lambs were skipping on the hill-sides; the sheep were bleating; girls in sun bonnets were coming from the whitewashed outhouses to drive the cattle into the fields. when they drew up at the station for the glen the shingly platform was crowded with passengers waiting for the train--rosy-faced women with broad open baskets of butter and eggs, and elderly farmers smoking their strong thick twist and surrounded by their panting dogs. bessie knew them all. at the last moment a young woman in a low cut blouse ran up--it was susie stephen. bessie crept into a corner of the carriage and closed her eyes. but she could not shut out everything. over the rumble of the wheels, when the train started again, she heard shrieks of laughter from the compartment in front. the elderly men were jesting in their free way with the girls, and the girls, nothing loth, were answering them back. at the junction of st. john's, the train had to stop for carriages from peel to be linked on to it, and while the coupling was going on one of the passengers strolled along the platform. it was willie teare, who had wanted to marry bessie, and he saw her behind the constables. at the next moment a throng of girls gathered outside her window, but the constables pulled down the blinds. "take your seats! take your seats!" the train went on. there was no more laughter from the passengers in the compartment in front. bessie understood--they were whispering about her. her heart was becoming hard. sitting in the darkened carriage, with spears of sunlight flashing from the flapping blinds, she heard the constables talking about mr. stowell. it was reported that he had been made deemster. he would make a good deemster, too. "a taste young, maybe, but clever--clever uncommon." on reaching douglas, where they had to change into the train for castletown, bessie was being hustled across the platform, between the constables, when she became aware of a crowd of women and girls who were crushing up to stare at her. there was a whispering and muttering. "there she is!" "serve her right, _i_ say!" half-an-hour later she was in castle rushen. the darkness within was blinding after the sunshine without. a woman with short and difficult breathing was moving about her. it was mrs. mylrea, the female warder. she took off bessie's cloak and hat, and, leaving her a brown blanket and a hard pillow, went away without speaking a word. but then came vondy, the head jailer, with words enough for both of them. bessie did not know she was crying until the old man, in his blundering way, began to comfort her. "tut, tut, gel! they're not for hanging you yet at all. while there's life there's hope!" left alone at last, and her eyes accustomed to the darkness, she saw where she was--in a stone vault that had a small grill in the door (behind which a candle was burning) and a barred and deeply-recessed window, near the ceiling, through which a dull ray of borrowed light was coming, for the prison overlooked the harbour on the west of the castle. by this time her tears were turned to gall. a frightful revulsion had come over her soul. what had she done to deserve all this? the injustice of it, the cruelty, the barbarity, the hypocrisy! men were all alike. go on, she knew what men were! a man only wanted one thing of a girl, and when he got that he forgot all about her. alick gell was the best of them, yet even he had forsaken her now that she was in trouble. she had never intended to do harm to anybody, and yet there she was, and would remain, until they came to take her to the court-house on the other side of the castle-yard. then hundreds of eyes would be on her (women's eyes too) and when she raised her own she would see mr. stowell on the bench. what a mockery! mr. stowell her judge! what would he do? his "duty" of course. all right, let him do it! only she, too, would do something. after he had tried her and sentenced her and finished with her, she would tell him something. why shouldn't she? and what did she care what happened to anybody else? fenella stanley was nothing to her. suddenly she thought again about alick gell. if she did what she intended to do (tell everything) alick also would be disgraced. the shame of her misfortune would follow him to the last day of his life. even his own father would cast it up to him. hadn't she done enough harm to alick already? if he had deserted her, she had deceived him. and yet she had deceived him only because she loved him. "alick! alick! alick!" her heart was crying. she was wishing she were dead. she had flung herself down on her plank bed, with her face to the blank wall, when she heard the dead beating of footsteps in the corridor outside. at the next moment the door of her cell was opened and tommy vondy, the jailer, was saying, "mr. alexander gell, the advocate, to see you alone." iii "bessie!" the jailer had gone. alick was breathing quickly in the darkness by the door, and bessie was huddled up on the bed, with the dull ray of reflected light upon her from the wall above. "bessie!" his voice was low and full of tears. at first she did not answer. "it's alick. won't you speak to me?" "go away!" he could hear that she was crying. "you won't send me away, bessie. i have been looking for you all over the island. it was only to-day i heard where you were and what had happened. i have come to help you--to save you." he saw the dark form rising on the bed. "do you know what they say i did?" "yes, i know everything." "and you don't believe it?" "not one word of it." "you think i am innocent?" "i am sure you are." "alick!" with a great sob that shook her whole body she rose to her feet and flung herself upon him. for a long time they stood clasped in each other's arms, and crying like children. then they sat down side by side on the plank bed. his arm was about her, and her head was on his shoulder. he was trying to make his voice cheerful, though it cracked sorely, while he reproved her for her tears. she would soon be free to leave that place. there was really nothing against her. never had there been such a trumped-up case. the police must be crazy. she clung to him with a frightened tenderness while he told her of the letter from fenella stanley asking him to take up the defence on behalf of the society. "of course i should have taken it up in any case, you know. and now you must authorise me to defend you." she was startled. in the half darkness he saw her pale face (so pale and so thin) raised to his with a frightened look. "you?" "why not, dear? i'm an advocate. you don't suppose i'm going to leave your defence to anybody else, do you?" "no, no! you must not!" "but why? can't you trust me, bess?" "it isn't that." "what then?" bessie did not answer him, and he went on talking, though his voice was breaking again. he knew he was not a born lawyer and a great speaker like stowell, but the facts were so clear that he had only to state them and they would speak for themselves. a fierce struggle was going on in bessie's soul. he whom she had wronged (never having wronged anybody else), he for whom she had committed her crime, wanted her to authorise him to stand up in court and say she had not committed it. she had deceived him once--could she deceive him again? "no, no, no! i cannot!" alick was puzzled. "what do you mean, bessie? why shouldn't i be your advocate?" "i don't want any advocate." "but you must have one. it isn't enough to be not guilty--we must prove you're not. why shouldn't i do so?" at length she was forced to make some explanation. the police were determined to have her condemned; therefore he would lose his case and that would go against him. "good gracious, girl, what nonsense! anybody may lose a case. the greatest lawyers have lost cases. but it's impossible that i should lose this one. and even if i lose it--do you know what i shall do?" "what?" "wait outside the prison door until you come out and marry you the same day to show that i believe in you still." at that bessie was in floods of tears again. and again they cried in each other's arms like children. then alick, after drying his eyes in the darkness, put on a brave air, and told her what she had to do. "listen to me now. this is a low conspiracy, but if we are to defeat it, you must stick to your story. i shall have to put you in the box, for you must leave the court without a stain on your character. first of all you must say...." and then sitting by bessie's side in the dark cell, with only the candle looking in on them from the outside ledge of the grill, he rehearsed the facts as they were to be given in court--how by the cruelty of her step-father she had been shut out of the house late at night and had had to go elsewhere; how she had returned, being unwell, and wishing her mother to nurse her, and how she had been put to bed and had never left it until the constables came to take her away. bessie listened in silence, gazing before her like a captured sheep, and answering only by a nodding of her head. "if the attorney asks you anything else--no matter what--you must say you know nothing about it---do you understand?" "yes." "say it after me then--'i know nothing about it.'" bessie repeated the words like a woman talking in her sleep---"'i know nothing about it.'" "that's all right. leave the rest to me." "you think i shall get off?" "i'm sure of it. if the general gaol is held next week, we'll be married the week after." "but, alick?" "yes." "your father and sisters, will they not always cast it up at you that your wife has been tried for...." "let them! if they do the isle of man will be dead to me for ever. we'll go abroad--to america perhaps--and leave everything and everybody behind us." bessie was crying once more, and alick, to conceal his own tears, was going off with great bustle. "good-bye! i'll be here again to-morrow. and oh, what do you think, bess? great news! stowell has been made deemster. so if the good lord in heaven will only keep that damned old taubman in bed a little longer with his rheumatism, stowell will be on the bench and you'll have a fair trial at all events. good-bye!" for the next half-hour bessie sobbed with joy. tell the truth and destroy alick's faith in her? never! never in this world! chapter twenty-five the deemster's oath it was the morning of the day of the swearing-in of the new deemster at castle rushen. the bishop had asked permission to solemnise the ceremony with a religious service--a custom long unobserved. the service was held in a groined chamber of moderate size within walls thirty feet thick, once the banqueting-hall of the kings of man, now the jail chapel, with an atmosphere that seemed to be compounded equally of the intoxicated laughter of the old revellers and the moans of the condemned prisoners. for the event of the day the chill place had been suitably decorated. flags hung on the tarred walls, red cushions from the neighbouring church had been laid on the bare benches; a carpet had been stretched down the aisle of the flagged floor; a white embroidered altar-cloth covered the plain communion table, from which the light of four candles in silver candlesticks flickered on the faces of the small congregation--chiefly officials, with their wives and daughters. shortly before eleven, the hour fixed for the service, stowell entered, wearing for the first time the wig and gown of a judge, and he was led to one of three arm-chairs at the front. a little later there came through the thick walls the sound of soldiery clashing arms outside the castle, and at the next moment the governor arrived in general's uniform of red and gold, with fenella behind him in a large spring hat (her face glowing with animation), and they took the two remaining chairs. then the bishop in his scarlet robes came in, preceded by his crozier, and the service began. it was short but solemn. first a psalm of david ("he shall judge thy people with righteousness and thy poor with judgment"); then an epistle to the romans ("owe no man anything"); and then an improvised prayer by the bishop, asking the almighty to grant his strength and wisdom to his servant who was shortly to take the solemn oath of his great office, that he might deliver the poor and needy, deal faithfully with all men, and show mercy to such as had erred and sinned. then came the hymn "thou judge of quick and dead," and finally the benediction. stowell was strongly affected. he knelt at the prayer, and when the service was at an end and it was time to go, fenella had to touch his shoulder. the sun was bright outside, and they blinked their eyes as they crossed the courtyard to the court-house. the stately little chamber was full, save for the seats that had been reserved for the officials. there was a flash of faces, a waft of perfume, a flutter of handkerchiefs and a hum of whispering as the governor stepped up to the scarlet dais, with stowell following him and taking for the first time the seat of the judge. people who had been talking of the youth of the new deemster were heard to say that in his judge's wig he seemed older than they had expected and so like the portrait on the wall that one could almost fancy that his father was looking through the windows of his eyes. the proceedings began with the governor calling upon stowell for his commission, and then reading it aloud--"our trusty and well-beloved victor stowell to be deemster of this isle." after that everybody stood while the new judge took the oath of fealty to the king. then the deemster's clerk, joshua scarff, in his coloured spectacles, handed up a quarto copy of the bible and a deep hush fell on the assembly, for the time had come for the deemster's oath. the governor and stowell rose again, but all others remained seated. each laid one hand on the open book, and the governor read the oath, clause by clause in loud, strong tones that seemed to smite the walls as with blows. and, clause by clause, stowell repeated it after him in a lower voice that was sometimes barely audible: "_by this book and the holy contents thereof...._" "_by this book and the holy contents thereof...._" "_and by all the wonderful works which god hath miraculously wrought in heaven and on the earth beneath in six days and seven nights, i, victor christian stowell...._" "_i, victor christian stowell, do swear that i will, without respect or fear or friendship, love or gain, consanguinity or affinity, envy or malice, execute the laws of this isle justly betwixt our sovereign lord the king and his subjects within the isle, and betwixt party and party, man and man, man and woman...._" "_.... man and woman ...._" "_.... as indifferently as the herring bone doth lie down the middle of the fish._" there was a deep silence until the oath was ended and then a general drawing of breath. the governor and the new deemster sat and the clerk of the rolls handed up the liber juramentorum, the book of oaths, a large volume in faded leather with leaves of discoloured parchment. it was observed, and afterwards remarked upon, that when stowell took up the pen to sign he hesitated for a moment, and then wrote his name rapidly and nervously, and that, in the silence, a diamond ring which he wore on his right hand (it was a present from fenella) clashed with a discordant sound against the glass tray as he threw the pen back. the business being over, the bishop gave out the hymn that is sung at the close of nearly all manx festivals, "o god, our help," and all rose and sang. stowell rose with the rest, but he did not sing. he was no longer conscious of the eyes that were on him. the emotion which he had been struggling to repress had at length conquered his self-control. while the court-house throbbed with the singing he was thinking of the judges who had stood in the same place and taken that oath before him. there had been a thousand years of them. he turned to the eastern wall and his father's melancholy eyes seemed to look at him. "yes, you too," they seemed to say, "must now do the right, whatever it may cost you. you are no longer yourself only. the souls of all your predecessors have this day entered into your soul. you must consider yourself no more. you must be just--or perish." the hymn came to an end and there was a shuffling of feet like the pattering of water in the harbour at the top of the tide. the next thing stowell knew was that he was unrobed and going down the deemster's private staircase to the court-yard of the castle. a large company was there waiting to congratulate him. janet (he had ordered that a front seat should be reserved for her) was holding a little court of elderly ladies, to whom she was relating wonderful stories of his childhood. she broke away from them to kiss him. and then she kissed fenella also and whispered, "don't forget to send him home in time, dear." "i'll not forget," said fenella. and then she, on her part, with a face aflame, whispered something to the governor, who, shaking hands all round, was making ready to go. "what? you want to return in the automobile? very well, off you go! the attorney will take pity on your forsaken father." outside the gate there was a great crowd, behind a regiment of red-coated soldiers, and when the governor and the attorney-general drove off they broke into a cheer which drowned the clash of steel and the first bars of the national anthem. but that was as nothing compared with the demonstration when stowell went off in his car, sitting at the wheel, with fenella beside him. "long live the new deemster--hip, hip--hip!" the great shout, the mighty roar of voices, brought a surging to stowell's throat and a tightening to his breast. it followed his car, going off in the sunshine, until it shot over the bridge that crossed the harbour, and there fenella turned back her glistening wet eyes and bowed. * * * * * * * others heard it. the prisoners in their dark cells, rising from their plank beds and hunching their shoulders in the chill air, listened to the joyous sounds from without, which broke the usual silence of their gloomy walls, and said to themselves, "what are they doing now, i wonder?" there were seven prisoners in the castle that day. one of them was bessie collister. ii "addio! see you at supper!" fenella was waving to the governor and the attorney, and laughing at their slow speed, as she and stowell shot past them before they had left the town. the morning was beautiful, the sky blue, the sea glistening under a fresh breeze. they were running, bounding, leaping along the roads, and talking loudly above the hum of the car. stowell had caught the contagion of fenella's high spirits and awakened from his long trance. "well, what did you think of it?" "the ceremony? lovely!" "but you were crying all the time!" "it must have been through looking at you, then. there was everybody doing you honour, and you looked like a man going to execution." he laughed; she laughed; they laughed together, but they had their serious moments for all that. one of them came when she spoke of the oath, saying how quaint and amusing it was. "a little frightening, though," said stowell. "frightening?" "well, yes, i thought so. made one feel as if old job had had something to say for himself. who was i to judge others, having done wrong myself?" "really! you wicked fellow! i wasn't aware you had so many sins to answer for. but _i_ know!" and then, in flash after flash, each sparkling like a diamond, came pictures of his predecessors. the solemn judge; the jesting judge; the judge who suspected all men of lying; the judge who believed everybody told the truth; the sour, dour, swearing and hanging judge, who served justice as if she had been a juggernaut, and the gay judge who bought and sold her as he did his mistresses. "what a procession! and the question was, which kind were you going to belong to--eh?" again he laughed; they both laughed; and the car flew on. another serious moment came. he mentioned the book of oaths, saying that while turning over its leaves with their faded ink he had been seized with a sudden fear of writing his name, whereupon fenella, with a mischievous look of gravity, cried again, "_i_ know. you thought you were signing your death-warrant." yet another serious moment came when she asked him if he had not been proud of the send-off his countrymen had given him at the castle gate. he replied that he would have been so but for the wretched thought that if anything happened to him their love would as suddenly turn to hate, and they would howl as loudly as they had cheered. "but what nonsense!" cried fenella. "love--what i call love--is not like that. it never dies and never changes." "never?" "never! if i loved anybody and anything happened, i should fight the world for him." "even if he were in the wrong?" "goodness yes! where would be the merit of fighting for him if he were in the right?" "darling!" cried stowell, and, the road being clear, and nobody in sight, he had to slow down the car to kiss her. after that he threw off the solemnity of the ceremony and gave himself up to the intoxication of love. with fenella by his side, looking up at him with her beaming eyes, and laughing with her gay raillery, what else could he think about? a few miles out of castletown he said, "let us take the old road back--it's longer." "yes, it's longer." every fresh mile was a fresh delight. how the spring was coming on! look at the gorse, already in its glory! and the lambs just born and still trembling on their doddering limbs! and the tragic old hens with their fluffy yellow broods! and then the cottages, half buried in their big fuchsias! and the farmers whitewashing their farmhouses to wipe out the stains of winter! "what a jolly old world it is, isn't it?" he cried. "isn't it?" she answered, and without looking to see if the way was clear, he had to slow down the car and kiss her again. a few miles south of douglas they turned into a road that ran like a shelf along the edge of the cliffs, with the sea surging on the grey rocks below, and nothing but its round rim against the sky. the breeze was stronger out there, but every gust was a joy. stowell took off his hat and threw it to the bottom of the car. fenella unpinned hers and held it on her knee. his black hair tumbled over his forehead, and her bronze-brown hair, loosened from its knot, flew about her head like a flag. more than ever now they had the sense of flying. the sun danced on the breakers; the foam floated in trembling flakes into the blue sky; the sea-fowl screamed about them. with the taste of the brine on their lips, and the sting of it in their blood, they shouted at every sight and sound. "look at that white horse down there! see how he rears his head and plunges forward. ah, he has had enough! no, he's coming on again with a roar!" "but look at the sea-holly and the wild thyme! and the rabbits scuttling into their holes! and the goats on the peaks of the cliffs!" "lord! what a jolly old world it is, though!" "didn't you say that before, victor?" "did i? well, i'm going to say it every blessed day of my life to come." "no, no! take care! we're on the edge of the cliff. we'll be over!" "no matter--another kiss!" the wind was from the south, and the sea, breaking along the broken line of the coast, was making a sound like that of the ringing of bells. it was the phenomenon of nature which gave rise to the tradition that a town lies buried under the sea at that point, so that manx fishermen, coming back from their fishing-ground at sunrise, will sometimes say, "the wedding bells are ringing!" stowell heard them now, over the roar of the waves in their mad welter, and he cried, "listen to the bells!" "what bells?" "our bells!" he cried. and then at the full power of their lungs, over the hum of the engine and the boom of the breakers, they sang a verse of the song of the submerged city: "_here where the ocean is whitened with foam, here stood a city, an altar, a home. hark to the bells that ring under the sea, salve regina! salve regina! love is the queen for you and for me, salve, salve regina!_" after that they laughed again, and in sheer gaiety of heart, sang every nonsensical thing they could think about, until, being breathless and hoarse and compelled to stop, fenella said, "i wonder what those people in the court-house would think if they could see their great man now! but i suppose there has never been a great man since the beginning of the world but some woman has known him for what he really is--just a big boy!" at three o'clock in the afternoon luncheon was over at government house; the governor and the attorney-general had gone off to smoke; miss green, like a wise woman, had betaken herself to her room, and fenella and stowell were alone. "now you must get away to ballamoar. i promised janet to send you back in time. some kind of welcome home, you know." but stowell stood over her (she was at the piano) and whispered, "when?" she pretended not to understand him, and again, and in a more emphatic voice, he demanded, "when?" she was compelled to comprehend at last, and said that if all went well, and he behaved himself, and her father approved, a month that day, perhaps .... no, two months.... "done!" a few minutes later they were in the porch for their last parting. he was holding her in a long embrace. he felt like jacob who had waited so long for rachel. he would never be entirely happy until she was wholly his. she laughed--a nervous and palpitating laugh. "rachel indeed? take care it isn't leah in the morning, sir." but seeing the cloud that crossed his face at that word, she kissed him of herself, saying they belonged to each other already and nothing could ever separate them. "nothing?" "nothing!" and then a long tremulous kiss and he was gone. iii home! he had reached the top of the mountain road, and the setting sun was striking him full in the face. to right and left, before and behind, across the broad waters, stood the dim ghosts of england, scotland, ireland and wales. but what did he care for these greater scenes? down yonder was ballamoar, and to him, as to his father, it was enough to be deemster of man and judge of his own people. news of his home-coming had been telegraphed from douglas, and when his car shot out of the glen the church bells were ringing all over the curagh. people working in the fields climbed the hedges to wave as he went by, and feeble old men came to the doors of the cottages to lift up the hooked handles of their sticks to him. on reaching the entrance to ballamoar he found a crowd waiting at the gate, and a streamer from post to post, saying-- welcome to his father's son. the hum of the automobile awakened the colony of rooks in the tall trees, and, swirling above the lawn, they raised a deafening clamour. this brought from the porch janet (back from castletown) with a flutter of black frocks and white aprons behind her. a great company of the people of the parish were at tea in the hall, chiefly women, but of all classes, from the nervous wife of the vicar to the widow of the cowman. "don't get up," cried stowell. he had entered with a shout, tossing his hat on to the settle and saluting everybody by name, just as he used to do when he was a boy and annexed them all for relations. "sit here, auntie kitty. this is your seat, alice. parson, won't you take the bottom of the table? and, dad" (this to robbie creer in his sunday homespun), "take my place by mrs. creer while i help jane with the teacups." "did thou hear that, mistress?" said robbie behind his hand to janet, who was turning the tap of the tea urn. "they may make him dempster, but he doesn't forget his old friends for all." in a moment everybody was talking and laughing. it was just as if a fresh breeze had come down from the mountains on a hot day in harvest. during tea joshua scarff arrived with a green portfolio under his arm. "i've brought some documents you'll wish to look at before the court sits, your honour." "good! put them on the desk in the library and then come back and have some tea." the twilight deepened and the company prepared to go. stowell stood at the door, with janet beside him, while the young girls of the choir of the methodist chapel ranged themselves in front of the house and sang in their sweet young voices, which floated through the gathering gloom, "god be with you till we meet again." "good-night, all!" "good-night, your honour!" night! the great day had dropped asleep; the clock on the landing was striking nine; dinner was over; janet (she had "a head") had gone to her room, and stowell was stepping on to the piazza. the wind had fallen and the night was silent, almost breathless. the revolving light on the point of ayre was answering to the gleam on galloway; and the moon, which was almost at the full, was glistening on the waters that rolled between. how beautiful, how limpid! it was just such a night as that on which fenella and he had sat out there together. he could still see her as she was then--the slim young girl in a white dress and satin slippers, with her intoxicating face in the frame of the silk handkerchief which she had bound about her head. and now she was to become his wife! a great new vista was opening out to him. life was about to begin in earnest. with that splendid woman by his side he was going to rise (if god would be so good to him) out of the muddy imperfections of his lower nature. his breast swelled; his throat tightened; his heart sang; he was entirely happy. suddenly he remembered alick gell. he had not seen him at castletown that day, or at all since he returned from london. why was that? could it be possible that the matter they had spoken about on the steamer .... no, no! still he must fulfil his promise. he would step into the library and write a line saying he was ready to go down to derby haven if necessary. as he passed through the dining-room he framed the words of his letter: "where were you, you old scoundrel, that you were not at the swearing-in? i suppose the matter you mentioned has righted itself since i went away, but if not and you still want me...." iv the house was very quiet. he felt an unaccountable chill coming over him. on the threshold of the library he paused. he had the sense of a mysterious presence in the room. the log fire had burnt low; the lamp on the desk, under his mother's portrait, had been turned down; deep shadows lay around. making an effort he entered, stepping softly, yet hardly knowing why he did so. on reaching the desk he turned up the light and then his eye fell on the green portfolio which he had last seen under joshua scarff's arm. it bore a label on which was written: "_calendar of cases to be tried at the spring session of the court of general gaol delivery. presiding deemster_--deemster victor stowell." then came a moral thunderclap. opening the calendar he read these words on the first page of it: _rex _v._ corteen for murder depositions._ _that elizabeth corteen, commonly called bessie collister, on or about the fifth day of april--in the parish of ballaugh, in the isle of man, feloniously, wilfully, and of her malice aforethought, did kill and murder a certain male child, contrary to the form of the statute in such cases made and provided, and against the peace of our sovereign lord the king, his crown and dignity._ a mist rose before stowell's eyes. he could not read any more, but stood for a moment looking down at the writing. life seemed to run out of him in a pounding rush. the walls of the room, and particularly the picture of his mother, began to reel about in a rapidly increasing vertigo. he put his hand on a chair but felt nothing. at the next moment darkness came and he knew no more. end of third book fourth book the retribution chapter twenty-six the wind and the whirlwind next day the insular newspapers announced that the new deemster, on his return home from castletown, after the ceremony of his swearing-in, had had a sudden seizure. a heavy fall had been heard by the servants, and they had found their master lying on the floor of the library, unconscious. early in the morning robbie creer had driven into town for dr. clucas, who had ordered rest--absolute rest. "we must have three full days in bed, mr. stowell, sir. and if it is necessary to postpone the court of general gaol delivery, i think .... i really think we must ask his excellency to do so." stowell drew a deep breath and fell asleep. when he awoke it was mid-day. he was in bed in his father's bedroom and fenella was sitting by his side, holding his hand. after he had opened his eyes she leaned over him and kissed him, saying in a soft voice that he would soon be better. "it was that oath-taking, dear. i could see you were taking it too seriously." his heart was still warm with the embraces of yesterday, yet he tried in vain to kiss her back. but he laughed a little and made light of his seizure. it was nothing, but a little dizziness; he would be about again in a day or two. "would you like me to stay and nurse you?" "no, no! .... i mean you needn't...." his stammering broke down and his face gloomed, but with a quick smile she said, "oh, very well, sir, if you won't have me, janet will take care of you, and send me a telegram night and morning to say how you are. won't you, janet?" from some unseen place behind the curtains of the four-poster, janet, snuffling and blowing her nose, answered that she would. "and now i'll be wishing you good-morning, sir," said fenella, making (after another kiss) a stately curtsey to him as he lay in bed. the sounds of the wheels of the governor's carriage having died off on the drive, stowell found himself alone and face to face with a tragic problem--what was he to do about the trial of bessie collister? this, then, was the case fenella had written about while he was in london. why had he not thought of it before? he could not pretend that he had never had misgivings. again and again the evil shadow of a dread possibility had crossed his mind like a vanishing dream at the moment of awakening. he had put it aside, banished it, explained it away to himself. in the fullness of his happiness he had even forgotten it altogether. but nature did not forget. and now his sin had fallen on him like an avalanche--fallen as only an avalanche falls, when the sky is blue, the air is warm and the sun is shining. he had no doubt about bessie's guilt. but what about his own? and if he were guilty (in the second degree), being the first cause of the girl's crime, how could he sit in judgment upon her? to try his own victim, to question her, to go through the mockery of weighing the evidence against her, to condemn her, to sentence her--it would be impossible, utterly impossible, contrary to all legal usage, a violation of the spirit if not the letter of his oath in his first hour as a judge. and then the human side of it--the terror, the peril! that poor girl in the dock, in the depths of her shame and the throes of her temptation, while he, her fellow sinner.... no, no, no! it would not only be a crime against justice; it would be a sin against god. joshua scarff came in the afternoon. standing by the bed, and looking down through his dark spectacles, he said, "this is a pity, your honour! a great pity! such interesting cases! your honour must have wished to study them before sitting in court." "joshua," said stowell (he was breathing hard and speaking with difficulty), "go to deemster taubman, tell him what has happened, and say that if, as a great favour, he can take the court next week, i shall be eternally grateful." the deemster's clerk was almost speechless with dismay. his honour's first court! pity! great pity! but stowell felt an immense relief. thank god, there was another deemster to fall back upon. he need not break the spirit of his oath. bad as the event was at the best, at least there need be no conflict between his private interests and his public duty. ii stowell, in spite of dr. clucas, got up next morning. he was sitting before the fire in the library when janet came in to say that mrs. collister of baldromma was asking to see the deemster. she had come to plead for her daughter--that girl who was to be tried for killing her baby. "i told her she shouldn't have come here and that the old deemster would never have seen her. but it's pitiful to see the poor thing. she is lame, too, and has walked all the way. what am i to say to her?" stowell struggled with himself for a moment, and then, with an embarrassed utterance said, "let her come in." "this is very wrong of you, mrs. collister" (he was trying to keep a firm lip and to speak severely); "you know it is against all rule." the old woman, trembling and wiping her eyes, said she knew it was, but she had known his father. there had been none like him--no, not the whole island over. he had been every poor person's friend. if anybody had been injured she had only to draw to him for refuge and he had protected her. and if any poor girl had gone wrong, and broken the law, perhaps, it was the big man himself who was always there to show her mercy. "that's why i thought maybe his son, if he had his father's heart .... and people are saying he has too .... maybe his son wouldn't send a poor mother away when she's in trouble and has nobody else to go to." "sit down, mrs. collister." the old woman sat in the chair which janet turned for her, and began on her story. "it's about bessie." she had always been a good girl. no mother ever had a better. and if people were saying she had been in trouble before, might the lord forgive them when their own time came, for it was lies they were putting on the girl. "and if she's in trouble now, your honour, it's like it's not all her own fault neither." first there was her father. he had been shocking hard on the girl, shutting her out of the house in the dark of night and so throwing her into the way of temptation. "until they lay me under the sod i'll never get it out of my ears, sir---the sound of her foot going off on the street." and when the girl came home again, looking that weak that it seemed as if the world wasn't willing to stand under her, the father had taunted her with coming back to eat them up, and maybe bringing another mouth to feed. "so if she did the terrible shocking thing they're saying .... i don't know if she did, your honour .... i don't know if she ever left the dairy loft from the minute i took her up to it until cain the constable (may the lord forgive him!) came dragging her down .... but if she did, it's like it was because the poor child was alone in the dark midnight, and out of herself entirely, and not knowing what she was doing, and perhaps freckened of what the old man would be saying in the morning." stowell was silent. the old woman cried softly to herself for a moment and then said, "nobody knows what that is, your honour, except them that has gone through it." then she wiped her eyes, one after another, and said she could not sleep "a wink on the night," lying in her white bed and thinking of bessie where she was now. and having read "in class" last evening how the lord heard the cry of hagar for her son in the wilderness she had thought his honour might hear her cry for her daughter. stowell knew that his feelings as a man were getting the better of his duty as a judge, so he tried to be severe with the old woman, telling her she had no right to come to him, and that he had done wrong to listen to her. "in fact i could not have received you at all but for one thing--i am not going to try your daughter's case." the old woman was appalled. "do you mean, sir, that you'll not be trying bessie?" "no, deemster taubman will probably do so." at that the old woman broke into a flood of tears. "aw dear! aw dear! and me praying on my knees on the kitchen floor that the lord would bring you back in time from london--someones being so hard on poor girls in trouble!" again stowell was silent, and for some moments nothing was heard but the woman's broken sobs. at length, unable to bear any longer the sight of the old mother's disappointment, he said he would do what he could for her. if he could not sit on her daughter's case he would write to deemster taubman, explaining her condition and describing her temptations. "god bless you for that," cried the old woman. and then janet said it was time to go, his honour being unwell. "may the lord give him health and strength and long life, ma'am!" people were right when they were telling her he had his father's heart. he had too. she was going out of the room with hope kindled, when she said, "you must excuse a poor woman if she did wrong in coming to you, sir." "we'll say no more about that now," said stowell. "go home and rest, mother." at that word the old woman broke down utterly. but after a moment her weak eyes shone and she said, "bessie is not your quality, sir, but if she gets off she'll write to thank you." "no, no! she must never do that," said stowell. "come now, mrs. collister," said janet. but having reached the door, the old woman turned her wet face, and seeing the portrait of stowell's mother on the wall, and mistaking it for that of fenella, she said, "they're telling me you're to be married soon, your honour. may the lord give you peace and love in your own home, and that's better than gold or lands, sir." stowell tried to reply, but he could only wave his hand and turn to the window as the old woman left the room. why not? what sin against god would it be to unite this suffering woman to her suffering daughter, if he could do so without wronging justice? a moment afterwards janet came back wiping her eyes. "oh, these mothers! they're fit enough to break one's heart, victor." iii stowell was in the dining-room next day when he heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the drive, and, a moment later, a voice in the hall, saying, "the deemster will see _me_, jane." it was alick gell. his tall figure was more bent than usual; his hair was disordered; his eyes glittered; he was deeply agitated. "excuse me, old fellow. you know why i've not been here before. it's bessie. i'm busy every hour, getting up her case. awful, isn't it? i can't make myself believe it even yet. sometimes in the middle of the night i hear myself crying 'good god, it can't be true!'" stowell could scarcely find voice to reply. he remembered what he had advised fenella to get gell to do. had bessie told him?" "i received fenella's letter and of course i am taking up the defence. i've seen bessie, too, and arranged everything. she's innocent and i'll fight for her to the last breath in my body. but look here--read this," he said, dragging a crumbled newspaper from his pocket, and handing it to stowell with a trembling hand. it was a copy of the day's insular paper containing a paragraph which said that the continued illness of the new deemster would probably prevent him from presiding at the forthcoming sitting of the court of general gaol delivery. "that's the first edition. when it was published at twelve o'clock i couldn't wait until the afternoon train, so i hired a horse from fargher, the jobmaster, and i've galloped all the way. don't tell me it's true." stowell answered in a low tone that perhaps it might have to be, whereupon gell made a cry of dismay. "then god help my poor girl! it will be taubman, and she'll not have a dog's chance with him." taubman was a brute--especially in cases of this kind. what did people say about him--that when he saw a woman in the dock he was like a cat who had seen a rat? it was true. he was always bullying the juries who showed humanity to girls in trouble. "the infernal old blockhead! he has rheumatism in the legs, they say. i wish to heaven he had it in his throat, and it would choke him." and then the barbarous old statute! practically repealed in every other country, but still capable of operation in the isle of man. think of it! five years, ten years, fifteen years--even death itself, perhaps! "stowell, we are old chums .... it's not right of me, i know that .... but for the sake of our old friendship, sit on bessie's case yourself." stowell felt as if he were on the edge of a precipice. abysmal depths lay before him at the next step. with an awful secret in his heart he felt that it was almost impossible to speak one word more without betraying himself. he was silent, for a moment while gell stood over him with wild eyes which he had never seen before. at length he said, "bessie is to plead not guilty?" "certainly." "will she stick to that?" "undoubtedly. why shouldn't she? besides, she has given me her promise." again stowell was silent for a moment; then he said, "i cannot promise to conduct the court, but if taubman will do so, and i'm fit to sit with him, i'll .... i'll see she has a fair trial." gell made a shout of joy. "that's good enough for me. just like you, old fellow." he snatched up his cap--a different man in a moment. "i must get back to town now. i have the witnesses to arrange for. not too many of them unfortunately. there's the mother, she's all right, but not likely to be good in the box. i'm not calling the step-father. it seems he's giving the case away in the glen. the damned old blackguard! i should like to break his ugly neck. i jolly well will, too, one of these days. but bessie will clear herself. since she's going to be my wife she must leave the court without a stain. good-bye and god bless you, old chap! .... no, no, don't come to the door." (stowell was for seeing him out.) "take care of yourself. good men are scarce. and then you've got to be fit for the court, you know. by-bye!" stowell watched him from the window as he rode down the drive on his tired horse, patting its neck and encouraging it with cheery cries. now he understood why bessie had held off while gell had wished to marry her. it had been a case of the wife of the peel fisherman over again, with the difference that bessie (to avoid the danger of deceiving her husband) had made away with her child before marriage instead of after it. wild, foolish, frantic scheme! yet what courage! what strength! what affection! but if, under taubman's searching questions, the conspiracy of love should fail, and bessie's defence should collapse, and gell should see that she had deceived him, and that _he_ too.... no, no, that must not be! after all, what outrage on justice would it be to keep a case like this out of the hands of a cold-blooded inhuman legal machine who would commit more crime than he punished? still standing by the window, stowell heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the high road. gell, in high spirits, was galloping home. iv later in the day stowell was alone in the library reading the depositions. in his secret heart he knew that a wicked temptation had come to him--the temptation to get bessie off, and to stop the flood of evil which would surely follow if deemster taubman tried her and she were condemned. but all the same he was struggling to drown his qualms in contempt of the case against her. how little there was to it! the direct evidence was almost childish. the medical testimony was the only thing of consequence, but how sloppy, how inconclusive! was there anything against bessie which he, if he had been the advocate for the defence, could not have riddled with as many holes as there were in a cullender? then why shouldn't he sit on her case? guilty? perhaps she was; but, even so, was it not the theory of the law that she had to be proved guilty--that a prisoner should have a fair legal trial and be convicted or acquitted according to the evidence before the court? why shouldn't he? suddenly he became aware of a tumult at the front door. somebody was bawling in a loud voice, "i'll see the dempster if i have to shout the house down." it was dan baldromma. stowell stepped into the hall and said to the housemaid, who was barring the door against the intruder, "let him come in, jane." dan, with his short, gross figure, rolled into the house without remembering to take his hat off. "well, what do you want?" said stowell--he was quivering with anger. "i want to know what is to be done for me?" said dan. "for you?" "for my daughter then--my step-daughter, i mane." when he had seen mr. sto'll last--it was at his office in ramsey--he had warned him that the man who had got his daughter into disgrace had got to marry her. but had he? no! he had refused--he must have done. and that was the reason why she did what they say. but, behold you, who was being blamed for it? himself! yes, people were looking black at him and saying he had thrown the girl into the way of temptation. that was not the worst of it either. he had expected dacent tratement about the farm when he became father-in-law to the man who would come into it by heirship. but now the girl was in castle rushen, and if they sent her over the water the spaker would be turning him out of house and home. "he's after threatening it already--to show me the road at hollantide .... what's that you say, sir? thinking of myself, am i? maybe i am, then, and what for shouldn't i? near is my shirt but nearer is my skin, they're saying." stowell, swept by gusts of passion, was doing his best to control himself. "well, what have you come to me for?" he asked. dan thrust forward his thick neck with his bull-like gesture, and said, "to tell you to get her off." "even if she is guilty?" "chut! who's to know that if the coorts acquit her? they are wayses and wayses. lawyers are mortal clever at twisting the law when they're wanting to. you're dempster now; and the bosom friend of the man that got my girl into this trouble has got to get her out of it." "so," said stowell, breathing hard, "you have come to ask me to degrade justice" (dan made a grunt of contempt), "not to save the girl but to protect you--you and your rag of a character?" dan drew himself up with a short laugh, half bitter and half triumphant. "rag, is it? take care what you're saying, mr. sto'll, sir. you may be a big man in the island now, but there's them that's bigger and that's the people." stowell pointed with a quivering hand to the clock on the landing, and said, "look at that clock. if you're not out of this house in one minute...." dan's laugh rose to a cry of derision. "so that's it, is it? that's what the first justice of the peace in the isle of man is, eh? son of the ould dempster too! the grand ould holy saint as they're...." but before he could finish, stowell, with a shout that drowned dan's laugh as if it had been the whimper of a baby girl, laid hold of the man by the collar of his coat and the slack of his trousers and flung him out of the open door and clashed it after him. dan, who had rolled and tossed and bumped on the path like a fat hogshead kecked from the tail of a cart, picked himself up and went staggering down the drive, shaking his fist at the house and pouring his maledictions upon it in a voice that was like the broken howl of a limping dog. janet came running from her room, and seeing stowell with his eyes aflame and panting for breath, said, "oh dear! oh dear! now you'll be worse." "on the contrary, i'll be better--better in every way," he said. his resolution was taken. never would he sit on bessie's case. nothing should tempt him to do so. but fate had not yet done with him. v on the afternoon of the following day stowell walked for a long hour on the shore, trying to deaden the tumult in his brain in the loud surge of the sea. returning to ballamoar he found the governor's carriage outside the house. had the governor come to see him? it was fenella. she was at tea with janet in the library. although she rose to greet him with all the sunshine of her smile he could see that her face was feverish. "i've come to the north on three errands," she said. "so?" "first to see yourself, of course, and i find that, in spite of doctor's orders, you have already resumed your gypsy habits." "he _would_ go out, dear," said janet. "next, to deliver a message from the governor." "yes?" "he has postponed the court for three days in the hope that you may be able to sit then." "ah!" "my last errand was to see the mother of that poor girl who is to be charged with the murder of her child." "the mother?" "yes, i've just left her. she still says she knows nothing. it's pitiful! a simple, sincere, religious old soul, who has seen trouble of her own apparently. i don't think for a moment she would tell an untruth, yet it is easy to see that in her heart she believes her daughter to be guilty." "guilty?" "yes, but there's somebody guiltier than the girl--the man." stowell was silent; but he felt his face twitching. "that's why i am so anxious that you should sit on this case if you can, victor, not leave it to deemster taubman. old judges often refuse to investigate collateral facts, and so the woman is punished and the man goes free." "they can't do otherwise, dear. they can't try the man." "not if he has been a party to the crime?" "a party...." "yes! i'm satisfied that in this case he is, too." the girl might be guilty, but she could not have done all she was charged with. it was physically impossible. somebody must have helped her. and that somebody (the old mother having to be ruled out) must be the man who had it to his interest to save his miserable character by concealing the fact that the girl had given birth to a child at all. stowell had as much as he could do to cover his embarrassment. he lowered his voice and said, "that's a blind alley. i've read the depositions. i'm sure it is, dear." "perhaps it is, perhaps it isn't," said fenella. "i intend to follow it up anyway." "how?" said stowell, but rather with his mouth than his voice. "i'm already on the track of something." "on the track...." "yes. it seems that somebody has been telling the mother that on the night when the girl left home (shut out by her abominable step-father, you know) she went to the house of a mrs. quayle, living on the south shore in ramsey." stowell's heart thumped and his lips quivered. "mrs. quayle?" "why, that must be the housekeeper at your chambers, dear," said janet, busy with her teacups. "you know her? .... but then everybody knows everybody in the isle of man," said fenella. with a sense of duplicity, stowell found himself saying, "well?" "well, i'm going to see this mrs. quayle on my way home to government house. she'll be able to tell me how long the girl stayed with her, who took her away, and where she went to." stowell dropped his head, feeling that he wanted to escape from the room, and fenella (indignantly, passionately, vehemently) went on to denounce the guilty man. "of course the girl is shielding him. a woman always does that. i should do it myself if i were in the same position. but oh, how i should like to find him out! even if he has taken no part in the actual crime, how i should like to punish him--to expose him! you must sit on this case--you really must, dear." when the time came for fenella to go janet took her upstairs to look at some new decorations that had been made in the room that was to be her boudoir. stowell remained in the library, and the sound of fenella's step on the floor above beat on his stunned brain with the drumming noise of a train in a tunnel. he had a sense of cowardice which he had never felt before. at one moment he wanted to tell fenella everything, thinking that would be the end of his tortures. but at the next he reflected that it would be the beginning of hers--inflicting an incurable wound upon her affection. and then if bessie were going to be acquitted, as seemed possible (the evidence being so unconvincing), why should he enlarge the area of the shameful secret? when fenella returned (saying, as she came downstairs, how beautiful her room was and how proud she would be of it) he took her out to the carriage. "do you remember," she whispered (she had recovered her gay spirits, the coachman was on the box), "do you remember the first time you saw me off from here?" he nodded and tried to smile. "i was too bashful to shake hands and you were too shy to look at me." and being seated in the carriage and the door closed on her, she said, "by the way, wouldn't you like to drive over with me to mrs. quayle if i brought you home again?" "no, no .... i mean...." she laughed merrily. "oh, very well! you've refused me again! i'll remember it, sir." after the carriage had disappeared at the turn of the drive, stowell went up to his room, shut the door behind him and covered his face in his hands. fenella hunting him down! blindly, unconsciously, innocently, while urging him, entreating him, almost compelling him to sit on the case. the woman he loved and who loved him was trying to destroy him. was this to be his punishment? mrs. quayle? no, she would say nothing. if she thought it would injure his mother's son no power on earth would prevail upon her to speak. but sooner or later, by one means or other, fenella would find out, and then.... "god be merciful to me, a sinner!" he moaned, smothering the sound of the words behind his hands. could he sit in judgment on bessie collister's case with all the forces of the defence (inspired by fenella) directed towards branding the judge as the real criminal? impossible! yet what could he do? at length an idea occurred to him. he would go up to government house, tell the whole truth to the governor and ask to be relieved of his duty. it would be a terrible ordeal, but there was no escape from it. "yes, i will go up to the governor in the morning." chapter twenty-seven the judge and the man "helloa! glad to see you about again. fenella has gone off to the south of the island somewhere, but she'll be home for luncheon. take a cigar? no? not smoking yet? i must anyway." "i've come to see you on a serious matter, sir," said stowell--he felt his lips trembling. "so?" the governor glanced up quickly, charged his pipe and then settled himself to listen. "you will remember the story i told you--about the man who had promised to marry a girl and then fallen in love with somebody else?" "perfectly." stowell paused a moment. his lips became pale and his hands contracted. "well?" "that was my own story, sir." there was another moment of silence. stowell had expected an exclamation of surprise, a clang of astonishment, but the governor's face was still to the fire and the only sound he made was the swivelling of the pipe between his teeth. "you advised me to break off the engagement and i did so." "what was the result?" "the girl was relieved." "relieved?" "yes, because she, too, had in the meantime fallen in love with somebody else--my friend gell." "how fortunate!" "it seemed so at first. i thought providence had stepped in to help her out. but fate has kept a terrible reckoning, sir." "what has happened?" "the girl has committed a crime. she is in castle rushen awaiting her trial for the murder of her new-born child." "the woman collister?" "yes. and now i'm a judge and in ordinary course it is my duty to try her." there was another period of silence, broken only by the rapid puffing of the governor's pipe. "but that's not all, sir. being in this frightful position everything is tempting me to corrupt justice. first, my natural desire to influence the trial in favour of the girl--perhaps to get her off altogether. next, pity for her poor mother who has been pleading for mercy. then, friendship for gell who has been begging me to try the case because the old statute is severe and my colleague cruel. and last of all the step-father of the girl who has been trying to intimidate me." "well?" "i think you will see it is impossible for me to sit on a case in which my private interest and my public duty conflict--utterly impossible. it would be against all usage, all justice." the governor removed his pipe. his face had become cold and hard. "you speak of your colleague--have you done anything with him?" "yes. i've asked him to sit instead of me." "what if he cannot?" "then i will ask you, sir, to send for another judge from across the water." stowell had struggled through to the end, although perspiration had been breaking out on his forehead. when he had finished the governor sat for some time without speaking. obscure motives were operating within him. in the depths of his mind (scarcely known to himself) he was asking himself, "how will all this, if i allow it to go farther, affect fenella? will it stop her marriage, disturb her happiness, destroy her life?" but on the surface of his mind he was only aware of considerations of public welfare. he was irritated by what had occurred. it was an impediment in his path which he wished to kick out of the way. he rose, laid his pipe on the mantelpiece, and standing with his back to the fire and his hands behind him, his chin firm and his mouth set hard, he said, with sudden energy, "now listen to me. i always knew that was your own story." "yes?" "what i did not know was that any harm had been done. did you?" "indeed no." "did the girl?" "it is incredible." "do you know that she has killed her child?" "not certainly. she denies it, and the evidence is not too convincing." "do you know that she ever had a child?" "no .... i can't say .... she denies that also, and the medical testimony is far from conclusive." "do you know--are you satisfied--that if she had a child, and killed it, the child was yours?" stowell, with a gulp, stammered something about bessie having been a good girl before he met her. "but do you know _anything_?" "well, no .... i can't say...." "then, good heavens, what are you thinking about? knowing nothing, nothing really, you are acting, and asking me to act, on a cloud of conjectures. i'll not do it." stowell drew his breath with a gasp of relief. it was just as if he had been living for days in the stuffy atmosphere of a sealed room and somebody had broken open a window. his head was down; the governor touched his shoulder. "my friend, you are doing that poor girl a cruel injustice." stowell was startled and looked up. "in your own mind you are finding her guilty before she has been tried." "ah!" "you are doing yourself an injustice, too. even if the girl committed this crime--i say _if_--_you_ are not responsible for it." stowell began to stammer again. "i .... i did wrong in the first instance, sir, and nothing but wrong...." but the governor said sharply, "of course you did wrong in the first instance. but that has nothing to do with the wrong which she (if she is guilty) has done since. it can't be supposed that you had any sympathy with her act, can it?" "god forbid!" "did you desert her? did you leave her to the mercy of the world? has she ever been in want? was she in any danger of being unable to provide for her offspring when it came?" "no .... i cannot say...." "then what folly to think you are responsible for what she did in taking the life of her child--if she did take it. no, other facts and motives operated with the girl. and whatever those facts and motives were, you, so far as i can see, had nothing to do with them--nothing whatever." stowell's pulse was beating high. he tried to say something about his moral responsibility, but again the governor cut him short. "your moral responsibility!" he said, with a ring of sarcasm. "i'm sick of this sentimental talk about moral responsibility--man's responsibility for the conduct of woman, and all the rest of it. the person who commits the crime is the criminal--that's the only foundation of law and order." "then you think, sir," said stowell, "that since i...." "i think," said the governor, "that the whole thing is unfortunate, damnably unfortunate, but since you are not responsible for the girl's crime, if she committed a crime at all, and knew nothing about it, and have no sympathy with it, you ought to go on doing your duty. why shouldn't you? .... interested? of course you are interested. in a little community like this a judge is nearly always interested. isn't that what your deemster's oath is intended to provide for?" stowell muttered something about being afraid, and again the governor caught him up. "afraid? what are you afraid of? the public? doesn't it occur to you that the only risk you run in that direction is not the risk of sitting on this case but of not sitting on it? there must be people who have seen you coming here this morning, and if you are not in court on the appointed day, aren't they likely to ask why?" "there's gell...." "certainly there's gell .... when the marriage was broken off you didn't tell him anything, did you?" stowell shook his head. "how could i?" "yes, how could you? and now he wishes you to sit, and, if you don't, isn't he likely to suspect the reason?" "there .... there's baldromma." "that wind-bag! likely to make a cry against the administration of justice, is he? well, the surest way to squelch such people is to walk over them." "there's the girl herself." "of course, there's the girl herself. but if she is guilty and has held her tongue thus far, she'll probably continue to do so." the governor made a turn across the room and then drew up sharply. "there's myself, too. i suppose i deserve some consideration?" "indeed yes." "then go on with your duty--that's all i ask of you." with a thrill of relief stowell rose to go. but oh, misery of the heart, he had kept his most searching objection to the last. "there is somebody else, your excellency." "who else?" asked the governor, laying down the pipe he had taken up. "i hate to mention her in this connection--fenella." "fenella? why, what on earth has fenella...." and then stowell told him. having interested herself in this case, fenella was hunting down the guilty man that he might be exposed and punished--punished by public obloquy if he could not be punished by law. "if she finds him before the trial how can i possibly sit? whatever happens it will be coloured by her knowledge of the truth. if the girl is acquitted she will think i have helped her to escape punishment in order to salve my conscience or cover my share in her crime. and if she is condemned what happiness can there be for either of us after that?" he had spoken with emotion, but the governor, who had recovered from his surprise, replied impatiently, "aren't you crossing the bridge before you come to the river?" stowell made no answer, and at the next moment there was the sound of carriage wheels coming up the drive. "it's fenella," said the governor, looking out of the window. "i'll ask you to say nothing to her about the subject of our conversation. and listen" (he was re-lighting his pipe and puffing at it with lips that smacked angrily; stowell's hand was on the door), "don't let my girl make a damned fool of you." ii "victor, i have something to tell you," said fenella. "yes?" they were in the library. she was looking feverish; he was feeling ashamed, embarrassed and afraid. "i have found out who was the friend of that poor girl." he gazed at her without speaking. "it will be a great shock to you--it was alick gell." "no, no!" "i'm sorry, dear. i knew you would be unable to believe it. but it's true--terribly true." mrs. quayle, the evening before, had said very little. nobody had called to see the girl while she stayed at her house, and nobody had come to take her away. she, herself, had seen her off by the train, and all the girl had told her was that she was going to a school at derby-haven. "but that was enough for me," said fenella. "this morning i went down to derby-haven and found there was only one school there. it is kept by two maiden ladies named brown. simple old things, very timid and old-fashioned. they were thrown into terrible commotion by my call, and having read the reports in the newspapers they were at first afraid to say anything. but after i had promised that they should not be mixed up in the matter in any way, i got them to speak. mr. alick gell had brought the girl to their house. he had paid for her, and they had always looked upon him as her intended husband. so it's a certainty, you see--a shocking certainty." stowell was breathless. "but my dear fenella," he said, "this is a mistake. you are drawing a false inference...." but fenella only shook her head. "yes. i knew your loyalty to your friend would compel you to say so. but what do you think? i have since found that the fact is common knowledge." returning in the train she had occupied a compartment with two men--the strangest looking creatures she had ever seen in a first-class carriage. one of them turned out to be the girl's stepfather and the other a member of the house of keys. "cæsar qualtrough?" "cæsar? yes, that was the name. they talked about the forthcoming trial and didn't seem to mind my hearing them--perhaps wished me to. the step-father (he spoke as if the whole case had been got up to disgrace him) was complaining that he had not been called by either side. but no matter, he would force himself upon the court and expose the real criminal--the speaker's son. it was all a trick. but it should not succeed. he would put the saddle on the right horse, he would. and then they talked about you." "what .... what about me?" "that the report of your being too ill to sit was a lie. you were not ill at all and never had been--the step-father knew better. you were merely shirking your duty to save your friend in some way. but that trick shouldn't succeed either, or the people should know what judges in the isle of man were. so you see you must sit on this case, dear--if you are fit for it. you can't afford to have it said that you have sacrificed your duty as a judge to your personal interests. at your first court, too." stowell was in torture. in spite of the governor's warning, an almost overpowering impulse came to him to confess, to make a clean breast of everything, there and then, and once for all. "fenella," he began (his breath was coming and going in gusts), "who knows if the guilty man is gell? it may be somebody else." "who else can it be?" he tried to say "it is i," but hesitated--he could not shatter in a word the whole world he lived in. at the next moment she was praising his fidelity, which would not allow him to think ill of his life-long friend. "but he has no such delicacy," she said. "knowing what he knows he is still going to defend the girl, and that's equal to defending himself, isn't it? how shocking!" stowell's shame at his moral cowardice reached the point of abasement, and he dropped his head. then, carried away by her own pleading, fenella put her arms about his neck, tenderly and caressingly, and told him she knew well what a hard thing she was asking him to do--to sit in judgment on his friend also, for that was what it would come to. but she would love him for ever if he would do it. it would be like the crown of all her hopes, the fulfilment of all she had worked for, if in some way (he would know best how) a poor girl who had sinned and suffered should have mercy shown to her, and not be left alone in her shame, but have the partner of her sin (no matter who he was or how near he came) standing side by side with her. there was a moment of silence. stowell was like a man groping in the dark of a black midnight. at length a light seemed to dawn on him. if he sat on this case he could save an innocent man at all events. "you _will_ sit, will you not?" "yes." and then she kissed him. iii back at ballamoar, stowell found the deemster's clerk waiting for him. it had taken joshua three days to see deemster taubman, and when at length he was admitted to the big man's presence he had found him in bed, with his shaggy head and unshaven face on the pillow and his lower extremities through the legs of a cane-bottomed chair which supported his bed-clothes. "what? what's that?" he had roared. "sit at the general gaol? go back to your master and tell him i'm lying here in the tortures of the damned, not able to put a foot to the ground." stowell drew a long breath. fate had spoken its last word! it was now certain that he must sit on the case of bessie collister. his spirits rose and he began to see things more clearly. had he not exaggerated his own importance in this affair? he had been thinking of his part in the forthcoming trial as if the issue of bessie's fate depended upon him. but not so. it depended upon the jury. guilty or not guilty,--he had nothing to do with that. therefore, in the deeper sense, bessie would not be tried by him at all. why had he been frightening himself? had a judge, then, no power, no voice, no influence? thank god, yes! it was for the judge to direct the jury on questions of law, to see that they had a right understanding of it and that their verdict corresponded with the evidence. what an important function--especially in a case like this! what a mercy old taubman was unable to sit on it! he thought again of bessie's position. pitiful, most pitiful! but the law was no juggernaut, intended to crush the life out of a poor unfortunate girl. mercifully administered it was rather her sanctuary to which she might fly for refuge. and it should be mercifully administered. why not? good heavens, why not? what wrong would it be to temper justice with mercy--even to strain the law a little in the prisoner's favour? no one but himself would know. and if it were suspected that he was showing favour to the prisoner, people would consider him deserving of praise rather than censure for trying to snatch a young and helpless creature from the clutches of a cruel old statute. besides, was it not one of the higher traditions of the bench that the judge was first counsel for the accused? judges had not always acted on that principle. some of them, in times past, had hunted their wretched prisoners gallowswards with gibes. taubman was still like that. he thought sympathy with such women as bessie collister was sentimental weakness, that to deal mercifully with them was to encourage them, and thereby do a wrong to public morality. "god bless me, yes! _i_ know taubman," he told himself. then he thought of gell. whatever bessie might be, gell was innocent, and after the girl herself the greatest sufferer. should he suffer further from an unfounded suspicion? god forbid! it would be his duty as judge to see that no blustering person in court bellowed accusations which, once out, might stick to an innocent man for the rest of his natural life. after that he thought of himself. the only risk he ran was from bessie's despair. if gell were falsely accused she might break silence and tell the truth to save him. what a vista! bessie, gell, himself, fenella! but no, that should not be! the law was no thumb-screw; a law-court was no torture-chamber. it would be his duty as judge to protect the girl against any form of legal provocation. last of all, with a thrill of the heart, he thought of fenella. she had drawn him on, constrained and compelled him to promise to sit on bessie's case. but she had only wished, out of the greatness of her pity, to see that the poor girl should have a just trial. she should too! it would be his duty as judge to see to that. "good lord, yes! and what a mercy the case is not coming before taubman." thus in the scorching fire of his temptation he tried to stand erect in the belief that he had sunk himself in his high office--that he was about to become the champion and first servant of justice. but well he knew in his secret heart that in the fierce struggle which had been going on within him between the judge and the man, the man had conquered. during the next two days he worked day and night in the library, looking up authorities and verifying references. on the third day he set out in his car for castletown. janet saw him off in the mist of early morning. he was very pale; he had eaten scarcely any breakfast. she looked anxiously after him until he disappeared behind the trees. there was the odour of fresh earth in the air and the rooks were calling. it was like an echo from the past. when he arrived at castle rushen there was a crowd at the gate, and all hats were off to him, as they had been to his father, when he passed through the judge's private entrance. inside the courtyard, where the steps go up to the public part of the court-house, there was another crowd and a certain commotion. the police were pushing back a tumultuous person who in a raucous voice was demanding to be admitted although the place was full. it was dan baldromma. chapter twenty-eight the trial for a good hour before the arrival of the deemster, castle rushen had been full of activity. in the court-house itself, warm with sunshine from the lantern light, robbie stephen, the chief coroner of the island, who looked like a shaggy old sheep-dog, had been selecting candidates for the jury-box. seventy-two of them had been summoned, six from each of twelve parishes, and now he was reducing the number to thirty-two, twelve for the jury and twenty more to meet the contingency of arbitrary challenging. everybody claimed exemption, but the coroner listened to none. standing back to the empty bench, swelling with importance and with his seventy-two men huddled together like sheep at one side of the chamber, he called them out at his discretion and with a wave of the hand passed them over to the other side to wait for the trial. "now, then, willie kinnish, thou'rt a good man; over with thee." "no, no, mr. stephen, you must excuse me to-day, sir." "tut, tut! you maughold men haven't served on a jury these seven years." "but i have fifty head of sheep going to ramsey mart this morning, and what's to pay my half year's rent if i'm not there to sell them?" "chut, man! lave that to herself. she's thy better half, isn't she?" meantime, in the chill corridors underground the jailer and his turnkey were rattling their keys, opening the doors of the cells and shouting to the prisoners to make ready for the court. "patrick kelly! charles quiggin! nancy kegeen! john corlett! cæsar crow! robert quine! elizabeth corteen!" hearing her name called, bessie, having no fear, got up from her plank bed, and when mrs. mylrea, the woman warder, with her short, loud, difficult breathing, brought back her cloak and fur hat, she put them on leisurely. "quick, girl!" said the warder. "you don't want to keep the dempster waiting, do you?" bessie laughed, but made no answer. at the next moment she was in the darkness of the corridor, walking at the end of a short procession of other prisoners, and at the next she was drawn up, with her prison companions, into the blinding sunlight of a little paved quadrangle which was surrounded by high walls and had the sound of the sea coming down into it from the free world outside. by this time the court-house upstairs was in a state of yet greater activity. the thirty-two possible jurymen, having reconciled themselves to being "trapped," were standing under the jury-box, talking of the weather which was bringing the crops on rapidly and would increase the price of early potatoes. inspectors of police were bustling about; joshua scarff was laying a green portfolio with paper, pens and ink, on the bench in front of the deemster's scarlet armchair, and a number of advocates were coming in laughing by a door which communicated with their room off the ramparts. the last of the advocates to enter was alick gell. he took a seat immediately in front of the empty dock, looking pale and worn and scarcely able to hold the papers which he carried in his nervous hands. a little later the attorney-general, who was to prosecute for the crown, came in with a grave face, followed by old hudgeon, his junior, with a sour one. and shortly before eleven (the hour appointed for the beginning of the trial) a lady was brought by an inspector from the door to the judge's room and seated beside gell in front of the dock. it was fenella. then the outer doors to the court-yard were thrown open and the public admitted. they rushed and tore their way into the court-house, men and women together, talking and laughing loudly. the big clock in the castle tower was heard to strike, and the inspector, standing near the dais, cried in a loud voice, "silence in court!" the babel of voice subsided and everybody rose who had been seated. then the court came in and took their seats on the bench of judgment--the governor in his soldier's uniform, and stowell and the clerk of the rolls in their judges' wigs and gowns. it was remarked that the new deemster looked ill and almost old. a wave of sympathy went out to him from the first. it was whispered among the spectators that he had come straight from a sick-bed, and that the governor insisted on his presence, saying he must have him "dead or alive." "coroner, fence the court," said the governor, and then old stephen, who had already taken his place in the coroner's box, raising the pitch of his voice, recited the ancient formula: "_i do hereby fence this court in the name of our sovereign lord the king. i charge that no person shall quarrel, bawl or molest the audience, that all persons shall answer to their names when called. i charge this audience to witness that this court is fenced; i charge this audience to witness that this court is fenced; i charge this whole audience to witness that this court is fenced._" everybody knew that it was for the deemster to speak next, but for a sensible moment he did not do so. then he said, almost beneath his breath, "let the prisoners be brought in." in the continued silence there came the sound of bustle outside, with the patter of feet on the pavement below, and then a shuffling of steps on the stairs. the prisoners were coming up, but the police had difficulty in clearing a passage for them. the voice of the jailer, tommy vondy, was heard to cry, "make way!" there was a period of waiting. at one moment the people in court caught the sound from the staircase of a scarcely believable thing--the laugh of a woman? who could she be? at length the prisoners were brought in, pushed through the throng that stood thick at the back, and hurried into the dock, which was like a long pew behind the circular seats of the advocates and directly in front of the bench. there were seven of them, a sorry company, two women and five men, with nothing in common save the pallid, almost pasty complexions which had come of the dank air they had been living in. there was another moment of silence. it was time for the deemster to take the pleas, but again he did not speak immediately. he had the look of a man who was struggling against physical weakness. the blood rushed to his pale face and as quickly disappeared. "he's not fit for it to-day," people whispered. but at the next moment, in a low voice, and with the appearance of one who was making an effort to command his strength, the deemster was reading the indictments. he took the prisoners in the order in which they stood before him, beginning with the one on the extreme left. he was a very young man, almost a boy, with a face that might have been that of his mother when she was a girl. his name was quiggin; he had been a bank clerk and was charged with embezzlement. he pleaded guilty and looked down as if he expected the earth to open under his feet. the next was a gross, fat, middle-aged woman with red cheeks and many heavy gold rings on her stubby fingers. her name was kegeen, and she was charged with robbing drunken sailors in a house she had kept in an alley off the south quay. in a torrent of words she denied everything and accused the police of black-mailing her. the last was bessie collister and the deemster paused perceptibly when he came to her. she had carried herself straight when she entered the court and was now sitting with her head thrown back. but, seeing that of all the prisoners she was the one on whom the eyes of the spectators were fastened, she had reached up her hands to a veil which was wrapped about her fur hat and drawn it down over her face. observing this at the last moment, and thinking it the cause of the deemster's silence, the jailer said in an audible whisper, "put up your fall, bessie." she did so, disclosing her thin white face and large eyes. and then in a voice so low that it would have been scarcely audible but for the strained silence in the court-house, the deemster said, "elizabeth corteen, stand up." bessie rose without embarrassment and fixed her eyes on the deemster. and then he charged her. "it is charged against you that on or about the fifth day of april--in the parish of ballaugh, in the isle of man, feloniously, wilfully and of your malice aforethought, you did kill and murder a certain male child, contrary to the form of the statute in such case made and provided, and against the peace of our sovereign lord the king, his crown and dignity. how say you, are you guilty or not guilty?" without hesitation or halting, looking straight into the eyes of the judge and speaking in a voice so clear that it resounded through the silent court-house, bessie answered, "not guilty." her tone and bearing had gone against her. "the huzzy!" whispered one of the female spectators. "she might have more shame for her position, anyway. and did you see the way the forward piece looked up at the deemster?" ii it was not until stowell had stepped on to the bench that he had realized what he had done for himself. when he had asked for the prisoners to be brought in, and bessie had come at the end of the short line and taken her place in the dock with the constable behind her, he had been seized with a feeling of choking shame. that woman, looking so much older, with pallid cheeks sucked in by suffering, could she be the same? all the barrage he had built up for the protection of his position as judge seemed to have gone down at the first sight of the girl's face. what a scoundrel he had been! from that moment a whirl of confused emotions had held possession of him. when the time came to charge the prisoner he had felt as if he were reading out his own indictment. and when she had looked up fearlessly into his face and pleaded not guilty it was the same as if she were accusing himself. after that he had a sense of acting as a detached person. in a strange voice, which did not seem to be his own, he heard himself asking the attorney-general which case he wished to take first. the attorney answered, "the murder case," and after the clerk of the rolls had read out the names of the jurymen, and they had taken their places in the jury-box, he heard himself, in the same strange voice, swearing them on the holy evangelists to "a true verdict give, according to the evidence and the laws of this isle." when he turned his eyes back, bessie was alone in the dock, save for the woman warder (with blue lips and a look of suffering) who sat at the farther end of it. she was still looking fearlessly up at him, and in front of her sat two others whose eyes were also fixed on his face--alick gell and fenella. at that sight a terrible feeling took hold of him--that these three were the real judges in this trial and he was the prisoner at the bar. he did not recover from the shock of this feeling until the attorney-general began on the prosecution. the attorney, usually so kindly, was bitterly severe. the time had gone by when it could be said with truth that crime was practically unknown in the isle of man. here, as elsewhere, crimes of all kinds were only too common, and not least common was the crime of infanticide. the present case was one of peculiar atrocity. the prisoner was a young woman who might be said, not uncharitably, to have inherited a lawless disposition. after a reckless girlhood she had disappeared from her home, for no apparent reason, rather less than a year ago and remained away (nobody knew where or in what company) until a few weeks ago. she had then been ill and was put to bed in a condition which gave only too much reason for the belief that she was about to become a mother. that was on the fifth of april and two days later the body of a new-born infant had been found in a remote place, wrapped up and hidden away. it would be established by witnesses that the infant had been born alive, that it had died by suffocation, and that the prisoner (incredible as it might appear) had been seen to bury it. "such," said the attorney-general, "are the facts of this most unhappy case, and though the prisoner pleads not guilty, the evidence which i shall now call will leave no doubt that the child was her child and that it died by her hands. therefore i ask (as well for the sake of humanity as for the good name of this island) that the jury shall give such a verdict against the prisoner as will act as a deterrent on the heartless women, unworthy of the name of mothers, who, to save themselves from the just consequences of their evil conduct, are taking the innocent lives which under god they gave." there had been a tense atmosphere in the court-house during the attorney-general's speech, and when it was over there were half-suppressed murmurs, hostile to the prisoner. looking towards the dock stowell saw that bessie was quite unmoved, but that fenella, in front of her, was flushed and hot, and gell's lower lip was trembling. stowell was conscious of a complicated struggle going on within him and then of a blind and headlong resolution. he was going to save that girl--he was going to save her at all costs! the first witness was the constable, a middle-aged man with a sour expression. after he had been sworn by the deemster, the attorney-general examined him. his name was cain and he was constable for the parish in which the crime had been committed. on the morning of april the seventh he received an information from old will skillicorne of baldromma-beg that something had been seen under the _clagh-ny-dooiney_. he had gone there and found the body of a new-born child, and had taken it to dr. clucas, who had made an examination. later the same day he had taken statements from old will and his wife, relating to the prisoner, and had sent them up to the chief constable of the island at douglas. the chief constable had ordered him to make a house-to-house visitation through the parish to see if any other woman might have been the mother of the child. he had done so with the result that the prisoner was the only person who had come under suspicion. she was then ill in bed, but in due course he had arrested her, and charged her before the high bailiff, who had committed her for trial at that court--sending her to the hospital in the meantime. with obvious nervousness gell rose to cross-examine the witness. "how far is it from the prisoner's home to the _clagh-ny-dooiney_?" "half a mile, maybe." "what kind of road would you call it?" "rough and thorny, most of it." gell sat with a look of satisfaction, and the deemster leaned forward. "constable," he said, "when you made your house-to-house visitation did you go beyond the boundary of your parish?" "no, your honour." "where is the boundary?" "the glen is the boundary--the western side of it, sir." "how near to the western boundary are the nearest houses in the next parish?" "four hundred yards, perhaps." "how many of them are there?" "fifteen or twenty, your honour." "yet, though you visited the prisoner's home, which was half-a-mile from the _clagh-ny-dooiney_, you did not visit--you were not told to visit--the fifteen or twenty houses which were only four hundred yards away?" "they were not in my parish, your honour." there was audible drawing of breath in court. fenella, who had been reaching forward, dropped back, and gell's pale face was smiling. the next to be called was dr. clucas. his hands were twitching and his rubicund face was moist with perspiration--he was obviously an unwilling witness. yes, when the constable brought the body of the child he made a post-mortem examination. applying the usual medical tests he came to the conclusion that the child had been born alive and had died of suffocation. on the morning of the following day he had been called in to see the prisoner. she was suffering from extreme exhaustion--a condition not inconsistent with the idea of recent confinement. gell, gathering strength but still agitated, rose again. "how long had the child lived?" "an hour or two, probably." "and how long had it been dead?" "twenty-four to thirty hours at the outside." "is it your experience that within twenty-four to thirty hours after confinement a woman can walk half-a-mile along a rough and thorny road and carry a burden?" "it certainly is not, sir." gell sat with a piteous smile of triumph on his pale face, and the deemster leaned forward again. "doctor," he said, "you speak of applying the usual medical tests--are they entirely reliable?" "they are not infallible, your honour. they have been known to fail." "then this child may have breathed and yet not had a separate existence?" "it may--it is just possible, sir." "and the unhappy mother, whoever she may be, though obviously guilty of concealing its birth, may not have been guilty of the much greater crime of killing it?" "that's so .... she may not, your honour." there was a still more audible drawing of breath in court when the doctor stood down. fenella's eyes were shining and gell's were sparkling with excitement. the next witness was bridget skillicorne. she wore a big poke bonnet and a paisley shawl which smelt strongly of lavender. she was very voluble (provoking ripples of laughter by her broad manx tongue) and the attorney-general had more than he could do to restrain her. aw, 'deed yes, she remembered the night of the sixth-seventh april, for wasn't it the night she had a cow down with the gripes? colic they were calling it, but wutching it was, and she believed in her heart she knew who had wutched the craythur. so she sent her ould man over to the ballawhaine for a taste of something to take off the evil eye. and while she was sitting in the cowhouse itself, waiting for the man to come home (it was terr'ble slow the men were, both in their heads and their legs), she saw the light of a fire that had blown up on the mountains. "will it reach the hay in my haggard?" she thought, and out she went to look. and, behold ye, what did she see but the glen as light as day and a woman on her knees putting something under the _clagh-ny-dooiney_. who was she? the collister girl of course. sure? sarten sure! and as soon as it was day she went down to the stone to see what the girl had left there. what was it? a baby--what else? lying there in a scarf, poor bogh, like a little white mollag. "what's mollag?" (bridget's manx had gone beyond the attorney, but the jurymen were smiling.) "ask them ones--_they_ know." gell, with a newspaper-cutting in his hand, rose to cross-examine the old woman. "you and your husband are sub-tenants of the prisoner's step-father, isn't that so?" "certainly we are--you ought to know that much yourself, sir." "i see you told the high bailiff you were on bad terms with your landlord." "bad terms, is it? i wouldn't bemane myself with being on any terms at all with the like." "he threatened to turn you out of your croft at hollantide, didn't he?" "he did, the dirt!" "and you said you'd see him thrown out before you?" "it's like i did, and it's like i will, too, for if your father, the spaker...." the attorney-general rose in alarm. "is it suggested by these questions that the witness has an animus against the prisoner's family and is conspiring to convict her?" "that," said gell, in a ringing voice, "is precisely what is suggested." "what?" cried bridget, bobbing her poke bonnet across at gell. "is it a liar you're making me out? me, that has known you since you were a loblolly-boy in a jacket?" the deemster intervened to pacify the old woman, and then took her in hand himself. "bridget," he said, "how far is it from your house on the brews down to the _clagh-ny-dooiney_? is it three or four hundred yards, think you?" "maybe it is. but it's yourself knows as well as i do, your honour." "is your sight still so good that you can see a woman to know her at that distance?" "aw, well, not so bad anyway. and then wasn't it as bright as day, sir?" "listen. this court-house is not more than fifteen yards across, and less than ten to any point from the box in which you stand. do you think you could recognise anybody you know in this audience?" "anybody i know? recognise? why not, your honour?" "you know cain the constable?" "'deed i do, and his mother before him. a dacent man enough, but stupid for all...." "well, he is one of the three constables who are now standing at this end of the jury-box--which of them is he?" "which? do you say which, your honour?" said bridget, screwing up her wrinkled face. "why, the off-one, surely." there was a burst of irrepressible laughter in court--bridget had chosen wrongly. the next witness was old will skillicorne. he was wearing his chapel clothes, with black kid gloves, large and baggy, and was carrying a silk hat that was as straight and long and almost as brown as a length of stove-pipe. when called upon to swear he said he believed the old book said "swear not at all," and when asked what he was he answered that he believed he was "a man of god." aw, yes, he believed he remembered the night of the six-seventh of april, and he was returning home from an errand into andreas when the prisoner passed him coming down the glen. "at what time would that be?" asked gell. "two or three in the morning, i belave." "then it would be still quite dark?" "i was carrying my lantern, i belave." "what was the prisoner doing when she passed you?" "covering her eyes with shame, i belave, as well she might be." "then you did not see her face?" "i belave i did, though." "believe! believe! did you or did you not--yes or no?" "i belave i did, sir." "mr. skillicorne," said the deemster, "you attach importance to your belief, i see." the old man drew himself up, and answered in his preaching tone, "it's the rock of my salvation, sir." "your wife told us that your errand into andreas was to see the ballawhaine about your sick cow. is that the well-known witch-doctor?" "i .... i .... i belave it is, sir." "and what did he give you?" "a .... a wisp of straw and a few good words, sir." "then you believe in that too--that a wisp of straw and a few good words...." but the deemster could not finish--a ripple of laughter that had been running through the court having risen to a roar which he did not attempt to repress. "he has made up his mind about this case," said someone. the attorney-general, who was looking hot and embarrassed, called the last of his witnesses. this was the house-doctor at the hospital, the young man with the thin hair and pugnacious mouth. asked if he remembered the prisoner being brought into hospital he said "perfectly." had he formed any opinion of her condition? he had. what was it? that she had been confined less than five days before. what made him think so? first her unwillingness to be examined and then.... "she refused?" "she did, your honour, and threatened violence, but she became unconscious soon afterwards and then...." "stop!" said the deemster, and looking down at the attorney he asked if the high bailiff, in committing the prisoner, had ordered that she should be examined. the attorney-general shook his head helplessly, whereupon the deemster, with a severe face, turned back to the witness. "you are a qualified medical practitioner?" "i am," said the witness, straightening himself. "then of course you know that for a doctor to examine a woman against her will and without a magistrate's order is to commit an offence for which he may be severely punished?" the pugnacious mouth opened like a dying oyster. "y-es, your honour." "therefore you did not examine her?" "n-o, your honour." "and you know nothing of her condition?" "no----" "stand down, sir." there was a commotion in the court-house. the prisoner's face was still calm, but fenella's was aglow and gell's was ablaze. "mr. attorney," said the deemster quietly, "have you any further evidence?" the attorney, who had been whispering hotly to hudgeon, said, "no, there was a nurse who might have given conclusive evidence, but, thinking the doctor's would be sufficient, my colleague has allowed her to leave the island. no, that is my case, your honour." stowell, secretly glad at the turn things had taken, was about to put an end to the trial, when gell, intoxicated by his success, leapt up and said, "i might ask the court to dismiss this case immediately on the ground that there is nothing to put before the jury. but the wicked and cruel charge may follow the accused all her life, therefore i propose, with the court's permission, to waive my right of reply and call such positive evidence of her innocence as will enable her to leave this court without a stain on her character." "the fool!" thought stowell. but just at that moment the clock of the castle struck one, and the governor said, "the court will adjourn for luncheon and resume at two." as stowell stepped off the bench his eye caught a glimpse of the inscription on a brass plate which had lately been affixed to the wall under his father's portrait-- "_justice is the most sacred thing on earth._" his head dropped; he felt like a traitor. iii when the trial was resumed the attorney-general had not returned to court, so hudgeon represented the crown. he was offensive from the first, but gell, whose spirits had risen perceptibly, was not to be put out. the witness he called first was mrs. collister. the old mother had to be helped into the witness-box. her poor face was wet with recent tears, and in administering the oath stowell hardly dared to look at her. remembering the admissions she had made to him at ballamoar he knew that she had come to give false evidence in her daughter's cause. she made a timid, reluctant and sometimes inaudible witness. more than once hudgeon complained that he could not hear, and gell, with great tenderness, asked her to speak louder. "speak up, mrs. collister. there's nothing to fear. the court will protect you," he said. but stowell, who saw what was hidden behind the veil of the old woman's soul, knew it was another and higher audience she was afraid of. with many pauses she repeated, in answer to gell's questions, the story she had told before--that her daughter had returned home ill on the fifth of april, that she had put her to bed in the dairy-loft and that the girl had never left it until cain the constable came to arrest her. "you saw her day and night while she was at your house?" "aw, yes, sir, last thing at night and first thing in the morning." "and you know nothing that conflicts with what she says--that she never had a child and therefore could not have killed it?" "'deed no, sir, nothing whatever." she had answered in a tremulous voice which the deemster found deeply affecting. once or twice she had lifted her weak eyes to his with a pitiful look of supplication, and he had had to turn his own eyes away. "i should do it myself," he thought. "and now, mrs. collister," said gell, "if you were here this morning you heard what the attorney-general said--that your daughter had been of a lawless disposition and had run away from home without apparent reason. is there any truth in that?" "bessie was always a good girl, sir. it was lies the gentleman was putting on her." "is the prisoner your husband's daughter?" "no, sir," the old woman faltered, "his step-daughter." "is it true that her step-father has always been hard on her?" the old woman hesitated, then faltered again, "middling hard anyway." "don't be afraid. remember, your daughter's liberty, perhaps her life, are in peril. tell the jury what happened on the day she left home." then nervously, fearfully, looking round the court-house as if in terror of being seen or heard, the old woman told the story of the first saturday in august. "so your husband deliberately shut the girl out of the house in the middle of the night, knowing well she had nowhere else to go to?" "yes, if you plaze, sir." "it's a lie--a scandalous lie!" cried somebody at the back of the court. "who's that?" asked the governor, and he was told by the inspector of police (who was already laying hold of the interrupter) that it was the husband of the witness. "a respectable man's character is being sworn away," cried dan. "put me in the box and i'll swear it's a lie." in the tumult that followed the deemster raised his hand. "this court has been fenced," he said severely, "and if anybody attempts to brawl here...." "then let me be sworn. i'm only a plain manxman, blood and bone, but i can tell the truth as well as some that make a bigger mouth." "behave yourself!" "give me a chance to save my character and fix the disgrace of these bad doings where it belongs." "i give you fair warning...." "put the saddle on the right horse, dempster. he's near enough to yourself, anyway." "silence!" "why doesn't he come out into the open, not hide behind the skirts of a girl with a by-child?" "remove that man to the cells, and keep him there until the trial is over." "what?" cried dan, in a loud voice. "remove him!" cried the deemster, in a voice still louder, and at the next moment, dan, shaking his fist at the prisoner and cursing her, was hustled out of court. when the tempestuous scene was over and silence had been restored, the witness was trembling and covering her face in her hands and hudgeon was on his feet to cross-examine her. "i think your father was the late john corteen, the methodist?" "yes, sir." "he was a good man, wasn't he?" "as good a man as ever walked the world, sir." "he had a reputation for strict truthfulness--isn't that so?" "'deed it is, sir. the old dempster would take his word without asking him to swear to it." "you were much attached to him, were you not?" the old woman wiped her eyes, which were wet but shining. "that's truth enough, sir." "and now he's dead and i daresay you sometimes pray for the time when you'll see him again?" "morning and night, every day of my life since i closed the man's dying eyes for him." the advocate turned his gleaming eyes to the jury and the side of his powerful face to the witness. "you are a methodist yourself, aren't you?" "such as i am, sir." "and as a methodist you are taught to believe that truth is sacred and that a lie (no matter under what temptation told) is a thing of the devil and no good can come of it?" the old woman faltered something that was barely heard, and then the big advocate turned quickly round on her, and said in a stern voice, looking full into her timid eyes, "mrs. collister, as you are a christian woman and expect to meet your father some day, will you swear that when your daughter returned home on the fifth of april you did not see at a glance that she was about to become a mother of a child?" the old woman shuddered as if she had been smitten by an invisible hand, breathed audibly, tried to speak, stopped, then closed her eyes, swayed a little and laid hold of the bar in front of her. "inspector, see to the witness quickly," cried the deemster. at the next moment the old woman was being helped out of the witness-box and borne towards the door, where, realising what she had done for her daughter, she broke into a fit of weeping, which rent the silence of the court until the door had closed behind her. "in that cry," said the advocate, "the jury has heard the answer to my question. it is proof enough that the prisoner had a child, and that her mother knew it." "if so, it is proof of something else," cried gell (he had leapt to his feet and was speaking in a thrilling voice), "that a strong man can find it in his heart to use his great forensic skill to crush a poor weak woman who is fighting for the life of her child. all his life through he has been doing the same thing--driving people into prison and dragging them to the gallows. he has made his name and grown rich and fat on it. god save me from a life like that! i am only a young lawyer and he is an old one, but may i live in poverty and die in the streets rather than outrage my humanity and degrade my profession by using the lures of the procurator and the arts of the hangman." there was a sensation in court. one of the younger advocates was heard to say, "my god, who thought alick gell was a fool?" and another who remembered the "fanny" case in the douglas police-courts, said, "he's got a bit of his own back, anyway." when the commotion subsided, hudgeon, with a face of scarlet, appealed to the court: "your honour, i ask your protection against this outrageous slander." "since you appeal to me," said the deemster (whose own face was aflame), "i can only say that you deserved every word of it." hudgeon tried to speak, but could not, his voice being choked in his throat. and seeing that the attorney-general had come back to court (he had just returned with cain the constable, who was carrying a parcel) he picked up his bag and fled. gell's time had come at last--the great moment he had been waiting for so long. although he had been shaken for an instant by mrs. collister's silence he was not afraid now. he was going to play his last and greatest card--put the prisoner in the box to demolish for ever the monstrous accusation that had been intended to ruin the life of an innocent woman. the deemster trembled as he saw gell look round the court with a confident smile before he called his witness. bessie, whose big eyes had flamed with fury during her mother's cross-examination, passed with a firm step from the dock to the witness-box. in answer to gell's questions she repeated the evidence she had given before the high bailiff, only more emphatically and with a certain note of defiance. when the attorney-general rose to cross-examine her, it was observed that he, too, had an air of confidence, as if something had become known to him since morning. "do you adhere to your plea?" he asked. "indeed i do. why shouldn't i?" said bessie. "think again before it is too late. do you still say that you have never had a child, and therefore never killed and never buried one?" "certainly i say so," said bessie. "i don't know what you are talking of." "constable," said the attorney, turning to cain, "open your parcel." there was a whispering among the spectators in court, while the constable was cutting the string and opening the brown-paper parcel. the deemster was shuddering, gell's lower lip was trembling, and fenella (who was sitting, as before, in front of the dock) was breathing deeply. the prisoner alone was unmoved. the sun (it was now going round to the west) was shining down on her from the lantern light. it lit up with pitiful vividness her thin white face with its look of confidence and contempt. "do you know what this is?" asked the attorney, holding up a portion of a white silk scarf. bessie started as if she had seen a ghost. then, recovering herself and turning her eyes away, she said, remembering what gell had told her, "i know nothing about it." "you have never seen it before?" "i know nothing about it." the attorney-general put the scarf outstretched on the table in front of him, and held up a narrower strip of the same material. "do you know anything about this, then?" bessie gasped and was silent for a moment. then she said again, but with a stammer, "i know nothing about it." "will you swear that it never belonged to you?" a stabbing memory came back to bessie. she remembered what she had heard about "a remnant" when the constables were ranging her room, and seeing no way of escape by further denial she said, "oh yes, i remember it now. i found it on the road when i was on my way home and bound it about my hat to keep it from blowing off in the wind." the silence which had fallen upon the court was broken by an audible drawing of breath. gell, who had risen and leaned forward, dropped back. "but if you found it on the road, how do you account for the fact that it has your name stamped on the corner of it? see--_bessie_." bessie was speechless for another moment. then she said, "bessie is a common name, isn't it?" "but how do you account for the further fact that these two pieces fit each other exactly?" asked the attorney--laying the narrow strip by the broader portion. bessie became dizzy and confused. "i can't account for it. i know nothing about it," she said. the deemster, who was breathing with difficulty, asked the attorney what he suggested by the exhibits. the attorney answered, "the larger piece, your honour, is the scarf which the body of the child was found in, while the narrower one was discovered in the prisoner's room, and the suggestion is that, taken together, they form a chain of convincing evidence that she is guilty of the crime with which she is charged." gell leapt to his feet. he had recognised the scarf as a present of his own on bessie's last birthday, and his great faith in the girl was breaking down, yet in a husky voice he said, "give her time, your honour. she may have some explanation." the deemster signified assent, and then gell, stepping closer to the witness-box, said, "be calm and think again. don't answer hastily. everything depends on your reply. are you sure the scarf was not yours and that you lost the larger piece of it? think carefully, i beg, i pray." the advocate was losing himself, yet nobody protested. at length bessie, with the wild eyes of a captured animal, broke into violent cries. "oh, why are you all torturing me? wasn't it enough to torture my mother? i know nothing about it." gell dropped back to his seat. there was a profound silence. the great clock of the castle was heard to strike four. the deemster felt as if every stroke were beating on his brain. at length he said, "a new fact has been introduced by the prosecution and it is only right that the defence should have time to consider it. it is now four o'clock. the court will adjourn until morning. it is not for me to anticipate the evidence which the accused may give when the court resumes, but if in the interval she can remember anything which will put a new light on the serious fact the attorney-general has just disclosed, nothing she has said in her agitation to-day shall prejudice what she may say to-morrow." he paused for a moment and then (with difficulty maintaining an equal voice) he added, "it sometimes happens that a young woman in the position of the accused mistakes concealment for the much more serious crime of murder." he paused again and then said, "whatever the facts in this unhappy case may prove to be, if i may speak to that mystery of a woman's heart which is truly said to be sacred even in its shame, i will say, 'tell the truth, the whole truth; it will be best for you, best for everybody.'" "the court stands adjourned until eleven in the morning," said the governor. "meantime, let the advocate for the defence see the accused and give her the benefit of his legal advice and assistance. jailer, look to the jury that they are properly lodged in the castle, and see that they hold no communication with persons outside." iv the judges, the advocates and the spectators were gone, and gell was alone in the court-house. he was like a drowning man in an empty sea, clinging to an upturned boat. time after time he gathered up his papers and put them in his bag, then took them out again and spread them before him. at length, rising with a haggard face, he went downstairs with a heavy step. at the door to the private entrance he came upon fenella, who was waiting for her father. her eyes were red as if she had been weeping, but they were blazing with anger also. "are you going down to her as the governor suggested?" "i cannot! i dare not!" he replied. and then, as if struck by a sudden thought he said, "but won't you go?" "you wish me to speak to her instead of you?" "won't you? if she has anything to say she'll say it more freely to a woman." fenella looked at him for a moment. "very well, i'll go if you are willing to take the consequences." "the consequences? to me? that's nothing--nothing whatever. go to her, for god's sake. i'll wait here for you." in the deemster's room the governor was putting on his military overcoat. he was not too well satisfied with himself, and as the only means of self-justification he was nursing a dull anger against stowell. "well, we can only go on with it. there's nothing else to do now. unfortunate--damnably unfortunate!" a few minutes later, stowell, sitting at the table in wig and gown, heard the clash of steel outside (a company of the regiment quartered in the town were acting as a guard of honour) and saw through the window the governor's big blue landau passing over the bridge that crossed the harbour. gell would be with bessie in her cell by this time. she was guilty. he must see that she was guilty. what a shock! what a disillusionment! all his high-built faith in the girl wrecked and broken! at last he unrobed and went down the empty staircase. on opening the door to the court-yard he was startled to see gell pacing to and fro with downcast head among the remains of some tombs of old kings which lay about in the rank grass. "ah, is it you?" said gell, looking up at the sound of stowell's footsteps. "you were good to her, old fellow. i can't help thanking you." stowell mumbled some reply and then said he thought gell would have been with bessie. "i daren't go," said gell. "but fenella has gone instead of me." "fenella?" stowell felt as if something were creeping between his skin and his flesh. fenella and bessie--those two and the dread secret! "my poor girl!" said gell. "if she has anything to say--to confess--it won't hurt so much to say it to somebody else. but of course she hasn't--she can't have." stowell felt as if he had been suddenly deprived of the power of speech. yes, bessie would confess everything to fenella. not merely the birth of her child but also the name of her fellow-sinner--fenella's desire to punish the guilty man would drag that out of her. perhaps the confession was going on at that very moment. what a shock for fenella too! all her high-built faith in him wrecked and broken! "well, let us hope...." "yes, that is all we can do." and then the two men parted, gell returning to his pacing among the tombs of the dead kings and stowell going out by the deemster's door. a few of the spectators at the trial were waiting to see the deemster off, but he scarcely saw their salutations and did not respond to them. chapter twenty-nine the two women--the two men on being taken back to her cell bessie had burst into a fit of hysteria. "the brutes! they're only trying to catch me out that they may kill me. why don't they do it then? why don't they finish me? this waiting is the worst." her face was blue with rage, her voice was coarse and husky, her mouth was full of ugly and vulgar words--all the traces of her common upbringing coming uppermost. at length, out of breath and exhausted, she broke into sobs. this quietened her and after a while she asked what had become of her mother. fenella, who was alone with her (the woman warder having gone home ill), answered that some good women had carried her mother away and were going to take care of her. "and where is...." "mr. gell? upstairs. he sent me down to speak to you." "i won't speak to anyone. they're all alike. they're only torturing me." fenella reproved the girl tenderly. could she not see that the deemster himself was trying to help her? he had adjourned the court to give her another chance, and if she could only explain away the evidence of the scarf.... "i won't explain anything. why can't you leave me be?" "you heard what the deemster said, bessie? tell the truth; the whole truth; it will be best for you; best for everybody." after that bessie became calmer, and then fenella (little knowing what she was doing for herself) pleaded with the girl to confess. "i think i understand," she said. "sometimes a girl loves a man so much that she cannot deny him anything. thousands and thousands of women have been like that. not the worst women either. but the dark hour comes when the man does not marry her--perhaps cannot--and then she tries to cover up everything. and that's your case, isn't it?" "don't ask me. i can't tell you," cried bessie. fenella tried again, still more tenderly. "and sometimes a girl who has done wrong tries to shield somebody else--somebody who is as guilty as herself, perhaps guiltier. thousands of women have done that too, ever since the world began. they shouldn't, though. a bad man counts on a woman's silence. she should speak out, no matter who may be shamed. and that's what you are going to do, aren't you?" but still bessie cried, "i can't! i can't!" "don't be afraid," said fenella. "the deemster is not like some other judges. he has such pity for a girl in your position that he will do what is right by her whoever the man may be." "oh, why do you torture me?" cried bessie. "i don't mean to do that," said fenella. "but a girl has to think of her own position in the long run, and it's only right she should know what it is. if she is charged with a terrible crime, and there is evidence against her which she cannot gainsay, the law has the power to punish her--to inflict the most terrible punishment, perhaps. have you thought of that, bessie?" bessie shuddered and laid hold of fenella by both hands. "on the other hand if she can explain .... if she can say that her child was born dead and that she merely concealed the birth of it, or that she killed it by accident, perhaps, when she was alone and didn't know what she was doing...." bessie was breathing rapidly, and fenella (still unconscious of the fearful game the unseen powers were playing with her) followed up her advantage. "you can trust the deemster, bessie. he will be merciful to a girl who has stood silent in her shame to save the honour of the man she loves--i'm sure he will. and the jury too, when they see that you did not intend to kill your child, they may .... who knows? .... they may even acquit you altogether." bessie was silent now, and fenella could see, in the half darkness of the cell, that the girl's big pathetic eyes were gazing up at her. "and then the people who have been thinking hard of you, because you have deceived them, will soften to you when they see that what you did, however wrong it was and even criminal, was done perhaps for somebody you loved better than yourself." suddenly bessie dropped to her knees at fenella's feet and cried, "very well, i will confess. yes, it's true. i had a child, and i .... i killed it. but i didn't mean to--god knows i didn't." "tell me everything," said fenella. and then, burying her face in fenella's lap and clinging to her, bessie told her story, mentioning no names, but concealing and excusing nothing. before she had come to an end, fenella, who had been saying "yes" and "yes," and asking short and eager questions (the two women speaking in whispers as if afraid that the dark walls would hear), felt herself seized by a great terror. "then it was not mr. gell who took you into his rooms when your father shut you out?" "no, no! would to god it had been!" "then who was it?" "don't ask me that. i cannot answer you." "who was it? tell me, tell me." "i can't! i can't!" "was it in ramsey--his chambers?" "yes." "is he? .... is he anything to me?" bessie dropped her head still deeper into fenella's lap and made no answer. "is he?" said fenella, and in her gathering terror, getting no reply, she lifted bessie's head and looked searchingly into her face, as if to probe her soul. at the next moment the dreadful truth had fallen on her. the girl's fellow-sinner, the man she had been hunting down to punish him, to shame him, to expose him to public obloquy, was victor stowell himself! at the first shock of the revelation the woman in fenella asserted itself--the simple, natural, deceived and outraged woman. this girl had gone before her! this common, uneducated creature of the fields and the farmyard! for one cruel moment she had a vision of bessie in stowell's arms. this was the face he had loved! these were the lips he had kissed! and she had thought he had loved her only--never having loved anybody else! a feeling of disgust came over her. the girl had not even had the excuse of caring for stowell. she had been thinking merely of a way of escape from the tyrannies of her step-father. or perhaps an admixture of sheer animal instinct had impelled her. how degrading it all was! bessie, who had begun to realise what she had done, tried to take her hand, but fenella drew back and cried, "don't touch me!" all the thoughts of years about woman as the victim seemed to be burnt up in an instant in the furnace of her outraged feelings. an almost unconquerable impulse came to leave bessie to her fate. let her pay the penalty of her crime! why shouldn't she? but after a while a great pity for the girl came over her. if she had sinned she had also suffered. if she was there, in prison, it was only because she had been trying in her ignorant way to wipe out her fault. but she herself .... her hopes gone, her love wasted.... fenella bursted into a flood of tears. and then bessie (the two women had changed places now) began to comfort her. "i'm sorry. i didn't think what i was doing. don't cry." at the next moment they were in each other's arms, crying like children--two poor ship-broken women on the everlasting ocean of man's changeless lust. bessie was the first to recover. she was full of hope and expectation, and visions of the future. now that she had confessed everything the deemster would tell the jury to let her off, and then alick would forgive her also. "he _will_ forgive me, will he not?" she was like a child again, and fenella found a cruel relief in humouring her. "yes, yes," she answered. "when i leave this place i'm going to be so good," said bessie. "i will make him such a happy life. we'll be married immediately--by bishop's licence, you know--and then leave the isle of man and go to america. he often spoke of that, and it will be best .... after all this trouble it will be best, don't you think so?" "no doubt, no doubt," said fenella. at length she remembered that gell would be waiting for her. she must go to him. when she reached the corridor she paused, wondering what she was to say and how she was to say it. while she stood there she heard sounds from the cell behind her. bessie was singing. meantime gell had been fighting his own battle. the black thought which had come hurtling down on him at derby haven, when he first read the letter which bessie had left behind her, was torturing him again. it was about stowell, and to crush it he had to call up the memory of the long line of good and generous things that stowell had done for him all the way up since he was a boy. when at last he saw fenella approaching he searched her face for a ray of hope, but his heart sank at the sight of it. "well?" "she has confessed." "she had a child?" "yes." "it was born dead?" "no, she killed it." "god in heaven!" said gell, and it seemed to fenella that at that moment the man's heart had broken. she knew she ought to say more, but she could not do so--nothing being of consequence except the one terrible fact of the man's betrayal. "god in heaven!" said gell again, and he turned to leave her. "what are you going to do in the morning?" "i don't know .... yet." "where are you going to now?" "to .... ballamoar." again she knew that she ought to say more, but again she could not. gell was making for the gate, and fenella, bankrupt in heart herself, wanted to comfort him. "mr. gell," she said, "i have been doing you a great injustice. i ask you to forgive me." with his hand on the bolt he turned his broken face to her. "that's nothing--nothing now," he said. and again she heard "god in heaven!" as the gate closed behind him. ii "ah, here you are, dear!" it was janet who had heard the hum of stowell's car on the drive and had come hurrying out to meet him. "you've had a tiring day--i can see that," she said, as she poured out a cup of tea for him. "ah, these high positions! 'there's nothing to be got without being paid for,' as your father used to say." to escape from janet's solicitude and to tire himself out so that he might have a chance of sleeping that night, he walked down to the shore. a storm was rising. the gulls were flying inland and their white wings were mingling with the black ones of the rooks. the fierce sky to the south, the cold grey of the sea to the north, the bleak church tower on the stark headland, looking like a blinded lighthouse--they suited better with his mood. fenella! she must know everything by this time. how was he to meet her eyes in the morning? gell! he, too, must know everything now. how every innocent thing he had done to help his friend would look like cunning bribery and cruel treachery! it was a lie to say that a sin could be concealed. an evil act once done could never be undone; it could never be hidden away. a man might carry his sin out to sea, and bury it in the deepest part of the deep, but some day it would come scouring up before a storm as the broken seaweed came, to lie open and naked on the beach. the sky darkened and he turned back. on the way home he met robbie creer, and they had to shout to each other above the fury of the wind. the farmer had been over to the nappin (the fields above the point) and found hidden fissures in the soil three feet deep. they would lose land before morning. at dinner janet did her best to make things cheerful. there was the sweet home atmosphere--the wood fire with its odour of resin and gorse, the snow-white table-cloth, the silver candlesticks, all the old-fashioned daintiness. but stowell was preoccupied and hardly listened to janet's chattering. so she went early to her room, saying she was sure he wished to be alone--his father always did, during the adjournment of a serious case. his father again! how her devotion to his father drove the iron into his soul! it was late and the rain had begun to slash the window-panes when he heard the front door bell ringing. after a few moments he heard it ringing again, more loudly and insistently. nobody answered it. the household must be asleep. then came a hurried knocking at the window of the dining-room and a voice, which was like the wind itself become articulate, crying out of the darkness, "let me in!" it was gell. for the first time in his life stowell felt a spasm of physical fear. but he remembered something which gell had said at the door of the railway carriage in douglas on the day of the trial of the peel fisherman ("i should have killed the other man"), and that strengthened him. anything was better than the torture of a hidden sin--anything! "go back to the door--i'll open it," he called through the closed window, and then he walked to the porch. his heart was beating hard. he thought he knew what was coming. but when gell entered the house he was not the man stowell had expected--with flaming eyes and passionate voice--but a poor, broken, irresolute creature. his hair was disordered, his step was weak and shuffling, and he was stretching out his nervous hands on coming into the light as if still walking in the darkness. "i had to come and tell you. she's guilty. she has confessed," he said. and then he collapsed into a chair and broke into pitiful moaning. it was too cruel. he could have taken the girl's word against the world, yet she had deceived him. "did she say .... who...." "no." "no?" "i didn't ask. some miserable farm-hand, i suppose--some brute, some animal. damn him, whoever he is! damn him! damn him to the devil and hell!" stowell felt a boundless relief, yet a sense of sickening duplicity. "but what matter about the man?" said gell. "it's the girl who has deceived me. i daresay i'm not the first either. perhaps her step-father didn't turn her out for nothing. there may have been something to say for the old scoundrel." choking with hypocrisy, stowell found himself pleading for the girl. perhaps .... who could say? .... perhaps she had been more sinned against than sinning. "then why didn't she tell me?" said gell. his voice was like a wail. "who can say...." (stowell felt a throb in his throat and was speaking with difficulty), "who can say she wasn't trying to save you pain .... knowing how you believed in her and cared for her?" "but if she had only told me," said gell. "if she had only been straight with me!" stowell felt himself on the edge of terrible revelations. but he controlled himself. if bessie had concealed part of the truth what right had he to reveal it? after a moment of silent terror he asked gell what he meant to do in the morning. "advise her to amend her plea and cast herself on the mercy of the court." "yes, that is the only proper course now," said stowell, and then gell rose to go. it was a wild night. the wind was higher than ever by this time and the rain on the windows was rattling like hail. stowell asked gell to sleep the night at ballamoar, secretly hoping he would refuse. he did. he had bespoken a bed at the railway inn near to the station--he must go up by the first train in the morning. stowell saw him to the door, and held it open with his shoulder against the wind, which swirled through the hall, making the flame of the lamp on the landing to flame up in its funnel. outside there was the slashing of leaves and the crackling of boughs among the elms around the lawn. "well, good-night," said gell, and turning up the collar of his coat, he went off in the darkness and the rain. stowell turned back into the house with a sense of degradation he had never felt before. oh, what a miserable coward a hidden sin made of a man! sooner or later it would be revealed and then .... what then? suddenly he was startled by a new thought. bessie's confession would give the trial an entirely different turn. if she pleaded guilty in the morning there would be nothing for the jury to do. either they would have to be dismissed or instructed to bring in a formal verdict. the verdict against the prisoner would depend upon the judges. that is to say, bessie's fate would depend upon him--upon him alone! the first shock of this thought was terrible, but after a while he told himself that it came to the same thing in the end. the real responsibility was with the law. a judge was only the law's spokesman. for a given crime a given punishment. a judge did not make the sentence on a prisoner--he had only to pronounce it. strengthening himself so, he went to bed. for a long time he lay awake, listening to the many sounds of the storm. in the middle of the night he was startled out of his troubled sleep by a loud crash in the distance. the morning broke fair, with a clear sky and the sea lying under the sunshine like a sleeping child. but as he drove off, after a scanty breakfast, he found the carriage-drive strewn with young leaves, the torn bough of an old elm stretching across his path, and a number of dead rooks lying about the lawn. outside the big gates he met robbie creer, who was riding barebacked on a farm horse. the farmer had been over to the nappin and seen what he had expected. the headland was down; there was a gob (a mouth) where the point had been, and the sea was flowing between two cliffs that had been torn asunder. driving hard, stowell arrived early at castletown and found a crowd at the castle gate, waiting for the trial as for a show. he was passing through the deemster's private entrance when he had a vision of a scene which the spectators could not be counting upon. what if the prisoner, while making her confession, accused her judge? joshua scarff, in his coloured spectacles, was waiting at the door to the deemster's room. "i'm afraid your honour is not well this morning," said joshua. "a little headache, that's all," said stowell. but he had stumbled on the threshold (a bad omen) and was wondering what would happen before he came out again. chapter thirty the verdict when the court resumed gell rose, with a haggard face, to make an announcement. in accordance with the suggestion of his excellency, the accused had been seen during the adjournment (though not by him), with the result that she had confessed to having given birth to a child and being the cause of its death. "in these circumstances," he said, speaking in a husky voice, "i have taken the only course open to me--that of advising her to revise her plea, and with the permission of the court she will now do so." there was a moment of agitation in which the court was understood to assent, and then bessie was called upon to plead again. but hardly had she risen at the call of the deemster when she broke down utterly and sob followed sob at every question that was put to her. at length she bowed her head and that was accepted as her plea of guilty. then gell rose again and said, "although the prisoner pleads guilty to causing the death of her child, she says she did not so wilfully. therefore i propose to put her back in the box to prove extenuating circumstances." once more the court agreed, but when bessie was removed from the dock to the witness-box she broke down again and not a word could be got out of her. "it is only natural," said gell, "that she should feel shame at having to take back what she said yesterday." the deemster bowed, and speaking with an obvious effort he appealed to the girl to answer the questions of her advocate. but still bessie sobbed and made no answer. "the court has nothing left to it but to go on to judgment," said the attorney-general. at that moment, when the trial seemed to be brought to a standstill, fenella (sitting near to the witness-box) was seen to lean over and whisper to gell, who rose and asked to be allowed to make a suggestion--that inasmuch as the accused was unable to answer for herself, somebody else, who knew what she wished to say, should be empowered to answer for her. the deemster, seeing what was coming, seemed to catch his breath, but after a moment he agreed. the course proposed, although unusual, was not contrary to the interests of justice or altogether without precedent--a deaf and dumb witness always giving evidence by a speaking proxy. therefore if the attorney-general did not object.... "not at all," said the attorney. "in that case," said gell, "i will ask the lady who received the prisoner's confession to speak on her behalf--miss stanley." it was said afterwards, when the events of that day had a fierce light cast back upon them, that when fenella stepped up to the witness-box, and stood side by side with the prisoner, ready to take her oath, the deemster seemed scarcely able to recite the familiar words to her. "please tell the court, as nearly as possible in her own words, what the prisoner told you," said gell. there was a deep and concentrated silence. never before had anybody witnessed so strange a scene. speaking calmly and firmly, fenella told bessie's story as bessie herself had told it--her journey from the south of the island, the birth and death of her child, and the burying of it under the _clagh-ny-dooiney_. when she had finished, and bessie, who was stifling her sobs, had bowed her head in reply to a question from gell that she assented to what had been said on her behalf, the attorney-general rose to cross-examine. "does the prisoner deny," he said, "that when she returned home she told her mother of her condition?" "yes, her mother knew nothing about it." "does she deny that by keeping her condition secret from the person most proper to know of it, she deliberately intended to put her child away by violence?" "no, she does not deny that, but says that when her baby came the instinct of motherhood came too, and from that moment onward the idea of taking its life was far from her heart." "does the prisoner wish the court to believe that--in spite of her subsequent conduct in concealing the birth and death of her child and in secretly burying it?" "yes, she does, and if a court of men cannot believe it, a court of women would, because...." but the attorney-general, with a look of triumph, sat down quickly, and fenella, flushing up to her flaming eyes, stopped suddenly. there was another moment of deep silence in court, and then gell, who had to struggle with his emotion, rose to re-examine. "does the prisoner say that when she killed her child she did so unconsciously and under the influence of fear?" "yes, under the influence of fear--fear of her step-father who had behaved like a brute to her." "does she think that, however lamentable her act, she was moved to it by pardonable motives?" "not pardonable motives merely," said fenella, flaming up again, "but nobly unselfish ones." "nobly unselfish motives!" said the attorney-general, rising again. "will the witness please tell the court what she means by nobly unselfish motives in a case like this?" "i mean," said fenella, hesitating for a moment, looking up at the deemster and then (before she could be stopped) speaking with passion and rapidly, "i mean that this girl was betrayed at the time of her sorest need by one who should have protected her, not taken advantage of her. i mean that, falling in love afterwards with another man--a good man who was willing to make her his wife--she committed the crime solely and only in an effort to cover up her fault and to save her honour in the eyes of the man who loved her. i mean, too, that the real guilt lies not so much with this poor creature who sits here in her shame, as with the man who used her, caring nothing for her, and then left her to bear the consequences of their sin alone. shame on him! shame on him! may no good man own him for a friend! may no good woman take him for a husband! may he live to...." the irregular outburst was interrupted by a cry from the advocates' benches. gell had risen with wild eyes. he seemed to be trying to speak. his mouth opened but he said nothing, and after looking first at fenella and then at the deemster he sank back to his seat. and then fenella, as if realising what she had done, sat also. there were some moments of uneasy silence, and then the attorney-general rose for the last time. "it is impossible," he said, "not to be moved by what we have just heard, however improper on legal grounds it may have been. but the court will not allow themselves to be carried away by their feelings. it is the natural consequence of great crimes that they should bring great suffering. the prisoner has confessed to a great crime. she has failed to establish proof of extenuating circumstances. therefore, for the protection of human life, as well as the good name of this island, i ask for the utmost penalty of the law." after that there was a long pause, broken only by some whispering on the bench. it was observed that the deemster took no part in it, except to bend his head when the governor and the clerk of the rolls leaned across and spoke to him. at length, with a manifest effort, and in a low voice (so low that the people in court had to lean forward to hear him) he began to address the jury. ii "when a prisoner pleads guilty," he said, "it is usual for the court to proceed at once to the sentence. but in the present unhappy case it has been thought right that the judge, in directing the jury to find a formal verdict, should indicate the grounds on which the court has based its judgment. "the prisoner has pleaded guilty to taking the life of her new-born child. she has confessed that down to the hour of its birth she had the deliberate intention of making away with it, and the court is unhappily compelled to find in her conduct only too many evidences of that design. "but she has also said that after her child's birth, under the divine love and compassion of awakened motherhood, she repented of her intention of killing it, and that it came to its death by accident--the accident of semi-consciousness and the consequences of her fear. the court would gladly accept this explanation if it could be corroborated by the evidence. unfortunately it cannot. on the contrary the prisoner's subsequent behaviour points to an entirely different conclusion. therefore the court has nothing before it but the prisoner's confession that she intended to take the life of her child, and the fact that she did indeed take it." the deemster paused (gell had risen and was seen crushing his way out of court); then he continued, "how her child came by its death is between god and her conscience. it is not for me, or perhaps for any man, to read the secret of a woman's heart in the dark hour of the birth of her misbegotten child. into the cloud of that mystery only the eye of heaven can follow her. but i should fail in my duty as a judge if i did not try to show that the court is fully conscious of the physical weaknesses and spiritual temptations which lie in the way of a woman who is in the position of the accused." then followed, during some breathless moments, such speaking as nobody present had ever heard before except from stowell himself, and only from him on the day when he snatched from the gallows the rag of a woman who had killed her husband. it was a contrast of the conditions attending the birth of a child born in wedlock, and of a child born illegitimate. they all knew the first. the beloved young wife watching with a thrilling heart for the signs of that coming event which was to complete her joy; the happy months in which she is shielded from all harm; the tender solicitude of her husband; her own sweet and secret preparations for the little stranger who is to come; the guesses as to its sex; the discussions as to its name--until at length, in the fulness of its appointed time, the child born in wedlock comes, like an angel floating out of the sunrise, into a world that is waiting for it to take it into its arms. but the child born out of wedlock--what of that? the poor mother, betrayed perhaps, abandoned perhaps, bereft of the love she counted upon, living for months in fear of every accusing eye, in dread of the being under her heart who is coming to shame her, to drive her from her home, to make her an outcast and a byword among women--until at last she creeps away to hide herself in some secret place, where, alone, in the darkness of night, distraught, amid the groans as of a thunderstorm, she faces death to bring her fatherless babe into a world that wants it not. "what wonder if sometimes," said the deemster, "in the pain of her body and the disorder of her soul, a woman (all the more if she has hitherto borne a good character) should be tempted to escape from her threatening disgrace by killing the child who is the innocent cause of it?" but rightly or wrongly, the law could take no account of such temptations. in the great eye of justice the issues of life and death were in god's hands only. life was sacred, and not more sacred was the life that came in the palace, with statesmen waiting in the antechamber, the life of the heir to a throne, than the life that came in the hovel and under the thatch, the life of the bastard who was to run barefoot on the roads. "it may be thought to be a hard law which takes no account of temptations to which women are exposed when nature demands that penalty from them which it never demands from men. but we who sit here have nothing to do with that. judges are sworn to administer the law as they find it, whatever their own feelings may be. therefore the court has now no choice but to direct the jury to find a verdict of guilty against the prisoner." there was a deep drawing of breath in court, and everybody thought the deemster had finished, but after another short pause, in a tremulous voice which vibrated through all hearts, he continued, "but the jury has a right which the judges cannot exercise--they can go beyond the law. and if, having heard the evidence in this case, and having god and a good conscience before them, the jury, in finding their formal verdict, can come to a conclusion favourable to the prisoner's story, they may recommend her to the mercy of the crown, and thereby lead, perhaps, to the lessening of her punishment, and even to the wiping of it out altogether. if not, the law must take its course, at the discretion of the governor as the representative of the king." when the deemster's tremulous voice had ceased the jurymen put their heads together for a moment. then one of them rose to ask if they might retire to their own room to consider the point left to them by his honour. "the court agrees," said the governor, and the jurymen trooped out. the judges and the advocates went out also, and the prisoner (who had been clinging to fenella's hand) was removed. only die spectators remained in their places. they were afraid to lose them for the concluding scene. iii in a small unventilated room overlooking the keep the jury considered their share of the verdict. "gentlemen," said one (he was an auctioneer and a town commissioner), "you heard what the deemster said. we can't let her off but we can recommend her to mercy." "why should we?" said another, a tall landowner with a bad reputation about women. "she killed her child. let her swing, i say." "but she said she didn't intend to and that she was out of herself and frightened by her step-father," said a third--a fat butcher who was sitting astride on a chair and making it creak under him. "chut! that was only an after-thought," said a fourth--a little bald-headed english grocer. "still and for all we know what dan baldromma is," said the butcher, "an infidel who believes neither in god nor the devil." "he's devil enough himself," said the grocer. "his father was the 'angman." "that was his uncle," said the butcher. "no, but his father. they called him dan the black, and after the 'anging of patrick kelly of kentraugh...." "question! question!" cried the town commissioner. "let's keep to the point, gentlemen." "let's get finished and away," said the grocer. "i've 'ad an addition to my family, i may tell you. a son at last after four daughters. my wife's getting up to-day and we're to 'ave a turkey for dinner. let the woman off, i say." "but we can't, man. didn't you hear what the deemster said?" "then let the 'uzzy 'ang." "are we to recommend the girl to mercy--that's the question," said the town commissioner. "why shouldn't we?" said the butcher. "hundreds and tons of girls have done as bad before now, and nobody a penny the wiser. why make flesh of one and fowl of another?" "if we show mercy to women of this sort we'll only encourage them in their bad conduct," said the landowner. this led to a random discussion on the question of women or men, which were the worst? the landlord was loud in denunciation of women, the butcher was more indulgent. "look here," said the butcher, "this isn't a game a woman can go into a corner and play all by herself, you know. for every bad woman there's a bad man knocking about somewhere." "a man isn't always filling his house with by-children anyway," said the landowner. "no," said the butcher, "but he is sometimes filling other people's though." "that's personal, and i won't stand it," cried the landowner, and then there were loud shouts with much smiting of the table. in the midst of the tumult a quiet voice was heard to say, "hadn't we better lay this matter before the lord, brothers?" it was a northside farmer and local preacher, who (not always to his financial advantage) had made it the rule of his life, whether in the reaping of his corn or the sowing of his turnips, to wait for divine guidance. in another moment he was on his knees, and one by one his fellow-jurymen, including the long landowner, had slithered down after him. when they rose they were apparently of one opinion--that inasmuch as nobody except god knew why bessie had killed her child (being alone and under the cloud of night) the only thing to do was to leave her to the lord. meantime gell, with restless and irregular footsteps, was striding about in the court-yard. fenella's outburst had fallen on him like a flash of lightning in the darkness. everything had suddenly become clear--all the vague fears that had haunted him so long, the suspicions he had thrust behind his back, the facts he had been unable to understand. what a blind fool he had been! stowell! his life-long friend, on whose word he would have staked his soul! there must have been a conspiracy to deceive him. both stowell and bessie had been in it--stowell to get rid of the girl he no longer wanted, and bessie to cover up her disgrace by marrying him. what a plot! the woman he had loved and the man he had worshipped! he saw himself hoodwinked by both of them, lied to, perhaps laughed at. his life, his faith, his love had crashed down in a moment. it was too cruel, too damnable! the air was chill, though the sun was shining, but gell took off his wig and carried it in his hand, for his head seemed to be afire. after a time the hatred he had felt for bessie became centred, with a hundredfold intensity, upon stowell. even if bessie had begun with an intention of betraying him, she must have repented of it afterwards, and committed her crime, poor girl, because (as fenella had said) she had come to love him. but stowell had carried on his deception to the last moment. he was carrying it on now, when he was sitting in judgment on his own victim. he meant to sentence her to death, too. yes, under all his fine phrases it was easy to see that he meant to sentence her. but if he did so gell would murder him. "yes, by god, i'll murder him," he thought. in the darkness of her cell, with no light on her tortured face except that of the candle behind the grill, bessie, breaking into another fit of hysteria, was reproaching fenella with deceiving her. "you told me that if i confessed the deemster would let me off. but he is going to condemn me. why couldn't you let me be? what for did you come here at all? i didn't ask you, did i?" "be calm," said fenella, "and i will explain everything." after awhile bessie regained her composure and then she asked for forgiveness. "i beg your pardon. sometimes i don't know what i am saying. it has been like that all through the time of my trouble. it was very wrong to forget how you spoke up for me in court. you'll forgive me, won't you?" and then fenella, though sorely in need of comfort herself, comforted the girl and reassured her. the court might be compelled to sentence her, as it had sentenced other girls for similar crimes, but the sentence would not be carried out. it never was in these days. "besides," she said, "the jury will recommend you to mercy, and then the judges will exercise their discretionary power to reduce your punishment." bessie's eyes began to shine. "you must really forgive me .... and alick--do you think alick will forgive me too?" "yes, when he sees that what you did was done out of your love for him." "how good you are! .... and shall we be able to leave the isle of man and go away somewhere?" "perhaps .... some day." "oh, how good you are! i don't know what i've done for you to be so good to me. i didn't think anybody except a girl's mother could be so good to her." she was like a child again. her face, though still wet, was beaming. in the selfishness of her suffering it had not occurred to her before that her comforter had been suffering also, but now, in some vague way, she became aware of it. "if they ask me who he was," she said, in a whisper (meaning who had been her fellow-sinner), "i'll never tell them--never!" fenella's humiliation was abject. "when we go back to court," she said, "you must be brave, whatever happens." "will you let me hold your hand?" said bessie. and fenella, scarcely able to speak, answered, "yes." in the deemster's room there was a painful silence. the clerk of the rolls was under the deeply-recessed window, turning over the crinkling folios of the depositions in the case to be taken next. the governor, stretched out in the leathern bound armchair before the empty fireplace, was smoking hard and trying to justify himself to his own conscience. stowell was sitting at the end of the long table, with his head in his hands, gazing down at the red blotting-pad in front of him. no one spoke. occasionally there came from without the mournful cry of the gulls flying over the harbour, and, at one moment, the ululation of a crew of irish sailors who were weighing anchor on a schooner in the bay. the profound silence around only made louder the thunder in stowell's soul. he knew he was at the crisis of his life. on what he did now the future of his life depended. the address to the jury had been a fearful ordeal, but the sentence would be terrible. to sentence bessie collister, having been the first cause of her crime--could he do it? it might only be a formal sentence (the crown being certain to commute the punishment), but the awful words prescribed by the statute--would they not choke in his very throat? and then fenella! her voice was ringing in his ears still: "shame on him! let no good man own him for a friend! let no good woman take him for a husband!" "and what will be the end?" he asked himself. he heard the door open behind him. a low hum of voices came down the staircase from the court-house. there was a footstep on the carpeted floor. somebody by his side was speaking. it was joshua scarff. "the jury are ready to return to court, your honour." iv when stowell resumed his seat on the bench, and the buzz of conversation had subsided, he was conscious of the presence of only three persons besides himself--bessie in the dock with fenella by her side, and alick gell, with distorted face and wig a little awry, in the bench in front of them. the jurymen filed back. the clerk of the rolls read out their names and then asked for their formal verdict. "you find the prisoner guilty, according to the instructions of the court?" "aw, yes, guilty enough, poor soul," said the foreman (it was the northside farmer), "but lave her to the lord, we say." there was a titter at this quaint finding, but it was quickly suppressed. then the clerk of the rolls said, "i assume that means that you recommend her to mercy?" "aw, yes, mercy enough too," said the foreman, "for when the sacrets of all hearts are revealed it's mercy we'll all be wanting." after that stowell was conscious of a still deeper hush in court. he saw bessie, in the full glare of her shame, standing in the dock, holding the rail with one hand and clinging to fenella with the other. he heard himself asking her if she had anything to say why judgment should not be pronounced upon her. she made no answer, but there was a strange expression of frightened hope in her face. he understood--she was expecting that he would save her even at the last moment. at that sight there came to him one of those frightful impulses which tempt people on dizzy heights, from sheer fear of danger, to fling themselves into the abyss below. "prisoner at the bar," he said, "it has been said on your behalf that you were first led to do what you did by the act of one who remains unpunished while you have to bear the full weight of your fall. if you think it will lessen the burden of your crime to plead this as an extenuating circumstance speak--it is not too late to do so." bessie made no reply, and stowell, who felt fenella's eyes fixed on him, continued, "don't be afraid. if you think it will lighten your guilt in the eyes of the court to mention that man's name, mention it." bessie swayed a little, as if dizzy, looked round at fenella, and then turned back to the bench and shook her head. the hush in court was broken by a rustle of astonishment. had the deemster lost himself? stowell was conscious of a movement by his side and of the governor saying, in an angry whisper, "go on, for god's sake!" at length, in a voice so low as to be only just heard even in the breathless silence, he said, "elizabeth corteen, you have pleaded guilty to the charge of taking the life of your innocent child, the little helpless babe who had no other natural protector than the mother who bore it on her bosom. by this act you have brought yourself under the condemnation of the law, and it is for the law to punish you. but out of regard to your sufferings and the uncertainty as to your motives, the jury have recommended you to mercy, and it will be my duty to see that their prayer is sent, through his excellency the governor, to the high and proper authority, in the hope that the measure of pardon which, in all but exceptional cases, is granted to persons in your position, may be extended to you also." the tears were rolling down bessie's cheeks, but stowell saw that she was still looking up at him with the same expression. "meantime," he continued, "and however that may be, the court has no choice but to condemn you to the punishment prescribed by law. we who sit here must act according to our oath and our duty. justice" (he was pointing with a trembling hand to the motto under his father's picture) "is the most sacred thing on earth, and even .... even if your fellow-sinner himself sat on this bench, his first duty would be to justice, for justice is above all." then lowering his head and speaking rapidly, in a muffled and indistinguishable whisper, stowell pronounced the sentence of death. none of it seemed to be clearly heard until he reached the last words ("and may god have mercy on your soul"), and then there came a loud scream from the dock. bessie, who had been leaning forward and listening intently (the look of hope and expectation on her face darkening to dismay and terror), had dropped back, and would have fallen but for fenella, who had leapt up and caught her. "remove the prisoner," said the governor sharply, and at the next moment the constables were carrying the girl out of court screaming and sobbing. but before she had gone there was a movement in the benches of the advocates. alick gell had risen again, with wild eyes, and he was shouting after her: "never mind, bessie! i would rather be you than your judge." there was consternation in court. everybody was on his feet to look after the prisoner, and at gell, who was being hustled out after her. but hardly had the door closed behind them, when there was another cry in court: "the deemster!" stowell had risen also. he had stood looking after the prisoner until her last cry had died away in the corridor. then he had turned about, as if intending to leave the bench, taken a step forward, stumbled, and dropped to one knee. the governor rose and reached forward to help him. but he recovered himself immediately. his face was very pale, but he smiled, a pitiful smile, as if saying, "a little dizziness, nothing more," and waved off assistance. bracing himself up, he stood aside for the governor to go before him, and then walked out of court with a firm step. the ring of his tread was plainly heard as he passed through the green baize door that led to the deemster's room. the spectators looked into each other's faces as if bewildered by what they had seen and heard. although the business of the day was not yet over most of them trooped out, feeling that they had been witnessing a drama whereof only a part had been revealed to them--as by dark shadows on a white blind. end of fourth book _fifth book_ the reparation chapter thirty-one "victor! victor! my victor!" "good heavens, how was i to know that things would turn out so badly?" it was the governor, alone with stowell in the deemster's room, at the end of the second day of the court of general gaol delivery. "as for you, what have you to reproach yourself with? so far as this case is concerned you have done nothing that is wrong or irregular. the girl was guilty. you gave her a fair trial. the law required that she should be condemned. you had to condemn her. then why take things so tragically?" "but fenella?" "she will get over it. of course she will. what sensible woman is going to throw away the happiness of a life-time because of something that happened before she came on to the scene?" "you heard what she said, sir?" "i did, and thought it nonsense. i heard what you said also, and thought it madness. what a providential escape! thank god it is all over! the miserable case is at an end. let us think no more about it." an inspector of police cams into the room to say that miss stanley had left the castle at the close of the murder trial and asked him to tell her father that she was going home by train. the governor, with knitted eyebrows and a frown, dismissed the inspector, and then said to stowell, as he turned to go, "all the same i am bound to say the whole thing has been unfortunate--damnably unfortunate!" stowell continued to sit for some minutes in his robes after the governor had left him. joshua scarff came with a glass of brandy. "take this, your honour. it will strengthen your nerves for your drive home. i could see you were not well when you arrived this morning." stowell had drunk the brandy and was setting down the tumbler when the inspector came back to say that after the murder trial he had liberated dan baldromma, but had just been compelled to arrest somebody else. "who else?" "mr. gell. the gentleman seems to have gone clean off it, sir. it's the loss of his case, i suppose." ever since the court had risen he had been demanding to be allowed to see the deemster and threatening what he would do to him. so to prevent the advocate from doing a mischief the police had put him in the cells. "set him at liberty at once," said stowell. "before your honour leaves the castle?" "instantly." the inspector being gone (with the intention of disobeying the deemster's command in order to ensure his safety), joshua scarff proceeded to read gell's conduct by quite a different light. it was easy to see now that mr. gell had been the girl's fellow-sinner and therefore the cause of her crime. "pity! great pity!" said joshua, as he helped stowell to unrobe. "but such connections always begin to end badly." there were still a few of the spectators at the gate, waiting to see the deemster away, and when he came out, with his white face, another wave of sympathy went out to him. "they've been putting the young colt into the shafts too soon--that's what it is, i tell thee." driving over the harbour bridge in his automobile stowell began to feel better. the fresh air from the sea, after the close atmosphere of the court-house, brought the blood back to his brain, and he thought he saw things more clearly. the governor had been right. he could not have acted otherwise without being false to his oath as a judge. and if the miserable fact remained that he should never have been the judge in this case at all, it was fenella herself, above everybody else, who had thrust him into the furnace of that position. surely she would remember this, and it would plead in her heart for him? half-a-mile beyond the town he passed the governor's big blue landau, and realised that by some half-conscious impulse he was taking the road to government house instead of the direct way home. so much the better! he must see fenella at the first possible moment, and find out what his fate was to be. his spirits rose as he bounded along. granted he had done wrong in the first instance, terribly and cruelly wrong, hadn't he had many excuses? if bessie collister had told her everything, surely fenella would see this, too, and seeing it, would understand? but the great fact of all was that (except for the first catastrophe) his love of fenella had been the root cause of all that had happened. if he had not loved fenella with that deep, unconquerable, unquenchable love which had swept everything else away (all qualms and perhaps all conscience), nothing worse could have occurred. he would have married that poor girl now lying in prison. yes, whatever the consequences to himself, he would have married her before gell came back into her life, and further complications ensued. but after fenella returned to the island no other woman had been possible to him. surely she would see this also? and, if she did, nothing else would matter to either of them--nothing in this world. presently, driving at high speed, he realised that the half-conscious impulse which had carried him on to the road to government house was sweeping him on to the rocky shelf on the coast along which he had driven with fenella on the day he took his oath. how fortunate! what was that she had said, then, as they sang together in the fulness of their joy over the hum of the engine and the boom of the sea?--that love, what she called love, never died and never changed, and if she loved anybody, and anything happened to him, she would fight the world for him, even though he were in the wrong! even though he were in the wrong! she would do it now! he was sure she would! yes, the first shock of the wretched revelation being over, she would see how he had suffered, and how he had striven to do the right, and then--then everything would be well. thus, as he flew over the roads, he built himself up in the hope of fenella's forgiveness. but as he approached government house his heart failed him again. something whispered that the excuses he had been making for himself were no better than a pretence--that fenella would see him now for the first time as the man he really was, not the man she had imagined him to be. and then--what would happen then? ii as soon as the trial was over and bessie, weeping bitterly, was taken back to the cells, fenella had left castle rushen. she was ashamed. remembering her wild outburst under the attorney-general's examination, she was reproaching herself bitterly. whatever victor stowell had done, what right had she to denounce him? she of all others! in open court too! and then gell! although nobody else had understood her, he had done so. he might have been living in a fool's paradise, but was it for her her to reveal the awful truth to him? in public, too, and at that harrowing moment? to escape from the pain of self-reproach she kept on telling herself, as she went back in the train, that stowell had deceived her. oh, if he had only confessed, at any rate to her, she thought she could have forgiven him in spite of all. but no, he had hidden everything down to the last moment, and left her to find him out. on reaching home she excused herself to old miss green and hurried up to her bedroom. her head ached and her heart was sore--the young woman she had been working for had been found guilty and condemned. she told her maid she was tired, and if anybody asked for her she was not to be disturbed. two hours passed. her heart was going through a wild riot of mingled anger and love. it was like madness. she loved stowell; she hated him; she worshipped him; she despised him. at one moment she recalled with a bitter laugh the mockery of his questioning of bessie collister in the dock; at the next she remembered with scorching tears the pathos of his sentencing her. obscure motives were operating in her soul to intensify her pain. jealous? she, jealous of that illiterate country girl who had murdered her illegitimate child--what nonsense! no, her idol was broken. she had set it so high and now it was in the dust. she expected stowell to come to her as soon as his court was over. again and again she raised her head from her wet pillow to listen for the sound of his car on the drive. yet when a knock came at her door and her maid announced the arrival of the deemster (never dreaming that the injunction against callers had been intended to apply to him) her first impulse was to send him away. "say i'm unwell and can't see him," she cried from her bed. but at the next moment she was up and whispering at the door, "show mr. stowell into the library and tell him i shall be down presently." her voice was hoarse; her face was aflame; her eyes were red from persistent weeping. no water could sponge away those marks of her emotion. never mind! he should see how he had made her suffer. she would go downstairs and charge him, face to face, with his deceit and hypocrisy, and then--then fling herself into his arms. but when she opened the library door and saw him standing on the hearthrug, with head down and a look of utter abasement, her courage failed her. she dare not look twice at his ravaged face, so she sank on to the sofa and covered her eyes with her hands. several minutes passed in which neither of them spoke. there was no sound except that of his laboured breathing and of the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. "if he does not speak soon," she thought, "i shall break into tears and fly out of the room." but she did not move, and at last came his voice, humble and broken, and thrilling through and through her: "fenella!" she did not answer; she could not; and again, after another moment of silence, he said, "fenella, i have come to ask you to forgive me." she wanted to burst out crying, and to prevent herself from doing so she broke into a flood of wrath. "forgive you?" she said. "ask that poor creature in castle rushen to forgive you--that poor girl whom you have just condemned for a crime that is the consequence of your own sin." he did not reply for a moment, and then came the same humble, unsteady voice, saying, "no doubt you are quite right, quite justified, but if you knew everything--that i could not help myself--that it was the law...." "oh, i know nothing about your laws," she cried, leaping up and crossing the room, "but they are unjust and barbarous and against reason and humanity if they allow a girl to be condemned to death for a crime like that while the judge who was the first cause of it sits in judgment on his own victim." "you are right there too," said stowell, "but if you knew how i tried to avoid sitting on the case, and only allowed myself to do so at last in the hope of seeing justice done and thereby making some sort of amends.... "amends!" cried fenella. "what amends can there be for a wrong like that? oh, i hate people who think they can make amends for one fault by committing another." there was silence again for a moment and then stowell said, "you are right there also. there is a kind of wrongdoing that cannot be atoned for. i see that now. but if you knew how i have suffered for it and still suffer.... "suffer? why shouldn't you suffer? isn't that poor girl suffering? hasn't she suffered all along? and whatever you do for her now, won't she go on suffering to the last day and hour of her life?" he dropped his head still lower under the lash of fenella's scorn. "that is not all either," she said in a broken voice, sitting on the sofa again and brushing her handkerchief over her eyes. "perhaps that girl is not the only one who is suffering. i wanted to think so well of you, to be so proud of you. you were to be the defender of women, fighting their battle for them when they were wronged and helpless. and when you became a judge .... oh, i cannot bear to think of it. you have disappointed and deceived me. you are not the man i took you to be." outside the sun was setting. a dull ray from it was falling on his haggard face and brushing her bronze-brown hair. "i thought you loved me too. it was so sweet to think you loved me--me only--never having loved anybody else. every woman has felt like that, hasn't she? i have anyway. other men might be faithless, but not you, not victor stowell. and yet, for the sake of your poor fancy for this country girl...." "fenella!" "oh, what a fool i've been," she cried, leaping up again and dashing the tears from her eyes. "forgive you? never while that girl lies in prison as the consequence of your sin." stowell could bear no more. stepping forward, he laid hold of fenella by the shoulders, and approaching his face to her face he said, "listen to me, fenella. i have done wrong--i know that. i am not here to excuse or defend myself, and if your heart does not plead for me i have nothing to say. but i swear before god that i have loved you with all my soul and strength, and if it hadn't been for that...." "loved me!" cried fenella, between a laugh and a sob. and then in the wild delirium of the sheer woman, she said, "what proof of your love have you given to me compared to the proof you have given to that girl? oh, when i think of it i could almost find it in my heart to envy her. i do envy her. yes, degraded and shamed and condemned and in prison as she is, i envy her, and could change places with her this very minute. i would have given you anything in the world rather than this should be--anything, my honour, myself...." "fenella!" "let me go! you are driving me mad. leave me. i hate you. i despise you. you have broken my heart. i thought you were brave and true, but what are you but a common...." "fenella!" "coward! hypocrite! let me go!" but she had no need to wrench herself away from him. his hands fell from her shoulders like lead, and at the next moment she was gone from the room. he stood for a while where she had left him with the echo of her stinging words ringing in his ears. bitter, unjust and cruel as they had been, he was struggling to excuse her. she did not understand. bessie had not told her all. presently she would come back and ask his pardon. but she did not come, and after a while (it seemed like an eternity), feeling crushed, degraded, trampled upon, dragged in the dust and wounded in his tenderest affections, he left the room and the house. outside, where his automobile was standing, he still lingered, expecting to be called back. it was impossible that fenella would let him part from her like this. he knew where she was--in the governor's smoking-room which overlooked the drive. at the last moment she would knock at the window and cry, "stay!" slowly he moved around his car, opening the bonnet, touching the engine, starting it, pulling on his long driving gloves. but still she gave no sign, and at length he prepared to step into his seat. was this to be the end--the end of everything? meantime, fenella, alone in her father's room and recovering from the storm of her anger, was beginning to be afraid. she wanted to go back to stowell and say, "i was mad. i didn't know what i was saying. i love you so much." but her pride would not permit her to do that, and she waited for stowell to do something. why didn't he burst through the door, throw his arms about her, and compel her to forgive him? she listened intently for a long time, but there came no sound from the adjoining room. what was he doing? presently she heard him coming out of the library, walking with a firm step down the corridor to the porch, opening the front door and closing it behind him. was he leaving her? like this? then he would never come back. she heard his footstep on the gravel and looking through the window she saw him, with his white face, raising his soft hat to wipe his perspiring forehead, and then climbing into the car. could it be possible that he was going away without another word? in spite of her jealousy and rage, she felt an immense admiration for the man who, loving her as she was sure he did, was yet so strong that he could leave her after she had insulted and humiliated him. she wanted to throw up the window and cry, "wait! i am coming out to you." but no, her pride would not permit her to do that either, and at the next instant the car was moving away. she watched it until it had disappeared behind the trees. then she turned to go back to her bedroom. at the foot of the stairs she met miss green who, shocked at the sight of her disordered face, said, "my goodness, fenella! what has happened?" in the plaintive voice of a crying child, fenella answered, "he has gone. i have driven him away." then she stumbled upstairs, locked the door of her room on the inside, threw herself face down on the bed, burst into a flood of tempestuous tears, and cried aloud to stowell, now that he could no longer hear her-- "victor! victor! my victor!" chapter thirty-two the voice of the sea "forgive you? never while that girl lies in prison as the consequence of your sin." the words beat on stowell's brain with the paralysing effect of a muffled drum. he was driving up the mountain road. char-à-bancs, full of english visitors (who were laughing and singing in chorus), were coming down. the drivers shouted at him from time to time. this irritated him until he realised that his motor-car was oscillating from side to side of the road. when he reached the top, where the road turns towards the glen, all the heart was gone out of him. the great scene no longer brought the old joyousness. with love lost and hope quenched the soul of the world was dead, and the heavens were dark above him. at the bottom of the glen, where it dips into the curragh, he came upon a group of bare-headed women, with their arms under their aprons, surrounding a little person with watery eyes, in a poke bonnet and a satin mantle. mrs. collister had returned from castletown, and her neighbours were taking her home. "never mind, woman! it will be all set right at the judgment. and then the man will be found out and punished, too!" at the corner of the cross roads dan baldromma threw himself in front of the car, to draw it up, and in his raucous voice he fell on stowell with a torrent of abuse. "you've been locking up a respectable man, dempster, but you can't lock up his tongue, and the island is going to know what justice in the isle of man can be." stowell made no answer. any poor creature could insult him now. janet was waiting for him at ballamoar, with a fire in the library, and the tea-tray ready. but the sweet home atmosphere only made him think of the happiness that had been so nearly within his reach. seeing that something was amiss, janet assumed her cheeriest tone, brought out two patterns of damask, laid them over chairs, and asked which fenella would like best for her boudoir. "i don't know. i can't say. but .... it doesn't matter now." janet gathered up her patterns and went out of the room without a word. "forgive you? never while that girl lies in prison." the stinging words followed him to his bedroom. they broke up his sleep. they rang like the screech of an owl through the darkness of the night. next day, not trusting himself to drive his car, he returned to castletown by train. there were only two first-class compartments and both were full. he was about to step into a third-class carriage when a voice cried, "this way, deemster. always room enough for you." there was to be a sitting of the keys that day and the compartment was full of northside members. the talk was about yesterday's trial, and stowell realised that his management of the case had created a favourable impression. merciful to the prisoner? yes, until her guilt was established, but then just, even at the expense of friendship. this led to talk about gell as the girl's fellow-sinner. "shocking! but it's not the first time he has been mixed up with a woman." stowell felt an intolerable shame at gell's undeserved obloquy and his own unmerited glory, but he could say nothing. "it will kill the old man," said one of the keys. the train had drawn up at a side station and his voice was loud in the vacant air. "hush!" the speaker was in the next compartment. when the train started again a little man with the face of a ferret began to make facetious references to "fanny." stowell's hands were itching to take the ribald creature by the throat and fling him out of the window, but something whispered, "who are you to be the champion of virtue?" at court that day, and the day following, he found it hard to concentrate. at one moment an advocate said, "perhaps your honour is not well this morning?" "oh no! i heard you. you were saying...." the rapidity of his mind enabled him to make up for his lapses in attention, and when his time came to sum up he was always ready. he was indulgent to the accused. all the other prisoners were acquitted--the fat woman for the reason that, bad as her character might be, the characters of her drunken sailors were yet worse (therefore no credit could be attached to their evidence), and the boy who had embezzled on the ground that his superiors at the bank had been guilty of almost criminal negligence, and the four months he had been in prison already were sufficient to satisfy the claims of justice. the boy's mother, who was standing at the back, threw her arms about him and kissed him when he stepped out of the dock, and then, turning her streaming face up to the bench, she cried, "god bless you, deemster! may you live long and every day of your life be a happy one." back at home, stowell plunged into the task of drawing up the report for the english authorities which was to accompany the recommendation to mercy. in two days (having his father's library to fall back upon) he knew more about the grounds upon which the prerogative of the crown could properly be exercised than anybody in the island had ever before been required to learn, and when he had finished his task he had no misgivings. bessie's sentence would be commuted to imprisonment. and then (life for the poor soul being at an end in the puritanical old island) he must find some secret means of sending her away. "never while that girl...." but wait! only wait! being legislator as well as judge, he attended the first meeting of tynwald court after his appointment. the governor administered the oath to him in a private room, and then, taking his arm, led the way to the legislative chamber. "do you know it's six days since you were at government house, my boy? what is fenella to think of you?" "has she .... has she been asking for me, sir?" "well, no, not to say asking, but still .... six days, you know." stowell sat on a raised daïs between the attorney-general and deemster taubman, who was sufficiently recovered to hobble in on two sticks. the proceedings were of the kind that is usual in such assemblies, the manx people being the children of their mothers, loving to talk much and about many things. he found it difficult to fix his attention, and was watching for an opportunity to slip away, when the vain repetitions which are called debate suddenly ceased and the governor called on an inspector by police to carry round a bill which had to be signed by all. in the interval of general conversation that followed, deemster taubman, a gruff and grizzly person, leaned back in his seat, put his thumbs in the armholes of his soiled white waistcoat and talked to stowell. "you did quite right in that case of the girl collister, sir. in fact you were only too indulgent. i have no pity for the huzzies who run away from the consequences of their misconduct. murder is murder, and there is no proper punishment for it but death." "but the jury recommended the girl to mercy, and her sentence will be commuted," said stowell. "eh? eh? then you haven't heard what has happened?" "what?" "the governor has reported against the recommendation." "reported against it?" "certainly. and as the authorities in london are not likely to read the report and are sure to act on the governor's advice, the girl will go to the gallows." stowell felt as if he had been struck over the eyes by an unseen hand. as soon as he had signed the bill (in a trembling scrawl) he whispered to the attorney-general that he was unwell and fled from the chamber. "humph!" said taubman, looking after him. "that young man is going to break down, and no wonder. his appointment as deemster was the maddest thing i ever knew." ii "no, mr. stowell, no! you must stay in bed for the next two days at least. i must really insist this time. no work, no excitement, no heart-strain. remember your father, and take my advice, sir." it was doctor clucas, who, sent for by janet, had arrived at ballamoar before stowell got out of bed in the morning. with closed eyes stowell reviewed the situation. it was shocking, horrible, intolerable. not for fifty years had a woman suffered the full penalty of such a crime. he must find some way to prevent it. but after a while a terrible temptation came to him. "why can't i leave things alone?" he asked himself. he had done all he could be expected to do. if the crown, acting on the advice of the governor, refused to exercise its prerogative of mercy, what right had he to interfere? it might be best for himself, too, that the law should take its course--best in the long run. if bessie's sentence were commuted to imprisonment what assurance had he that on coming out of prison she would allow him to send her away from the island? on the contrary she might refuse to be banished, and if she found that the blame of her misfortune had fallen on gell she might tell the truth to free him. what then? _he_ would be a dishonoured man. his position as a judge would be imperilled; his marriage with fenella would be impossible, and his whole life would crash down to a welter of disgrace and ruin. but if bessie were gone there would be no further danger. and after all, it would not be he but the law that had taken her life. "then why can't i leave things alone?" he thought. he decided to do so, but his decision brought him no comfort. towards evening he got up and went out to walk in the farmyard. there he met robbie creer, who was just home from the mill with his head full of a pitiful story. it was about mrs. collister. since her daughter's trial the old woman had fallen into the habit of walking barefoot in the glen, chiefly at midnight, and generally in the neighbourhood of the _clagh-ny-dooiney_. at first she had seen a light. then she had heard a pitiful cry. she was certain it was the cry of a child, a spirit-child, unbaptised and therefore unnamed, and for that reason doomed to wander the world, because unable to enter paradise. at length she had taken heart of god and going out in her nightdress she had called through the darkness of the trees, "if thou art a boy i call thee john. if thou art a girl i call thee joney." after that she had heard the cry no more, and now she knew it had been bessie's child, and the bogh-millish was at rest. this story of the old mother's developing insanity rested heavily on stowell's heart and went far to shake his resolution. after a day or two he began to find his own house and grounds haunted. he could not go into the library without the kind eyes in his mother's picture following him about the room with a pleading look. he could not sit in the dining-room after dinner without remembering his week-ends as a student-at-law, when his father and he would draw up at opposite cheeks of the hearth, and the great deemster would talk of the great crimes, the great trials and the great judges. but his worst ordeal was with janet. not a word of explanation had passed between them, yet he was sure she knew everything. one evening, going into her sitting-room, he found her with her knitting on her lap, and a copy of the insular newspaper on the floor, looking out on the lawn with a far-off expression. that brought memories of another evening when he had told her that no girl on the island had ever fallen into trouble through him, or ever should do. "ah! is that you, victor?" she cried, recovering herself and making her needles click, but he had gone, and her voice followed him from the room. still wrestling with his temptation to stand aside and let the law take its course, ballamoar became intolerable to him. on the lame excuse of his fortnightly court in the northside town he decided to go to ramsey, and wrote to mrs. quayle to get his old rooms ready. but going from ballamoar to his chambers was like leaping out of the fire into the furnace. when he opened a disordered drawer up came the castletown portrait of bessie collister like a ghost out of the gloom. when he went for a walk to tire himself for the night his steps involuntarily turned towards the pier where the lighthouse had been shattered by lightning. when he returned and was putting the key in the lock of his outer door he had the tingling sense of a woman's warm presence behind him. when he pulled down his bedroom blind the broken cord brought a stabbing memory. and when he awoke in the morning he felt that he had only to open his eyes to see a girl's raven black hair on the pillow beside him. but mrs. quayle's presence was the keenest torment of all. the good old methodist moved about him at breakfast without speaking, but one morning, fumbling with her bonnet strings before going, she said, "deemster, have you remembered this case of bessie collister in your prayers?" he removed to douglas--the fort anne hotel, a breezy place, which sits on the ledge of the headland and just over the harbour. at first the babble and movement of the hotel distracted him, but after a day or two he was drawn back into the maelstrom of his own thoughts. having a private sitting-room he borrowed law books from the law library and sat far into the night to read them. he selected the treatises on infanticide--those bitter records of the age-long strife between the laws of man and of god. particularly he read the charges of the british judges (scottish too frequently), the bewigged ruffians who, in the abomination of their puritanical tyranny, and the brutal lust of their judicial vengeance, had hounded poor women to the gallows in the very nakedness of shame. "damn them! damn them!" he would cry, leaping up with a desire to trample on the dead judges' graves. but then the same persistent voice within would say, "wait awhile! who are you to stand up for justice and mercy?" crushed and ashamed he would creep up to bed through the silent house, and thinking of the girl whose dark eyes had intoxicated him in the glen (the girl he had afterwards held in his arms) he would say, "is it possible that i can stand by and see her given over to the hangman?" that terrified him. in the darkness he pictured to himself the scene of bessie's death and burial, and thought of his after-life as a judge, when he would have to go to court to try other such cases--and bessie lying out there in the prison-yard. after ballamoar, with its pastoral tranquillity, the twittering of birds and the sleepy singing of the streams, fort anne was sometimes a tempestuous place, with the wash of the waves in the harbour, the monotonous moan of the sea outside and the melancholy wail of the gulls. he thought he heard bessie's cry in the voice of the sea--her piercing cry when she was being carried out of court after he had sentenced her. one night he thought bessie was dead. he was dead too. they were standing side by side in an awful tribunal and she was accusing him before god. "he let me die! he killed me! he is my assassin!" the sound of his own voice awakened him. a dream! it was the grey of dawn; a storm had risen in the night; the white sea was rolling over the breakwater and the sea-fowl were screaming through the mist and roar. no, by god! if it was a question of bessie witnessing against him in this world or in the next, he had no longer any doubt which it should be. no more temptations! no more hypocrisy and self-doubt! no more wandering about like a lost soul! he would go up to the governor. he would call upon him to withdraw his objection to the jury's recommendation. and if he refused .... he should see what he should see. at eight o'clock in the morning he was walking down the quay in the calm sunshine, looking at the activities of the harbour, and nodding cheerfully to the fishermen as he passed. he was on his way to government house, and his conscience, with which he had wrestled so long, was triumphant and erect. then came a shock. he was crossing the stone bridge that leads up to the town when he saw the governor's blue landau coming down in the direction of the railway station. it was open. fenella was sitting in it. stowell was certain she saw him. but she only coloured up to the eyes and dropped her head. at the next instant her carriage had crossed in front of him and swept into the station-yard. something surged in his throat; something blinded his eyes. but after a moment he threw up his head and walked firmly forward. "wait! only wait! we'll see!" chapter thirty-three the heart of a woman meanwhile fenella had been going through her own temptation. on the night after the trial, having bathed her swollen eyes, she went down to dinner. her father looked searchingly at her for a moment, and, as soon as they were alone, he said, "was it stowell i saw driving towards the mountain road as i came up?" "perhaps it was," said fenella. "then why didn't he stay to dinner?" "because .... i told him to go." "why?" fenella gulped down the lump that was rising in her throat and said, "i have been deceived in him. he is not the man i supposed him to be." "don't be a fool, my dear. i understand what you mean. it is his conduct as a man, not as a judge you are thinking of. but if every woman in the world thought she had a right to make a scrutiny into her husband's life before she married him there would be a fine lot of marriages, wouldn't there?" crude and even coarse as fenella thought her father's moral philosophy, she found her self-righteousness shaken by it. perhaps she had been unfair to stowell. but why didn't he come and plead his own cause? she couldn't talk to her father, but if victor came and told his own story.... victor did not come. for two days her pride fought with her love and she thought herself the unhappiest woman in the world. then to escape from the pains of self-reproach she conceived the idea of a fierce revenge upon stowell. she would devote herself to his victim! yes, she would make it her duty to lighten the lot of the poor creature he had ruined and deserted. after a struggle, and many shameful tears, she went back to castle rushen, little knowing what a scorching flame she was to pass through. by this time bessie was feeling no bitterness against stowell. the jailer had told her that the deemster could not have acted otherwise. the law compelled him to condemn her. but he had told the jury to recommend her to mercy, and now he would be writing to the king to ask him to let her off. "aw, he's good, miss--he's real good for all." "do you say that, bessie? after he has betrayed you?" said fenella, "betrayed? i wouldn't say that, miss." "but he .... he took you to his rooms?" "what else could he do, miss? all the inns were shut and it was raining, and i had nothing in my pocket." "but .... having taken advantage of your homelessness and poverty, he afterwards cast you off?" a mysterious wave of injured vanity struggled with bessie's shame and she said, "'deed he didn't, then. he wanted to marry me." "marry you .... did you say marry...." "yes, he did, and that was why he sent me to school." "but afterwards .... afterwards he changed his mind and turned you off .... i mean turned you over to somebody else?" "'deed no," said bessie, with her chin raised. "it was me that gave him up after i found i was fonder of alick." breathing hard, scarcely able to speak, with the hot blood rushing to her cheeks, fenella compelled herself to go on. "did he know then that you...." "no, miss, and neither did i, nor alick, nor anybody." "and when .... when was it that you went...." "to his rooms in ramsey? the first saturday in august, miss." fenella went home, happy, miserable, tingling with shame and yet thrilling with love also. stowell's victim had brought her heart back to him. it was just because he had loved her more than he had loved that girl in prison that the worst had happened. it was just because she herself had persuaded, constrained and almost compelled him that he had sat on the case, not fully knowing what was to be revealed by it. this lasted her half-way home in the train, and then her wounded pride rose again. after all victor had been faithless to the love with which she had inspired him. if a man loved a woman it was his duty to keep himself pure for her. victor had not done so, therefore she would never forgive him--never! the governor's carriage met her at the douglas station, and when (wiping the scorching tears from her eyes) she reached government house, she found another carriage standing by the porch. "miss janet curphey is here to see you, miss," said the maid. ii from the day of the trial, when victor had returned home with a white face and said, "it doesn't matter now," janet had known what had occurred. that collister girl had corrupted victor. she had always feared it would be so since "auntie kitty" had whispered over her counter that that "forward thing" of liza corteen's was boasting that mr. stowell had been "sooreying" with her in the glen. and now she had brought him under the very shadow of shame itself, just when life looked so bright and joyful. then came the insular newspaper with an account of fenella's outburst at the trial. that was the cruellest blow of all. she had loved fenella, and had always thought there would be nothing so sweet as to spread her wedding-bed for her, but now that she had taken sides against victor and publicly denounced him, janet's blood boiled. she would go up to government house and give fenella a piece of her mind. why shouldn't she? it was a dull afternoon when she set off for douglas, and as she drove along the coast road she rehearsed to herself the sharp things she was going to say. but when fenella came into the drawing-room, looking so pale as to be scarcely recognisable as the radiant girl she used to be, and kissed her and sat by her side, janet could scarcely say anything. at length (miss green, who had been sitting at tea with her, having gone) janet braced herself, and said, not without a tremor, "i've come about victor." "then he has told you?" said fenella. "'deed he hasn't, and you needn't either, because i know." fenella drew her hand away and dropped her head. "i don't say he hasn't done wrong," said janet, "but you seem to think he's the only one who is to blame." "oh no! i see now that the girl in castle rushen...." "the girl? i'm not thinking about the girl. of course she is to blame. but is there nobody else to blame also?" "who else?" "yourself." "janet!" "oh, i'm telling you the truth, dear. that's what i've come for." "but it all happened before i returned to the island." "that's why. if you hadn't stayed away so long it wouldn't have happened at all." then up from the sweet and sorrowful places of janet's memory came the story of stowell's love for fenella--how he had worked for her and waited for her through all his long years as a student-at-law. "it's me to know, my dear. he used to come home every week-end, and his poor father thought it was to see him, but i knew better. 'any fresh news?' he would say, and i knew what news he wanted. when your photo came he held it under the lamp and said, 'don't you think she's like my mother, janet--just a little like?' and i told him yes, and that was to say you were like the loveliest woman that ever walked the world--in this island anyway." fenella was struggling to control herself. "poor boy, how he worked and worked for you! jacob never worked harder or waited longer for rachel. and what was his reward? you signed on at your ridiculous settlement for seven years and sent word you would never marry. i had it from catharine green and it was a sorrowful woman i was to break the news to him. he looked at me with his mother's eyes, and it was fit enough to break my heart to see how he cried with his face on the pillow. but it was with his father's eyes he rose and said, 'it shall never happen again, mother.' he called me mother too, god bless him!" fenella was smothering her mouth in her handkerchief. "if he went wrong after that, was it any wonder? young men are young men, and the lord won't be too hard on them for being what he has made them. some people seem to think when trouble comes between a young man and a young woman that the young woman is the only one to be pitied. well, i'm a woman and i don't. and when a young man has been cut off from the love that would have kept him right and the heavens have gone dark on him...." "but i loved him all the time, janet." "then why didn't you come back, instead of leaving him to the mercy of these good-looking young vixens who will run any risks with a young man if they can only get him to marry them?" fenella's eyes were down again. "but that's not all. not content with deserting him for so many years, you must try to disgrace him also." "janet!" "oh, i saw what you said at the trial." "but nobody knows whom i...." "don't they indeed! the men may not--most of them are so stupid. they may even think you meant somebody else. but you can't deceive the women like that. and then he knew that you intended it for him. just when you were about to become his wife, too, and you were the only woman in the world to him!" "i was so shocked. i thought he wasn't the man i had taken him for." "perhaps he wasn't, perhaps he was, but thousands of women have lost faith in their men and clung to them for all that, and they're the salt of the earth, i say. i'm only an old maid myself, but to stand up for your husband, right or wrong, that's what _i_ call being a wife, if you ask me." fenella could bear up no longer. she flung her arms about janet's neck and buried her face in her breast. the darkness was gathering before they broke from their embrace and then it was time for janet to smooth out her silvery hair and go. fenella saw her to the carriage and whispered as she kissed her, "tell him to come back to me." and then janet went home with shining eyes. iii day after day fenella waited at home for victor, denying herself to everybody else. every afternoon she dressed herself in some gown he had said he liked her in. she dressed her hair, too, in the way he liked best. but still he did not come. at length she determined to write to him. writing was a terrible ordeal. her pride fought with her love and she could never satisfy herself with her letters. first it was-- "dear victor,--don't you really think you've stayed away long enough? remember your 'manx ones'--especially your lovely and beloved manx women--won't they be talking?" but no, that was too much like threatening him, so she began again-- "darling,--did you really think i meant all i said that day? don't you know a woman better than that? i suppose you think i am very hard-hearted and can never forgive, but...." no, that was wrong, too. "victor,--don't you think i have been punished enough? it has been very hard for me, yet i love you still...." but the trembling of her handwriting betrayed the emotion she wished to conceal. at last, after a long day of solitude and abandonment, two little lines-- "vic,--i am so lonely. come to me. your broken-hearted--fenella." but all her letters, with their cries and supplications, were torn up and thrown into the fire. why did he stay away? did he expect her to bridge all the gulf between them? at length she thought he must be ill. the idea that he could be suffering (for her sake perhaps) swept down all her pride, and she determined to go to him. but just as she was setting out for ballamoar somebody brought word that stowell was staying at fort anne. that quenched her humility. so near, yet never coming to see her! oh, very well! very well! for two days she felt crushed and abased. then she heard that stowell was constantly to be seen at the law library, and that brought a memory and an explanation. she remembered that she had said (in that wild moment when she didn't know what she was saying) that she would never forgive him while the girl bessie lay in prison. that was it! he was finding a solid legal ground on which the prisoner could be liberated, and when he had convinced the law officers of the crown that this was a proper case for the exercise of mercy, he would come up to her and say, "bessie collister is free!--the barrier between us is broken down." for a full day after that her heart was at ease. nay more, she was almost happy, for hidden away in some secret place of semi-consciousness was the thought that the measure of stowell's efforts for bessie collister was the meter of his love for herself. at length her impatience got the better of her tranquillity and she became eager to know what was going on. there was only one person who could tell her that--her father. coming down to breakfast on the sunny morning after the storm, she saw, among the letters by the governor's plate, a large envelope superscribed, "_home secretary_." when her father had opened it she said, as if casually, "any news yet about that poor thing in castle rushen?" "yes, there's something here." "of course she's pardoned?" "on the contrary, her death-sentence has been confirmed." "confirmed?" "yes, she's to die, and it only remains for me to fix the date of the execution." the sun went out as before a thunderstorm, and, rising from her unfinished breakfast, fenella fled from the room. a great wave of pity seemed to sweep down every other feeling. she determined to go to castle rushen again and break the news tenderly to the unhappy woman. on her way to the railway station her mind swung back to stowell. after all he could have done nothing to save the girl's life. it was inconceivable that the authorities in london could have been indifferent to the opinion of the judge who had tried the case. "no, he can have done nothing--nothing whatever." then came a shock to her also. as her carriage dipped into the hill going down to the station she saw stowell coming up from the bridge with rapid strides. something told her that, having heard the news, he was going to government house to protest. but what was the good of going now? useless! worse than useless! one glance she got of his face before she dropped her own. it was whiter and thinner than before, as if from sleepless nights and suffering. she wanted to stop; she wanted to go on; she did not know what she wanted. at the next moment her coachman, who had seen nothing of stowell, being occupied with the difficulties of the hill, had swept into the station-yard. when she got out of the carriage her heart was burning with the pangs of mingled love and rage. "if that girl dies in prison there shall never be anything between us--never," she thought. but deep in her heart, almost unknown to herself, there was a still more poignant cry, "he does not care for me--he cannot." chapter thirty-four the man and the law when stowell reached government house he found the governor in the garden, bareheaded and smoking a cigar of which he was obviously trying to preserve the ash, while he watched his gardener at his work of repairing the ravages of last night's storm among the flower-beds. "ah, you've come at last! but you have just missed fenella. she has gone to castletown--that girl again, i suppose." "i know. i saw her. that's the matter i've come to speak about." "so? oblige me then by walking here so that i may keep an eye on the gardener." stowell winced, but stepped to and fro on the path by the governor's side while in a low tone he broached his business. "deemster taubman told me at tynwald that you had reported against the jury's recommendation." "well?" "i thought perhaps you would permit me to explain the exact legal position." "yes?" "it is fifty years at least since the prisoner has been executed on this island for that crime." "fifty, is it?" the governor blew his light blue smoke into the lighter blue air and watched it rising. "deemster taubman seems to think that a prisoner who has wilfully taken life is necessarily a murderer. that is wrong, sir." "wrong?" "quite wrong. it is established by the laws of this and every civilised country that it is the reason of man which makes him accountable for his action and the absence of reason acquits him of the crime." "and is there any ground for thinking that this girl was not responsible?" said the governor. "every ground, sir. no woman in her position ever was or can be responsible." "no? .... gardener, don't you think those tulips...." "that's why the law of england," continued stowell, "has ceased to look upon infanticide as a crime punishable by death. in some foreign countries it is not looked upon as a crime at all. the woman who kills her child within five days after its birth is thought to be suffering from temporary mania and therefore not guilty of murder. besides...." "besides--what?" stowell breathed heavily and then said, "there are exceptional circumstances in this case which call for merciful treatment." "you mean...." "i mean," said stowell, speaking rapidly and in a vibrating voice, "that the girl had no bad motives such as usually inspire murder--no greed, no lust, no desire for revenge. in fact, she meant no harm to anybody. on the contrary it is conceivable that she meant good--good even to her child--to save it from a life of suffering in a world in which it would have no father, no family, and nobody to care for it but its shamed and outcast mother." the governor looked at stowell for a moment and thought. "he's ill, and he's trying to unload his conscience." then he said aloud, "so you've come to ask me to...." "i've come to ask you, sir, to withdraw your objection to the recommendation to mercy, so that the death sentence may be commuted to imprisonment." again the governor looked at stowell's heated face and thought, "yes, he'll ill, and doesn't see that i am fighting his own battle. "do it, sir," said stowell. "do it, for god's sake, before it is too late, and there is such an outcry throughout the kingdom as will shake the very foundations of justice in the island." the governor was still smoking leisurely and keeping his eye on his flower-beds. "gardener, don't you think that bed of geraniums...." he began, but stowell could bear no more. "good god, sir, isn't this matter of sufficient importance to merit your attention?" the governor turned sharply upon him, threw away his half-smoked cigar and said, "come this way." not another word was spoken until, returning to the house with a certain pomp of stride, with stowell behind him, the governor reached his room and closed the door behind him. then, unlocking his desk, he took out a large envelope (the same that fenella had seen at breakfast) and handed the contents of it to stowell, saying, "look at that." stowell saw at a glance what it was and uttered a cry of astonishment. "then it's done." "yes, it's done. and now sit down and listen to me." but stowell continued to stand with the paper crinkling in his trembling fingers. "you say taubman told you i reported against the jury's recommendation. quite true! as president of the court and head of the manx judiciary, i told the home secretary i saw no justification for it--no justification whatever." stowell was silent. "you say it is fifty years since such a crime has been punished by death. perhaps it is, but the fact that the statute remains is proof enough that the law contemplates cases in which it may properly be exercised. this in my view was such a case and i had every right to say so." still stowell remained silent. "you say the prisoner may have acted from a good motive. i see no good motive in a mother who takes the life of her child. you speak of her shame, but shame is no excuse for crime. why shouldn't such women suffer shame? shame is the just consequence of their evil conduct, and to try to escape from it by making away with their misbegotten children is crime." stowell was trembling but still silent. "pity for women of that sort is sentimental weakness. worse, it is a danger to public safety. the sooner such people are put out of the world the better for the public good." there was a palpable silence on both sides for some moments. the governor glanced at stowell's twitching face and began to be sorry for him. "good lord!" he thought, "why can't the man see that it's best for himself that the girl should die? as long as she lives the wretched scandal may break out again and his own share in it may come to light. and then fenella! how could i allow her to marry him with that danger hanging over his head?" stowell's fingers were contracting over the paper that crinkled in his hand. at length he threw it on the desk and said, "your excellency, if you carry out that sentence you will be committing a crime--a monstrous judicial crime." the governor returned the paper to his desk, and then rose and said, with a ring of sarcasm in his voice, "so i am the criminal, am i? well, i am responsible for public security in this island, and as long as i am here i am going to see that it is preserved. offences of this kind have been too frequent of late and they can only be put down by law. the prisoner in the present case has been justly tried and rightly condemned, and it shall be my business to see that she pays the penalty of her crime." stowell's pale face had become scarlet, his lower lip was trembling. outside the sea was sparkling in the sunlight; a band was playing far off on the promenade. "your excellency," said stowell, quivering all over, "it will be a life-long grief to me to resist your authority, but i must tell you at once that if you order that girl's execution it shall never be carried out." "what do you say?" "i say it shall never be carried out." "why not?" "because _i_ shall prevent it." the governor rose. his face was red, his throat had swelled; his lips were compressed. "do you mean that you will go over my head...." "i do...." the governor brushed stowell aside in making for the bell. "there's no heed for that. i'm going, sir," said stowell, and at the next moment the governor was alone in his room, speechless with astonishment and wrath. going down the corridor stowell passed the open door of the library--the room in which he had parted from fenella. in quarrelling with her father had he burnt the last bridge by which fenella and he could come together? "but, god forgive me, i could do nothing else--nothing whatever." ii fenella found that the tragic news had reached castle rushen before her. bessie had received it at first with incredulity. her expectation of pardon had reached the point of conviction, and every morning as she rose from her plank bed, she had said to herself, "it will came to-day." when tommy vondy went into the condemned cell, blowing his nose repeatedly and talking about death, how it came to everybody sooner or later, bessie looked at him with terror and screamed, "oh, god help me! god help me!" for a while she raved like a madwoman. everybody had lied to her and deceived her, and the deemster had done nothing to save her, because he wanted her out of the way. but after a while an idea occurred to her and she became calm. alick gell! if alick would go up to london and see the king and tell him that she had never intended to kill her baby he would forgive her. and then alick would come galloping back, at the last moment perhaps, waving a paper over his head and crying, "stop!" she had seen such things in her illustrated weekly budget--the story paper she used to read on sunday mornings at home, while the dinner was cooking in the oven-pot and her mother was singing hymns in the primitive chapel and her father was poring over the "mistakes of moses." but would he do it? she had deceived him twice. and then his sisters had always been trying to drag him away from her. all at once, like the echo of a bell through a thick mist over the sea, came the memory of his cry as she was being carried out of court: "never mind, bessie, i would rather be you than your judge!" yes, he loved her still, and (out of the cunning which the air of a prison breeds) a scheme flashed upon her. she would write a letter to alick gell, not telling him what she wanted him to do, but plainly pointing to it. fenella was amazed to find bessie apparently reconciled to her end. she had expected torrents of tears and even the coarse language of the farmyard. "the suspense was the worst. i shall be glad when it's all over," said bessie. the only thing that troubled her was to die while alick was thinking so hard of her, and if her hand did not shake so much she would write to ask for his forgiveness. "i'll write for you," said fenella. "and will you give the letter into his own hands, miss, so that his sisters may not see it?" "i'll try, dear." sitting by the door of the cell, under the light from the grill, fenella wrote with the prison paper on her lap, while bessie, without a vestige of colour in her forlorn face, dictated from the bed: "dear alick,--you will have heard what they are going to do to me. it is dreadful, isn't it? i thought perhaps you would have written me a few lines, though i know it is too much to expect after all the sorrow and shame i have brought on you. "oh, if i could only have lived to make it up to you! we could have gone away, as you always said, to america or somewhere. i should have been so good, and we should have been so happy and nobody to cast all this up to us. "what i did was very wrong, but i don't see what good it will do to the king to take my life, and me a poor girl he never saw in the world. i still think if there were anybody to speak for me he would forgive me even yet and everything would be all right. but that's more than anybody would do for me now, i suppose--even you, though i have always loved you so dear." bessie paused. "is that all?" asked fenella, in a husky whisper. "not quite," said bessie, and she began again. "mother was here last week and brought me your photo. it got wet in my bag on the way from derby haven, and it is cracked and smudged. but i kiss it constant and it is such company. "good-bye, alick! my last thoughts will be of you and my last prayer that god will bless you. if i could only see you for a minute i think i should be satisfied. but if you can't come, write and say you forgive me. it has been all through my love for you that i am here, so think the best of me." bessie signed the letter, filling up the remaining space with crosses, and then wrote with her own hand-- "p.s.--it's a weak to-day, so if anything is to be done there's no time to lose." fenella saw through the girl's pitiful subterfuge, but knew well that gell could do nothing. there was only one man in the island who could have saved bessie, and that was the judge who had tried her. why hadn't he? all the way home in the train fenella asked herself this question. the only answer she could find was that stowell was afraid of offending the governor, owing so much to him. but oh, if he had only resisted her father in this case--standing up against him and fearing no one--how she would have loved him! she found government house shuddering with awe, as if a tornado had swept through it and gone. at length miss green explained what had happened. mr. stowell had called to see the governor and been turned out of the house! hardly had she reached her room when her father followed her into it. "i suppose you know that stowell has been here?" he said. "yes. what did he come for?" "to threaten me--that's what he came for. to threaten me that if i attempted to carry out the sentence of the law on that girl in castle rushen he would prevent it." fenella tried to conceal the joy that was rising within her. "what do you think he intends to do?" she asked. "appeal to the home secretary against me, i suppose. i shouldn't wonder if he leaves the island in the morning. and if he does, and brings back a pardon, it will be a vote of censure upon me--nothing short of it." the governor strode across the room in his wrath, and then suddenly drew up on seeing that fenella was smiling. "but i see who is the cause of the man's insane conduct," he said. "who?" "you! you've broken with him, haven't you? because he had the misfortune to encounter that woman long ago you hold him responsible for everything she has done since. so to satisfy your ridiculous qualms he falls back upon me. the fool! the damned fool! and you are no better! i don't know what's taking possession of women in these days. i'm sick to death of their feminist imbecilities and the braying of their male asses!" "but father...." "don't talk to me," said the governor, and with blazing eyes he swept out of the room. then victor _had_ done something! he _did_ care for her! and now he was going to take some great risk to save the life of the girl in prison. a momentary qualm about her duty to her father was swept down by the tide of her love for stowell. after all, he was the man she had thought him to be! god bless and speed him! chapter thirty-five "and god made man of the dust of the ground" stowell had travelled far by this time. when he left government house in the heat and flame of his anger he was at war with god and man. there was a kind of self-defence in thinking that, however deep his own wrong-doing, the whole world was full of infamy. he found that news of the forthcoming execution had reached fort anne before he returned to it. to avoid the whispering groups in the public rooms he packed his bag and took the afternoon train to ballamoar. alone in the railway carriage he had time to review the situation. his visit to the governor had been a wretched failure. but even if it had been a success what would have been the result to bessie collister? substitution of the jail for the gallows. instead of death, three years, five years, perhaps ten years' imprisonment. thank god he had not succeeded! "but what am i to do now?" he asked himself. appeal to london? useless! the home officials would support the resident authority, and, having made a hideous error, they would be reluctant to correct it. "then what can i do?" he thought. suddenly he saw that every argument he had used with the governor against putting bessie to death applied equally to keeping her in prison. this was not a question of degrees of guilt--of murder or manslaughter. either bessie was guilty of murder and ought to be executed or she was not guilty (not being responsible) and ought to be set at liberty. "then the law under which she has been condemned is a crime," he thought. this terrified him. all his inherited instinct of reverence for the justice and majesty of the law revolted. "the law a crime! good heavens, what am i thinking about?" and yet why not? why had there been so much misery in the world? was it because of the crimes committed against the law? no, but chiefly because of the crimes committed by the law. yes, that was the real key to the long martyrdom of man throughout the ages. "if a law is a crime it ought to be broken," he told himself. but how! there was only one proper way in a free country--through parliament and by the slow uprising of the human conscience. but that was a long process, and meantime what would happen in this case? bessie would be dead and buried! that must not be! no, the law that had condemned bessie collister must be broken at once--now! "but who is to break it?" he trembled at that question, but found only one answer. it shivered at the back of his mind like the white water over a reef at the neck of a narrow sea, and it was not at first that he dared to think of it. but at length he saw that since he had been the instrument of the law in dooming bessie to death it was he who must set her free. when he reached this point on his dark way he was horrified. "what? a judge break the law!" he thought of his oath as deemster and of the execration that would fall on him if found out. he remembered his father's motto: "justice is the most sacred thing on earth." no, no, it was impossible! his honour as a judge forbade it. but, as the train ran on, the call of nature conquered and he asked himself what, after all, was his honour as a judge compared with that poor girl's life? "nothing! nothing!" bessie collister must not die! she must not remain in prison! she must escape! he must help her to do so. secretly, though, nobody knowing, not even the girl herself or fenella. at st. john's, a junction between the north of the island and the south, the bishop of the island stepped into stowell's compartment. he had been holding a confirmation service at a neighbouring church, and a company of young girls, in white muslin frocks, were seeing him off from the platform. while the carriages were being coupled he stood at the open door and said good-bye to them. "and now go home, dear children, and have your suppers and get to bed. home, sweet home, you know!" but the children would not go until they had sung again in their sweet young voices the hymn they had just been singing in church--"now the day is over." by the time the engine whistled and the train was moving out of the station, they had reached the verse-- "_comfort every sufferer, watching late in pain, those who plan some evil from their sin restrain._" stowell dare not look at them. he was thinking of the girl in castle rushen and picturing to himself a similar scene of joy and innocence which might have taken place only a few years before in the station by the glen. "ah!" said the bishop, settling himself in his seat. he was a short, dapper, almost dainty little man, who talked continually like the brook that often runs behind a manx cottage and fills it with cheerful chatter. "i suppose you've heard the news, deemster?" he produced a small evening newspaper. "that poor young person in castle rushen is to be executed after all! terrible, isn't it?" stowell bent his head. "i really thought that after your address to the jury she would have been pardoned. but who am i to set up my opinion against that of the king's advisers? and then think of the effect of bad example! those dear children, for instance, they are not too young to remember. and if that unhappy girl had got off who knows what effect...." stowell, nursing the fires of his rebellion, hardly heard the running stream of commonplace. "and then holy wedlock! i always say that every act of carnal transgression is a sin against the marriage altar." the train was running along the western coast; the sun was setting; the irish mountains were purple against the red glow of the sky behind them. "and then think of the poor soul herself! it may be best for her too! god knows to what depths she might have descended!" stowell wanted to burst out on the bishop, but a secret voice within him whispered, "hold your tongue! say nothing!" "all the same, i'm sorry for the poor creature, and only yesterday i was using my influence to get her into a refuge home for fallen women across the water." the train drew up at the station for bishop's court, and the bishop, after a cheerful adieu, hopped like a bird along the platform to where his carriage stood waiting for him, with its two high-stepping horses and its coachman in livery. stowell's heart was afire. "refuge home! send some of your fashionable women to your refuge homes! holy wedlock! there are more fallen women inside your holy wedlock than outside of it!" at the station for the glen stowell got out himself, and there he saw a different spectacle--an elderly woman in a satin mantle, surrounded by a group of other elderly women in faded sun-bonnets. it was mrs. collister again. in one hand she held her blackthorn stick, and in the other she carried a small bundle in a print handkerchief--probably containing her underclothing. stowell understood. the news about bessie had reached her home, and the heart-broken (almost brain-broken) old mother was waiting for the south-going train to castletown. a hush fell on the women when stowell stepped out of the railway carriage, but as he made his way to his dog-cart at the gate, he heard one of them say, "it's a wicked shame! but you'll be with the poor bogh at the end and that will comfort her." a kind of savage pride had taken possession of stowell. "not yet! not yet!" he thought. the law was wrong, therefore it was right to resist the law. it was more than right--it was a kind of sacred duty. ii from that time forward the judge went about like a criminal. he stayed at home the following day to think out his plans. all his schemes revolved about castle rushen. the great, grey, bastioned fortress--how was he to get the prisoner out of it? his first idea was to use the jailer, who was a simple soul and had obligations to his family. but he abandoned this thought rather from fear of the old man's garrulous tongue than from qualms of conscience. it was tuesday, and bessie's execution had been fixed for the monday following, but the day passed without bringing any better thought to him. somewhere in the dark reaches of wednesday morning an idea flashed upon him. it was usual for one of the deemsters to make an annual examination of the prisons of the island, the time being subject to his own convenience. stowell determined to make his examination of castle rushen now. at eleven o'clock he was going round the castle with the jailer. there were two sides to the prison, a debtor side and a criminal side, and they went over both--the jailer complaining of decaying doors and rusty padlocks, and the deemster, with a sense of shame, pretending to make notes of them, while his eyes and his mind were on other matters. "not much chance of a prisoner escaping from a place like this, mr. vondy." "not a ha'porth! those old normans knew how to keep people out--and in too, sir. but there's one cell you haven't looked at yet, your honour--the girl collister's." "we'll leave her alone, mr. vondy. how is she now, poor creature?" "wonderful! that cheerful and smart you wouldn't believe, sir." "then she doesn't know...." "'deed she does, sir. but she thinks mr. gell, the advocate, is up in london getting her pardon, and she's listening and listening for his foot coming back with it." stowell went to bed on wednesday night also without any scheme for bessie collister's escape. but in the grey dawn of thursday morning, when the world was awakening from a heavy sleep, another idea came to him. the antiquarian society of the island had made him a vice-president when he became a deemster, and having opened up certain portions of the castle that were outside the precincts of the prison, they had asked him to inspect their discoveries. with another spasm of hope, stowell returned to castletown. "give me your lantern, and let me wander about by myself, mr. vondy." "'deed i will, sir. your honour knows the castle as well as i do." there was said to be a subterranean passage under the harbour for escape in case of siege. stowell found it (a noisome, slimy, rat-infested place, dripping with water) but the further end of it had been walled up. there was a foul dungeon in which a bishop had been confined when he came into collision with the civil authorities, and tradition had it that he had preached through a window to his people on the quay. stowell found that also, but the window was narrow and barred. there were ramparts round the four-square walls, but on one side they looked down into the back yards of the little houses that lay against the great fortress and on the other three sides they were exposed to the market-place, the parliament-square and the harbour. for the second time stowell went home in the lowering nightfall with a heavy heart. as the time approached for the execution his agitation increased, and on thursday night also he tossed about, thinking, thinking. at length he remembered something. he had a key to the deemster's private entrance to the castle, and though the door was always bolted on the inside, a plan of escape occurred to him. on friday morning he was in the jailer's room. it had been the guard-room of the castle and was hung about with souvenirs of earlier times--maps, plans, a cutlass that had been captured in a fight with spanish pirates, a blunderbuss that had been used by manx fencibles, a keyboard, a line of handcuffs, and a rope, in a glass case, that had been used in the hanging of a manx criminal. "you haven't many prisoners in the castle now, mr. vondy?" "aw, no! didn't your honour discharge all but one at the last general gaol?" "and not much company?" "only willie shimmin, the turnkey, and he's a drunken gommeral, always wanting out, and never sure of coming back at all." "what about your female warder?" "mrs. mylrea? a dying woman, sir. not been here since the trial, and if it wasn't for miss stanley...." "does she come often?" "nearly every day now, sir." at that moment there was the clang of a bell. "there she is, i'll go bail," said the jailer, and snatching a big key from the keyboard he turned to go. in the collapse of his better nature stowell was afraid to meet fenella, knowing well she would see through him. "don't trouble about me, or mention that i'm here," he said, and picking up his lantern he made a show of going on with his researches. but as soon as the jailer had disappeared he turned rapidly to the deemster's door and had opened it and stepped out and closed it behind him, before the jailer and fenella (whose voices he could hear) had emerged from the portcullis into the court-yard. it was done! light had fallen on him at last. now he knew how bessie collister was to escape from castle rushen. but it was not enough that bessie should escape from her prison; she must escape from the island also; and to do so by means of the regular steam packet from douglas to england was impossible. was this to be another and still greater difficulty? the tide was up in the harbour and the fishing-boats were making ready to go out for the night. as stowell walked down the quay he saw a blue-coated and brass-buttoned elderly man coming up with unsteady steps--the harbour-master. a sudden thought came to him. why not by a fishing-boat? he remembered his night with the herrings on the governor's yacht, when, lying off the carlingford sands, he had seen the lights of dublin. why could not a fishing-boat steal away in the darkness and put bessie ashore in ireland? it was the very thing! only it must not be a castletown boat, lest she should be missed when the fleet came back to port in the morning. why not a ramsey boat, or, better still, a boat from peel? after dinner that night he walked on the gravelled terrace in front of the house. the moon was shining in a pale sky and the bald crown of old snaefell was visible through the motionless trees. he drew up on the spot on which he had first parted from fenella, and a warm vision of the scene of so many years ago returned to him. then came the memory of their last parting and of the scorching words with which she had driven him away from her. "but wait! only wait!" he thought. he was satisfied with himself. he was sure he was doing right. he even believed god was using him as an instrument of his divine justice, to correct the infamy of the world by a signal action. it was one of those lulls between the wings of a circling storm which come to the soul of man as well as to nature. he was almost happy. iii next morning, under pretext of the deemster's fortnightly court at douglas and of important business to do before it, stowell breakfasted by the light of a lamp and the crackling of a fire, and set out in his car for peel. soon after six he was descending into the little white fishing-port that lies in the lap of its blue circle of sea, with the red ruins of its cathedral at its feet and the green arms of its hills behind it. the little town was still half asleep. middle-aged women were gutting herrings from barrel to barrel, while blood dripped from their broad thumbs; old men were baiting lines with shellfish; cadgers' cart were standing empty at the foot of the pier, with their horses' heads in bags of oats and chopped hay; a hundred fishing-boats by the quay, with their sails hanging slack from their masts, were swaying to the ebbing tide, and an irish tramp steamer, the dan o'connor, was lazily letting down the fires under her black and red funnel. but at the pier-head, close under the blind eyes of the cathedral, there was a scene of real activity. it was the fish auction for the night's catch. the auctioneer, an irishman, was standing on a barrel, with a circle of fish-cadgers around him, and an empty space, like a cock-pit, in front, to which the long-booted fishermen, one by one, with ponderous agility, were carrying specimen baskets of herrings and dropping them down on the red flags with a thud. "now, gintlemen, here's your last chance of a herring this week. we're a religious people in the isle of man and sorra a wan more will ye get till tuesday." stowell, who had drawn up his car, and was standing at the back of the crowd, was startled. how had he come to forget that manx fishing boats did not go out on saturday or sunday? was this going to defeat his plan? the fish auction went on. "now, min, what do you say to forty mease from the _mona_? thirty-five shillin'! thank you, mr. flynn! any incrase on thirty-five?" "thirty-six and a quid for yourself if you'll lave me to put a sight up on the wife," said a voice from the back of the crowd. during the laughter which the rude jest provoked, stowell looked at the speaker. he was the skipper of the irish tramp steamer--a grizzly old salt, spitting tobacco juice from behind a discoloured hand, and having rascal written on every line of his face. turning away, stowell walked slowly to the further end of the bay, and as slowly back again. a new scheme had occurred to him--something better than a fishing-boat, far better. he was now more sure than ever that the almighty was using him for his righteous ends since even his failures of memory were helping him. by the time he returned the auction was over. the pier was empty and nobody was in sight except the irish captain who was standing on the deck of his ship by the side of the cabin companion. after looking to right and left, stowell saluted him. "where are you going to when you leave peel, captain?" "to castletown, sir." "and from there?" "to wherever the dust" (the money) "looks brightest." "may i come aboard, captain? i have something to say to you." "shure!" after another look to right and left, stowell stepped on to the steamer and followed the captain to his cabin. when he came on deck, half-an-hour later, his face was flushed. "then it's settled, captain?" "take the world aisy--it's done, sir." "at what time will it be high water on sunday night?" "elivin o'clock, sir." "you'll sail immediately your passengers come aboard?" "the minit they put foot on deck, sir." "what about the harbour-master?" "him and me are same as brothers." "and the turnkey?" "willie shimmin? he's got a petticoat at the 'manx arms.'" "you have no doubt you can do it?" "divil a doubt in the world, sir." stowell, back in his car, was driving to douglas. the judge had bribed a blackguard, but he was still sure that he was doing god's service. only one thing remained to do now, and through the long hours of an uneasy night he had thought of it. it was not even enough that bessie collister should escape from the island. if she were not to be tracked and brought back it was essential that somebody should go with her. who should it be? there was only one answer to this question--alick gell. would alick go? he must! betrayed and deceived as he had been, if he did not see that he must forgive the woman who had faced death for him, and save her from an unjust punishment, stowell would feel like taking him by the throat and choking him. but would gell forgive him also? that was a different matter. memory flowed back, and he saw again the fierce yet broken creature who had come stumbling into ballamoar on the night after the adjournment, crying in the torment of his betrayal, "damn him, whoever he is! damn him to the devil and hell!" "no matter! i must face it out," thought stowell. he must unite those two injured ones. and perhaps some day, when they were gone from the island, and safe in some foreign country, the almighty would accept his act as a kind of reparation and cover up all his wretched wrongdoing in the merciful veil which is god's memory. but meantime he must go about for a few days longer, a few days after to-day, warily, secretly, unseen and unsuspected by anybody. driving into douglas, he came upon the chief constable, colonel farrell (a cringer to all above him and a bully to all beneath), who hailed him and said, "just the gentleman i wished to see, sir. it's about mr. gell. ever since you sentenced that woman of his he has been threatening you, and we've had to keep a close watch on him. but he seems to be going out of his mind, and i've been warning the speaker that we may have to put him away. the other night he gave us the slip and we believe he went to ballamoar." "well?" "we wish you to allow a plain-clothes man to go about with you for the next few days." stowell was startled. "no, certainly not. it is quite unnecessary," he said. "well, if you say so it's all right, sir. still, with a madman about, who may make a murderous attack on you...." "where is he now?" "in his chambers." "good-morning, colonel!" said stowell, and before the chief constable had replied he was gone. a few minutes later the policeman who, for the protection of the deemster, was on point duty outside gell's rooms was astonished to see the deemster himself go up the carpetless staircase. at a door on the second landing, with gell's name on it in white letters, he stopped and knocked. the door was not opened, but he heard shuffling steps inside and knocked again. chapter thirty-six out of the depths alick gell, also, had travelled far. after his temporary detention at castletown, he had returned to douglas in a frenzy. for four days everything had fed his fury. having no housekeeper he took his meals in a neighbouring hotel which was frequented by his younger fellow-advocates. sitting alone in a corner he spoke to none of them, but they seemed to be always speaking at him. in loud voices they praised stowell--his eloquence, his knowledge, above all his impartiality, his superiority to the calls of friendship. this was gall and wormwood to gell. he wanted to come face to face with stowell that he might charge him with his treachery. he knew the police were watching him, but one day he eluded them and took the train to ballamoar. it was evening when he got there. the cowman, who lived in the lodge, told him the master was out in his car and might not return until late. to beguile the time of waiting gell walked in the lanes and woods about the house. these evoked both kind and cruel memories, the worst of them being the memory of the day when he stammered his excuses for loving bessie collister, and stowell had said, "good-bye and god bless you, old fellow!" what a scoundrel! the darkness gathered. there was the last bleating of the sheep, the last calling of the curlew (like the cry of a bird without a mate), and then night fell, dark night, without a star, and still stowell did not come. where was he? gell thought he knew. he was at government house with fenella stanley. they were reconciled, of course; they were kissing and caressing, while bessie .... but no, he dare not think of that. what stung him most was the thought of the money he had taken from stowell. it had been neither more nor less than the price of bessie's honour. he remembered the peel fisherman who had burnt his boat. how he wished he had the money now that he might ram it down stowell's throat! there had been rain and the frogs were croaking, but otherwise the air was still. all at once the silence of the curraghs was broken by a low hum. stowell's car was coming! looking down the long straight road gell saw its two white headlights opening the darkness like a reversed wedge. then in a moment, unpremeditated, unprepared for, his wild thirst for personal vengeance returned to him. "now, now," he thought, and he closed the gates to give himself time. but when stowell came up and got out of his car to open them, and his lamps lit up his face, a mysterious wave of emotion heaved up out of the depths of gell's soul. something took him by the throat and cried "stop! what are you doing?" and he dropped back into the deeper darkness of some bushes behind one of the gate-posts. he must have made a noise, for stowell cried, "who's there?" but gell made no answer, and at the next moment stowell was back in his seat and gliding up the drive. after that, horrified by the homicidal impulse which had so suddenly taken possession of him, gell kept to his rooms for several days, going out only at night, with the collar of his coat up to his ears, to eat and drink in the tap-room of a low tavern on the quay. he had been denying himself to everybody who called at his chambers, but one morning there came an unsteady knock, followed by a peremptory voice, saying, "alick, let me in!" it was his father, and an inherited instinct of obedience compelled him to open the door. he was shocked to see the change in the speaker. his burly figure had become slack, his clothes (especially his trousers) baggy, his long beard thinner and more white, the crown of his head bald. only his red eyes, with their unquenchable fire, remained the same. the old man sat down heavily with his stick between his knees, and his trembling hands on its ebony handle. "i didn't expect that i should have to come here, but farrell says that since that trial at castletown you have not been responsible, and if things go farther he'll have to put you away." "put me away?" "don't you understand?--the asylum." "he doesn't know, father, and neither do you...." "i don't want to know. if you had listened to me long ago this wouldn't have happened. but i'm not here to reproach you. i'm here to advise you to do something for your own good--mine, too, everybody's." "what is that, father?" gell had expected the usual storm and his father's emotion was moving him deeply. "leave the island before anything worse happens. look" (the speaker drew a stout envelope from his breast pocket), "i've just been to the bank for you. a thousand pounds in bank of england notes, and if it's not enough there's more where that came from. take it and go away at once--to america--anywhere." alick drew back and his lips tightened. "this is a trick to get me to desert bessie," he thought. "i can't do it," he said, and he pushed back the old man's trembling hand. the speaker fixed his red eyes on his son, and said, "alick, i must tell you something. i've heard on good authority that they are going to hang that girl." "they can't. some of them would like to, but they can't." "they can and they will, i tell you." "then i'll .... i'll murder...." "there you are! that's what farrell says. a little more and you'll be capable of anything. go away, my boy. think of me. it has taken me forty years to get to where i am. i was born neither an aristocrat nor a pauper, but i've got my hand on all of them. that's just the kind of man both sorts would like to pull down. if my son disgraced me i should have to give up everything. go, my son, go." "i can't, father, i can't." the old man passed his hand over his bald head and in a low voice he said, "perhaps i've not been a good father exactly, but there's your mother. bad as it would be for me it would be worse for her. she has only one son--one child you might say--and since that affair at castletown she has never been out of doors--just creeping over the fire with her feet in the fender. if you don't want to bring your mother to her grave...." gell felt as if his heart were breaking. "but i can't, i can't!" "you mean you won't?" "very well, i won't." the old man's voice thickened--the storm was coming. "and for the sake of this woman who killed her brat...." "call her what you like. i'll stay here until she comes out of prison, and then .... then i'll marry her." "you fool! you damned heartless fool! god forgive me for bringing such a fool into the world." struggling to his feet the old man made for the door. but having reached it, and while tugging at the handle, he stopped and said, "look here, i'll give you one more chance." he took the stout envelope out of his breast pocket again and flung it on to alick's desk. "there's the money and this is monday. if you are not off the island by this day week i'll not leave matters to farrell--i'll have you put into a madhouse myself to prevent you from plunging us all into disgrace and ruin. idiot! fool! madman!" he screamed like a sea-gull until his breath was gone, and then, gesticulating wildly, went downstairs with heavy thudding steps like a man walking on stilts. a few minutes later gell, going to the window with wet eyes, saw his father on the opposite side of the street, looking up at the house as if half minded to return. his stick fell from his nervous hand, and with difficulty he picked it up. it dropped again, and a passer-by handed it back. then he went off in the direction of the railway station, dragging his feet after him. ii frightened by what his father had said about the intention of the chief constable to have him arrested as insane, gell stayed indoors altogether. this meant days without food. at first he drank a great deal of water, being very thirsty. then his thirst abated and his head began to feel light. after a while he became dizzy, and even in the darkness everything seemed to float about him. on the morning after his father's visit he heard a woman's step on the stairs, followed by her knock at his door. he thought it was his sister isabella and that she had come, with her sharp tongue, to remonstrate, so he made no answer. on the day following he heard the same light step. isabella again! but no, she had always railed against bessie, and he was not going to give her another opportunity of doing so. meantime, without food or drink, he was travelling fast towards the borderland of the desert realm of insanity, with its cruelly-beautiful mirages. lying on his sofa with eyes closed he was picturing to himself the day of bessie's release, when he would go to castletown to bring her away, and then the day after, when he would marry her, and then the day after that when they would leave the island for america--bessie walking along the pier with head down, but himself with head up, as if saying, "there you are--i told you so!" the knock came again, and again he did not answer it. "no, no, mistress isabella! you shan't speak ill to me of the woman who cared so much for me that she went to prison for my sake." he had still travelled farther by this time. he was out in the middle-west, on one of the high plains of that free continent. he was working at his profession. he was not a great lawyer, but he could speak out of his heart, and when he defended injured women juries heard him and judges listened. he saw them coming to him from far and near--that long trail of the broken followers after the merciless army of civilisation. they were nearly always poor and could pay him nothing. but what matter about that? at home, at night, wet or cold, there was a bowl of soup, a cheerful fire and .... bessie! on the saturday morning he awoke from a dizzy sleep, with the sun shining into his room and the sea outside the breakwater singing softly. he was in his shirt sleeves, for he had thrown himself on the bed in his clothes; his boots were unbuttoned; his fair hair was tangled; he had not shaved for many days. again he heard the light step on the stairs. but something in the rustle of the dress seemed to say that after all it was not his sister. he listened. there were two knocks, louder and more insistent than before; then the rattle of the brass lid of his letter-box, and then something falling on the floor. a letter! after the light footsteps had gone downstairs he crept over the carpet on tiptoe, picked up the letter and looked at it. there were two lines at the top, partly printed, and partly written-- "_castle rushen prison--number ._" gell stared at the blue envelope, and then with trembling fingers tore it open. it was the letter which bessie had dictated to fenella stanley. she was to die, and was calling on him to save her. through her heart-breaking words he could hear her cries and supplications. the letter had been written five days ago, and in two days more she was to be executed! whatever he had been before, gell was no longer a sane man now. he was thinking of stowell and cursing him. oh, that god would only put it in his power to punish him! then he remembered that this was the deemster's fortnightly court-day. the court began to sit at eleven, and it was now half-past ten. he would go across to the court-house. why not? he was an advocate--nobody dare refuse him admission to a court of law. and as soon as stowell stepped on to the bench he would rise in his place and cry, "you scoundrel! come down from the judgment seat! because you were rich you thought you could buy a man's soul and a woman's body. but take that, and that!" and then he would fling his father's money into stowell's face. at that moment, having parted from the chief constable, stowell was driving down the street. gell dragged his black bag from the corner into which he had thrown it on returning from castletown, and put on his gown without remembering that he was in his shirt-sleeves, and then his wig, without knowing that his hair was dishevelled. he was staggering from weakness and the pictures on the walls were going round him with an increasing vertigo, but he was struggling to regain his strength. he heard a step on the stair (a man's step this time) and then a firm knock at his door. "farrell!" he thought. the chief constable was coming to arrest him. but nobody should do that yet--not until he had come face to face with stowell. the knock was repeated. "go away!" he cried. then he pulled open the door, and found stowell himself standing on the threshold. he fell back breathless. stowell entered the room and closed the door behind him. iii "alick!" "go away!" "i have something to say to you." "go away, i tell you." "but i have something to tell you." "there's only one thing you can tell me. is it true--is she to die?" "it .... it is so appointed." "then take that," cried gell, and flinging himself upon stowell with the fury of madness he struck him in the face and laid open his cheek-bone. there was an awful silence. gell had staggered to a bookcase behind him, expecting stowell to strike back. but stowell remained standing, and then said, with a break in his voice, "i have well deserved it." that was too much for gell. he began to stammer incoherently and when he saw a streak of blood begin to flow down stowell's cheek he broke down altogether. out of the depths of a thousand memories of their friendship, all the way up since they were boys, a great tide of tenderness came surging over him, and he dropped into a chair and cried, "then it's true--i'm mad." but after another moment he was up and hurrying into the next room for a sponge and a basin of water. "it's nothing! nothing at all," said stowell. "see, it has stopped already. and now sit down and listen." a few minutes later they were sitting side by side on the sofa--gell sniffling, stowell talking quietly. "alick!" "yes?" "bessie is waiting for you. she thinks you are trying to obtain her pardon." "i know. she has written. but what can _i_ do? nothing!" "if _i_ can help her to escape from castle rushen will you take her away from the island?" gell's eyes glistened. "only give me the chance," he said. "she could never come back. therefore you could never come back either." "what do i care?" "you would have to give up everything--your inheritance, your family, your....!" "i .... i can't help that." "you are sure you would never regret the sacrifice?" "never! only show me the way...." "i will," said stowell. and then he explained his scheme and the motives which had inspired it. he had been compelled to condemn the girl, according to law, but he had come to see that the old statute was a crime, and that it was his duty to break it. "do you say that, victor--you?" "listen." an irish tramp steamer would be lying in castletown harbour on sunday night. she would berth in front of the castle, not more than fifteen yards from the gates. at eleven o'clock stowell would open the deemster's private door and bring bessie out. gell must be there to take her aboard. the tide being up, the vessel would sail immediately. she would sail north, past the point of ayre, to give the appearance of going to scotland; but in the morning, when out of sight from the land, she would steer south and land her passengers at queenstown. atlantic liners called there twice a week and gell and bessie must take passages to new york. on reaching new york they must travel west--far west.... "but can it be done? can you get bessie out of the castle?" "i've counted every chance," said stowell. "whatever happens, i must not fail." "what a good fellow...." began gell, but stowell dropped his head and hurried on with his story. "i've given the irish captain a hundred pounds, and you are to give him another hundred when he puts you ashore at queenstown. i'll find you the money." "no, no! i've enough of my own--see," said gell, and he showed the bundle of banknotes given to him by his father. "your father gave you that?" "yes, to pay my way to america." stowell's face glowed with a kind of superstitious rapture. more than ever now he was certain he was doing right, that the divine powers were directing him. but all the same he kept up the cunning of the criminal. "i must see you again to-morrow night in some secret place. where shall it be?" "why not the miss browns' at derby haven? they'll hold their tongues. they owe me something." "very well, eight o'clock, sunday night," said stowell, and he rose to go. "what a good fellow...." began gell again, but stowell looked at him and he stopped. the deemster's court had to wait for the deemster. when he arrived with a patch of plaster on his cheek-bone, he told joshua scarff that he had accidentally knocked his face against a gas-bracket and had had to go to a chemist to get the wound dressed. it was an intricate case he tried that day, but the advocates engaged in it said he had never before been so cool, so clear, so collected. "after all, the governor knew what he was doing," they told themselves. that night, saturday night, after a furtive visit to the tavern on the quay, gell slipped through the back streets to the railway station and leapt into the last train for the north as the carriages were leaving the platform. he was going home to say good-bye to his mother--not with his tongue, for he had no hope of speaking to her, but with his eyes and his heart. if he could only see her for a moment before leaving the island! it was late when he reached the lane to his father's house, and the night was dark, for it was the time between the going and the coming of two moons. at length the blacker darkness of the house stood out against the gloomy sky. there was no light in any of the windows--the family had gone to bed. but alick had been born there, and he thought he could find his way blindfold. for some time he walked stealthily about, trying to discover the dining-room window, for he remembered what his father had said about his mother sitting with her feet in the fender. he found it at last, but, peering behind the edge of the blind, he saw nothing except the dull slack of the fire dropping to ashes in the grate. groping about in the darkness on the gravel his footsteps had made a noise and presently a dog inside began to bark. it was his own dog, mona, and he remembered that when he was a boy he had bought her as a pup for five shillings from a farmer and brought her home in his arms, licking his hand. the dog's clamour awakened the household, and presently, through the long staircase window, he saw his sisters on the landing, in their nightdresses and curl-papers, carrying candles and looking frightened. then the sash of a window went up with a bang and his father's voice came in a husky roar through the night, "who's that?" with a chill down his back, alick turned about and hurried away, feeling that he was being driven from the home of his boyhood as if he were a thief. chapter thirty-seven the escape next day was sunday. it was a blind day at ballamoar, with a chill air and white mists sweeping up from the sea. in the morning stowell went to church. in the afternoon he sat in the library, reading in many volumes the stories of prison-breakings and escapes. he saw that in nearly every case of failure chance had played a part at the last moment, and he thought hard to foresee every possible contingency. towards evening he brought his car round from the garage and told janet not to wait up for him. she had delivered fenella's message ("tell him to come back to me") and thought she knew where he was going to. he was going to government house. the sweet old soul was very happy. "i'll leave the piazza door on the catch, dear," she said, as he was going off into the moving shadows of the trees. by the time he reached castletown the mist had deepened to a fog. the broad tower of the castle looked monstrously large and forbidding against the gloom of the sky, and the fog-horn of the light-house on langness was blowing with a measured and melancholy sound across the unseen sea. coming upon a tholthan (a ruined cottage) by the roadside he ran his car into it, and then walked into the town. the little place was once the capital of the island, and still retained many of its primitive characteristics. there were no lamps in the streets, which were therefore quite dark. only a few of the houses gave out light, for the younger children were already in bed, and their parents were trooping to church or chapel. the church bells were ringing. save for that, and the footsteps of his fellow pedestrians who walked in the darkness beside him, stowell heard nothing but the blowing of the far-off fog-horn. everything favoured his design. "it was meant to be," he told himself. nevertheless he was conscious of making his steps light and of trying to escape observation. he took the least frequented thoroughfares, so that he might walk fast and not be recognised, but in a narrow lane that ran along under the castle he came upon a pitiful spectacle and was compelled to stop. an elderly woman, wearing little except her nightdress, with her feet bare and her long grey hair hanging loose, was kneeling on the paved way and praying. "oh lord, as thou didst send thine angel to take peter out of prison, send him now to take my poor girl out of the castle." by a dull light from a curtained window, stowell saw who the poor demented creature was. it was mrs. collister. little as he desired it, he had to pick her up and take her home. "come, mother," he said, raising her to her feet. she looked into his face with awe, and permitted herself to be led away by the hand like a child. a group of boys and girls who had gathered round told him where she lived and that she was the mother of the woman who was to be "hangt" in the morning. just then the people, a man and his wife, with whom she lodged, came hurrying up, saying they had left her in bed while they went into their yard on some errand and on returning to the kitchen they had missed her. in a few moments they were all at the open door of the house, a tiny place two steps down from the street, with a lamp burning on the table. finding the light on his face stowell said good-evening and hurried away, but not before the man and his wife had seen him. "that must be the young dempster," said the man. "it was his father," said mrs. collister. "but his father is dead, woman," said the wife. "it was his father, i tell thee," said mrs. collister, and they let her have her way. still the church-bells rang, the fog-horn blew and stowell stepped lightly through the dark streets of the little town. he passed the new methodist chapel with the dark figure of the pew-opener against the coloured glass screen of the vestibule; the barracks, with the sentinel pacing outside and a number of red-coated soldiers in a bare room within, smoking and playing cards. the market-square was ablaze with light from the windows of the church (the same at which bessie had kept oie'l verree) and the shadowy forms of the congregation were passing in at the porch. at length he reached the quay with its smell of rock-salt and tar. the _dan o'connell_ was lying under the castle gates, lazily getting up steam, and the captain was smoking by the gangway. "everything right, captain?" "everything, sir." "will the fog interfere?" "not a ha'porth, yer honour." "what about the harbour-master?" "in church with the wife, but i'm to have supper with him after the sarvice and take a bottle of something." "and the turnkey?" "blind polatic at the 'manx arms,' sir." there came a dull hammering from the inside the castle. stowell shivered. "will they be gone in time?" "going back by the last train they're telling me." "you'll whistle when you're clear away?" "shure!" as stowell crossed the foot-bridge at the back of the church, he heard the congregation singing the opening hymn ("nearer, my god, to thee") and thought he knew the subject of the forthcoming sermon. the melancholy blowing of the fog-horn was coming through the blindness of the sea; the revolving light was blinking in and out on langness. a quarter of an hour later he was at derby haven. most of the houses of the little port were dark, but the window of one of them gave out a faint light. stowell tapped at it and gell opened the door. for two hours they sat together in the old maids' stuffy sitting-room, talking in whispers. stowell gave gell his last instructions. "you remember that there are two gates to the castle?" "yes." "at eleven o'clock exactly, the moment the clock has ceased striking, you'll ring at the big gate, and then step round to the deemster's." "yes!" "somebody will open the gate. it will be the jailer. if he calls you'll make no answer." "yes?" "yes?" "as soon as he has closed the big gate the little one will be opened and bessie will be brought out to you." "yes?" "that's all. you know the rest." after that there was a cold silence, quite unlike the warmth of yesterday. each was thinking of the cruel thing which had come between them, and neither dared to talk about. at length gell, taking something from his pocket, said, "i owe you some money." "no, you don't. remember the terms i lent it on." "then take this anyway," said gell, handing stowell a sealed envelope. after that there was another long silence, and then gell said, in a thick voice, "when we're far enough away i'll write." "no, no!" "do you mean that i'm never to write to you?" "never." "but i will .... i must...." "don't be a damned fool, man. can't you see you never can?" there was a pause. "victor," said gell, "that's the first unkind word you have ever said to me." "alick," said stowell, "it shall be the last." the wash of the tide (it was near to the flood) on the stones of the shore, the monotonous blowing of the fog-horn and the deliberate ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece were the only sounds they heard except the irregular heave of their own breathing. the two men were alternately watching the fingers of the clock and gazing down at the pattern of the carpet. at a few minutes to ten stowell got up and said, "i must go now." "i'll walk down the road with you," said gell. they walked side by side in the mist until they came to the ruins of hango hill (where long before alick had had his fight with the townsmen) and were breast to breast with king william's college. "you had better go back now. we must not be seen together," said stowell. they stood for some moments without speaking. the clock in the school tower was striking ten. the school itself was in darkness. another generation of boys were lying asleep in it now. "i suppose we've got to say good-bye," said gell. stowell made no reply, but he took gell's hand and there was a long handclasp. then they separated, stowell going on towards the town, and gell turning back to derby haven. each had walked a few paces when gell stopped and called, "vic!" "what is it?" there was a pause, and then, in a thick voice, "nothing! s'long!" and so they parted. there was loud laughter and a voice with a brogue from a house on the quay with the blind down but the top sash of the window partly open. the church was dark and the market-place silent, save for the measured tread of the sentry. but as stowell crossed the square he heard a light step and saw through the thick air the shadowy form of a woman coming from the direction of the castle and going towards the hotel opposite. he hung back until she had passed, and when the door of the hotel opened to her knocking, and the light from within rushed out on her, he saw who it was. it was fenella. stowell understood. she had come from the cell of the condemned woman, and was sleeping in castletown that night in order to be with her in the morning. "but wait! only wait!" in spite of his certainty that providence was on his side he stepped more lightly than ever as he went down to the quay. the funnel of the irish steamer was now throbbing hard, and a few sailors on the forward deck were swearing. save for this and the wash of the tide against the sides of the harbour, all was still. stowell looked around and listened for a moment. then he stepped up to the deemster's door and pulled the bell, and heard its clang inside the walls. ii "ah, is it you, dempster? you've come for miss stanley? she's just gone, sir." "i know. i saw her. are you alone, mr. vondy?" "alone enough, sir. it's shocking! the night before an execution too! that willie shimmin, the drunken gommeral, went off at four and isn't back yet. i wouldn't trust but i'll be here by myself until the high bailiff and the inspector and long duggie taggart come at six in the morning." "how is your prisoner to-night, mr. vondy?" "wonderful quiet, sir." "still expecting her pardon?" "'deed she is, poor bogh, and listening for mr. gell's feet to fetch it. now she thinks he'll come in the morning. 'something tells me he'll come at daybreak,' she said, and that's the for she's gone to sleep." they had reached the guard-room, where a fire was burning, and an old oak armchair (once the seat of the kings of man) was drawn up in front of the hearth. "gone to sleep, has she? i must see her though. i have something to tell her." "is it the pardon itself, sir? has it come then?" "not yet, but a telegram may come from london at any moment." "you don't say?" "give me your key, and sit here and make your supper" (a kettle was singing on the hob), "and if you hear the bell you will go off to the gate immediately." "i will that, sir." at the end of a long corridor stowell stopped at a cell that had a label on the door-post ("elizabeth corteen, murder. death") and looked in through the grill. in the dim light he saw the prisoner lying on her plank bed under her brown prison blanket. with a tremor of the heart he opened the door quietly and closed it behind him. "bessie!" it had been hardly more than a whisper, but through the mists of sleep bessie heard it. there was a cry, a bound, and then a rapturous voice saying in the half darkness, "ah, you are here already! i knew you would come." but at the next moment, seeing who her visitor was, she stared at him with wide-open eyes, and then fell on him with reproaches. "so it's you, is it? what have you come for? is it only to tell me that i'm to die in the morning?" stowell stood with head down, feeling like a prisoner before his judge. then he said, "you are not to die, bessie." she caught her breath and put up her hands to her breast. "do you mean that i am...." "you are pardoned and have to leave this place immediately." for a perceptible time bessie stood silent, save for her breathing, which was loud and rapid. "is it true? really true?" "quite true." there is something childlike in sudden joy; paradise itself must be a place of children. bessie dropped back on her bed, clasped her hands together like a child, and said, "i see it all now, and it has been just as i thought at first. you wrote a letter to the king and he has pardoned me. the law is hard but the king is so tender-hearted. 'poor girl,' he thought, 'she didn't mean to kill her baby--not after it came, anyway.'" her eyes, which had been glistening, suddenly became grave, and lifting them to the ceiling, with her hands clasped before her face, she began to pray. "oh god, i've not been a good girl and i don't know how to pray right, but...." and then came a flood of words too sacred to be set down. when she had finished her prayer she said, "but you have been good too, and i have been insulting you! that's the way with a girl when she has been in trouble. you'll forgive me, won't you?" her face lit up and she went on talking, more to herself than to stowell. "did you say i was to leave this place immediately? that means first thing to-morrow, doesn't it? i'll go to mother. she's staying with some methodist people in quay lane. poor mother, she won't be able to believe it. we'll go home by the first train." thinking of home she found a kind of proud revenge in triumphing over her enemies. "dan baldromma will have to hold his tongue now. and those skillicornes will never be allowed to show their ugly old faces again. and cain the constable will have to find another beat, too, and those impudent girls who stared at me at douglas station--they'll never have the face to sit in the singing-seat again." but the smiling background of her thoughts was love. "alick will hear of it, won't he? i wrote to him but he didn't answer. perhaps his sisters prevented him--they've always been casting me up to him. poor alick! he'll forgive me--i know he will. it was for alick i did it. and just think! next sunday, perhaps, when people are walking about, we'll go downs parliament street together! and me on alick's arm, and nobody to say a word against it, now that the king has forgiven me!" stowell hardly dared to look at the girl. for a long time he could not speak. but at length he compelled himself to tell her that she was not to go home. it was a condition of her pardon that she should leave the island. "leave the island?" "yes, there's a steamer in the harbour, and you are to sail by it to-night." "to-night?" "yes, to ireland, land from there, by another steamer, to new york." "to new york?" "yes, but alick is to go with you. i've just left him. we have arranged everything." she looked searchingly into his agitated face and the radiance died off her own. "but are you telling me the truth?" she said. "am i really pardoned? you are not helping me to escape, are you?" he pretended to laugh--it was hollow laughter. "what an idea! a deemster helping a prisoner to escape! who would believe such a thing?" "no! people wouldn't believe such a thing, would they?" she said, and her eyes again began to shine. "at eleven o'clock the big bell will ring," said stowell. "that will be alick coming for you. you must give me your hand and i'll take you down to him." "oh, how happy we shall be!" she said. "we shall go far away, i suppose--where nobody will know what has happened here?" "yes, but you must make no noise on going out, and not call to anybody." "but mr. vondy--he has been so good--i may stop and thank him?" "he won't be there. i'll give him your message." "but mother--if i'm going so far away i must say good-bye to her." "no, i'm sorry, the steamer will sail immediately." she looked again into his agitated face and then, raising her voice, she said, "mr. stowell, you are deceiving me. i have not been pardoned. you _are_ helping me to escape." "hush!" but (again in a loud voice) she cried, "don't lie to me any longer. tell me the truth." he hesitated for a moment, and then he told her. yes, he was helping her to escape. he had tried to procure her pardon and failed, so he had determined to set her free. while she listened to his tremulous voice she became a prey to a strange confusion. for days she had felt as if she hated this man, and now a mysterious feeling of warmth from the past came over her. "but what about you?" she asked. "i can take care of myself," he answered. "but if anything becomes known after alick and i have gone...." "nothing _will_ become known." "but if anything does, and you get into trouble...." "bessie," said stowell (he was breathing hard), "i did you a great wrong a year ago...." "no, that was as much my fault as yours. i have been praying and praying for pardon, but rather than run away now and leave you to .... no, i won't go!" there was a moment of uneasy silence and then stowell said, "alick is waiting outside for you, bessie. he is ready to give up everything in the world for your sake. are you going to break his heart at the last moment?" "but i can't! i can't! i .... i won't! and you shan't either. mr. vondy! mr. von--...." "be quiet! be quiet!" she had tried to reach the door, but he had thrown his arms about her and was covering her mouth to smother her cries. ceasing to shout she began to moan, and then he tried to coax her. "come, girl! trust me! i know what i'm doing. pull yourself together. stand up! it's nearly eleven o'clock. you'll have to walk to the gate presently. come now, be brave." but her eyes had closed, and by the dim light from the grill he saw that she was insensible. "bessie! bessie!" he whispered, but she was lying helpless in his arms. for a moment he was bewildered. of all the chances that might prevent success this was the only one he had not counted with. but at the next instant his mind, which was working with lightning-like rapidity, saw a new opportunity. "better so," he thought, and laying the unconscious woman on her bed he hurried back to the jailer. iii "mr. vondy! mr. vondy! your prisoner is ill." the jailer, who had fallen asleep after his supper, staggered to his feet. "god bless my soul! and the doctor living at the other end of the town too." "never mind the doctor! brandy! quick!" "there isn't a drop in the castle, sir." "yes, there's a flask in my room. take these" (giving him a bunch of keys) "and go for it." "where will i find it, sir?" "i don't know. i can't remember. look everywhere--in every drawer, every cupboard." "i will, your honour." "don't come back without it." "i won't, sir." and still in the mists of sleep the jailer picked up his lantern from the table and staggered off. stowell listened to the sounds of the old man's retreating footsteps until they had died away. "this will give more time," he thought--he had sent the jailer on a fruitless errand. it was then five minutes to eleven. returning to the cell he lifted bessie in his arms and carried her out of the prison. at first he was no more conscious of her weight than he had been of the weight of the sheep on the mountains. but outside it was very dark, and at every uncertain step his burden became heavier. in the open space between the main building and the outer walls the fog lay thick as in a well, and it was as much as he could do to see one foot before him. over the wooden drawbridge his feet fell with a thudding sound, but he groped for the grass at the bottom of the stone steps, so that he should not be heard on the gravel path. there was no sound in the court-yard except that of the fierce belching from the funnel of the steamer, the wash of the tide in the harbour, the boom of the sea in the bay and the monotonous blowing of the fog-horn. he was making for the deemster's private entrance and had no light to guide him except the borrowed gleam from the door to the deemster's rooms, which the jailer in his haste had left open. as he passed this door he heard the sound of the rapid opening and closing of drawers. the weight of the woman in his arms was becoming unbearable. at one moment he saw the shadowy outlines of a white thing which the carpenters had erected against the walls. he shuddered and went on. the damp air was chill and bessie began to revive under it. at first she breathed heavily, and then she made those low, inarticulate moans of returning consciousness which are the most unearthly sounds that come from human lips. "mr. von--.... mr. von--...." both arms being engaged, stowell had to crush the girl's mouth against his breast to stop her cries. they ceased and she swooned again. his burden was becoming monstrous. with a savage strength of will and muscle he struggled along. at length he reached the deemster's door. it was fastened as he knew, not only by the lock of which the key was in his waistcoat pocket, but also by three long bolts. with the unconscious girl in his arms it was as much as he could do to open it. at last he did so. a pale face was outside. it was gell's. "take her--she has fainted." not another word was spoken. gell, breathing rapidly, took bessie into his arms, and carried her across the quay. stowell watched him until he reached the gangway, and then the sea mist hid him. he heard gell walking on the deck and then going, with heavy footsteps, down the cabin companion. he closed the deemster's door, locked and bolted it, and then turned back to the prison. again he kept to the grass and was conscious of an effort to make his footsteps light. on reaching the drawbridge he looked back and listened. the opening and closing of drawers was still audible. the funnel of the steamer was still belching invisible smoke, and red sparks from the fires below were shooting through it. the tide was still washing in the harbour, the sea was still booming in the bay, and the fog-horn was still blowing on langness. save for these sights and sounds, everything was dark and silent within the great blind walls. then the clock in the tower struck eleven. every stroke fell on the clammy air like a blow from a padded hammer. iv five minutes passed. stowell had returned to the cell, stretched out the brown prison blankets so as to give the appearance, in the dim light, of a body on the bed, and was now sitting in the armchair before the fire in the guard-room. his work was not yet done, and he was listening to the sounds outside. until the steamer sailed he must remain in the castle to keep watch on the jailer. he was more sure than ever that he was doing god's work, but he was still behaving like a criminal. footsteps approached. the jailer entered, mopping his forehead. "i can't find it, your honour, and i've searched everywhere." "never mind, mr. vondy. your prisoner recovered from her attack and is now sleeping peacefully." "sleeping, is she? i'll take a look at her." "don't! i mean don't go into the cell and disturb her." "i won't, sir," said the jailer, from half-way down the corridor. stowell listened intently. presently the jailer returned. "aw, yes, she's fast enough! wonderful the way they sleep on the last night. something you told her, perhaps. has the telegram come, your honour?" "no, and it won't come now. eleven o'clock, they said. if it didn't come then i was not to expect it." "poor bogh! it will be a shocking thing when duggie taggart comes in the morning. i wouldn't trust but it will be a dead woman itself we'll be taking out of the cell, sir." "i wouldn't trust," said stowell. insensibly he had dropped into the anglo-manx. he was trying to find some excuse for remaining. "it'll be a middlin' cold drive home, old friend--couldn't you make me a cup of coffee?" "with pleasure, sir," said the jailer. and while the old man stirred the peats and hung the kettle on the slowrie, stowell, listening at the same time to the voices without (the husky brogue of the irish captain and the guttural croaking of the half-tipsy harbour-master) got him to tell the story of his appointment. "it was thirty years ago, when i was coachman at ballamoar in the 'stranger's' days--a wonderful kind woman your mother was, sir." "hurry up, boys. bear a hand with that crank"--the swing-bridge was being opened; the steamer was to go out in spite of the fog. "i used to be taking her for drives in the morning, and it was always 'thank you, mr. vondy! a beautiful drive, mr. vondy!' aw, gentry, sir, gentry born!" "damn your eyes, let go that forrard rope"--the captain was on the bridge. "we had a young irish mare in them days, sir, and coming home one morning in harvest, not more than a month before your honour was born, illiam christian (he was always a toot was illiam) started his new reaper in the road field just as we were passing the nappin, and the mare bolted." "why the divil don't you take in the slack of that starn rope? do you want me to come down and dump you overboard?"--the funnels had ceased to roar and the paddles were plashing. "i was a middling strong young fellow then, mr. stowell, sir, and if the mare pulled i pulled too, until one of the reins broke at me and i was flung off the box." "aisy does it! take in that breast rope, bys"--the steamer was passing through the gate. "i wasn't for letting go for all. not me! just holding on like mad, though it was tossing and tumbling on the road i was like a mollag in a dirty sea." "half-steam below there"--the steamer was opening the bay. "i bet her at last, sir, and up she came at the ballamoar gates blowing like a smithy bellows and sweating tremenjous, but quiet as a lamb." "heave oh and away!" "i was ragged and torn like a scarecrow, and herself was as white as a sea-gull, but never a scratch, thank god!" "bravo!" "the dempster had heard the yelling on the road and down the drive he came in his dressing-gown and slippers, trembling like a ghost. and when he saw it was all right with herself, 'mr. vondy,' says he, with the water in his eyes, 'i'll never forget it, mr. vondy,' he says." "and he didn't?" "'deed no! aw, a grand man, the ould dempster, sir. middlin' stiff in the upper lip, but a man of his word for all. and when capt'n crow pegged out and this place was vacant he put me in for it." straining his powers of listening stowell was still waiting for the whistle that was to tell him the steamer was clear away. "crow? that was nelson's crow, wasn't it?" "nelson's crow it was, sir. one-eyed crow we were calling him. he was boatswain on the _victory_, and when the big man went down he was in the cockpit holding him in his arms. 'will i die, mr. crow?' said nelson. 'we had better wait for the opinion of the ship's doctor, sir,' said crow." there was a long shrill whistle from a distance. stowell leapt to his feet and laughed--the steamer had gone. "ah, a rael manxman, wasn't he? wouldn't commit himself, you see." then he slapped the jailer on the shoulder and said, "so you've been here thirty years, old friend?" "about that, sir," said the jailer. "but do you know you wouldn't be here thirty hours longer if i were to tell the governor what you've done to-night?" "why, what's that, your honour?" "left a condemned prisoner without guard, or even without remembering to lock her up and carry away the keys"--and he threw the keys of the cell on the table. "god bless me, yes! i never thought of that. but it was yourself that sent me out, and your honour will not tell." "not i, old friend. but listen! nobody in the island knows that i've been trying to get your prisoner's pardon, and now that it hasn't come, it's better that nobody should know. so you'll say nothing to anybody about my being here to-night?" "not a word, sir. but you've done your best for the poor bogh, and it's himself will reward you." it was not until stowell was outside the castle that he reflected that whatever else happened in the morning the jailer must certainly fall into disgrace. "i must find a way to make it up to him," he thought. v the quay was deserted and the berth of the tramp steamer in the harbour was an empty space, but in the fever of his impatience stowell walked to the end of the pier to make sure that the ship had gone. the fog had lifted a little by this time, the fog-horn was no longer blowing, and against the dark sea he could just make out the darker hull of the steamer leaving the bay. farther away he saw the revolving light from langness, which was shooting red vapour into the sky like breath from fiery nostrils. the night air was still cold, but his forehead was perspiring. bessie would be recovering consciousness by this time. "where am i?" she would be saying. and then she would hear the throb of the engines and the wash of the water, and see alick by her side. for a moment he lost sight of the ship's stern light (a mist was sweeping over the surface of the sea) and his anxiety became agony, but it reappeared at the other side of the light-house and his spirits rose again. yes, she was steering north. "sail on! sail on! sail on!" he returned to the town. in the thinning fog everything looked immensely large and frightening. he walked slowly in order not to attract attention. passing through the narrow streets he found nearly all the houses dark. only two or three of the upper windows showed light, and from one of them, partly open, he heard the cry of a sick child. but in a winding lane, close under the castle, he came upon a cottage that was lit up in the lower storey, and loud with many voices. he recognised it as the house at which he had left mrs. collister, and understood what was happening. the old woman's primitive friends were holding a prayer-meeting by her bedside in the kitchen to comfort her. a man was praying and many women were shouting responses. "save the sinner, o lord!" (_hallelujah!_) "she may be inside prison walls to-night, but show her the golden gates are always open." (_hallelujah!_) "remember thy servant, her mother!" (_aw yes, remember her!_) "her soul is passing through deep waters." (_'deed it is, lord!_) "stretch out thy hand as thou didst to peter of old and suffer her not to sink." outside the town stowell had an impulse to run. he found his motor-car where he had left it and pushed it into the road. while lighting his lamp he thought he heard sounds from the direction of the castle. had the escape become known? he listened for anything that might denote alarm. there was nothing. the castle clock struck twelve. the fog had nearly gone now, and looking back he saw the gloomy and forbidding fortress towering over the sleeping town. a few stars had appeared above it. all was quiet. the condemned woman had escaped from castle rushen. there was nothing to show that he himself had been there. with a last look back he started his engine and released his levers, and his car shot away. chapter thirty-eight the grave of a sin nearly three hours later stowell was at the point of ayre, where the head of the island looks into the sea. leaving his car at the end of the last paved road he walked over the bent-strewn plain to where the tall, white, brown-belted light-house stands up against sea and sky. the light-houseman, who had just put out the light, seeing the deemster approach, went down to meet him. "may i go up to your lantern, light-houseman? i've always wanted to see the sun rise from there." "with pleasure, your honour," said the light-houseman, and he led the way up the circular stone stairway, through the eye of the light-house, with its glistening columns of bevelled glass, to the iron-railed gallery that ran like a scalf round its neck. for a long half-hour stowell walked to and fro there. he felt as if he were on the prow of some mighty ship, with the sea racing in white foam along the rocks on either side. far below were the booming waves; the sea-fowl were calling in the midway air; the sky to the east was reddening; the day was striding over the waters and driving the trailing garments of the night before it, and the sea was singing the great song of the dawn. at last, straining his sight to the south, he saw what he had come to see--a steamer with a red and black funnel. kept back during the dark hours by the fog on the coast, she was now coming on at full-speed. there was a pang in thinking that this was the last he was to see of the two who were aboard of her, but there was a boundless joy in it also. they were united; they were happy; they were safe; he had wiped out his offence against them. he watched the vessel as she passed. she lurched a little as she went through the cross-current of the point. but now she was out in the channel; now she was heading towards the mull of galloway; now she was fading into the northern mist and seemed to be dropping off into another planet. at half-past three stowell was back in his car. he could go home now with a cleaner heart, a surer conscience. it was a beautiful morning. the sun had risen. it was slanting over his shoulder as he drove along the grass-grown road on the north-west coast, with the sea singing and dancing by his side over a stretch of yellow sand. the lambs were bleating in the fields and the larks were loud in the sky. what relief! what joy! his car was bounding on--past the lhen, the nappin, the old jurby church with its four-square tower on the edge of the cliff--going faster than he knew, faster and still faster, like a winged creature, parting the way as it went, making the road itself to fly open, and the hedges, the trees, and the sleeping farm-houses to slant off on either side, and coming round at last, as with the heart of a bride, to the big gates of ballamoar. home once more! as he slackened speed and slid up the drive the rooks were calling in the tall elms and the song-birds in the bushes were singing. as silently as possible he ran his car into the garage and crept into the house. the blinds were down and the rooms were dull with a yellow light, like sunshine behind closed eyelids. the grandfather's clock on the landing was striking four. only four hours since he had left castletown! the servants were not yet stirring, and he stepped upstairs on tiptoe, hoping to reach his room unheard, but as he passed janet's door she called to him. "is that you, victor?" he answered, "yes." "how late you are, dear!" "don't waken me in the morning." in his bedroom he was partly conscious that familiar things looked strange--or was it that another man had come back to them? he undressed rapidly and got into bed, drawing a deep breath. it was all over. bessie collister was gone. it was nearly impossible that she could ever be traced and brought back. a monstrous judicial crime had been prevented. _he_ had been permitted to prevent it. and now for the long, long rest of a dreamless sleep. but in the vague, intermediate half-world of consciousness before sleep comes, he was aware of another, a warmer and more secret motive. fenella! "tell him to come back to me!" ah, no, not until he had wiped out his fault. but now he could go to her! he had broken down the barrier between them. he had buried his sin in the sea. thank god! thank god! and then sleep, deep sleep, and the breathless day coming on. end of fifth book _sixth book_ the redemption chapter thirty-nine the birth of a lie awakening in the "george" in the early hours of morning, fenella heard a noise outside her window that was like the running of a shallow river over a bed of small stones. she knew what it was. it was the sound of the feet of the people who were coming in crowds to stand outside the castle walls and watch the slow-moving fingers of the clock, until the hoisting of the black flag over the tower should tell them that the invisible presence of death had come and gone. when, as the clock was striking six, she crossed the market-place on her way to the castle, she found this crowd in great commotion, hurrying to and fro and calling to each other in agitated voices. "is it true?" "so they're saying." "god bless my soul!" the castle gate was open and people had penetrated as far as the portcullis. an inspector of police, coming out hurriedly, commanded them to go back. "away with you! is it play-acting you've come to look at? smoking your pipes, too!" but without waiting to see his orders obeyed he hastened away himself, shouting to somebody that he was going to knock up the telegraph office. the court-yard, when fenella reached it, though less crowded was as full of agitation. a blear-eyed man, who looked as if he had just awakened from a fit of intoxication, was walking aimlessly to and fro. it was shimmin, the turnkey, but when fenella asked him what had happened, he stared vacantly and made no answer. a very tall man, wearing a cloth cap over his head and ears and carrying a carpet-bag, was standing by the scaffold. this must be "long duggie taggart" and when fenella, shuddering at sight of the man, asked him the same question, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away. at the foot of the draw-bridge the high bailiff and the jailer were in fierce altercation. "i know nothing about it, i tell thee, sir." "then you are a blockhead and a fool!" at length two elderly men, the chaplain and the doctor, came down the deemster's stairs, and then the truth, which fenella had partly surmised, became fully known to her. the condemned woman had escaped during the night. there would be no execution that day. through a tumult of mixed feelings, fenella was conscious of a sense of immense relief. her first thought was of bessie's mother, and she turned back to take the news to her. the little house in quay lane had its door still closed, but through the kitchen window, whereof the upper sash was partly down, came the singing of a hymn in tired and husky voices, "_jesus, lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly._" it was not immediately that fenella could get an answer to her knocking, but at length the man of the house, in his ganzie and long sea boots, opened the door, still singing. the little low-ceiled kitchen was full of people, and the close air of the place seemed to say that they had kept up their prayer-meeting the night through. on a chair bedstead against the opposite wall, mrs. collister in her cotton nightcap, from which long thin locks of her grey hair were escaping, was rocking her body to the tune, while fumbling with bony fingers a methodist hymn-book which lay open before her on the patchwork counterpane. fenella, with a warm heart for the old mother in her trouble, pushed through to the foot of the bed, but mrs. collister was terrified at the sight of her, thinking she was bringing bad tidings, "have they deceived me?" she cried. "seven o'clock they said. is it all over?" "be calm," said fenella, and then she delivered her message. bessie had gone from castle rushen. she was not to die that day. a moment of vacant silence fell upon the room, such as seems to fall on the world when the tide is at the bottom of the ebb. with difficulty the old woman grasped what fenella had said. her watery eyes looked round at her people as if asking them to help her to understand. at length one of these cried, "glory to god! it's the answer to our prayers." and then the truth seemed to descend on the poor broken brain like a healing breath from heaven. stretching out her match-like arms, she seized fenella's hands and said, "i know who thou art. thou art the governor's daughter. is it the truth thou'rt telling me?" "indeed it is." "my bessie is out of prison?" "yes, and nobody knows what has become of her." a wild cry of joy burst from the old woman's throat. "liza! liza killey, wilt thou believe me now? didn't i tell thee it was the old dempster himself that the lord had sent to take my child out of prison?" a wave of new life seemed to come to her, and throwing back the clothes she struggled out of bed (her blue-veined legs and feet showing bare under her cotton nightdress) and went down on her knees to pray. but her prayer was drowned by the husky voices of her companions, who had by this time raised a hymn of thanksgiving. fenella turned to go, and the man and woman of the house followed her to the door. "what was that she said about the deemster?" they told her what had happened the night before--how the old woman had escaped into the streets and the deemster had brought her back to the house. "are you sure it was the deemster?" "we thought so then, but she thrept us out it was his father who is dead and buried, and now we don't know in the world if it was or wasn't." the singers were singing in triumphant tones-- "_god moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform._" fenella, who had begun to tremble, turned back to the hotel. the market-place was full of people, who were pouring into it from every thoroughfare. on reaching her room she locked the door, pulled down the window-blind, sat on the bed, covered her eyes, and tried to think out what had happened. the noise outside was like the surge of the sea, and like the surge of the sea was the tumult in her heart and brain. could it be possible that victor stowell had helped bessie collister to escape? she remembered what he had said to her father--that if any attempt were made to carry out the sentence he would prevent it. she remembered what she had said to him--that never could there be anything between them while that girl lay in prison. he had been in castletown the night before, and he was the only man in the island who could have access to the castle without an order from the governor or the chief constable. but a judge to break prison! what would be the end of it? why had he done this incredible thing, risking everything? was it solely because he could not allow that unhappy girl, who had suffered so much for him already, to go to the gallows? or was it, perhaps, because she herself had said.... suddenly a great quickening of her love for stowell came over her. if she had stumbled upon his secret she would protect it. "but what can i do?" she asked herself. at one moment it occurred to her to run back to quay lane and warn the good people there to say nothing more about the deemster. but no, that might awaken suspicion. they thought bessie's escape was due to supernatural agencies, that it had come as an answer to their prayers--let them continue to think so. at seven o'clock she was in the train for douglas and the telegraph poles were flying by. she must know what the governor was doing. but whatever her father might do her own course was clear. she must stand by victor now, whatever happened. ii in the cool sunshine of the early may morning government house lay asleep. the gardener was mowing a distant part of the lawn when he saw a carriage drive rapidly up to the porch. two gentlemen got out of it, and in less time than it took him to empty his grass-pan into his wheelbarrow they rang three times at the door. inside the house nobody was yet stirring except old john, the watchman, who was drawing the curtains and opening the windows. he heard the bell and thought the postman had brought a registered letter. in his cloth shoes he was shuffling to the vestibule when the bell rang again and yet again. "_traa de looiar_" ("time enough"), he growled, but his voice fell to a more deferential tone when he opened the door, and saw who was there. "our apologies to his excellency, and say the attorney-general and the chief constable wish to see him immediately on urgent business." the two men stepped into the smoking-room, which was still dark with the blinds down and rank with last night's tobacco smoke. a few minutes later, the governor entered in his dressing-gown over his pyjamas and with his bare feet in his heelless slippers. and then the attorney told him--the young woman who was to have been executed that morning had escaped. "good god, no!" "only too true, sir. colonel farrell has had an urgent telegram from his inspector at castletown." "when did it happen?" "during the night. the jailer says he locked her up at eleven and when he opened the cell at five the prisoner was gone." "where is the jailer?" "at the castle still," said the chief constable, "but i've told the police to send him up immediately." the governor rose from the seat into which he had dropped and walked to and fro. "such a blow to the authority of the law--the escape of a prisoner on the eve of her execution!" said the attorney. "such a handle to the disorderly elements, too!" said the chief constable. "good lord, don't i know? let me think! let me think!" the governor drew up one of the window blinds and his eyes fell on a steamer lying by the pier with smoke rising lazily from her black and red funnels. "if the woman escaped only a few hours ago," he said, "she cannot have left the island yet. have you given orders that the passengers by the morning steamer shall be watched?" "not yet, sir." "do so at once. if that fails, telegraph to your police in every town and parish. good gracious, in this pocket-handkerchief of an island it ought to be possible to re-capture an escaped prisoner in a day, even if she lies like a toad under a stone." "we'll leave no stone unturned, sir." "a woman! a mere girl! unless the jailer or his people deliberately opened the doors for her she must have had assistance." "that's what _i_ say, your excellency." "have you any idea who helped her?" "no .... that is to say...." "where's young gell, the advocate?" "in his rooms in athol-street .... i presume." "find out for certain. come back at four this afternoon and bring that blockhead of a jailer with you. and listen" (the men were leaving the room), "try to keep this ridiculous thing quiet. if it gets into the papers across the water all england will be laughing at us." the governor was again at the window, watching the attorney-general's carriage going rapidly down the drive, when he saw a hackney car, containing fenella, coming up to the house. that sight started a new order of ideas. he remembered stowell's threat--"if you order that girl's execution, it shall never be carried out, because i shall prevent it." for three days he had understood this to mean that the deemster would appeal over his head to the imperial authorities. but stowell had not done so--he wasn't such a fool, he had remembered the bedevilments of his own position. so the governor had dismissed the thought, and his anger at the son of his old friend had subsided. but now the threat came back on him with a new interpretation. could it be possible? such an unheard-of thing? as soon as fenella entered the house he called her into his room and shut the door behind her. "you have just come from castletown?" "yes, father." "then you know what has happened?" "yes." "can you throw any light on it?" "light on it?" "i mean .... have you seen anything of stowell since we spoke of him last?" "nothing." "nor heard from him?" "no." "do you think it likely that .... but it is impossible. no responsible person in his sense could do such a thing. it must be the other one." "what other, father?" "young gell, of course. he is the only man in the island who could wish that girl to escape--the only one who would be fool enough to help her to do so." fenella went to her room with a heart at ease. she was sorry for gell, very sorry, but in the consuming selfishness of her love for stowell she found a secret joy in the thought that suspicion was being diverted from the real culprit. victor was safe thus far. but what would he do himself? what was he now doing? iii it was near to noon when stowell awoke at ballamoar. his bedroom (formerly his father's) faced to the south and flashes of sunshine from the chinks of the window curtains were crossing the bed on which he lay with his head on his arm. it was a startling moment. his long sleep had washed his brain as in a spiritual bath, and with the awakening of his body his conscience had awakened also. the events of the previous night rolled back on him like a flood, and now, for the first time, he saw what he had done. to prevent the law from committing a crime he had committed a crime against the law! he, the judge, sworn to uphold justice, had deliberately betrayed it! had anything so monstrous ever been heard of before? after a while, through the deafening buzzing of his brain, he became aware of the droning sound of voices in the room below, and then of their sharp clack as the speakers (they were janet and joshua scarff) stepped out of the house to the gravel path in front of it. "no, don't waken his honour, miss curphey. he hasn't been well lately, and sleep does no harm to anyone. besides he'll hear the bad news soon enough." "'deed he will, mr. scarff." "it will be a terrible shock to him--especially if my suspicions about a certain person prove to be justified. but that's the way, you see--one act of wrong-doing leads to another. pity! great pity!" it was out! stowell felt as if the bed under him were rocking from the first tremor of an earthquake. half-an-hour later he was at breakfast downstairs. for a long time, janet was trying to break the news to him. at last it came. the young woman who was to have been executed that morning had escaped. joshua scarff had had it from the inspector at ramsey--it was being telegraphed all over the island. for the sake of appearances stowell made an exclamation of surprise, despising himself for doing so and feeling as if the toast in his mouth were choking him. "it's impossible not to be glad," said janet, "that the poor guilty creature has escaped the gallows, but joshua thinks things are not likely to end there." "and what does he say?...." "he says she must have had an accomplice, and when the man is found out it will be the worse for both of them." "and who .... who does joshua think...." "alick gell. it seems he put appearances against himself at the trial, poor boy!" instead of going to town that day, as he had intended to do, stowell rambled through the trackless curraghs. he was trying to be alone with the melancholy swish of the sally bushes and the mournful cry of the curlews. but his anxiety to know what was being done brought him back to the house. hearing nothing there, he walked to the village for a copy of the insular newspaper. he found some excuse for speaking to everybody he met on the road--on other subjects, though, always on other subjects. at the door of the little general store, with its mixed odour of many condiments coming out to him, he stopped and called, "how's the rheumatism this morning, auntie kitty?" "aw, better, your honour, a taste better to-day. but it's moral sorry i am to hear the bad newses you've had yourself, sir. it's feeling it terrible you'll be, your honour--you and the young man being the same as brothers. it will kill his mother--and her such a proud stomach. the woman couldn't see the sun for the boy, and she's been fighting the father all his life for him." on his way back he met cain, the constable, looking large and important. "i'm sarching for them two runaways," he said, with his short asthmatical breathing, "and the chief constable is telling me i'll have to be finding them if they're lying like a toad under a stone." gell again! the report of the escape had passed over the island with the swift flight of a bird of prey--everywhere he could hear the flapping of its wings. and to the question of who could have assisted the young woman to escape from a place like castle rushen there was only one answer--gell. towards nightfall joshua scarff called at ballamoar on his way home from town. things had turned out as he had expected--suspicion had fastened on mr. gell, and the governor had ordered the police to scour the island for him. "but everybody is sorry for your honour. his friend! his bosom friend! pity! great pity!" gell! always gell! again stowell felt as if the earth were rocking beneath him. where had his head been that he had not thought of this before--that in helping alick gell to go away with bessie collister he had put him into the position of the guilty man--guilty not only of the prison-breaking, but also of the earlier and uglier offence of being the girl's fellow-sinner? he had thought he had buried his sin in the sea--had he only cast the burden of it upon gell? he recalled alick's gratitude on going away, the undeserved praises which had cut to the heart, and then thought of gell (far away in a foreign country) coming to hear of the evil name he had left behind. what was alick to think of him then? that what he had done had not been at the call of friendship, but of mere self-protection--to divert suspicion from himself, to remove the only witnesses against him, and thus to build his future life on the unprotected name of an innocent man? "must i let that lie run on without saying a word against it?" and then fenella! he had seen himself going to her and saying, "now that the girl is no longer in prison the barrier between us is broken down." he had seen himself marrying her, and then rising higher and higher in the esteem of his people, with that brave woman by his side. but now--what now? fenella would find him out! it was impossible that she could live long with a man who carried such a corroding secret without discovering it sooner or later. and when she had done so what would she think of him? a traitor to his friend and to the law! a judge who had broken his oath! a wrong-doer, not a righter of the wronged, sitting in judgment upon others, yet himself a criminal! a man of honour to the outer world, a hypocrite in his own house; a pillar of the island in the eyes of his people, a liar in the eyes of his wife! "no, god forbid it! i cannot let that lie run on. i cannot allow myself to be pilloried in life-long hypocrisy." all the same he would wait to see what the governor might do next. it was no good acting hastily. chapter forty the call of a woman's soul at four o'clock that day the attorney-general and the chief constable had returned to government house and were sitting, on either side of the governor, with the jailer standing before them. fenella stood by the window, apparently gazing into the garden but listening intently. "come now," said the governor, "tell us what you know of this matter." the jailer knew nothing. changing repeatedly the leg on which he was standing and mopping his forehead with a coloured handkerchief, he protested absolute ignorance. "after miss stanley left the castle a piece after ten o'clock i locked the poor bogh in her cell...." "do you mean the prisoner?" "who else, your excellency?" "then say the prisoner." "well, i locked the prisoner in her cell a piece after ten o'clock last night and when i went back at five this morning to take her a bite of breakfast...." "breakfast? where was your female warder?" "mistress mylrea? sick of the heart since general gaol. they're telling me she died last night, sir." "where was your turnkey then?" "willie shimmin? he went out on lave for a couple of hours on sunday afternoon and didn't return on the night, sir." "do you mean to tell me you were alone in the castle on the night before an execution?" "aw, yes, alone enough, sir." "colonel farrell!" said the governor, turning sharply upon the chief constable. that gentleman, although embarrassed, had many excuses. he had not been made aware of the situation, and if this blockhead had only communicated with the police-station.... "well, well, enough of that now. let us have the facts," said the governor, and turning back to the jailer he said, "did anybody come to the castle last night after miss stanley left it?" "no, sir, no!" "and your keys? did they ever leave your possession?" "never, sir." "after you locked the prisoner in her cell, what did you do?" "i went back to the guard-room and sat by the fire, sir." "and fell asleep, i suppose?" "i'll give in i slept a wink or two, sir." "where were your keys while you were asleep?" "on the table beside me, sir." "and when you awoke where were they?" "in the same place, your excellency." "were the gates of the castle locked last night?" "aw, 'deed they were, sir." "and were they locked this morning?" "they were that, sir." the attorney-general, who had been leaning forward, dropped back. "extraordinary!" he said. "the whole thing has the appearance of the supernatural." "nonsense!" said the governor. "vondy, do you know mr. gell, the advocate?" "i'm sorry to say, sir...." "never mind about sorry--do you?" "i do, sir." "when did you see him last?" "at general gaol, when he was out of himself, poor man, and we had to lock him up for threatening the dempster." "did he never come to the castle afterwards to see the prisoner?" "never, sir." "will you swear that he was not there last night?" "i will--before god almighty, sir." "then, if the cell was locked all night and the castle gates were locked, how do you account for the escape of your prisoner?" the jailer smoothed the hair over his forehead and then said, "bolts and bars are nothing to the lord, sir." the governor gasped. "do you mean to say that while you were asleep before the fire in the guard-room an angel from heaven carried your prisoner through the castle walls?" "aw, well .... i wouldn't say no to that, sir. we're reading of the like in the good book anyway." "fenella," cried the governor, "take this fool away and turn him out of the house." when fenella, who had been quivering all over, had left the room, followed by the jailer, the governor turned to the chief constable. "the woman was not on the morning steamer?" "no, sir." "and what about gell?" "we broke open the door of his room in athol street and found he had gone." "ah! have you come upon any trace of him elsewhere?" "yes; he slept at the railway inn at ballaugh on saturday night and took a ticket for st. john's by the first train on sunday morning." "anything else?" "the blacksmith at ballasalla believes he saw him on sunday evening going in the fog in the direction of derby haven." "aha! did any fishing boat leave castletown last night?" "the manx boats do not go out on sunday, sir." "any trading steamers then?" "i don't know, sir." "inquire at once. if your constables do not find the fugitives in the island we must send a 'wanted' across the water." "i'll draw one up, sir." "got the necessary photographs?" "one of the girl, which was found in the young man's rooms, sir. also one of the young man which we found in the girl's cell, but it is not of much use, being scratched and blurred as if it had been lying in water." "no matter! the deemster is sure to have another. i'll write and ask him to meet us here at eleven on wednesday morning. he'll be able to help you to your personal description and issue the warrant at the same time." ii meantime, fenella had taken the jailer into the drawing-room and closed the door behind them. "mr. vondy," she said in a low voice, "you can trust me. nothing you may say in this room will ever be repeated. did not somebody come to castle rushen last night after i left it?" the old man tried in vain to look into the big moist eyes that were on him, but at length he dropped his own and said, "it is no use, miss. there will be no rest on me in the night unless i tell the truth to somebody. there can be no harm telling it to you neither--going to be the man's wife soon they're saying. it's truth enough, miss--somebody did come." "was it the deemster?" "it was that," said the jailer, and then he told her everything that had happened. fenella's head became giddy and her cheeks blushed crimson. in a flash she saw what had happened. victor had deceived the jailer. did the old man know it? lowering her eyes she said, "you didn't say this when the governor questioned you--had you a reason for not doing so?" "i had. the deemster made me promise to say nothing." and then came the other and still more degrading story--the story of the intimidation stowell had put upon the jailer to keep his visit secret. fenella felt as if she would sink through the floor in shame, but all the same she found herself saying, "you've known the deemster all his life, haven't you?" "i have. i was reared on the land," said the jailer, and then, raising himself to his full height, "i'm a ballamoar myself, miss." "then you will keep the promise you gave him?" "trust me for that, miss." "but if anything should happen to yourself as the consequence of last night's escape...." "the father put me in the castle and the son won't see them fling me out of it." "but if he should be overruled by the governor and unable to help you...." "i'll take my chance with him. what's it they're saying?--_the ballamoar will out_, miss." tears sprang to fenella's eyes, but her heart beat high. "mr. vondy," she said, "he has not been well lately, and perhaps he doesn't always know what he is saying. if you should ever come to think that what he told you was not the truth .... the whole truth, i mean...." "maybe so. i've been thinking as much myself since five this morning. but that's all as one to me, miss. tell him _tommy vondy will keep his word_." the jailer was gone, and fenella was sitting with her hands over her eyes when she heard voices in the corridor and footsteps going towards the porch. "you're right there, your excellency" (it was the attorney-general who was speaking). "the authority of law in this island has received a blow, and already the disorderly elements are stirring up strife." "who, for instance?" "qualtrough of the keys and the man baldromma." "farrell" (it was the governor in a stern voice), "quash that instantly. if there's any rioting send for the soldiers from castletown to assist your police." "i will, your excellency." "and listen! get rid of that blockhead of a jailer. appoint somebody in his place and give him authority to employ his own warders. he'll have his prison full enough presently." the closing of the outer door rang through the corridor, and at the next moment the governor was in the drawing-room. "fenella," he said, "do you happen to know if stowell has a photograph of young gell, the advocate?" before she had time to reflect, fenella answered that he had. it was taken in america, and stood on the mantelpiece in the library at ballamoar. "but why?" "because i want him to bring it with him when he comes on wednesday to issue the warrant." "what warrant?" "the warrant for the arrest of gell, for breaking prison and aiding in the escape of the girl collister." "but, father, they are friends--life-long friends." "what of that? stowell is deemster, and you heard the oath he took, didn't you? 'without fear or friendship, love or gain.' his duty as a judge is to administer justice, and as long as i am here i'll see he does it." iii during the remainder of that day and the whole of the following one fenella was a prey to the cruellest perplexity. would victor stowell issue that warrant for the arrest of the innocent man, being himself the guilty one? how could he refuse? it would be his duty to issue the warrant--what excuse could he make for not doing so? and then what a temptation to let things go on as usual! although he had broken prison, and therefore his oath as a judge, how easily he might persuade himself that it had only been to snatch that poor girl from a wicked statute! yet if victor issued that warrant for the arrest of gell he would be a lost man for ever after. no matter how high he might rise he would go down, down, down until his very soul would perish. "it cannot be! it must not be! it shall not!" she wanted to run to ballamoar and say, "don't do it. if you have done wrong confess and take the consequences." oh, what did she care about their quarrel now? it was no longer bessie collister's life, but victor stowell's soul that was in peril. but no, she could not ask him to act under compulsion. he must act of his own free will. in the valley of the shadow of sin the guilty soul must walk alone. "but is there nothing i can do for him?" she asked herself. yes, there was one thing--one thing only. she could pray. for long hours on the night before stowell was to come to government house fenella knelt in her bed and prayed for him. "o god help him! god help him! help him to resist this great temptation." at length peace came to her. somewhere in the dead waste of the night she seemed to receive an answer to her prayers. "he'll do the right, whatever it may cost him," she thought, and as the day was dawning she fell asleep. but when she awoke in the morning she felt as if her heart would break. if stowell confessed and took the consequences (as she had prayed he might do) he would be lost to her for ever. he would have to give up his judgeship, be banished from the island, and become an outcast and a wanderer. "is that to be the end of everything between us? after all this waiting?" her eyes were full of tears when she looked at herself in the glass, but they were shining like stars for all that. an immense pity for stowell had taken possession of her. an immense faith in him also. he must be the most unhappy man alive, but he was her man now; and nothing on earth should part them. going down to breakfast she met miss green on the stairs. the old lady was full of some breathless story of rioting in douglas the evening before. how remote it all sounded! she hardly heard what was being said to her. coming upon the maid in the corridor she said, "the deemster is to call to-day, catherine. tell him i wish to see him before he sees the governor." in the breakfast-room her father was looking over a printer's proof on a sheet of foolscap paper. it was headed with the manx coat-of-arms and the words "isle of man constabulary," and had an empty space near the top for a block to be made from a photograph. "but that is of no consequence now," thought fenella, "no consequence whatever." chapter forty-one in the valley of the shadow "good heavens, what does it matter? a lie is only dangerous when it does some harm!" stowell awoke on the second day after the escape putting his situation to himself so. where was the harm if gell was suspected? he had gone with the woman he loved. he was happy. what would alick care about the evil name he had left behind him? "then where's the harm?" he asked himself. he would let things go on as usual--of course he would. only he must make sure that the fugitives had got clear away. remembering that he had seen placards of the atlantic sailings in the railway-station, he walked over to the station from the glen. it was all right--a big atlantic liner was timed to leave queenstown at twelve that day. it was now half-past twelve. gell and bessie would be out on the open sea by this time--steaming past kinsale where the manx boats fished for mackerel. "where's the harm?" but just as he was leaving the station with a sense of security and even triumph, a train from douglas drew up at the platform. the guard shouted something to the station-master; and, looking back, stowell saw a crowd gathering about a first-class carriage. somebody was being assisted to alight. it was the speaker. he was utterly helpless. between two members of the house of keys the stricken man was half led, half carried to a dog-cart that was waiting for him at the gate. his mouth was agape, his legs were dragging behind him, and his large hands were shaken by senile trembling. he did not speak, but as he went by he looked up, and stowell felt that from his red eyes a mute malediction was being thrown at him. when the dog-cart had gone, with the speaker stretched out in it, stiff as a dead horse, and one of the keys to see him home, the other joined stowell and walked down the road by his side. "then your honour hasn't heard what has happened?" "no. what?" there had been a sitting of the keys that morning. the debate had been on some new scheme of land tenure--a thinly disguised form of confiscation. the speaker had opposed it passionately, saying a man had a right to keep what he had earned and hand it on to his children. then qualtrough (a firebrand who possessed nothing) had taunted him with the unfortunate affair of yesterday. why did _he_ want to hand on his land, his son having run away with the woman he had corrupted? a terrible scene had followed. the speaker had had one of his brain-storms. his neck had swelled until it was nearly as broad as his face. "sit down, sir," he had shouted, but qualtrough had refused to do so. at length, overcome by the clamour of his enemies and the silence of his friends, the speaker had risen to resign. since he could not maintain the authority of the chair he had no choice but to get out of it. it had been a pitiful spectacle. none of them who were fathers had been able to look at it with dry eyes. the old man was trembling like a leaf and his legs seemed to be giving way under him. "they say the sins of the fathers are visited-upon the children, but maybe it's as true the other way about. i'm going blind and deaf. the sands of my life are running out...." he swayed forward and they thought he would have fallen on his face, but the secretary of the house caught him in his arms, and then two of them were nominated to bring him home. "sorry to say it to your honour, being his friend," said the member of the keys, as they parted at the turn of the road, "but that young fellow has something to answer for." that lie had done harm then! was this the mystery of sin--that it must go on and on, from consequence to consequence, deep as the sea and unsearchable as the night? on returning to ballamoar, stowell found janet in great agitation. mrs. gell had sent across to ask if robbie could run into ramsey to fetch doctor clucas. the doctor had come and gone. the speaker had had a stroke. it was his second. the third would almost certainly prove fatal. all that day stowell was shaken by a chill terror. if the speaker died would alick gell come back to claim his inheritance? if so he would hear it said on all sides that he had killed his father by the disgrace he had brought on him. what then? would he tell the whole truth under that terrible temptation, and thus bring down stowell himself to ruin and extinction? "but what nonsense i'm talking," thought stowell. gell could never come back, because bessie could never do so. then who was to know that it was a lie that gell had killed his father? suddenly came the thought, "_i_ am to know." this fell on him like a thunderbolt. how was he to marry fenella with a thought like that in his heart? it would be with him night and day. he might even blurt it out in his sleep. "assassin! it was i who killed the old man by letting that lie go on." feeling feverish and unable to remain indoors, he went out to walk on the gravel path in front of the house. the fresh air revived him and he took possession of himself again. "if the speaker dies it will be the act of god," he thought. he would be in no way responsible. neither would gell. if rumour charged the son with killing the father it would be a lie--a damned lie, manufactured by fate, the great liar. it was not as if gell were in any danger--the danger of arrest for instance. _that_ would be different. but gell was in no danger--none whatever. "therefore bury the thing! bury it and go on as usual," he told himself. the evening was closing in. it was beautiful and limpid. with a high step stowell was walking to and fro on the path. visions were rising before him of gell and bessie collister on the big liner, ploughing their way through the darkening ocean to that free continent "where the clouds sailed higher"--archibald alexander and his sister elizabeth going out to the new world to begin a new life. he had visions of fenella too--how he would go up to government house to-morrow morning. "tell him to come back to me," she said to janet, and now he would go. how happy he was going to be! "surely i've a right to some happiness after all i've gone through." he gave himself up to the intoxication of living by anticipation through those most blissful moments to a man and woman who love each other--the first moments of reconciliation after a quarrel. night had fallen. it was very dark. the late birds were silent, and only the soft young leaves of may were rustling in the darkness overhead with that gentleness that is like the whispering of angels. all at once a red light jogged up from the gate, making shadows among the trees that bordered the drive. "good evenin', dempster! a letter for you, sir." it was killip the postman. "thank you, mr. killip," said stowell, taking the letter. he could not see it in the darkness, but at the touch of the large envelope a heavy foreboding came over him. "i suppose you've heard about that affair, your honour?" "what affair?" "tommy vondy. he's got himself kicked out of the castle for letting that girl escape. the gorm! he's my first cousin, and he's in his seventy-seven, but he was always a toot, was tommy!" "good-night, mr. killip." "good-night, your honour!" when stowell returned to the porch he looked at his letter by the light of the lamp on the landing. it was from the governor. he went into the library and tore it open. ii "dear stowell,--of course you have heard what has happened. the escaped prisoner must be recaptured and dealt with according to law. and not she only, but her accomplice also. you know who that is--young gell. the evidence against him is overwhelming. we have traced him almost to the door of the castle on sunday evening, and find, too, that a trading steamer left castletown late the same night. there can hardly be a doubt that the fugitives sailed in her. we must find where she has gone to and bring her passengers back. "come here to-morrow morning to issue the necessary warrant and assist farrell to the 'distinguishing marks' which may be needful for gell's identification. i know there is a certain risk in re-opening this wretched inquiry. i had hoped to bury it once for all when i decided on what you thought the extreme step of sending the guilty woman to the gallows. but law and order must be upheld, and the sooner we can silence the people, who are saying we are winking at the corruption of justice to spare the son of the speaker and the friend of the deemster, the better for everybody. "be here at eleven. we (the attorney and the chief constable are coming) will be waiting for you. good lord, haven't you been long enough away from this house anyway? if there are strained relations between you and fenella let them be faced squarely and straightened out at once--yours, etc., "john s. stanley, "_brig.-gen., k.c.b._ "p.s.--fenella says you have a photograph of gell which was taken in america some years ago. it is probably the only one on the island, and therefore invaluable to farrel at this moment. bring it with you--don't forget." stowell was struck with stupor. alick gell _was_ in danger, then, and the whole situation was different. raising his eyes after reading the governor's letter he saw gell's photograph on the mantelpiece in front of him. at that sight a flame of passion took possession of him, and snatching up the picture he flung it in the fire. "no, by god!" he said aloud. and if farrell ever asked him for "distinguishing marks" towards gell's identification he would take him by the throat and choke him. but what about the warrant? any justice of the peace might issue it, but if the governor asked him to do so the request would be equal to a command. suppose he did, what would be the result? bessie would be brought back and executed. worse than that, even worse in its different way, gell would be arrested and tried--perhaps by him, and under his warrant! "no, no, no! it would be a crime--a base, cowardly, infamous, abominable crime!" the veins of his forehead swelled as he thought of the trial. it would be more terrible than the other one. to sit in judgment on an innocent man, being himself the guilty one--not jeffries, or braxfield, or brandon or harebottle or any of the bewigged barbarians whose names befouled the annals of jurisprudence had done anything so awful. "never," he thought. "never in this world." yet what alternative had he? after dinner (he had tried to eat to keep up appearances before janet) he drew to the fire and tried to think things out. he had sat long hours in pain, and the fire had died down, when a kind of melancholy peace came to him and he thought he saw what he had to do. he had to get up early in the morning, reach government house before the others had arrived, see the governor alone and say to him in secret, "i cannot issue this warrant for the arrest of alick gell for breaking prison to procure that girl's release because _i_ did it." what would happen then? the governor (he was a just man if a hard one) would say, "in that case, you cannot be a judge in this island any longer." but that would be all. out of consideration for his daughter, and perhaps for the man who was to become his daughter's husband, the governor would go no farther. some show he might make of publishing the police notice, but he would never send to a foreign country. there would be no scandal. the public would know nothing. they had heard that the new deemster had been unwell, and would be told that his health had broken down altogether, and he had had to resign his office. it would be a month's talk, and then--time would cover up the whole miserable story in the merciful vein in which it hides so many of our misdoings. and fenella? he would tell fenella also. it would be a shock to her, but she would be on his side now. she would see that he had only tried to prevent a judicial murder, to secure the happiness of two unhappy creatures who, but for him, would have been plunged in misery. they would marry and go away from the island, to switzerland perhaps, and live there for the rest of their lives. "yes, that's it, that's it," he told himself. it was a cruel comforting--like the surgeon's knife, which, while taking away a man's disease, takes some of his life-blood also. he thought of his father, how proud the old deemster had been of his judicial position and how anxious that his son should succeed to it--it was pitiful. he thought of fenella, what great things they had planned to do when he became a judge, and now all their hopes had fallen to dust and ashes--it was agonising. was it necessary? inevitable? to be cast aside on life's highway in suffering and shame everlasting; to be like a wretched ship that lies at the bottom of the sea, swaying to the ground-swell below, and moaning like a lost soul to the moans of the other wrecks in the womb of the ocean? it was not as if he had injured anybody. he had done harm to nobody, and nothing. yet he must do what he had thought of. there was no help for it. it was late. the household was asleep. the log fire he had been crouching over had fallen to ashes on the hearth. he was shivering and he got up to go to bed. before leaving the library he sat at the desk under his mother's picture and wrote-- "_please call me at six. i must take the first train to douglas._" he was laying this on the table on the landing, lighting his candle and putting out the lamp, when he heard wheels on the carriage drive, and then a loud ringing at the front door bell. who could have come at this time of night? candle in hand he went down and opened the door. it was joshua scarff. chapter forty-two "he drove out the man" "sorry to trouble you at this hour, your honour, but i had to come and tell you what has happened." "what is it, joshua?" "there has been a fearful outbreak of lawlessness in douglas this evening--breaking of shop-windows, looting of the houses of well-to-do people, assaults and outrages of all kinds." "what is the reason of it?" "mob reason, and you know what that is, your honour. they say justice in the island is corrupt. if you are rich you get whatever you want. if you are poor you get nothing. a guilty man and a guilty woman have been allowed to escape. why? because the man belongs to a family of 'the big ones' and is a friend of the deemster." "who say that?" "old qualtrough and dan baldromma." "baldromma? if his step-daughter has escaped what has he to complain of?" "nothing, but that's not the worst, sir." "what is?" "the governor has telegraphed for soldiers from across the water. they are to come over by the first boat in the morning. it's a frightful blunder, sir." beads of perspiration were rolling down from joshua's bald crown. "there'll be bloodshed, and manxmen won't stand for that. they've been their own masters for a thousand years. the governor can't treat them as if they were indian coolies." "what do you think ought to be done?" "that's what i've come to say, sir. i had gone to bed but i couldn't take rest, so i got willie dawson to drive me over. the people may be wrong about justice, but the only way to pacify them is to prove it." "how?" "the guilty man in this case must give himself up." "give himself up?" joshua took off his coloured spectacles and wiped the damp off them. "i thought your honour might know where he was. he can't be far away, sir." "well?" "he ought to be told to deliver himself up to the courts to save the island from ruin. and if he won't he ought to be denounced." "denounced?" "it will be a terrible ordeal--i know that, sir. your friend! your life-long friend! pity! great pity!" for a perceptible time stowell did not speak. then, in a voice which joshua had never heard before, he said, "go home and go to bed, joshua. i'll see what can be done." joshua had gone, the door had closed behind him and his wheels were dying away down the drive, but stowell continued to stand in the hall, candle in hand and stiff as a statue. at length he returned to the dining-room, put the candle on the table and sat before the empty hearth. it was all over! the plan he had made for himself was impossible. there could be no resigning in secret and stealing away from the island. he had done harm to something. he had done harm to justice. if justice fell down what stood up? the man who took the law into his own hands was a criminal, and as a criminal he ought to be punished. punished? the shock was terrible. was he then to give himself up? to confess publicly? he saw himself pleading guilty to having broken prison. he heard the whole wretched tale of his relation to the unhappy prisoner, and of his trying and condemning her, coming out in open court. he heard the howls of execration from the people who had hitherto loved and cheered him. "is there no other way?" he asked himself. he saw himself in prison, in prison clothes, in the prison cell, on the prison bed. above all he saw another deemster going upstairs to sit on the bench while he lay in the vaults below. he thought of his father and his family--four hundred years of the ballamoars and not a stain on the name of one of them until now. he thought of fenella--the cruel shame he would bring on her. granted he was guilty, and deserved punishment, had he any right to punish fenella also? the clock on the landing struck one. an owl shrieked in the plantation. he got up and strode about the room. the impulses of the natural man began to fight for safety. "good god, what am i thinking about?" he asked himself. what had he done to deserve all this? he had broken a wicked law which had no right to exist, but did that require that he should denounce himself, go to prison, degrade his father's name, break fenella's heart and put himself up on a gibbet for every passer-by to jeer at and spit upon? "what madness! what rank madness!" he thought of the thousands of "great" men in all ages of the world who had broken bad laws, and yet lived in honour and died in glory. why should he suffer for doing the same thing? why he and not the others? he laughed in scorn of his own weakness, but at the next moment a mocking voice within him seemed to say, "go on! go on! issue that warrant! let the unhappy girl who trusted you be brought back and executed. let the friend who loved you be arrested and tried and sent to jail for the crime you have committed. go through all that duplicity again. let the whole community be submerged in anarchy as the consequence of your sin. but remember, when you come out of it all, you will be a devil, and your soul will be damned." that terrified him and he sat down by the empty hearth once more. after a while he found his hands wet under his face. he heard a soft, caressing voice pleading with him, "victor, my darling heart! resist this great temptation and peace will come to you. do the right, and no matter how low you may fall in the eyes of men, you will look upon the face of god." it was fenella's voice--he was sure of that. across the mountain and through the darkness of the night her pure soul was speaking to him. the candle had burnt to the socket by this time, but a new light came to him. for more than a year he had been a slave, dragging a chain of sin behind him. at every step in his wrong-doing his chain had lengthened. he must break it and be free. "yes, i will go up to government house in the morning," he thought, "confess everything and take my punishment." it was only right, only just. and when the cruel thought came that the next time he entered the court-house it would be to stand in the dock, with the dread certainty of his doom, he told himself that that would be right too--the judge also must be judged. ii groping his way upstairs in the darkness he entered his bedroom and locked the door behind him. he found a fire burning, the sofa drawn up in front of it, a lamp burning on the bureau that stood at one side, and at the other the high-backed arm-chair in which his father used to undress for bed. he was surprised to see that the fire had been newly made up, but hearing footsteps in the adjoining bedroom he understood. "poor janet!" he thought. his thoughts were thundering through his brain like waves in a deep cavern. he was convinced that he would never survive the ordeal that was before him. when men lived through long imprisonments it was because they had hope that the beautiful days would come again. he had no such hope, so, sitting at his bureau, he began to sort and arrange his papers like one who was going away on a long journey. after that he wrote a letter to the attorney-general: "dear master,--when this letter comes to your hand you will know the occasion for it. i am aware that it cannot have the authority of a will, but (in the absence of a more regular document) i trust the clerk of the rolls may find a way to act upon it as an expression of my last wishes. "i desire that janet curphey should be suitably provided for as long as she lives. she has been a mother to me all my life, the only mother i have ever known. "i desire that mrs. collister of baldromma may have such a provision made for her as will liberate her from the tyrannies of her husband. "i desire that thomas vondy, formerly the jailer at castle rushen, should be taken care of in any way you may consider best. "finally, if i do not live to return home, i desire that everything else of which i die possessed should be offered to fenella stanley as a mark of my deep love and devotion. "i think that is all." having signed, sealed and inscribed his letter he put it in his breast pocket. then taking a drawer out of the bureau he carried it to the sofa, intending to destroy the contents of it. the first thing that came to his hand was the letter which alick gell had given him at derby haven. it was marked "to be opened after we have gone," and turned out to be a memorandum to his father's executors, telling them he was leaving the island with no intention of returning to it, and asking (as his only request) that in the event of an inheritance becoming due to him, seven hundred pounds, which had been advanced to him at various times, should be repaid to deemster victor stowell--"the best friend man ever had." feeling a certain twinge, stowell hesitated for a moment, with the memorandum shaking in his hand, and then threw it into the fire. there were other papers of the same kind (i o u's and the like) which shared the same fate, and then up from the bottom of the drawer, came a leather-bound book. it was "isobel's diary." he had decided to destroy that also. as the sanctuary of his father's soul he could not allow it to be looked into by other eyes. but, never having looked at it himself since the night of his father's death, he could not resist the temptation to glance through it once more before committing it to the flames. it fell open at the page which said, "so it's all well at last, isobel. your son can do without me now. he needs his father no longer. with that brave woman by his side he will go up and up. they will marry and carry on the traditions of the ballamoars. it is the dearest wish of my heart that they should do so." his throat throbbed. ah, those hopes, all wrecked and dead! going down on one knee before the fire, and holding the book on the other, he tore out page by page and burnt it, feeling as if he were burning his right hand also. he was afraid of tears and had rarely given way to them, but he was weeping like a heart-broken woman before the last page had been consumed. then, taking fenella's letters from his pocket-book, he prepared to burn them too. they brought a faint perfume, a feeling of warmth, a sense of her physical presence. most of them were notes of no consequence--appointments to ride, drive, fish, skate, all touched by her gay raillery ("eight o'clock in the morning--is that too early for you, victor, dear?")--he had preserved every scrap in her hand-writing. but one was the letter she wrote to him when he was in london, and with palpitating tenderness he held it under the lamp to read it again: "victor, when i think of the life that is so surely before you, and that i shall walk through it by your side, perfectly united with you, sharing the same hopes and aims and desires, enjoying the same sunshine and weathering the same storms, i have a vision of happiness that makes me cry with joy." his heart swelled like a troubled sea, and to conquer his emotion he thrust the letter hurriedly into the flames. but before it was more than scorched he snatched it back and was preparing to return it to his pocket when he bethought himself how soon it must pass into other hands with everything he carried about him. and then, turning his head away, and feeling as if he were burning his heart also, he put it into the fire. after that he dropped back on to the sofa with feelings about fenella that found no relief in tears. one by one the joyous hours of their love returned to his memory. they seemed to ring in his ears with the melancholy sound of far-off bells. it was a cruel pleasure. all at once came a moment of fierce rebellion. when he had told himself downstairs that in making the great renunciation of his public office he must renounce fenella also he had not realised what it meant. it meant that never again, for as long as he lived (fenella being impossible to him), would woman take any part in his existence. a cold fear took possession of him at that thought. he was a man--was he for the rest of his life, if he survived his imprisonment, to be cut off from his kind, separated, alone? better be dead than live such a life! then another and still more startling thought came to him--why not? a letter to the governor, exonerating gell, and then it would all be over. no warrant! no trial! why not? outside the night was dark. not a breath of wind was stirring. in the silence of earth and sky he could hear the "swish, swish" of the sea on the shingle at the top of the shore. it must be high water. "why not? why not?" his head was dizzy. he was thinking of a boat that lay among the lush grass on the sandy bank above the beach. alick and he had often gone fishing in her. she was heavy, but he was strong--he could push her into the water. he saw himself pulling out to sea, far out, beyond the point, to where the gulf stream in its long race round half the world swept by the island to the coast of iceland. and then, as the dawn broke in the eastern heavens, he saw himself scuttling the boat and going down with her. no one would know. the boat would lie at the bottom of the sea until she fell to pieces, and he--he would go north on the way of the great waters until he came to the feet of the frozen jokulls, where nobody would be able to say who he was or where he came from. no scandal! no outcry! no vulgar sensation! just a pang to fenella, and then the darkness of death over all. thinking the lamp was burning low he was reaching out his hand to turn up the wick when a sense came of somebody being in the room with him. he looked round. all was silent. "is anybody there?" he asked aloud. there was no answer. the dread of miscarrying for ever if he died by his own act began to struggle on the battle field of his soul with the fear of being cut off from the living who live in god's peace. he shivered and was trying to rise when again he had the sense of somebody else in the bedroom. "who is it?" at the next moment, raising his eyes, he thought he saw his father in the arm-chair where he had seen him so often. the august face was the same as when he saw it last in that room, except that the melancholy eyes were now open. "i'm ill," he thought, and he closed his eyes and put his hand over them. but when he opened his eyes again his father was still there, looking at him with tenderness and compassion. his brain reeled and he fell face down on the cushions of the sofa. then he heard his father speaking to him, gently, affectionately, but firmly, just as he used to do when he was alive. "my son! my dear son! i know what you are thinking of doing, and i warn you not to do it. no man can run away from the consequences of his sins. if he flies from them in this life he must meet them in the life hereafter, and then it will be a hundred-fold more terrible to be swept from the face of the living god." "father!" stowell tried to cry aloud but could not. his father's voice ceased and at the next moment a vision flashed before him. a line of miserable-looking men were standing before an awful tribunal. he knew who they were--the unjust judges of the world who had corrupted justice. all the grandeur in which they had clothed themselves on earth was gone, and they were there in the nakedness of their shame crying, "mercy! mercy! mercy!" stowell felt as if he were falling off the world into a void of unfathomable night. then blindness fell upon the eyes of his mind and he knew no more. chapter forty-three the dawn of morning "victor! victor!" it was janet's voice outside the door. "eh?" "six o'clock. didn't you want to catch the first train in town, dear?" "oh yes! all right. i'll be down presently." stowell found it difficult to recover consciousness. he was lying on the sofa, and he looked around. there was the armchair--it was empty. but the lamp on the bureau was still burning. he must have slept, for he was feeling refreshed and even strong. leaping to his feet he blew out the lamp and pulled back the window curtains. it was a beautiful morning, tranquil as the sky and noiseless as the dew. over the tops of the tall trees the bald crown of old snaefell was bathed in sunshine. he was like another man. life had no terrors for him now. it was just as if a curse had fallen from him in the night. no more visions! no more spectres! he knew what he had to do and he would do it. he had a sense of immense emancipation. he felt like a slave who had broken the chain which he had dragged after him for years. he was a free man once more. throwing off coat and waistcoat he washed--lashing the cold water over face and head and neck as if he were diving into one of the dubs in the glen--and then went downstairs with a strong step. breakfast was not quite ready, so he stepped out over the piazza, to the farm-yard. the cheerful place was full of its morning activities. cows were mooing their way to the grass of the fields before barking dogs, and milkmaids were carrying their frothing pails across to the dairy. he saluted everybody he came upon. "good-morning, betty!" "good-morning, mary!" the girls smiled and looked proud, but they said afterwards that the young master's voice sounded as if he were saying good-bye to them. unconsciously he was going about like one who was taking a last look round before setting out on a long journey. he went into the stable, and molly, his young chestnut mare, turned her head and neighed at him. he went into the empty cow-house, and four young calves in boxes licked, with their long moist tongues, the hand he held down to them. on the way back to the house he met robbie creer, who was full of another story of mrs. collister of baldromma. she had taken the ground with the ebb tide, poor woman. they had put her into the asylum. the doctors said her case was incurable. she was always saying the old dempster had come from the dead to take her bessie out of prison. "but what a blessed end," said stowell. "she'll think her daughter is in heaven, so she'll always be happy." "it's like she will, sir," said robbie, looking puzzled, and going indoors for his morning bowl of porridge he said to his wife, "a mortal quare thing to say, though, and the woman in the madhouse." stowell ate with an appetite (janet plying him with coffee and eggs and toasted muffins), and then young robbie brought round the dog-cart. janet helped him on with his light loose overcoat and went to the door with him. he paused there, pulling on his driving-gloves and thinking what cruel pain the dear soul would suffer when she heard that night what he had done during the day. at last he threw his arms about her and kissed her, saying with a gulp, "good-bye, mother! god bless you!" and then he sprang up into the cart, snatched at the reins, pulled them taut, and (after the young mare had leapt on her forelegs) darted away. as he approached the turn of the drive where the house was hidden by the trees he turned and looked back at it--what a home to lose! janet, who was still at the porch, smoothing her silvery hair, thought he had looked back at her, and she waved her hand to him. nobody had said a word to her, yet she knew he had been suffering as a result of some terrible wrong-doing. she thought she knew what it was, too, and she had wept bitter tears over it. but he had not a fault in her eyes now. her boy! hers all the way up since he was a child and used to run about the lawn in pinafores. heaven bless him! he was the best thing god had ever made. ii the train to town was full to overflowing. the northside people, having heard of yesterday's doings, were going up to see for themselves "what them toots in douglas" were doing. in spite of the guard's deferential protests stowell stepped into an open third-class carriage. it had been humming like a beehive until then, but except for a general salutation it became silent when he entered. a draper's assistant who sat opposite handed him an english newspaper, two days old, with an article on the escape from castle rushen. the incident was a disgrace to the insular administration, and if the governor could not offer a satisfactory explanation the sooner the island's home rule came to an end the better for justice. one or two of the passengers tried to draw stowell into conversation about the article, but he said little or nothing. then some black-coated persons (well-to-do farmers and the like) gave the talk another turn. "still and for all," said one, "that doesn't justify such doings as there are in douglas!" "chut!" said another. "it isn't justice the agitators are wanting, it's robbery." "truth enough," said a third, "it's the land they're after, and if the governor isn't doing something soon, there'll be not an acre left at the one of us." "give them a pig of their own sow," said a fat farmer. "men like qualtrough and baldromma ought to be taken to say and dropped overboard." again the passengers tried to draw stowell into conversation, and when they found they could not get him to speak to them they spoke at him. "where's the big men of the island that they're not telling the people they're bringing it to wreck and ruin?" "when a man is claver--claver uncommon--and mighty with the tongue, he ought to be showing the ignorant gommerals the way they're going." "yes," said a little man (he was a local preacher), "when a man has the gift it's his duty to the lord to use it." "he must be a right man though," said the fat farmer, "straight as a mast himself, same as some we've had at ballamoar in the good ould days gone by." there was silence for a moment after this, and then an old man by the opposite window was heard to whisper, "lave him alone, men; he knows what hour the clock is striking." when the train reached douglas, stowell went off with a heavy face. it was remarked that he had not shaken hands--his father used to shake hands with everybody. "he's his father's son for all," said the old man by the window. stowell took the cable-car at the bottom of the prospect hill which is at the foot of the town. douglas was still in a state of agitation and the driver had as much as he could do to forge his way, without accidents, through the tumultuous throngs in the thoroughfare. a cordon of red-coated soldiers from castletown surrounded government office, and a noisy crowd (including women with children) were jeering at them from the middle of the street, and shouting up at the windows, under the impression that the governor was within. the shops bore signs of yesterday's rioting---many having their shutters up, while the windows of others were barricaded with new boarding. stowell got out of the car at the terminus and made the rest of his journey afoot. at the top of the hill, where the road turns towards the governor's house, he came upon a mass meeting. from a horseless lorry, decorated with banners, a burly old ruffian with shaggy grey hair (qualtrough, m.h.k.) was speaking in a voice of thunder, while, on the cross-seat by his side, dan baldromma was sitting with the air of a martyr. "there's a man on this platform who has gone to prison for his principles. that's what justice in the isle of man is. and that's what they would like to be doing with the lot of ye, the big ones of the island. but, gentlemen and ladies, their rotten ould ship is floating on the pumps and she'll soon be sinking." when stowell reached the governor's gate he paused, being out of breath and not so strong as he had imagined. from that point he could see a broad stretch of the coast, as well as the shadowy outlines of the english hills on the other side of the channel. a steamer was sailing into the bay. perhaps she was bringing the english cavalry the governor had sent for. life is sweet when death is at the door. at that last moment, although he had thought his mind was made up, stowell found that his heart was failing him. must he go on? deliberately destroy himself? no outside power compelling him? the world was wide--why not leave all this wreck and ruin behind him and in some other country begin life anew? the moment of weakness passed and he went on. half way up the drive, where the trees broke clear and the long white façade of government house became visible, he dropped his head. he was thinking of the last time he had been there and remembering again the stinging words with which fenella had driven him away. but there was strength in the thought that he was about to break the chain which he had dragged after him so long, and save his people at the same time. when the maid opened the door, he asked for the governor. "yes, your honour," said the maid, "but miss fenella wishes to see you first, sir." his heart was beating hard when he stepped into the house. chapter forty-four "god gave him dominion" three times during breakfast that morning fenella had seen somebody coming up the drive. the first to come was the major from castletown, riding at a fast trot. on being shown into the breakfast-room, with spurs clanking, he told the governor that a mob had gathered about government office and were very threatening. "tell the mayor to read the riot act, and then do what is necessary for the protection of life and property," said the governor. the second to come was the chief constable, driving rapidly in a hackney carriage. on entering the room with his heavy step, he said the steamer from england was in sight and the soldiers would be landed at the pier within half an hour. "if the thoroughfares are still thronged with riotous mobs at that time," said the governor, "tell the cavalry to ride through them." the last to come up the drive was a solitary man afoot, walking slowly and pausing at intervals as if his strength had failed him. fenella knew who it was, and rising hastily from the table she went into the drawing-room. when stowell was brought in to her she was shocked at the change in his appearance. he looked ten years older. his dark hair had become white about the temples and his eyes were full of a strange light. "how he must have suffered," she thought, and an almost overpowering desire took possession of her to put her arms about him and comfort him. he looked at her and the same thought and the same impulse came to him. but they were afraid of each other, and with the surging ocean of their love between them they stood apart, but trembling. at length, trying not to look into each other's faces, they began to speak. "fenella!" "victor!" "you know why i have been sent for?" "yes, and that is why i want to speak to you before you see my father. there are things you ought to know." "yes?" "mr. vondy, the jailer from castle rushen, was here two days ago, to be examined by the governor, the attorney-general and the chief constable." "did he say anything?" "not to them." "to you, perhaps?" "yes. i brought him in here. he told me what occurred after i left the castle." "then you know?" she dropped her head and answered "yes." "i had to do it, fenella--i thought i had to." a moment passed. "he asked me to tell you that he would keep his word to you, whatever happened." "did he say that?" "yes." a spasm in stowell's throat seemed to be stifling him. "i did wrong, fenella, terribly wrong, but there is one thing i will ask of you." "what is it, victor?" "not to judge me until you know what i've come to do to-day." fenella, deeply affected, thought she caught a glimpse of his meaning. "do you intend to resign, victor?" "yes, but that is not all." "what is, victor?" she was thinking of his exile, his possible banishment. "perhaps i am speaking to you for the last time, fenella. that's why i am glad you have given me this opportunity of seeing you." she trembled, thinking he meant suicide, and said in a choking voice, "you don't mean that you intend to take your .... no, no, that is impossible. think of your father." stowell did not speak for a moment. then he said, "i saw him last night, fenella." "who?" "my father. i was thinking of that as a way out of all this miserable wrong-doing, when he came to warn me." "how he must have suffered," thought fenella. "but perhaps you think it was only a delusion?" "indeed no! if the spirits of our dear ones may not come back to speak to us in our times of temptation...." "but my father was not the only one who spoke to me last night, fenella." "who else did, victor?" "you. i heard you as plainly as i hear you now." fenella's bosom was heaving. "when was that?" she asked. "in the middle of the night. but perhaps you were in bed and asleep at that time." "no .... no, i did not sleep until after daybreak. in the middle of the night i was" .... (she was breathing audibly) "i was praying." he looked up at her with his heavy eyes. "were you praying for me, fenella?" she cast down her eyes and answered "yes." another moment passed, and then in a husky voice he said, "fenella, what did you pray for for me?" "that you might have strength to do what was right, whatever it might cost you." he reached forward and grasped her hands. "did you know what that meant, fenella--whatever it might cost me?" "yes," she said, raising her eyes, "and at length an answer came to me." "what answer?" "that if you did, and made atonement, however low you might fall in the eyes of men you would look upon the face of god." stowell gasped, dropped her hands and for a while was speechless. then he said, "and do you think i will?" "i am sure you will, victor. i had a sign from god." "do you, after all, believe in god, fenella?" "indeed yes. and you--don't you??" "my father did. he used to kneel by his bed like a little child every night and every morning." she saw that he did not speak for himself, and a great wave of love and compassion for the sin-laden man stormed her heart. "victor," she said, tears springing to her eyes, "you must try to forgive me. i've not been what i ought to have been to you--i see that now. whatever you have done i should have clung to you, not driven you away from me, and let you go on from sin to sin, doubting god's mercy and forgiveness. let me do so now. we belong to each other, victor. there can never be anybody else for either of us as long as we live. let us go together." she had seized his hands. the hands of both were trembling. "would to god you could, fenella. but it is too late for that now. i have gone too far for you to follow me. where i go now i must go alone." "don't say that." "wait until i have seen your father." at that moment the maid came into the room to tell the deemster that the governor, having heard that he was in the house, wished to see him immediately. stowell was turning to go, when fenella put a trembling hand on his shoulder and said in a whisper, "victor, whatever happens with my father, promise me that you will never do that." "but if the governor...." "never mind about the governor now, promise me." there was a moment of silence and then he said, "i promise," and with head down passed out of the room. being alone, fenella tried in vain to compose herself. the fear that stowell might kill himself (as a result of the public exposure and humiliation which the governor would impose upon him) threw her into violent agitation. unable to support the strain of her anxiety she could not resist the temptation to listen at the door of her father's room. she heard the two voices within--stowell's in tones of pitiful supplication, her father's in accents of fierce expostulation. at length she heard her own name mentioned and then she could contain herself no longer. opening the door noiselessly she entered the room. the two men were face to face, looking at each other with flaming eyes. ii "come in, stowell. i'm glad you're early. i wanted a word with you before the others arrived. sit down." the governor too was violently agitated. he was striding about the room. his grey hair, usually brushed down with military precision, was loose and disordered, as if he had been running his hands through it, and his pipe, still alight and as if forgotten, was smoking on the arm of his chair. "you came by train?" "yes." "then you saw the soldiers. i had to do it. i couldn't allow this raggabash to take possession of the island. there may be casualties, but the shortest way is the most merciful--that's my experience. sit down. why don't you sit down?" but the governor went on walking and stowell continued to stand. "they say this rioting is the sequel to the escape from castle rushen. only an excuse, of course, but that makes no difference. if we are to justify our administration of justice in the eyes of the authorities across the water we must re-capture those runaways. the man--the guilty man in particular--must be locked up in prison. the attorney and the colonel will be here presently. you'll be able to help them to the personal description they want--nobody better--and then issue the warrant." stowell, who had been clutching the back of a chair behind which he was standing with a fixed stare, said in a quivering voice, "i'm sorry, your excellency. i cannot do that." "eh? cannot do what?" "i cannot issue the warrant for the arrest of alick gell for breaking prison because...." "well?" stowell swallowed something in his throat and continued .... "because _i_ did it." the governor drew up sharply and said, "what's the matter with you? are you ill?" stowell, who had recovered himself, answered, "no, i am not ill, your excellency." "then you must be mad--stark mad. it's impossible. you can never have done such a thing." "i am not mad either, sir. what i tell you is the truth--it is god's truth, sir." and then, excusing nothing, extenuating nothing, stowell told the governor what he had done, and how he had done it. "i used my official position to effect the escape of the prisoner, and i arranged for her flight, with her companion, to a foreign country." the governor listened without drawing breath. "but why .... why did you .... was it because i refused to remit...." "no, i did it because i came to see that the law which permitted you to order the execution of that girl was a crime, and that a higher law called upon me to undo it." "a crime? good lord, what if it was? what had you to do with that?" "i had tried and condemned her. and besides, i had my personal reasons for wishing the prisoner to escape punishment." "but damn it all, man, when you were doing all this for the girl, didn't you see what you were doing for yourself?" "not then. but now i see that in preventing the law from committing a crime i committed a crime against the law, and am no longer fit to be a judge. that's why i'm here now, sir--not to issue that warrant, but to resign my judgeship." "resign your judgeship?" "yes, but that's not all--to ask you to order my arrest and commit me to prison." the governor, who had been half stupefied, took possession of himself at last. "commit you to prison? good heavens, what are you saying? a deemster in prison! whoever heard of such a thing!" "i am guilty of a crime against justice...." began stowell, but the governor bore him down. "tush! i don't care for the moment whether you are or are not. neither do i care whether the law which condemned the prisoner to death, was or was not a crime. what i have to deal with is the present situation. you say you want me to order your arrest--is that it?" "yes, you said yourself the guilty man ought to be in prison." "but heavens alive, man, can't you see the disgrace? gell is a private person, while you are a judge, the judge who tried and condemned the prisoner. what is to happen to justice in the island if a judge is condemned and imprisoned?" stowell tried to speak, but again the governor bore him down. "oh, i know what you'll say--you'll talk about your conscience. but what is your conscience to me against the honour of the public service and the welfare of the whole community?" "the honour of the public service cannot rest on a lie, sir," said stowell. "it would be a living lie if i continued to be a judge, and the only way to save the island is to tell it the truth, no matter what...." "don't talk damned nonsense." stowell drew himself up. "do you wish me, then, to issue that warrant against alick gell now that you know that i am myself the guilty man?" the governor flinched for a moment, then smote the top of his desk and said, "i know nothing of the kind, sir, and don't want to know. i believe you're mad--made mad by the ordeal you have lately gone through. nothing will make me believe the contrary." there was silence after that for several minutes. then the governor, who had thrown himself in his chair, said in a softer tone, "stowell, listen to me. i partly understand you. but even if you did this unbelievable thing, and are satisfied you did it from a good motive, why can't you hold your tongue about it?" "i have thought of that, sir," said stowell, with a tremor in his voice. "i have fought it all out with myself. believe me i would have given all i have in the world not to have had to come here on this errand. but the life of a judge would be impossible to me with a lie like that for its foundation. my work cannot be a mockery, sir. i cannot allow another to suffer for what i have done." the governor leapt up from his seat. "you talk about others suffering for what you have done--have you forgotten how many others must suffer if i allow you to do what you want to do now? think of your island--your native island--do you want to cover it with dishonour? think of your profession--do you want to load it with disgrace? think of your father, who loved you as no father ever loved a son. we put up his portrait in the court-house the other day--do you want to pull it down? and then think of me--i suppose i ran some risk when i recommended you for your position...." stowell was trying to speak, but again the governor put up his hand.. "oh, you needn't thank me. perhaps i wasn't acting altogether unselfishly. i may have been wanting somebody to stand by me now that i'm growing old, somebody like your father--able to fight these rascals who are trying to ruin everything. and when you came along, you whom i had known since you were a boy, the son of my old friend, who was to be my son some day...." the governor, startled by the emotion that was coming over him, broke away and crossed the room, saying, "but damn it all, why need i talk of myself? there's fenella--have you forgotten fenella?" it was at this moment that fenella entered the room. neither of the men saw her. she stood noiselessly at the door. "if i do what you want, order your arrest, what's the first question the court will ask you--why did you help the prisoner to escape? then the whole wretched story of your relations with the girl collister will come out. and what will be the result? fenella's name will become a byword. it will be the common talk of every slut in the island that she came second after your woman .... your offal." stowell flamed up with anger for a moment, and then choked with tears. after a short silence he said, "i can never be sufficiently grateful to you, sir, for what you've done for me. as for fenella, i can hardly trust myself to speak. the thought of her suffering is the bitterest part of my own. i would live out the rest of my life on my knees if i could undo the wrong i have done her. but i cannot bring her down with me. i cannot take up again my life as a judge after it has been so hideously disfigured and ask her to share it. let me go to prison...." sobbing in his throat stowell could go no further. fenella, sobbing in her heart, crept noiselessly out of the room. the governor, in spite of himself, was visibly affected. "look here, my boy," he said. "i'll tell you what i'll do. it's going far, perhaps too far for the safety of the public service, but to prevent worse things happening i'll take the risk. i'll stop that warrant and hush up this miserable scandal on one condition--that you say nothing, take leave of absence on grounds of ill-health, go abroad and never come back again." stowell shook his head. "why not? good gracious, why not? the guilty ones have gone. your secret is safe. except ourselves, nobody knows it. why shouldn't you?" "i dare not," said stowell. "dare not?" "i have committed a crime. if i do not pay for it in this life i must do so hereafter. therefore i ask for my punishment now." the governor got the better of his emotion. "so you wish to resign your office and ask me to order your arrest? well, i won't do it. i am the only authority to whom you can resign and i decline to accept your resignation--i refuse to transmit it to the home authorities. what you wish to do would undermine the stability of law and the authority of government. it would humiliate me and destroy my daughter's happiness. therefore i not only refuse to receive your resignation. i forbid it." stowell hesitated for a moment and then said, "in that case, your excellency, you will force me to denounce myself." "denounce....? you mean in open court?" "yes, it will be my duty, and i shall be compelled to do it." the governor's wrath became rage. with a ring of sarcasm in his voice he said, "very well! very well! i cannot prevent you. denounce yourself in open court if you are so unwise, so insane. but understand--if you are compelled to do your duty, _i_ shall be compelled to do mine also. after you have made your public confession and the courts have dealt with you, i shall issue the warrant just the same. you say the fugitives have gone to a foreign country, but no foreign country will refuse to give up a condemned murderess. the woman shall be brought back and executed according to the sentence you pronounced upon her. more than that, your friend, your confederate, shall be brought back also, and dealt with according to his crime. therefore your public confession will be of no avail. it will be an empty farce, ruining three lives that might otherwise have been saved." stowell trembled, his lips became white. "i beg you not to do that, sir." "i will! i take god to witness that i will. now choose for yourself which it is to be--your course or mine?" stowell breathed hard for a moment and then smiled--but such a smile! "your excellency," he said, "for your own sake i beg of you not to do it." "my sake?" said the governor, drawing up sharply--he had been striding about the room again. "yes, yours," said stowell. "one of those two was my victim, the other was merely the subject of my will. i alone am guilty, and if i cannot meet my punishment without bringing such consequences on the innocent i must meet something else." "what else?" "death. then, in the eyes of heaven, the crime against the law will be _your_ crime and i shall not live to witness it." there was a breathless silence. the governor was dumb-founded. stowell stepped towards the door and said in a low voice, "god forgive you, sir. you will never see me again." at that moment the maid entered the room to announce the attorney-general and the chief constable, who came in immediately behind her. "ah, victor, how are you?" said the attorney. "your excellency, we have brought the warrant." "and here," said the chief constable, with an obsequious bow to stowell, "is the deemster ready to issue it." nobody spoke, and the chief constable, taking a paper out of a long envelope, proceeded to read it: "_this is to command you to whom this warrant is addressed forthwith to apprehend alexander gell...._" "that will do. give it to me," said the governor. when the warrant had been given to him he tore it up and threw it into the fire. the two men were aghast. "your excellency, what .... what...." "this damnable thing must go no further. let me hear no more about it." after saying this the governor's strength seemed to leave him. he dropped into a chair before the fire and gazed at the blazing paper. stowell's trembling hand was on the handle of the door. "i thank you for what you've done, sir," he said, "and wish to god the matter could end there. but it cannot .... it cannot." he went out. the two men looked into each other's faces. a flash of understanding passed between them, and, without a word more, they stepped out of the room. meantime, stowell, going down the corridor, felt a hand that had been stretched out from the drawing-room, taking hold of his arm and drawing him in. it was fenella's. her face was utterly broken up. flinging her arms about him she kissed him passionately. "victor," she said, "do as your heart bids you. don't think of me any longer. i am with you in life or death. if you have to go to prison i will go with you, and if...." unable to say more she broke away from him and hurried into an inner room. the front door rang as stowell pulled it after him, and when he walked down the drive with a high step his head was up and his ravished face aglow. end of sixth book seventh book the resurrection chapter forty-five the way of the cross there had been wild doings in douglas since the chief constable's visit to government house. stones had been thrown and windows broken. at length the mayor, not without personal risk, had read the riot act from the steps of the town hall. the result had been the reverse of what the governor expected. the police, a small force, had charged the mob with their batons, but they had soon been overpowered. then the soldiers from castletown, a little company of eighty, had attempted to intimidate the crowd with their rifles, but twice as many stalwart fishermen, coming up behind, had disarmed them. after that the people had surged through the streets in delirious triumph. at ten o'clock the throng was densest outside government office, which stands midway on the steep declivity of the prospect hill. the police and the soldiers had as much as they could do to guard the doors of the building. the space in front of it was packed with people of both sexes and all ages. they were squirming about like worms on an upturned sod. there were loud shouts and derisive cries. "down with the governor!" "tell him the steamer leaves for england at nine in the morning." suddenly, with the rapidity of a desert wind, word went through the crowd that mounted soldiers from england had just been landed at the pier, and were riding up the principal thoroughfares, driving everything before them. a cold fear came, culminating in terror. presently the cavalry were seen to turn the bottom of the hill. they were swinging the flats of their swords to scatter the crowd. the people screamed and ran in frantic haste to the parapets on either side of the street. in a moment the broad space in front of government office was clear. clear, save for one tiny object. it was a child, a little girl of four, who had been clinging to her mother's skirts and in the scramble had lost her hold of them. the cavalry were now coming up the hill at a gallop and the little one's danger was seen by all. "save the child," people shouted, and more than one ran out a few paces and then ran back, for the horses seemed to be almost upon them. the mother was screaming and trying to break into the open, but women were holding her back. at that moment a man, whom nobody recognised at first, pushed his way through the crowd with powerful arms, and darted out in the direction of the child. "come back; you'll be killed," cried someone, but the others held their breath. at the next instant the man was lost to sight in the midst of the cavalry. in the confused movement that followed one of the horses was seen to rear and swing aside, as if it had been struck in the mouth by a strong hand. when the crowd were conscious of what happened next the cavalry had galloped past, with its clang of hoofs and rattle of steel, and the broad space was once more empty. empty save for the man. his head was bare, his hand was bleeding, and the skirt of the loose overcoat he wore was torn as if a sword had accidentally slashed it. but in his arms was the child--unhurt and untouched. then the people saw who he was. he was the deemster, and they crowded about him. he gave the little one back to its mother, who had a still younger child at her breast, and was too breathless from fright to thank him. he tried to conceal himself in the crowd, but they followed him--down the hill to athol street, where the court-house is--a long train, chiefly of women and children, with wet eyes and open mouths, crying to him and to each other, "the deemster! god bless him!" they thought he was going to the court-house to sit on the bench as judge, but when he came to the big portico he passed it, and, turning down a side street, he stopped at a little black door and knocked. the door was opened by a police sergeant who was not wearing his helmet. the deemster stepped into the vault-like place within and the door was closed behind him. it was the douglas prison. ii the high bailiff of douglas held a court that day. the court-house was almost empty. not more than six or seven persons sat in the places assigned to the public. three young reporters yawned over their note-books in their box beside the wall. in the well allotted to counsel there were only two advocates in wig and gown. a few bare-headed policemen stood near the bench and the clerk of the court sat under it. there was nobody else in the court-house except the high bailiff himself, an elderly man with a red face and a benevolent expression. he was trying a number of petty cases, chiefly of larceny and drunkenness. the light was low and the voices echoed in the vacant chamber. but from time to time a deadened rumble came from the streets outside--the clang of horses' hoofs, the derisive cries of a crowd, the loud shout of a commanding officer, and then a scamper of feet that was like heavy rain pelting down on the pavement. behind the jury-box, which was empty, there was a door that led to the prison below. the last case was being heard when this door was opened and the chief constable came up into court, followed by stowell and a policeman. the chief constable took a seat in the advocates' well; stowell and the policeman sat on the public benches. when the high bailiff, who was a great respecter of authority, saw the deemster enter, he sent a policeman to ask him to come up to a seat by his side on the bench, but stowell shook his head. the case being tried was that of a farmer who was charged with driving his country cart on the high road without a stern light. the defence was that the lamp was alight when he left town, and had been put out by a high wind that was blowing. on this issue there was a long questioning and cross-questioning by the advocates, but at length the case came to a close. "half-a-crown and costs," said the high bailiff; and then reaching over to his clerk he asked if that was the last case for the day. "yes, your worship," said the clerk, and the high bailiff was pushing back his chair, when the chief constable rose with an air of importance. "your worship, i have a serious charge to make." he beckoned to the policeman at the back, who opened the door of the dock and stowell stepped into it. "i charge his honour deemster victor stowell, on his own confession, with breaking prison on sunday night last between the hours of ten and twelve, to effect the escape from custody of a prisoner lying there under sentence of death." the high bailiff seemed to be stupefied and the charge had to be repeated to him. "eh? what? god bless my soul! on his own confession, you say? is the deemster well? what conceivable motive...." "i will give formal evidence, your worship, and ask for a committal to general gaol, when the question of motive will be fully gone into." "well, well! good gracious me! if it must be it must. it is my painful duty to put the deemster back for trial. but i suggest that a doctor be asked to see him immediately. and meantime" (the high bailiff turned to the reporters, who were now busy enough over their note-books), "may i request the representatives of the press to publish nothing about this painful matter at present?" it was all over in a few minutes. the door behind the jury-box was opened again and stowell and the policeman returned to the cells. in less than half-an-hour the news was all over the town. special editions of the newspapers (single sheets) had been run off in furious haste, and the newsboys were shouting through the streets, _arrest of deemster victor stowell._ the news fell on the public like a thunderbolt. it eclipsed their interest in the soldiers. iii like lightning out of a thunder-cloud the news fell on government house also. on hearing it the governor, who had been thinking less about the riot than about stowell's last words if him, broke into uncontrollable rage. "the fool! the infernal fool! after i had given him such a chance, too!" with a determined step he went into the library, where fenella was writing letters, and broke the news to her with a kind of fierce joy. at first her eyes filled with tears and then a proud smile shone through them. "you were right after all, fenella. i see now that you must throw the man up," said the governor. "on the contrary," said fenella. "now i must stand by him." "what on earth do you mean?" "i mean that victor has justified himself." "justified himself?" "yes. the only thing i was afraid of was that he might take his life to escape from his dishonour. but now that he has made his choice i have made mine also." "your choice?" "i cannot cut him out of my heart because he has been brave enough to face the consequences of his crime." "but good heavens, girl, don't you see that he will be brought up for trial, and then all the wretched story of the collister girl will come out?" "i'm prepared for that, father." "fenella," said the governor, white with the passion that was mastering him, "if you were my son instead of my daughter do you know what i should do with you?" "you mean you would turn me out of the house? there will be no need for that--i will go of myself, father." "fenella! fenella!" cried the governor, recovering himself, but fenella had gone from the room. the governor returned to his smoking-room. for a long half-hour he ranged about, kicking things out of his way, ringing bells and snapping at the servants. what was fenella doing? could it be possible that she was taking him at his word? unable to contain himself any longer he sent for miss green. he got nothing out of the old lady except lamentations. "oh, dear, oh dear, what is the world coming to?" at length, with an air of authority, he went up to fenella's bedroom, and found her on her knees before an open trunk into which she was packing her clothes. "fenella," he said, "this is nonsense. it cannot be." "i'm afraid it must be, father." "look here, girl, when a man's angry he doesn't always mean what he says. i never meant you were to go." "it's better that i should, father." the governor struggled hard with his pride and said, "listen. don't make me ridiculous in the eyes of the whole island, fenella. i may not have acted wisely in relation to stowell and the advice i gave him--i see that now. but if so perhaps it was because i was thinking less of the public service than of you. if you were a father you would understand that. but you cannot wish to leave me. you are my only child. i am your father, remember. what, after all, is this man to you?" fenella leaned back on her heels and her eyelids quivered for a moment. then she said, "we are told that a man must leave father and mother and cling to his wife, and surely it's the same with a woman and her husband. victor is my husband, or soon will be." "good lord, what are you saying, girl?" "i promised myself to him, and i intend to keep my promise." "but he's a prisoner, and if the governing authority objects...." "in that case i'll wait until he is a prisoner no longer, and then .... then i'll marry him." "that you never shall. not in this island anyway. no clergyman here will marry you to that man against my wish." "then i'll go to him just the same." "what?" "yes, i'm prepared even for that sacrifice." "you're mad. you're both mad--stark mad." again the governor returned to his smoking-room. after a while he heard a hackney carriage coming up the drive to the porch, and then old john, the watchman, lugging a trunk along the corridor. a moment later, looking through the window, he saw fenella, in the blue and white costume of her settlement (the same in which, with so much pride, he had brought her up to the house from the pier in his big landau), stepping into the coach. then his anger and emotion together burst all bounds. he tore open his door with the intention of countermanding fenella's orders and driving the hackney carriage off his grounds. but before he could bring himself to do so he heard the door of the carriage close and saw its wheels moving away. miss green came back to the house with her handkerchief to her eyes, saying, "she was crying as if her heart would break, poor darling!" the governor went slowly back to his room once more. the masterful man, who had never known before what it was to have tears in his eyes, was utterly broken. he had lost his daughter; he was to be a childless man henceforward; he was to spend the rest of his life alone. but after a while he thought of stowell as the man who had taken fenella from him, and his anger rose again. "he wants punishment, does he? very well, he shall have it, and damned quick too." two hours later fenella was at castle rushen, in the living-room of the new jailer and his wife. "i hear you want a female warder, and i've come to offer myself," she said. the new jailer, who was embarrassed, stammered something about menial labour, but fenella was not to be gainsaid. "i'm a trained nurse, and have experience in managing people--will you take me?" "well .... if the governor doesn't .... for the present, perhaps." "for good," said fenella. within a few minutes she was settled in her new quarters--a large, dark, cell-like chamber, of irregular shape, with a deeply-recessed window, a piece of cocoa-nut matting, a deal table, a chair, a wash-stand and a truckle bed. two hundred years before it had been the 'tiring room of the greatest of her ancestors, charlotte de la tremouille (countess of derby), when, in the absence of her husband, she held the fortress for weeks against the siege of cromwell's forces. the blood of the stanleys was in it still. chapter forty-six victory through defeat a little later stowell was brought up for trial at a special sitting of the court of general gaol delivery held in douglas. "this wretched case has injured the credit of the island in england," said the governor to the attorney-general. the sooner it was over and done with the better. for a long half-hour before the proceedings began the courthouse was dark with men. indignation against stowell had succeeded to astonishment. piecing things together (from fenella's outburst in court to gell's threat of personal violence against the deemster) people had arrived at something like the truth. the lips which a few days before had saluted stowell with cries of worshipful lover were ready to break into shouts of execration. the scoundrel! the traitor! poor young gell! and then that girl collister was not so bad as they had thought her. stowell's enemies had been crowing with satisfaction. "well, what did i tell you?" said hudgeon, the advocate. and qualtrough, m.h.k., repeated what he had said in the smoking-room of the keys--you had only to give the rascal rope and he would hang himself. his friends were yet more deadly. nearly all had deserted him. the good things they had said had been forgotten. every bad thing they could remember was revived, as far back as his reckless days at mount murray as a young man and his expulsion from king william's as a boy. he was a man of straw. it was surprising what people had seen in him, and astonishing that the governor had recommended him for the position of deemster. the press had been silent, from fear of the penalties of contempt, but the pulpit (sunday having intervened) had been loud with platitudes, inspired by the text, "be sure your sin will find you out." when the time came for the judges to enter the court-house the atmosphere was rank with evil passions and the acid odour of perspiring people. taubman was the deemster. although tortured by rheumatism he had dragged himself out of bed, having scented an opportunity of gaining favour with the governor. the governor presided, as it was his duty to do, but it was remarked that except for one moment on taking his seat, when he looked round at the open-mouthed spectators with an expression which seemed to say, "what a race!" he never raised his eyes. it was a short trial, and rarely had there been a more irregular one. taubman was notorious for his legal deficiencies. in earlier days stowell, in one of his "limericks," had christened him "old necessity," because "necessity knew no law." he had long been jealous of stowell's popularity and particularly of his rapid rise to a position which he had had to wait forty years for. now he had the "upstart" in his hand at last. when the case was called stowell was brought up by two policemen and placed in the dock. his cheeks were very pale and his eyes heavy as with unshed tears. it was almost as if his youth had stepped with one stride into age. but suffering gives a certain sublimity, and it was said afterwards that never before had he looked so strong and noble. the spectators saw nothing of that now. his calm seemed to them to be callousness. he did not appear to see the scorching glances they cast at him. the last time they had seen him in court he was on the bench, now he was in the dock, and they would have been better pleased if, in the dread certainty of his fate, he had betrayed the fellness of terror. but except for one moment, when he turned slowly round to look at them, and their murmurs ceased suddenly at full sight of his face, he seemed to them to have forgotten the shame of the place he stood in. taubman, in a rasping voice, read out the charge to the prisoner and called on him to plead. "how say you, are you guilty or not guilty?" "guilty," said stowell in a clear voice, and then, after a moment of merciless silence, there was a deep drawing of breath. "had you any accomplices?" "none." "humph! and what was your motive in committing this crime?" again there was a moment of merciless silence, and then stowell, speaking very slowly, said, "i had seduced the prisoner and was therefore the first cause of her crime." ah! there was another long indrawing of breath among the spectators. it was a wonder the man didn't fall dead with shame! "and what, if you please, was your reason for making this confession?" "i could not allow an innocent person to suffer for my crime." "was that your only reason?" the silence became breathless. after a pause stowell said, in a low voice, "that is a question i will answer to a higher tribunal." "indeed!" said taubman, with a sneer, and then the silence was broken by a cowardly titter which passed through the court-house. the attorney-general rose to summarise the facts. his face was white and decomposed; his thin hair was disordered, and the linen slip under his chin was awry. only once before since leaving government house had he been out of doors--to visit stowell at the police-station and receive the letter which had been found on him. he, too, had dragged himself from bed to come to court, being afraid to leave the prosecution of the son of his old friend, the boy brought up in his own office, to the deputy whom the governor was sure to appoint in his place--hudgeon, who sat by his side. his speech did not please either the court or the spectators. it gave the impression of being a plea for the prisoner. and indeed there were moments when the attorney seemed to forget that he was there to prosecute. speaking in a tremulous voice, and never once looking towards the dock, he said it would seem incredible that anyone in the position of the accused could be guilty of the crime with which he was charged. but the lucidity of his confession, and its correspondence to the facts as they knew them, made it inconceivable that he had told a lie. there could be no doubt he was guilty, and being so he came under the condemnation of the law. "ha!" "but," said the old man, flashing his moist eyes on the glistening eyes behind him, "the crown stands for justice, not revenge." the court would remember that the prisoner had made a voluntary confession, that nothing would have been known of his crime if he had not of himself disclosed it, and before the sublime spectacle of a man who was making the only reparation in his power to the justice he had sullied, it would be touched by the fire of a great renunciation. a murmur of dissent passed through the court-house. again, the court would remember that the prisoner had confessed to the secret sin which had tempted him to his crime. if he had been a scoundrel he could have concealed it, but he had put conscience before liberty, before reputation, perhaps before life. "oh!" once more the court would remember that the prisoner had surrendered to justice because another was in danger of arrest, and it would not be human if it were not moved by the sight of a man giving himself up to the law so that an innocent man might not suffer in his stead. finally, the court would remember the youth of the prisoner, his undoubted talents, his brilliant promise, his high position, and the revered memory of his father, and if, moved by these considerations, it decided to impose a nominal penalty, the crown would be satisfied. "ah!" "but whatever the punishment the court thinks fit to impose on the prisoner," said the attorney, "it can be as nothing to that which he has inflicted upon himself. never in this island has there been so great a downfall, and rarely can suffering for sin have been more terrible since the veil of the temple was rent in twain and darkness covered the land." it was impossible for the spectators not to be hushed to awe by the daring words and quivering tones with which the old attorney closed his speech, but taubman, in the ferocity of his malice, was unmoved. "humph!" he said. "all that means, i suppose, that a man may be innocent and guilty at the same time." and then another cowardly titter ran through the court-house. the time had come for judgment. taubman leaned over the bench, clasped his bony fingers in front of him, and said, "victor stowell, stand up." stowell rose, and stood with his hands interlaced, and his heavy eyes fixed steadfastly on his judge. "have you anything to say why judgment should not be pronounced upon you?" "nothing." it needs no skill to wound the defenceless, and for the next few minutes taubman seemed to glory in the exercise of his power. "prisoner at the bar," he said, "you have confessed to the crime of breaking prison to effect the escape from custody of a young woman you had first debauched and then abandoned." "ha!" "it has been said on your behalf (strangely enough by the public servant whose duty it was to arraign you) that your confession was voluntary. nothing of the kind. it was made when the hand of the law was upon you, when the warrant for the arrest of an innocent man was about to be issued, and you were face to face with the certainty of exposure and punishment." "ha!" "it has been also been said that the confession of your private sin shows the operation of your conscience. but your conscience would have been better employed when you sat in judgment on your own victim--a deliberate offence that is probably without precedent in the history of criminal jurisprudence. "finally it has been argued that your high position and family connections ought to mitigate your punishment. on the contrary, they ought to increase it, as showing your disregard of your responsibilities, and especially your ingratitude to the head of the judiciary, his excellency" (here taubman bowed to the governor), "whose favours you have so ill requited." "ah!" "your crime is clear. it is without a particle of justification. you have disgraced your name, your profession, and your island. therefore the court can only mark its sense of the enormity of your offence by inflicting the maximum penalty prescribed by the law--two years' imprisonment in castle rushen." hardly had the last words been spoken when the spectators broke into frenzied shouts of approval. neither the police nor the judge made any attempt to repress them. the governor rose hastily and hurried off the bench, and taubman, gathering up his papers, his spectacles and his two walking-sticks, hobbled after him. the shouting went on. it surged about stowell as he stepped out of the dock and passed with slow stride through the door that led down to the prison. the deadened sound of it followed him while he descended the stairs, and when he reached the cell it mingled with yet wilder shouting from the streets, where a tumultuous crowd had been waiting for the verdict. the delight of the mob seemed delirious. some women from the meaner streets by the quay were dancing on the pavement. meantime, in his robing-room with the governor, taubman was congratulating himself on his travesty of justice. taking his wig off his stubbly grey hair he said, "i think i gave my gentleman his deserts for his bad treatment of your excellency. eh? what?" and then the governor spoke for the first time that day. "maybe so," he said, "but all the same you are not fit to wipe his boots, sir." ii early next morning stowell was removed to castle rushen. there was a rumour (probably inspired by the police) that he would travel by the seven o'clock train, therefore at half-past six the railway station and its approaches were full of a noisy crowd. but at ten minutes to seven the prison van, drawn by two horses, drew up at the back door under the court-house and stowell was hustled into it. "come, get in, quick," said the chief constable (all his former deference gone), and then the van rolled away, stowell being shut up in the windowless compartment within, while the chief constable and his inspector of police occupied the outer one with the grill. crossing a swing-bridge which spanned the top of the harbour, they climbed the lane to the head until they reached the cliff road, and had the town behind them under a veil of morning mist, and the open sea in front. there had been wind overnight, and a fiery sun was blazing out of a fierce sky like the red light from the open door of a furnace. stowell, in his dark compartment, had not yet asked himself which way he was going. the feeling of exaltation, of doing a divinely appointed duty, which had buoyed him up during the trial, was now gone. the nullity of his past life, the hopelessness of the future had left him with the sense of being already a dead man. two years inside the blind walls of the castle rushen, while the sun shone and the flowers grew and the birds sang outside, and the world went on without him--how could he live through it? at length, having a sense of physical as well as spiritual suffocation, he tapped timidly at his door, and asked, when it was opened, if it might remain so for a few moments that he might have a breath of air. "certainly not," said the chief constable, and he clashed the door back. "better so," thought stowell. he had caught a glimpse of the scene outside, and knew where they were--on the rocky shelf along which he had driven with fenella after the oath-taking at castletown. the memory of that day came back to him like a stab. he could feel fenella's warm presence by his side; he could see her gleaming eyes; he could hear her rich contralto voice as they sang together above the boom of the sea below and the cry of the sea-fowl overhead: "_love is the queen for you and for me, salve, salve regina!_" what memories! what regrets! only now did he know how necessary fenella had been to him--only now when he had lost her. he felt like a dead man--dead, yet doomed to remember his former existence. an hour and a half passed. stowell sat huddled up in the close atmosphere of the van, with the thunderous rumble of the roof above him and the crack of the driver's whip outside. he knew every mile of the way. when the van swung round at a turn of the road, or the horses slowed down at the foot of a hill, the memory of some moment in his drive with fenella came back to him, and he told himself how far they had still to go. at length they were entering castletown. he knew that by the hollow sound under the horses' hoofs as they crossed the bridge over the harbour--the bridge from which fenella had looked back and waved her hand to the crowd about the castle gate who had raised the deafening shout--"long live the new deemster, hip, hip, hip!" groaning audibly, digging with his fingernails deep trenches in his palms, praying for strength of spirit, he waited for the ordeal which he felt was before him. another crowd had gathered about the castle gate that morning. telegrams had been received from douglas saying that stowell was travelling by road, so half the people of castletown had come down to the quay as to a funeral to see the last of the condemned man before he was buried in his living tomb. they were of two classes. the larger and noisier class consisted of raw youths and young men to whom the trial of the deemster had been mainly a subject for lewd jests about bessie collister. one of them, with the small eyes of a sow and the thick lips of a cod, wore a butcher's apron and a steel attached to a belt about his waist. this was john qualtrough (son of cæsar), the lusty ruffian whose skull had been cracked in his boyhood by the blow from the stick which had been intended for alick gell. the castle walls were low by the gate, and off the shoulders of a comrade qualtrough clambered to a seat on the battlements. from that elevation he beguiled the time of waiting by conducting a chorus of his companions on the ground, using his steel for baton. he selected the crudest of the old manx ditties, and amid shrieks of laughter, he emphasised the doubtful lines by frequent repetition. "_i'm not engaged to any young man i solemnly do swear, for i mane to be a vargin and still the laurels wear. for i mane to be a vargin and still the laurels wear._" the other class, consisting chiefly of women, demure and severe, occupied themselves with serious talk about fenella. that splendid young woman! it was shocking the way sto'll had treated her--worse than the other in a manner of speaking. "they're telling me she wasn't at the trial in douglas yesterday." "what wonder if she wasn't, poor thing! i wouldn't trust but she'll never show her face in public again." "it's no use talking, the man has brought shame on the lot of us and is a disgrace to the name of a manxman." suddenly, over the loud clamour there came a wild shout from the battlements. "here he is!" the prison van was seen to cross the bridge, and as it came up to the gate, it was received with a howl of execration. stowell heard it. in his dark compartment the surging of the crowd around the outside of the van was like the breaking of a tidal wave on a sleeping town in the middle of the night. the van stopped with a sickening jolt, and he heard the inspector of police crying, "stand back! make way!" then there was a flash of daylight and the voice of the chief constable saying peremptorily, "come, get out! be quick about it." at the next moment he was on the ground with a roar of hoarse voices and a rush of contorted faces around him. there were screams of lewd laughter and yells of merciless derision. arms were raised as if to strike him. he felt himself being pushed and pulled by the police through the open gate and up the passage way to the portcullis. the crowd, not yet appeased, tried to force their way past the jailer and his turnkeys as if to lynch him. but they were checked by an unexpected sight. a young woman, in the costume of a nurse, with heaving breast, quivering nostrils, and flaming eyes, rushed through the gate with outstretched arms to stop them. they recognised her instantly, but it was not that alone that cowed them. there is something in a brave act which pierces the noisiest crowd to the core of its cruel soul. certainly this crowd fell back and its uproar died down. then in a voice which vibrated with contempt and scorn, fenella tried to speak to them. "you .... you .... you...." she began, but further words would not come, and returning to the castle she clashed its iron-studded gate in the people's faces. the crowd broke up rapidly and slank away, subdued and ashamed. "morning, men!" "morning!" within two minutes nearly all were gone. the open space in front of the castle gate was empty, save for two old women with little black shawls over their heads, who were wiping their eyes on their cotton aprons. "did thou see that, bella?" "'deed i did, though." "i belave in my heart it was the girl herself--the one they say he has done so bad to." "aw well, if a woman isn't willing to stand up for her man, whatever he has done, what _is_ she anyway?" chapter forty-seven the resurrection three days later, fenella set out for bishop's court in a two-horse landau. the island had begun to recover from its fit of moral intoxication. sympathy was swinging round to stowell. the pathos of his stupendous downfall had taken hold of the people. taubman had been wrong. nobody would have known anything of stowell's guilt if he had not revealed it himself. there must be something great in a man who could take up his cross like that. and as for that wonderful woman who might be living in government house but was living in castle rushen instead.... as fenella, in her nurse's costume, drove through the town some of the women curtsied to her, and most of the men raised their hats. she returned the salutations of none. "so that's how they expect to wipe out what they did to victor! not if i know it though!" two hours afterwards she was at the bishop's palace--a somewhat palatial place, partly old, partly new, sleeping in the shelter of big trees and surrounded by a blaze of rhododendrons. the bishop, in his dapper black clothes, received her in a room in the old part of the house. it had been the study of the most famous of his predecessors, the fanatic and saint who had ordered that kate kinrade, for the saving of her soul, should be dragged at the tail of a boat. souvenirs of the dead bishop were on the walls and tables--his portrait, his bible, his short crozier, his tasselled staff, and his horn-rimmed spectacles. the living bishop was suave and voluble. he congratulated fenella on looking so well after so much trouble. "such a calamity! i might almost say such a tragedy! how the island will miss him!" he agreed with the attorney-general. stowell's act had been one of renunciation. when a man had sinned against god, and violated the world's law, he set a great example by submitting to authority. "god forbid that i should excuse his crime, but already his renunciation is having a good effect throughout the island. the rioting is over. the soldiers are being sent back, and as for the agitators nobody listens to them any longer. only this morning the man baldromma...." fenella, who had been beating her foot impatiently on the carpet, at length broke into her own business. "bishop, you have heard that i have gone to the castle as female warder?" "yes, indeed. it's so nice of you to stay by the poor man's side while he is in prison, to see that his bodily comforts are being cared for." "but more than that will have to be done for him if his soul is to be kept alive," said fenella. "really? if you think there is anything _i_ can do...." "there is, sir .... you know that i was to have married mr. stowell?" "indeed i do. wasn't the marriage to have taken place before very long in our chapel at bishop's court?" "well, i want it to take place now. only it must be in the chapel at castle rushen instead." "you mean .... the prison chapel?" "yes." for a moment the bishop was speechless. then recovering from his astonishment, he rose and stepped to the hearthrug, and standing with his back to the fire, he said, as if addressing an assembly, "beautiful and noble, dear lady! to be ready to become the wife of the fallen man just when the whole world is hissing at him in chorus, to inspire him day by day with the hope of a great resurrection, of taking up manful work anew, of regaining all he has lost and more--yes, it is beautiful and noble." "then you will be willing to marry us, sir?" said fenella. the bishop hesitated, and then asked fenella what view the governor took of her intention. "he disapproves of it altogether, and says no clergyman in the island can marry us without incurring his displeasure." "ah!" "but i have always understood that the bishop is a baron in his own right and therefore independent of the governor." "true! that's true! still...." the river of rhetoric had suddenly stopped. "well?" "mr. stowell is a prisoner. why marry when you can't live together? why not wait until he is at liberty?" "because he may be dead of despair before the time for that comes," said fenella, "and the resurrection you speak of may never take place. his heart is breaking. he wants something to live for now. he wants me." her eyes had filled and the bishop had to turn his own away. at length he said, stammering painfully, that he was sorry, very sorry, but having to live at peace with the governor.... fenella leapt to her feet. "bishop," she said, "the chaplain at castletown is a poor man with five young children and his living is in the gift of the governor. but if i can find any other clergyman who is willing to perform the ceremony, will you permit him to do so?" "ye--s .... that is to say, if you tell him what you have told me, and he is prepared to take the risk." within two minutes more fenella was back in her landau, driving towards ballamoar across the curragh roads, with their warm and rooty odour of the bog. janet came running out of the house to meet her, and in a flash they were crying in each other's arms. but, to fenella's surprise, there was a look of joy in janet's face, and on stepping into the house she found an explanation. an army of maidservants were in every room, with an arsenal of brushes and mops and pails. "why, janet, what are you doing?" "getting ready for my boy coming back, that's what i'm doing." "but, dear heart, don't you know...." "certainly i know. but do you think they can keep a ballamoar in yonder place long? 'deed they can't. he'll be coming out soon, and then those dirts of manx ones who have been making such a mouth will be the first to run to meet him." it would have been cruel to gainsay her, therefore fenella described the object of her journey, told of her father's threat and the bishop's excuses. "so now i'm looking for a clergyman who will be brave enough to marry us," she said. they were in the dining-room, and through the glass door to the piazza they could see, on the edge of the cliffs, a field's space from the church, a lonely house without a tree or a bush about it, looking as if it had been slashed by the rain and winds of a hundred winters. it was the jurby parsonage--the home of parson cowley. janet pointed to it and said, "have you been _there_?" at that question fenella remembered a story her father had told her about something splendid that victor had done, before she returned to the island, to save the drunken parson of jurby in the eyes of the parishioners. in another minute she was back in her carriage. "good-bye, child, and god bless you!" said janet by the carriage door. "and don't forget to tell my boy that mother will be lighting the fire in the deemster's room every night of life for him." the parsonage looked yet more desolate at a nearer view than at a distance. sea-fowl were screaming in the sky above it and the earth was quaking from the measured beat of the waves against the cliffs below. a patch of garden in front was rank with long grass, and the salt breath of the sea had encrusted the glass of the windows with a grey scale that was like the mould on a dead face. the door was opened by a timid, elderly woman, the parson's wife, who was her own servant and looked as if all the pride of life had been crushed out of her. "please come in, miss," she said. and when the door had been closed from the inside and she was taking fenella into the study, she called at the foot of the stairs, "john, a young lady to see you." the dingy little room looked like an epitome of the life of the man who lived in it. everything was faded and worn out--books in torn bindings on bulging shelves against the walls; a threadbare carpet trodden thin by the fender; a handful of earthen fire; an arm-chair upholstered in horsehair and sunk in the seat as if the springs had broken; a table laden with loose papers and sprinkled with shreds of tobacco, which seemed to have fallen from a shaking hand; and behind a mirror, from which half the silvering was worn away, two objects on the mantelpiece--a drinking glass, which had obviously contained a frothy liquor and a photograph in a mourning frame of a young man in sailor's costume with the fell stamp of consumption in his eyes and cheeks. after a moment there was an unsteady step on the stairs and the parson came into the room, wearing a faded skull cap and a dressing-gown much patched and stained. fenella told him her story, as she had told it to the bishop, and then said, "so i've come to ask if you dare run the risk of marrying us?" the old parson, who had been listening intently, seemed eager to reply, but something checked him, and looking across at his wife, who continued to stand timidly by the door, he said, "what do you say, sarah?" the old lady did not reply immediately, and pointing to the photograph on the mantelpiece the parson said, "if it had been john james's case, eh?" "do as you think best, john." "then i'll do it! certainly i'll do it! what do i care what the governor may do to me? once a priest always a priest--he can't take _that_ from me anyway." it was just the chance he had been waiting for. victor stowell had done something for him, and before he died he wanted to do something for victor stowell. "i will too! i'll give him a good wife and that's the best thing a man gets in this world anyway. i've been publishing your banns too. do you know i'd been publishing your banns these three sunday mornings, victor stowell being one of my parishioners?" fenella, who was feeling a tightness in the throat, contrived to say, "then perhaps you'll drive back with me to castletown and celebrate the service to-morrow?" "why shouldn't i?" said the parson, and off he went upstairs (with a firm step this time) to put on his clerical clothes and pack his surplice in a hand-bag. while his quick footsteps were shaking the ceiling above them the two women stood together in the study, the young one and the old one, face to face. "it is very good of you, mrs. cowley, to take this risk with your husband," said fenella. "but isn't that what we women have all got to do?" said mrs. cowley. and then fenella, unable to say more, put her arms about the timid old thing, who had submerged her own life in the wrecked life of her husband, and kissed her. ii stowell had been four days in prison and his depression had deepened to despair. the sense of being buried alive was crushing. even when he was taken into the court-yard for exercise, and the white birds sailed through the blue sky, he had the sensation of being in a roofless tomb. yet he did not spare himself. he had a right to certain indulgences, but asked for none. they put him into an upstairs room, which had once been the armoury of the castle, but he said, "put me in the cell that was occupied by bessie collister." he might have continued to wear his own clothes, but said, "give me the same clothes as any other prisoner"--a rough tweed, uncombed and undyed, just as it had come from the back of the sheep. the silence was terrible. the first night was calm, and the only sound that reached him through the thick walls was the monotonous wash of the waves on the shore, which lay empty and alone under the dark sky. next morning he heard the clamour of the gulls, and knew that the boats had come in from their night's fishing and the birds were fighting for the refuse thrown overboard. a little later he heard the deadened sound of hammering at a distance--they were caulking the deck of a new vessel in the shipyard across the bay. the world was going on as usual, yet there he was in a silence like that of the grave. "don't people sometimes go mad in a place like this?" he asked the jailer. on the second night the sea was loud, but over the wailing of the waves he heard a raucous voice outside. it was the voice of dan baldromma, who, ranging round the castle walls like an evil spirit, was calling up his taunting message at every lancet window, not knowing which was the window of stowell's cell. "the spaker is dead the day. that's the way they go, the big ones that rob the people. but there's no pocket in the shroud, dempster--no pocket in the shroud." on the morning of the third day stowell received a letter from london, telling him that his majesty the king had withdrawn his commission, having no longer any use for his services. this smote him like a blow on the brain. it was an abject degradation, like that of an officer being stripped of his decorations before the eyes of the soldiers who had served under him. but the worst of his pains were his thoughts about fenella. like a man suddenly struck blind he was always living over again the scenes of his past life. sitting on his bed, with his head in his hands and his eyes tightly closed, all the beautiful moments of their love passed in procession before him, from the moment in the glen when he had picked her up in his quivering arms and carried her across the stream, to that parting in the porch at government house, after she had promised to marry him, and he had seized her about the waist and fastened his lips to her mouth. do what he would, he could not resist the intoxication of these cruel memories. but crueller still were his dreams of the future--the dead dreams of their married love, when she would be wholly his, the beautiful body as well as the beautiful soul. nothing in the world was to have been so lovely as her bare arms about his neck; nothing so thrilling as the throbbing of her breasts when he told her how much he loved her. but when he opened his eyes and saw the blank walls of his cell about him, he felt as if some devil from hell had been tormenting him. was this to be his greatest punishment--that what he had lost in fenella was to be for ever haunting him? was he never to be left in peace, now that all hope of her was gone from him for ever? "better die," he thought. "a thousand times better." several times every day the jailer had been in to talk with him. the prison was nearly full of prisoners now, many of the rioters having been arrested ("not the ring-leaders, they are always too cunning"), so that his turnkeys and lady warder had as much as they could do to keep things going. this, through the thick haze of his preoccupied mind, brought back to stowell's memory a glimpse he had got of a woman in nurse's costume who had flashed past him when he was being hustled through that furnace of wrathful faces at the castle gate, and he asked who she had been. "oh, that .... _that's_ our lady warder," said the jailer. "is mrs. mylrea better then?" "no, she's dead. we have another one now, sir." "who is she?" the jailer hesitated and then said, "don't you know, your honour?" stowell looked up quickly and a stifling recollection of fenella's last words ("if you have to go to prison, i will follow you") came surging back on him. "is it .... is it .... _she_?" he faltered. "yes." that night, when stowell's supper was brought to him, he sent it away untouched. but the morning broke fair on his sleepless eyes, for he had made up his mind what to do. a pale ray of reflected sunshine from the eastern wall of the court-house was on the upper part of his cell, and he could hear the voices of children who were playing on the shore. he asked for a candle, pen and ink and paper, and sat down to write a letter. "my dear fenella,--they have told me what you have done and i cannot bear to think of it. when it became necessary to do what i did, i knew i should have to give up all hope of you, and since doing so i have suffered as few men can ever have suffered before. but if you remain in this place i shall never know another hour's sleep by night or rest by day. i shall feel that in surrendering to justice i was not really doing a courageous act, as perhaps i thought, but a cowardly one, because i was throwing half the burden of my sins on to you, who are innocent of any of them. that thought would break my heart." he paused. the sea outside was singing on the shore; the children were laughing at their play. "fenella, at this last moment i must tell you something. ever since i came to care for you, it has been the dearest wish of my heart that, god helping me, i should make your life a happy one--that, whatever happened to me, in a world so full of cloud and shadow, you should live in the sunshine. and now that you follow me here, to this prison, this tomb .... it is too much. i cannot bear it. "go home, dear. good-bye and god bless you! don't let me regret the impulse that brought me here. if it was right and true i must bear my punishment alone. leave me the comfort of thinking that at least your outer life goes on as if i had never shattered it. we have had many happy hours together, but they are over. life is for ever closed against me. you can do nothing for me now. it was sweet and good of you to come to this place, and i feel as if i could give my heart's blood for one more look into your dear face, but...." he had written thus far when the key rattled in the lock of his cell. the door opened and there was a flash of the jailer's lantern. instinctively, without looking up, stowell covered his letter in his blotting-paper and busied himself with both for a moment. when he raised his eyes the lantern was on the table, but the jailer was gone and somebody else was standing before him. it was fenella. she was in wedding dress, with the veil thrown back, looking more lovely than in the most delirious of his dreams. at first he thought it was a phantom, born of the preoccupation of his tortured brain, and in a hushed whisper, trembling all over and rising from his chair, he said, "fenella!" she, too, was trembling, but she put on a brave air and even a little of her gay raillery. "yes, it is fenella. she has come, as she said she would, you know." "but _why_ have you come?" "why? don't you know what day this is, victor? this was to have been our wedding-day. it shall be, too." "do you mean it?" "look at me. do you think i have dressed up like this for nothing?" "but don't you see it is impossible?" "impossible? don't you want me any longer then? you promised to marry me, sir--are you going to break your promise?" she was laughing, but trying at the same time not to cry. stowell's voice grew thick and husky. "go home to your father's house, fenella. that is the only place for you." "but my father has turned me out, so if you send me away also i shan't have a roof to cover me." "is that true?" she tried to laugh again with her old gaiety. "well .... nearly." "you cannot live in a place like this, fenella." "why not? i have the apartments of a queen, and what was good enough for her will be good enough for me, surely." "but you forget--i am a prisoner, and if the governor objects...." "he doesn't. he has been told and has raised no objection." "but there isn't a clergyman in the island who would marry a woman like you to a man like me." "oh yes, there's one, and i have brought him with me." "who...." "somebody you did a beautiful thing for long ago, and who new wants to do something for you--for me, i mean. come in, parson cowley." then stowell saw that the door was open and that parson cowley was standing in the darkness beyond it. the old parson came into the cell at fenella's call, sober as a judge, but with his face more broken up by emotion than it had ever been by drink, for he had heard everything. "parson cowley," said stowell, in a hoarse voice, "show her it is impossible." the old man swallowed something in his throat and answered, "nothing seems impossible to love, my son." "but tell her that no good woman can live all her life with a dishonoured man like me." again the old parson cleared his throat. "i know one who has been doing so for forty years, sir." stowell fell back on his chair and dropped his head over his arms on the table. parson cowley, unable to bear more, slipped out of the cell and pulled the door behind him. fenella and stowell were then alone. she knew that her last chance had come. she had to conquer him now or lose him for ever. it was the primitive man against the primitive woman, only their age-long positions were reversed, and with all the battery of her womanhood she meant to win him. stepping closer she said, in a caressing voice, "victor, you won't send me away from you, will you?" "i shall always love you, fenella," said stowell, whose head was still down. "i shall love you as an angel." "but forgive me, dear, i am only a woman, and i want to be loved as a woman first." he raised his head and looked at her. her eyes were glistening, her lips were trembling, never before had she seemed to him so beautiful. feeling himself weakening he rose and turned away. "i should never forgive myself, fenella, if i allowed you to make this sacrifice." "what sacrifice? everything i want in the world is within these walls." "don't tempt me, fenella. go away, i beg of you." "victor, i am for you. you are for me. do you want to rob me of the only man in the world for me?" his heart was beating fast. "go away, i tell you. i cannot trust myself any longer." but the more he commanded her to go, the more her eyes glistened with a look of triumph. "if i am to go out of this place, you'll have to carry me out," she said, "just as you carried me across the river in the glen." he gasped, and then flung out at her in a torrent of words. "why do you come like this? is it only to torture me with the thought of what might have been? haven't i done enough wrong to you already? if i do this wrong also i shall hate myself. and the end of that will be that i shall come to hate you also. i do hate you. go away! for god's sake go!" fenella, with gleaming eyes, took one step closer. "victor," she said, "you love me. you know you do. you have never loved any other woman in the world--never for one single moment." he looked back at her again. her arms were stretched out to him; her bosom was heaving; her lips were quivering and apart. he could struggle no longer. "fenella!" "victor!" she had conquered. they were clasped in each other's arms. iii half-an-hour afterwards they were married in the prison chapel. the little place was naked enough now. no flowers, no flags, no carpets, no cushions. only the two rows of forms, without backs, and the placards on the whitewashed walls at either side--"for men" and "for women." the deal table which served for altar was covered by a kitchen table-cloth, on which nothing stood but a plain brass cross and a couple of lighted candles in kitchen candlesticks. parson cowley, in his surplice, stood in front of it, with his well-thumbed prayer-book in his trembling hands. the two who were being married were kneeling at his feet--the sin-soiled man and the daughter of a line of old manx kings, bearing a name that had been written high in english history for five hundred years. the jailer and his wife were standing somewhere in the shadows. there was no sound except that of the parson's quavering voice within and the low rumble of the sea outside. "_i require and charge you, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know of any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it._" stowell made a stifled sound as of protest. fenella put down her hand and took his hand and held it. "_victor christian, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife?_" there was a sensible pause, and parson cowley leaned down to stowell and whispered, "say 'i will,' my son." then came a slow, half-smothered murmur, "i .... will." "_fenella charlotte de la tremouille, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband?_" in a clear, unfaltering voice fenella answered, "i will." * * * * * * * it was all over. the parson and the jailer and his wife were gone. stowell and fenella were alone together in the prison chapel, locked in a passionate embrace. the kitchen candles were burning out, but the little dark place shone with glory. the air was stirred as with the presence of angels and lit as by a celestial torch. in their immense happiness every trouble of life seemed to be gone. two years? it would be like two months, two weeks, two days--it would be like a walk in the sunshine. "we must hold together now, dear." "yes, until death parts us." their hearts swelled with gratitude. love had taken the sting out of suffering--love, the saviour, the redeemer. a great hymn of thanksgiving was going up from body and from soul. they talked of the future. "will you leave the island when your time comes, dear?" "indeed no, never." where his sin had been there also should be his expiation. "how great! how glorious!" she cried a little, being so happy, and he had to comfort her. oh, mystery of the heart of woman! they had changed places again, and now it was she who was the weak one--or pretended to be so--just to make him feel how strong he was, being the man, and that she would have to look up to him all her life to guide and protect her. "will you love me always, victor?" "always? as sure as god...." "hush! i know you will, dearest. but being only a woman i shall want you to tell me so every night and every morning." he warned her of the struggles they would have to go through yet, even when the time came to leave that place and return to the world--of the many who would look askance at them for his sin's sake. but she said no, and painted for him a picture of his coming out of prison. what a scene it would be! his people, his beloved countrymen and countrywomen, who were good at heart, would be at the castle gates to meet him. there would be thousands and tens of thousands of them to go back with him over the hill to ballamoar. carriages, cars, spring-carts, stiff-carts, fishermen in their ganzies and lifeboatmen in their stocking caps--such a procession across the mountains as nobody had ever seen in that island before, his little nation taking him home. "oh, i see it all, victor. when the time comes for you to go through the castle gates it will be like passing out of death into life, out of the cloud of night into the glory of the sunrise." he smiled, a melancholy smile, and shook his head. "i have much to go through yet. you, too, fenella." but well she knew that the victory had been won, that the resurrection of his soul bad already begun, that he would rise again on that same soil on which he had so sadly fallen, that shining like a star before his brightening eyes was the vision of a far greater and nobler life than the one that lay in ruins behind him, and that she, she herself, would be always by his side--to "ring the morning bell for him." conclusion the herring shoal, which in the early summer comes down from norway to the western coast of man, drifts eastward as the year advances, past the calf island, the sound and the spanish head, with their deafening clamour of ten thousand sea-fowl, to where the big waves of the atlantic roll to their organ music, and the porpoises tumble through the blue waters of the channel on their way back to the frozen seas. in the late autumn of the year of victor stowell's trial and imprisonment the fishermen from ramsey and douglas, going south to their fishing ground in the evening of the day, would find as they sailed past castletown, and opened the poolvaish, that the sun had set behind castle rushen and its square tower stood up black against the crimsoning sky. then they would go down on their knees on the decks of their boats, just as in old days they used to do after they had shot their nets at night, to acknowledge their maker, and pray, in their manx, to st. bridget and st. patrick to send them safely home in the morning with a full cargo of "the living and the dead." but it was not the harvest of the sea they were thinking of then. it was of the two who lay interned within the walls of the grim fortress--the man who had voluntarily made the great sacrifice for his sin, and the woman, who in the greatness of her love was living out his punishment beside him. in my early manhood i used to hear old methodist fishermen say that when they rose from their knees, after their rough hands had been held close over their eyes, and looked back at the castle, they would sometimes see a golden cross plainly outlined in the sky above it. perhaps it was only another of their manx superstitions, but it seemed to bring a certain inspiration to their simple hearts for all that, by reminding them of a story which resembled (very remotely and feebly) the great one which they told each other every sunday in their little wayside chapels--the story of him who "gave the world away and died." "he descended into hell; the third day he rose again from the dead; he ascended into heaven and sitteth on the right hand of god the father almighty...." the end * * * * * * * * * * * * the deemster this is a story of sin and suffering and redemption. a young man of great possibilities, dan mylrea, having his good angel and his bad angel on either hand, commits, in a wild fit of momentary passion, a terrible crime, is condemned (by his own father, who is the ultimate judge) to life-long banishment and solitude, is purified and ennobled by his solitary life and finally returns to the society of his fellow-men as the saviour of his people. the scene is the isle of man, the period the eighteenth century. this story was the first to give hall caine his place among british novelists, being commonly compared with the work of victor hugo. it was published in , has since sold in vast numbers and been translated into nearly all european languages. _the scotsman_ says: "this is one of the great novels." the christian _ , copies of english editions sold to date._ this is the story of a young anglican clergyman, john store, who tries to live in the twentieth century in strict imitation of the life of christ (believing that in the literal interpretation of his teaching lies the only salvation of the world) and is broken to pieces, both from within and from without, by his love of a woman and by the hard facts of modern existence. the scene is london, and the period the present age. the heroine, glory quayle, belongs to the number of the beloved women in fiction. on its first publication in , the "christian" provoked world-wide discussion, in which tolstoy took part. it has been translated into nearly all european languages. nearly , copies have been sold in english editions only. the story which has been repeatedly dramatised is played in nearly all countries. the _newcastle chronicle_ says: "this novel is a noble inspiration carried to noble issues, an honour to hall caine and to english fiction." the manxman _ , copies of english editions sold to date._ this is the novel most generally associated with hall caine's name. two men, who love each other like david and jonathan, are separated by the love each bears for the same woman, kate cregeen. the one is married to her, and by the other, in circumstances of tragic temptation, she has been betrayed. out of this complication comes situations of searching pathos, culminating in a public confession and a great renunciation. the scene throughout is the isle of man, and the deeply injured husband and friend, pete quilliam, has become one of the best known figures in modern fiction and on the stage. mr. gladstone, who was a warm admirer of it, said, that though he disapproved of divorce, he recognised the integrity of the author's aim. nearly , of the english edition has been sold already. it is a love story of great intensity. _t. p. o'connor_ says: "this is a very fine and great story--one of the finest and greatest of our time." the bondman _ , copies of english editions sold to date._ this story is intended to show the futility of the spirit of revenge--that vengeance belongs to god only. two sons (born in different countries) of the same father by different mothers set out to search for each other to avenge the wrongs they have suffered through their parents. when they meet it is as fellow-prisoners chained together in a penal settlement, where their identity is unknown (their names being hidden by numbers) and they become the most passionately devoted friends. finally one of the half brothers gives his life for the life of the man he came to kill, and restores him to the woman they have both loved. the scene is chiefly iceland, and the period the recent past. "the bondman" is one of hall caine's most moving love stories. in some foreign countries, particularly scandinavia, it is thought to be his best. _the scotsman_ says: "hall caine has, in this work, placed himself beyond the front rank of the novelists of the day." the scapegoat this is the story of a young and lovely girl, naomi, who, born deaf, dumb, and blind, recovers her senses one by one, in circumstances of startling excitement in the life of her father, thus having the beauty of the world revealed to her in sight, sound and speech, after her intelligence has matured. around this central theme a dramatic narrative gathers of life in morocco, under the present half-civilised regime. _the times_ says "the 'scapegoat' is the best of hall caine's novels," and that opinion is shared by many good judges. it has had a warm reception in foreign countries, particularly in germany, where it has been said that the central character bears an affinity to goethe's immortal mignon. _the times_: "this is the author's masterpiece." the eternal city _ , copies of english editions sold to date._ this is by much the most popular of hall caine's novels thus far, more than a million copies of it having been sold in english editions only. it is intended to show that the morality which is required of individual men should govern nations also. the chief scene is rome, and the pope (a reverent portrait resembling pius ix) is one of the leading characters. the story, which was first published in , anticipated the socialistic and communistic movement which is now rife, not only in italy, but throughout europe. a socialist leader of high character and capacity, david rossi, makes an effort to carry into effect the teachings of mazzini, which he understands to be according to the precepts of the lord's prayer. at the crisis of his endeavor he is betrayed into the hands of the authorities by the woman he loves, who is moved solely by the desire to save his life. the perils of the communistic and anti-military movement as well as its spiritual ideals form the background of the story, but its main theme is love--the upraising of a woman's character under the influence of a pure affection. the love story is the strongest element in this greatly popular book. _the methodist times_ says: "it is an enthralling, delicious, and most pathetic love story." the prodigal son _ , copies of english editions sold to date._ this is an iceland story, like "the bondman," but totally different in spirit and treatment. it is a modern rendering of the biblical parable of the same name, with a strong appeal for the elder brother, and it is intended to say that an evil act once done can never be undone. some of the incidents take place on the riviera, the "far country," in which the prodigal wastes his substance. when he returns home he finds, not the "fatted calf" awaiting him, but the wreckage caused by his conduct. "the prodigal son" was published simultaneously in eight foreign countries, and was even more warmly praised abroad than at home. nearly half a million copies of it have been sold in the english editions. it was dramatised for drury lane theatre and produced with great success. _the westminster gazette_ says: "in truth, a work that must certainly rank with the best in recent fiction." the white prophet this is a story of egypt and the soudan with its principal scenes in cairo and khartoum. it was published in , and anticipated by many years some racial, political and religious problems which are now agitating those countries. the central character resembles the madhi in his earlier years. at first he is a religious reformer only, but later he developes political aims which bring him into sharp collision with the british rule. a tragic happening enlists on his side the son of the english consul-general who remotely resembles the late lord cromer in his policy, but not his person. out of this fact and the further complication of his affection for an english woman, helena, the author developes his love story. the glamour and mystery of the east are the background of the novel, which is a strong contrast to the stark simplicity of the scenes of hall caine's manx and icelandic stories. _the liverpool post_ says: "hall caine's power of rivetting and engrossing attention will be found in this novel at its zenith." the woman thou gavest me _over , copies of english editions sold to date_ this novel, as its title indicates, is intended to illustrate the place which, through all the ages hitherto, woman has held in relation to man, the place assigned to her by law, custom, and even religion. mary o'neill, a devout catholic, is brought up in a convent in rome, and then married, before sex has awakened in her, to a dissolute man of rank. on realising her position she rebels, and refuses herself to her husband, but to prevent scandal, continues to live under his roof. later on, love is born in her, but it is for another and much worthier man. what is she to do? in her eyes it is sin to love anybody except her husband. and her religion forbids her to seek her happiness through divorce. thus she passes through a great struggle. at length her love conquers and she flies from the house in which she is a wife in name only. a child is born and she goes through the still greater struggle of a mother with an "unwanted" child. at length salvation comes to her, without the violation of any law of state or church. the scene is chiefly london. on first publication the "woman" was much criticised for the frankness of its treatment of a delicate subject, but the criticism has long died down. _the daily chronicle_ says: "it strikes a great blow for righteousness, and in that light it is hall caine's greatest achievement." the master of man as "the woman thou gavest me" was the woman's story, so "the master of man" is the man's story. both deal with the same eternal subject. they are the opposite facets of the same coin. the new novel is, like "the deemster," a story of sin, suffering and redemption. but the story is entirely different. victor stowell, a young man of fine nature, coming of a family with high traditions, commits a sin against a woman in circumstances of extreme temptation such as come to millions of young men in every generation. he conceals his sin, and his concealment leads to other and still other sins, until his whole life is wrapped up in falsehood, and even the little community in which he lives is in danger of being submerged in the consequences. in his sufferings he descends as into hell, but at length he sees that there is only one salvation for himself, his victim and his people--confession and reparation. after he has confessed his secret sin and paid the penalty in renunciation, he is saved from spiritual death by the love of a noble-hearted woman who has inspired him to the act of atonement--so the climax of the story is the resurrection of his soul. the scene is literally the isle of man, and the period the present, but the one may be said to be all the world, and the other all time, for the subject is universal. j. b. lippincott company's publications a selection of new and old books on a variety of subjects the song of songs. being a collection of love lyrics of ancient palestine. by morris jastrow, jr., ph.d., ll.d. professor jastrow's new work is a companion volume to his gentle cynic (the book of ecclesiastes) and to his book of job. these three books of the bible have been chosen by him for popular presentation, because of their outstanding character as literary masterpieces, and because of their human appeal. this new translation is based on a revised text. the author also gives the origin, growth and interpretation of the songs. these twenty-three songs are as fresh in their appeal to the human heart to-day as they were over two thousand years ago,--the author has given descriptive and enticing titles to them, such as "love's ecstasy," "the saucy damsel," "love's longing," etc., etc. frontispiece by alexander bida. handsome octavo. $ . seeing the sunny south by john t. faris we are enabled in this book to appreciate the true wonders of the south, so rich in scenic beauty, historic tradition and natural resources. dr. faris gives a fascinating and vivid picture of the marvellous country below the mason and dixon line. he has the gift of being able to make the reader feel something of the real atmosphere and human background of the country through which he passed. bits of history, delightful anecdotes of people and places enliven his narrative. frontispiece in color, and one hundred and fifteen doubletone illustrations. handsome octavo. $ . the whistler journal by elizabeth rand joseph pennell this companion work to the famous "life" is full of the most intimate relations of whistler and his friends, including rosetti, william morris, and many other notable personages. it presents an unusual view from the inside of art and literary circles of london and paris at that time. there is much that is amusing and some that is scandalous. the eighty unusual illustrations are a feature that will be prized by collectors; four of them are in color. crown octavo, uniform with the "life." $ . limited de luxe edition. $ . a tale of a walled town and other verses by b --penitentiary a volume of verse which is a real human document. william stanley braithwaite in his introduction to "a tale of a walled town," says: "i do not say that 'a tale of a walled town' is as great a poem as either 'the song of david or 'the ballad of reading gaol,' but i do say that nothing ranks between them and the poem of b , and that behind the latter is a long descent to any similar accomplishment." $ . lippincott's practical books: serve art and beauty in the home. these are most complete and elaborately illustrated. all one wishes to know on each of the subjects is found under one cover. almost every phase of art in the home is covered--interior decoration, furniture, arts and crafts, rugs, architecture, garden designings. each volume profusely illustrated in color, halftone and line, and with charts and maps where necessary. bound in decorated cloth. octavo. in a box. write for illustrated circulars of the seven titles. _fiction of charm and distinction_ the thing from the lake by eleanor m. ingram "a tale from the border land of dread." roger locke, successful composer, purchases a country-place. on the first night of his residence a mysterious some one wakes him from a sound sleep and warns him that his life is in danger. thus begins a tale of mystery and horror in which the suspense is sustained until the climax, when in a sudden flash the whole truth is revealed. the reader can take his choice of either an occult or scientific explanation of the mystery. frontispiece. $ . wound stripes by bertha lippincott coles romances after the war. one of the most interesting 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"the tryst" is the gripping story of john preeves,--how in his seeking after god he finds patty merill, and helps to clear the mystery that surrounds her life as well as the mystery of a death. by far the strongest story by this popular writer. frontispiece in color. $ . the mystery of the sycamore by carolyn wells carolyn wells has unsurpassed genius in creating plots and incidents that are unusual, bizarre, and baffling to the lover of mystery. each new "fleming stone" story is original and different. a cry of fire, a murder, and a voluntary confession of three people to the crime is the crux of the latest and most gripping story of her pen. frontispiece in color. $ . no defence by gilbert parker "no defence" will be classed with the really great romances. it is parker at his best. 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